Thursday, February 26, 2015

It's Always My Heart You'll Find in the Sea

People warned me against falling in love with the sea. “It’s chaos,” they said. But my mother was the first to instill a wild love: passing down her sea legs to me, bobbing in the waves instead of rocking in the chair. Then I grew strong and played alone with the sea. I came home with sand-bruised knees, water-washed nostrils, and a smile more ingrained than the quartz within my hair.

Rip-tides. Hurricanes. Tsunamis.
Universal deluge. Chaos. The unconscious.
“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.”

Leviathan. Giant squid. Whale shark.
Man o’ war. Tube worms. Nudibranchs.
The final frontier is not space,
but the depths of the Mariana Trench.

I sit and listen to the ebb and flow;
my eyes closed, floating along the surface,
and crashing upon the shore.

I visit the sea these early mornings. I am anxious and tired, wired and unrelaxed. And the sea, she greets me, clear and still as glass. “Come rest with me,” she says, “I’ll smooth your worries away.” I smile and wryly tease, “You’re peaceful now, but wait until the wind of day.” But I love her still, and this she knows.

For what is love, if it is only the perfect glass? No—love is bloody knees, chaotic storms, and mysterious ocean depths. Love is ebb and flow, floating and crashing, and a smile that can’t be washed away.

People warned me against falling in love with the sea. "It's chaos," they said. And I simply ask, "Is there another more worthy of my love?"

Monday, February 23, 2015


The guilt
of carrying
a charmed God. 

the gift
I am afraid
to open.
Some assembly 
The instructions are in
je ne comprends pas.

Please don't ask,
so I mustn't speak.
Your ever widening
the swift flushing
of my cheeks.
I quickly whisper,
Ce n'est pas le mien.

Monday, February 16, 2015

The Music Box

Darkness. Emptiness that suffocates. And loneliness that grates the skin.

Then light rains down upon me, lifting my spirit upon its effervescent waves. I blinkingly look up and into his eyes. Brown gleaming orbs, splashed with green nebulae emanating from a pair of gently pulsating pupils.

I jump to my feet in ecstasy and begin to sing and dance. I twist and twirl and jump, watching the exaltation in his eyes. Then my gaze is drawn to his lips, as a smile breaks forth. I respond with braver song, assuring him of my love and beckoning him to draw near.

But then darkness begins to creep across my body. I can no longer see his lips, and his eyes are disappearing. My step falters; I trip; and as I hit the floor, I am plunged again into darkness.


Darkness. The silence so thick that I cannot hear my cries. The chill in my heart stretches to numb my shaking limbs.

Then light floods again. I see his eyes, and I see his curving lips. I jump to my feet and I offer my voice. I dance with fierce joy, knowing I will never tire.

But wiser now, when the darkness begins to descend, I halt my dance and stare pleadingly into his eyes. The darkness halts. He returns my gaze. I sing at the top of my voice, “Come and dance with me! Why don’t you come and sing?” His eyes take softer shape, and the darkness begins to recede. I stand in awe before him, continuing to sing, “Come dance with me; come sing the duet of love.” His lips again appear, but they lack their lovely curl.

Wondrously, a finger appears, with a hand attached besides. He reaches out to me. My heart skips a beat, allowing for a beat of hope.

But his hand blocks out the light, and then my heart is stilled by fear. His finger comes closer and closer and closer—
until he pushes me to the ground.

His hand snaps back, and allows for light to return. I look up into his eyes; they are doused with the salty sea. I see fear or confusion, anger or concern. Before I pick myself up, darkness engulfs my desecrated world.


Darkness. Emptiness. Loneliness. Numbness.

I shield my eyes when the light returns. I slowly rise to my feet, but I do not search for mesmerizing eyes or a tantalizing smile. I dance, as he expects me to. I sing, as he expects me to. But my rhythm is solemn and my tone is sad. For he cannot join me here; we will never dance as a couple, nor sing our love-duet.

Now I welcome the darkness, and lonely silence falls.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Who Knows Best?

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Doctor. Not necessarily the healing kind. In fact, I just wanted the title. That was my plan: no matter what field I go into, go all the way. Be the best. Be a Doctor.

But something took that away from me. My academic castle was swept away by a psychological wave. I thought it was punishment for rising too high. I had made myself a god, and that tends to evoke jealousy.

I learned to settle into humble life—hid myself away where the temptation to be great was naught. Once came the response: “What if you get the chance to go back?” Honestly, I doubted I would. Pride is hard to destroy and, therefore, restrictions eternal.

But then the doors opened wide, and I trembled in fear. A trap it seemed to send me back into Hell. But I stepped through the door, hoping that mercy was something real. To my relief and to my horror, my pride had indeed been shot.

It wasn’t what I expected. Pain much outweighing pleasure. And yet self-contradicting, I moved forward. The girl who has the potential but is crippled by self-doubt. It is the struggle to be a perfect god, when a god I am most definitely not.

Now here I am again. The next door opened. This one promising to lead to my childhood dream. And par with self-contradicting me, I both desire and loathe it. I no longer think it is a trick or a trap. I’m just beginning to doubt that a child knows best.