Ink Popping Pill

Gone the Past

2010-10-31T16:20:00.000-07:00

We came home for me. So i could take a break, rest, and heal. It turned out that work, going to school and more work were the "pills" that await me here in my home land.It is not bad though i still cannot get to go out anytime i want to. Motherhood is wrapped around me with the edge tied to the home. The housekeeping skills i learned in Libya has turned me into a maniac for clean and order it makes me want to throw up. My house help gives me a little freedom. I can go to school on saturdays, treat the kids out to the mall while i can shop alone...husband and i do get to spend time together, alone. The bed always catches me exhausted. Husband says i snore. I am getting old.
It's semestral break in school, so we are all home for the rest of the week, except for husband who sometimes drives off to "work" which is basically only errands for the family business. I resume my thesis writing next week (getting data from private preschools within the city), Sami and I go back to school which means "back" to this daily sked: 6am wake up, coffee, quiet time. 630 kids wake up, tv (while i finish whatever i'm reading or writing) 7 shower, breakfast, change,. 730, some free time for boys to play or fight while tarek takes a shower and i clean up their mess (the house help does the dishes, laundry). 8 i shower, rush-change, off with the boys and husband to take sam to school. 9- to the city for errands, printing jobs, grocery, etc...11, pick sami up. 1130 home. 12 lunch, 1 kids nap. 230, when they are all asleep, i write. if i can't i plan on what to prepare for their afternoon snacks. i bake or cook...4, snack time. 5, outdoor play. 6, i cook dinner (or i write from 5-7 while kids play beside me) 730 dinner. 8, wash up and get ready for bed. kids usually sleep at around 9 or 10. from 10-2am i write. sometimes im in bed by 11.
So what does husband do? he is "on call", meaning when the boys get really annoying, i tell on them and off they scramble into the corner of their playroom, and keep really quiet. they fear their father. or respect. or revere should be the word. i am a pushover mom, destined right from birth to be pushed around and manipulated even by babies. i admit to be lazy when it comes to discipline but i know they love me as much as they love their papa despite of his "not sparing the rod". I can only "not spare my tongue" and it can get really bad. So gone are my ideals on child rearing, eaten up by the new kind of mundaneness here in my home country as different from the dailyness back in Libya.
Husband is right beside me asking if we can go out somewhere. Yes, after all it's vacation time. He's thinking of going swimming...maybe, if the weather permits.
What else are down the drain? In my TESL class, I was making a portfolio and needed journals for my materials. When i opened my plastic chest box of memoirs, i realized that my recent journals, about 8 of them, from year 1996-2003 have been burned by myself. Because my "other self" told me to. Because this other self was asked by fiance-now-husband to get rid of them. So gone is the past- poems, laments, litanies, thoughts...I realized that i came home for something that i ran away from. And that i ran away from something that did not actually chase me. I have been fooling myself.
I needed to embrace the truth about motherhood: that LIFE is NO LONGER ABOUT ME BUT THEM. Not that i do not have a life, but that my children are my life now. I cannot unlearn that and no matter how strong the impression of being "some kind of woman who makes a difference"...some ideal, they remain only impressions. I admire, appreciate, occasionally envy these "impressions" but i am happy with my NOW. My dreams are not on hold anymore. I transformed them into PLANS. They give me a sense of normalcy and something to look forward to - with my family.
I thought, why look for a lost needle in a haystack when there are a zillion needles in the world? Why cry over spilt milk when that milk is sour? I tasted sour spoiled milk, and know better what to do now. Make milk myself.

Newness

2010-07-01T05:39:00.000-07:00

the old rings back
as newness it brings
how can this be?
or t'is just fancy musings?
for words that go lost
along with memory trail,
for dreams that insist
as my Holy Grail?

i want to write but cannot,
weeps my yesterday
the girl who fears fear
the road that has no way...
the poor excuse
of a block
that writers strive to knock
out of a mind
that need not think
and heart with too much
to drink.

not knowing how to begin
with newness spilling in
yet lines and rhymes
keep filling
the blank sheet that was

my dark age now has light
once again i write.

Happiness

2010-01-19T20:44:00.000-08:00

Remembering Wildflower

2009-09-24T07:13:00.000-07:00

in memory of the one who chose to die in order to live again...and again, and again...WOMAN.

In Memory of...

