As Strange As It May Sound, Transferring Poems From One Place To Another Is Like Moving A Nearly Complete

These are the hours. The hours, the minutes, the seconds. And the mind? Brutal.

Such seldom occurrences—when I'm not really certain of my thinking. Deem it an anomaly to my own senses. Perhaps I'm foregoing ahead of the seasons. Like a used pencil, my intellect is dull. But it keeps going, just like that pencil.

Collectively, I'm almost cognisant thoughts. I'm also blissfully blind at the same time. I'm trying to navigate this unique life sphere. Limitless and tactless, entwined with skepticism, assurance, elation, and deliberation. I am both unaware and aware of everything, everywhere and on all seas.

Whatever might happen, whatever might be, I'll be alright.

In the case of anything implies more, it will be less in years to come. How life is significant but then... useless.

Genuine worth, unadulterated expectations of life; the terrible days and great. Those low and highs, of surprising good fortune.

So presently, here is the new day. The new life, the new implications, all things considered,

In the event that anytime, it will blur. Those recollections of joy and in the middle between are great forever.

If by chance... Chance at all my emotional wheel of competency fails me... I will be able to say I tried.

Shall I fail at this or that, whether I fall into something or not— I tried. On my sleeve my heart is. In my mind thoughts are. On my heart? I'm unsure.

I tried...

I tried...

And maybe I cried but that's life.

And don't forget folks, that's what you get folks...

—Angie 💋

An astonishing combination of delectable sweetness and mystifying cacophony. Ear-warming. What is? Why the spring days ahead—that is.

The longer nights, shortened days, sunrises, and sunsets are upon us; they love us. Connotations of sweetness. Looking ahead, anticipating the joys of spring...

We wish to keep, possess, and not wonder any more of what lies ahead. We wish to be enchanted, overcome by delirium when it comes. We wish to have our arms outstretched to catch the peaking days. We wish to close our eyes on the settling nights.

Spring...

Spring...

Spring.

𝐸𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠, 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝒉𝑒𝑠.

𝐻𝑖𝑔𝒉 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒.

𝐻𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑠𝒉𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

𝒉𝑖𝑔𝒉 𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑐𝒉. 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑠 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝒉.

𝐿𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑔𝒉𝑡𝑠.

𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒.

Der richtige Weg. Oder das Vorfahrtsrecht, um aus jedem Fehler etwas Besonderes zu machen.

- Mahmoud Darwish from 'Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut c. 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)

—Smile

It's neither the happiest nor the most faultless smiles. It's the concept of a grin. The crooked, the dimples, the hurt, and the fray were all present. Pain and anguish collided. So, why are you smiling? What if the only thing that comes out of it is pain?

There isn't any cookie wisdom. There was no extraordinary serendipitous conversation. To be able to smile despite it. Pushing forward while knowing that it could all end at any moment brings a smile to your lips. It doesn't matter if it's for a second or for Infinity. Those lips will curl, and that soul will express gratitude.

Smile...

Grin...

Repeat...