2009-09-24T06:58:00.000-07:00

Ruminations

2009-09-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

Ravaged in Stillness
By: Pinky Tabor

My head hits the pillow that lies between my two sons napping. More than half of the day is done. I close my eyes to sleep. Finally, some peace and quiet. Or maybe not. My thoughts are making these noises again. Lately, I've been talking to myself and I found it a good sign that I am once again socializing with an adult. It just happened one day when everything was chaotic…my mood swings were getting worse. It was so colorful at first that I was in a way thankful for remaining quite normal despite the abnormalities of my days. Then these seemingly colorful moods began to change hues, becoming darker each day until everything turned black I could barely see. In a sane way, I could not interpret what was going on inside me. I could not stop my tears. I could not rationalize. So I screamed at myself. A scream only I could hear and suffer. But I know I could still love for I am so aware of the presence of my children…and I could still pray. There was faith.

The darkness disappeared. God answered my prayers. It was just a day in my life, where perhaps I or my other self whom I talk with trivialize the complex or vise versa. It's when I think of swallowing some pills for temporary relief all because I do not want to cover my head with a scarf. The scarf that symbolizes my missing self who sometimes re-appears to haunt me and remind me of the many things I gave up for what I thought was love…Or maybe that self is actually a loveless soul? After that one emotional plea with God (wails and tears that drained me) I just let the day pass with hope to be alive for the ones who need me.

So the episode was over but the battle inside goes on. The fight to find answers or some explanation for these lethal moods goes on. The search for my other half goes on…that is why I could not rest when I should. I stare at the wall. My head is not spinning like it usually does but there is something shaking inside so hard to define. I lie motionless and still, trying to feel something. Perhaps in order to doze off, I try to mentally bore into the blank wall. Then the whiteness explodes into a splash of light…

Vague images came rushing into the picture as a series of windows open. It was almost an endless, silent motion picture. Then it stops. What was it? Was it a call to get up from where I lie and write? If it was poetry, what does it mean then? Or was it also some prophetic vision? A way into answers…ahh, I see it now.

It was a way into my stolen life- the windows, of different shades and lights that was almost like pyrotechnics. Or wait, was she really stolen or did she ran away from me and is now into hiding, resenting the life that won over hers because of my choice? I cannot seep into the meaning of these visions (or they could be plain hallucinations) deeper for thoughts choke me. Thinking about all these is actually killing me. I evade truth by burying myself under realities of life. I know that the truth wanting to confront me is more important than my daily realities, but oh I fear for my sanity. I might not be able to handle her. And so I struggle, alone. Oh so alone…

This conflict is internal. So who would care? But oh does this affect those I love. Yet how can they understand when I could not? I wrestle that which I vaguely know, for the arena of my war is dim. I know there is an enemy, I can feel it/her/him…I can see only the shadows. Though I strongly sense that the enemy is my other self, I still am not quite sure. Maybe if the enemy is what the world calls as "Factors" then I have too many fights to finish or I might even be already dying in this round.

I am exhausted. I am running out of my own self. I cannot tolerate another window opening, for I still might find nothing in there. Life is futile indeed as, the wisest of all, Solomon said it. And yet how can one Holy Book disagree with itself? Jesus said "I come that you might have life and have it more abundantly." Should I give in to "dying to self", sweat in blood, and grope in darkness like Job? Or should I fight for my "priestly rights", aim for the "perfect will of God" known as The Best life?

I lie down but cannot sleep. So I write. I find no answers to any of these yet. My heart continues to ache. My head spins again. I wrestle in and with the shadows. And although I remain still, a reluctant fighter, quiet and tearful, I am ravaged by someone who is perhaps as human as me. Yes, perhaps the enemy is Myself who refuse to give up on life, for whatever that word means to both of us.

4pmSept. 8, 2009 tuesday

Sharing Shakespeare's Shakening oh Soh...

2009-05-24T04:02:00.000-07:00

SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, althoughhis height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

ahhh, love. should hve shared this last valentine's day..but then these days are the proving days of love----ordinary days, filled with the mundane, spats and disputes..struggles and even horrors, terror....i think this Love still lives, i speak because i bleed along with the words in the sonnet.

Just sharing...you see, this is one of the first few poems my mother shared to me. She was a teacher, a stage actress during university days (just like my grandma) and raised one son who became a rock star in our small town and later toured Asia with his band...another son, now finding his niche in the Culinary Arts/Tourism, and three daughters one of which has wandered various fields and wondered if her upbringing by a family of artists and over-acting frustrated actors, actresses, musicians, writers, etc...caused her to thrive on drama and pain. Yes, i wonder. I cannot seem to change this area of my life, my personality. I feel so much- sadness, anger, and love. And at times i could not contain them, i transform into a person i abhor. And at times when everything seems normal and okay, i tend to hunger for them- perhaps only disguised in words "meaning and purpose" when every moment of my life daily brings me an inch or a milisecond closer to what i desire...oh i dunno. Am just musing and getting so melodramatic. I miss those days...and those places---those times..so large, so magnificent and exhilarating, so dreamy in image, so unfiltered yet magical...so free, so like that girl i once knew who now is so dead.

Sandstorm Effect

2009-04-12T11:08:00.000-07:00

is this really?

wind sweeping sands
turnin like smoke
that fogs the air
coming into me
so slow...

storm heaves a sigh
that brings in flood
tears in my eyes
i don't know why...

back home, back then
it was dear rain
that brought in pain
reasons unknown
strange it was
and it still is
for it makes me dance
and then paint.

it makes me hunger
for touch, for laughter
hot drink,
warm soul
rain breaks me
then re-make me
to be whole.

now this sandstorm came
it wasn't rain
but oh the effects
were all the same
hormones? i doubt
perhaps a need
like nature's way
to breed-
hope after despair
to clean the air
to refresh the heart.
trashing
unnecessary parts.

sands of some place and time
came storming by
and settle for a while
asking me
shall i go back or shall i stay?
no i will go on to take this way-
to growth, to dreams
keep on dying, crying
then be reborn;
of peace and quiet
and for sure,
occasional sand storms.

(cried buckets today for reasons unknown...but am sure there is something to be known. I self-searched and discovered this melancholia so severe sprung from a long-time-no-tears living. lol. but so true, and so like a wildflower of me to follow unconsciously nature's way or else i will be really sick. now truth is deep inside i miss my family so much and desire that they will get to enjoy my little boys as much as i do now. i am practically the only one being blessed daily by their presence, seeing them grow, keeping amused and amazed by them. but this is God's way, so i endure the feelings. another truth is that i am tired, so stressed of stretching myself beyond my limits, meeting everybody's needs but mine, and keeping all to myself. and oh what is the use of this blog but to express the superficial? the one-sided truth about life...? so i write now the truth, the other side of it to make it fully known that life is not OK. as it is not OK to be just alive. friends ask me how i am...i say "not ok, am tired" which is same as happy, or fine, or good.
i guess that's why God made seasons...to make life perfect, and for us humans there are moments that we need though we do not want...to make us OK. i feel better now after crying. i write. i move on. i know there's more to cry about and scream about and laugh about. i am no drama queen for nothing. lol. and i know i'm OK.)

Unique and Very Special Art Work

2009-04-07T01:08:00.000-07:00

It's not the art of photography, nor of editing photos...

not the art of capturing smiles...

not this kid's scribbles on the wall...not the art of balancing.

No, he is not dancing.

But see the writing on his wear...
"born to be an artist."

a unique blend of God's works and man's...a collaboration of God and Mom.

we make them artists just like us...masters in the art of living.

we give them love, we show them life.

we use different media to splash genuine smiles on their faces.

we laboriously choose the right words to hear music from theirs.
we mold them with our hands -

culinary arts for their bodies

art of touch for their souls...

more than the basic senses we use.

it's also heart, soul,

a genuine smile.

we leet them see that we love life.

and so we see our masterpiece.

in the life of our children.

their bodies, soul and spirit growing,

blooming, unfearing, unbroken.

for others to behold

and for our honor.

for our joy.

this good life is the kind of art that satisfies.

(have been missing some creative adventures...painting, writing really good stuffs, baking, music, etc. and watching my boys realize they are the ultimate result of my creativity, and to them i express my love, they also reflect my love for life and even my hate sometimes. they are the most fragile and complicated and yet the best form of art...a mother's work. and i pray for sometimes we do not know what life brings...i pray that my best work and effort will not go futile nor will the cruel part of humanity affect or infect them. God help me. For now, they grow and i grow. And we go on loving.)

Missing Chelz

2009-03-18T06:11:00.000-07:00

Chelzedeck was my best friend, actually one of my many "best friends". There's a best friend whom i call big-sister best friend, one is a group of "soul sisters" best friend, another a group of college friends turned mommy-buddies best friends, and so on....but Chelz was my only male-slash-sister-best friend who believed that he is a woman trapped inside a (handsome) man's body.

Recently he wrote me something that stirred up those memories with him and words we have exchanged, shared, and experienced together. This was actually a comment on my friendster blog:

I can relate to this poem/prose…i don’t know how am i going to give my reply,or am i required…anyway, i will let just myself be,
i can relate to the rummaging of the past,
memories of friends, girlfriends and ex’s…
somehow the things you’ve thought were useless,
and has been trashed, finds beautiful meaning…
you find yourself becoming a history teacher,
perhaps and archaelogist, digging remains of a lost culture…telling them to students/readers,
that it is important to relieve one’s past,
for one’s past affects the future,
that without it, we would never be here…
somehow it is important, that is why we need historians, artist and painters ,
to re-express the things we so long have trashed,

and i’m glad that “You” still write, and recyle,like archaelogist , putting muffled pieces of yesterday, telling them as if the just happened an hour ago…

that was Chelz, talking...voice transformed into image. i can imagine him so animated, creative and seemingly unwanted by the elite, snobbish, pseudo-intellectuals.

Valentines with Kids

2009-02-25T04:53:00.001-08:00

He was holding Leaf, trying to entertain our hyper-active one year old while i was trying my best to keep Sami who was so amused by the lights from running towards the stage.
It was a Valentine's party for couples, entitled "A Night of Love and Romance," a dinner concert. We were entertained with love songs and some "quotes" on love. We were the only couple with small kids in tow but for me we were the most romantic couple...

I took this photo while the song "How Did You Know" (our song which also played during our wedding) was being sung and after he mouthed "I love you" to me.

I think it's the presence of children in a marriage that helps spark up romance and not otherwise. One just need to have the eyes of love to see that.

Wedding vow, Wishes, Wonders...

2009-02-10T04:00:00.000-08:00

I wrote this vow for an aunt who will be saying her "i do", take two :) come August (inshallah).

"the road i have treked to reach this place haven't been easy
but meeting you along the way sparked a way for me to find a better meaning
and purpose in life.

you have been a friend providing wise guidance whenever i need it,
offering a strong shoulder to lean on,
giving company during both good times and bad.

life cannot be lived alone
love cannot to be kept nor withheld,
and though we are already in the autumn of our lives,
it is still best to walk with a hand to hold
as leaves fall and until our winter sets in...

so as i embrace the future with you today
i pledge to stay by your side,
i commit to share my life with you,
be the woman God has molded to love you
the way He designed,
grow with you in mind and spirit,
and create with you a trail of lasting love
that will be a blessing to our children
and to those who look up on us.

this i promise with faith in the One and only Author and Giver of love
-true, perfect, and everlasting."

I wished i have written a vow as beautiful as this for my own wedding. It's a shame that as a Wedding Planner i was never able to plan my own wedding as well as i did my clients'. Even my mother who has been a caterer for almost 20 years now could never seem to serve her own family's table nicely.

This is a strange thing...

policemen having children becoming criminals,
caterers who cannot promptly provide food to their hungry husbands/children,
wedding planner-bride having own wedding a disaster,
musicians who cannot teach own kids the basic so-fa syllables,
and ghost writers forever remaining ghosts
too dead to their own eulogy.

Like a Christmas Dream

2009-01-03T01:52:00.000-08:00

A blurry little Christmas photo...seemingly filtered like in a dream, only this one's real. Happy, alive and free. Good food, good conversations, music, singing, laughters, and friends. It will be cherished for a lifetime though it lasted for a moment. It was a gift. It was a dream.

Chestnuts Roasting and So am I

2008-12-26T22:45:00.000-08:00

Had a happy Christmas followed by these thoughts two days later:

"It is truly better to be a servant in one's own country than to be a princess imprisoned in someone else's castle."

Raw, Naked, and Honest

2008-12-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

I crave for freedom, even a teeny bit like letting my hair down, uncovered in front of other people.

Waking up in darkness as emotions rush out of me in the form of tears almost turning into blood. Is this what happens when someone is squeezed inside a life-size shaker for a long time?
Forced or compelled to be who she is not...

I crave for freedom, even just to go to a grocery to choose goods i want for my pantry, diaper brands i want for my boys.

If everything happens for a reason, this eventful non-event in this kind of life is still groping for definitions for its being.

Take away someone from a zone of discomfort and put her inside this shell, see if she survives scarless and unwanting that place she once deemed painful. She will be scathed and surely long for air no matter how stale, as long as it is air.

I crave for freedom, even just to be myself - outgoing, routine-and order-freak with regular lazy days - without being judged.

Stuck in a rut twenty four-seven; post post-partum blues or plain mood swings? Whatever these are, anybody "refined" this way will feel worse and might even kill.

Am i really being refined in this fire? Am i resisting change? How can i not when i am regressing and not progressing?
Perhaps i cannot see the progress yet?
Or perhaps this kind of "refiner's fire" is telling me to run and not endure?
I may be made of another kind of gem but not gold...

I crave for freedom, even to talk freely, express myself - in my own language without trying hard to be understood and to understand a response.
I crave for time, a few hours a day to learn something new, without interruptions or worrying about my boys.

I crave freedom, even for my boys...
the freedom to run around under the sun, in an open field or a lawn...to explore, to trip, fall and stand up on their own even with a harmless cut on a knee.

I crave for a safe and happy place for them, to see them regularly spend quality time with their grand parents - no screams and shouts, just gentle touches, laughter, horsey-rides, cookie treats, or simple conversations - real attention given to them.

I crave to see them play with their cousins without hitting or being hit or pushed, without falling off tv sets or tables...i want them to play with toys, to be amused, to be curious, to learn...

I crave to give my boys the best of me - a mom they can be proud of...and even just for now, a mom who is strong and free enough even to take them out by herself.

My boys may be my home, but this is not my country.
This is not my kind of country, not entirely my kind of culture, not entirely my kind of beliefs and practices.
I want to be where i can be who i want as well as who others want.

I crave for freedom, to laugh shamelessly even like a hyena, to sit, walk, talk, and smile a certain way i find comfortable, to talk or joke about anything concerning my past or future and still be loved.

I crave to be around people who really know me inside-out.

You wake up in the morning tired, you sleep at night exhausted. You only have one kind of hope and that is Home. Where you are human, where women may not be amazons but know the value of time and people. Where you see the sun, the trees, the sky, the seas...where you can chase dreams unceasingly...where you can plan and fulfill even just a quarter of it...where you can contain all your loves in your heart and in your life.
Where you have all the time and time has all of you.

Life is short, one should not live like this.
Oh have i almost come in full circle, now am suspended, sliced into a half-moon, half-lunatic.
Is this what happens when Wondering Wander Woman is caged for a long time?
The unspoken social norms here have made me build an invisible prison around myself.

I crave for them here to see me as i am so i can go in peace for i know they will never understand nor can they accept that person.

I crave for something i cannot give myself.
Freedom will have to wait.

I long for someone to satisfy these cravings. Apparently, there is only one person who can give me this. If he does, i am pretty sure that the girl he adored the first time he laid his eyes on her will resurrect before his very eyes.

For now, i can but only write.
True Freedom will have to wait.

Response to a Response

2008-11-27T03:45:00.000-08:00

Prozacs in half, Zolofts in full.
Oh he who breaks is such a fool.
Pardon my french, i mean no harm
Prozac Prince calls for alarm.

I know this is lame. But don't we need a break from all the old fashioned way of dealing with the blues?
I like your line, though. "Break...The...Prozacs...In Half!"

I responded with this poem to a response to a post in poetry form in Mylot. Below is my reply to the discussion starter who seemed to reflect his depression in his poem:

Just keep on writing. It's good you are letting it all out. It does save us from falling off the edge. It keeps us sane. Darkness is not forever. After the night, morning breaks free. Joy will come prancing along. Open your eyes. Open your heart. Look at you inside. Beautiful being. Your mind is in a deadly place, but your heart is somewhere glorious. Sweet soul that you are. Pain is because you love. Death is because you fear. Embrace pain. Live.

Just Sharing

2008-11-27T03:40:00.000-08:00

It seethes through souls, squeezes, cuts, chokes.
Teardrops become ink, into pen, then kisses paper.
Pain grips the poet, then sets free
The hand that writes with heart, oh! love-maker.

Ever appreciated pain after you have written a poem and set yourself free? Now i can exhale...

Wrote this three months ago, starting a discussion under Poetry in MyLot.com.

Sprinkling Thoughts

2008-11-19T00:28:00.000-08:00

Spills from a spinning wheel
seemingly endless
splatters here and there
screams in my head...

Still trying to find calm amidst clutters,
clarity in confusion,
serenity within shock persisting to stay.
I search, wait, and pray.

My Fixes

2008-11-16T06:28:00.000-08:00

Coffee and old fashion style of journal writing. The former is to energize my sick brain while the latter is a temporary replacement of a PC under repair.

March Seven Too Oh Oh Ate

2008-11-16T06:11:00.000-08:00

My first birthday here...beginning of the end of me. I remember writing something for my Psychology 1 paper back in college about atrophy and entrophy: "We begin to die the moment we are born."

2008-09-26T03:45:00.000-07:00

Whenever I tell my love story people always tell me it would be a good movie material. I just smile and shrug. My story is not some kind of a romantic comedy meant to entertain people. It is a true-to-life experience of the most classic of all agonies. I actually share my story for selfish reasons. I wanted to relieve myself of the sad parts, which comprise about 65 percent of the plot, comforting myself that it is all over and there is no point of grieving. Thus it is not really a comedy but a tragedy. A series of broken hearts, broken affairs, broken leg (accident caused by running after a boyfriend), broken promises, broken windows of a Mustang Firebird, broken hymen, and...well, everything in my twenty something single life seemed to have been broken. When i turned thirty, I thought i was the most tragic of all single woman in my town. So I kept re-telling my story, even to friends who amazingly still find it so interesting. Perhaps it is because some of them are in the story, or perhaps the show of amusement in their face is for the purpose of comforting me. I knew it was a tad bit pathetic, but i did it with class, well most of the time i guess - masking my sadness. I was sad because my story was all about the "six times i got engaged," and i was telling it while still unattached, recently disengaged (as if he was some sort of a rifle) from my latest and apparently last "ex-soon-to-be-husband."
In those times i managed to keep a Plan B: Book to replace a Boy-man. Other than dreams of having a happy family and world peace, i was also conceiving a book idea during that period. And i was mid-way into the labor of having it published. All the signs were there during writing - mood swings, cravings (for the presence of certain exes), nausea (travelling through time) and insomnia. I was also vomitting, considering the fact that my subject was about the life of a 30-something getting over one great love and searching for meaning and purpose in a sub-corporate world, one memo/fling/party after another. Only now did i realize that wasn't any form of literature after all. I would call it a flip-lit instead of a chick lit. Thank goodness it was almost published. A succesful abortion when the book was already in full-term-complete-with-cover design-intro-bibliography-period (imagine that) was all i needed in order to achieve my first dream: a happy family. I had to give up that book because of a sudden twist in my life. I got married. Finally. I did it.

Just filling a Sheet

2008-09-26T01:07:00.000-07:00

I am loosing it again. Do i need to gulp down another cup of coffee just to get it back?
And later on sink in the pits of black, painfully bubbling the throbs caused by an anxiety attack?
I become happy for a moment of spilling mess and blood,
then for the rest of the day I am in darkness
thirsting for joy.

Spillings

2008-09-26T00:34:00.000-07:00

Spoilage foliage of a morning dull. Caffeine fixes, stitches cracks. Then when i write, i could not find the beautifully composed lines of yesterday. I failed to box them, they all flew like manuscripts blown by the wind and into the sea. Ink smudged, washed away. It was water based. My mind was and still is water based. Better to just spill, and let paper drink on until it is drenched, then perhaps later I could dry the words out and see if mosaic has been formed. If it is art, or trash.

As it Was

2008-09-24T04:27:00.000-07:00

They used to call me "Prozac Princess" . I popped pills like candy. They melt inside my system as fast as Alka Zeltzer in water. But unlike the Alka's effect on a hangover, it stays for a while like bubbles floating so high in slow motion, unreachable, until one by one they fade. That's when night comes and it is time for some sleep, and ''pop'!" goes the pill into my mouth. It was life, it sucked, it is full of poop.
That was me before. Now i live a good life, or so they say. It is far from perfect, but i guess that's what makes this nice. I never stopped trying, and striving so hard to reach this place, and along the way i have coped in so many ways with this and with that. Call them heartaches, heart breakers, soul smashers - anything that shakes, stirs, and sickens us. I have met people who caused me to grow, and a few fed me with bitter pills- some to help me heal and some to spite me on purpose. I have also been to places i have only seen before in both my dreams and nightmares. And i was blessed to escape the latter and cursed to depart from the former.
My purpose of this blog is to rediscover the beauty of the life i once lived, to revisit people and places that inspired me, and to revive my dreams that once shone in luster and with hope. Somewhere along the trail i left must be some path i failed to tread on. Going back could be one key that would open the door to understanding all these now. My life is an abstract work. I may be a wife and a mother now, but there seems to be something more than being this. I must have left "her" somewhere. She could probably be that woman trapped in the mundane dailiness of the cliche she once thought of as a dream. That probably explains my recurrent flashbacks and temporary in-a-daze state.
I need to go now. I must go there again.