Some people make me grateful for my teeth.


Of Gods and Men III

I was talking to a friend yesterday, about the problem with the notion of love.

Specifically, how being cynical robs you of the so-called ‘honeymoon period’. You never have the initial few weeks where you see the other with rose tinted glasses. Where all their eccentricities are still cute and endearing, rather than being nails-on-a-chalkboard intolerable. Cynicism and a healthy wariness of love never lets you experience the euphoria that brings.

At the same time, it seems as though it’d be a distinct advantage to going into something with your eyes wide open. Fear and vulnerabilities aside, maybe starting with a rational acknowledgment and acceptance of imperfections would be a better foundation weather the inevitable storms.

Maybe it’s just the pragmatism of surrender speaking, having been utterly defeated by that one and only attempt at loving madly that I could muster. Rationale makes for a sturdy excuse.

Or maybe, this is what my version of hope is going to be. But I’m finding- loving smart is so much more difficult than loving hard.

Here’s to falling, one way or the other, and hopefully flying.

Love and light,

Cookie ❤

Moon Man

There’s something about black eyes that are endlessly darker than the night.

They sparkle- as do the glances- in a setting paler than the moon, yet harder to gaze at than the sun.

What do you do, when you can’t look, and you can’t look away?

I suppose you lapse into writing these mouthfuls of the night you can’t swallow anymore.

I suppose I can’t swallow anymore.

And while I am ashamed and relieved for the respite this eclipse brings-

Moon man, where did you go?


I’ve been oscillating between reasons to write, and reasons not to write. My motivation for the first, the second, and both, has been my simultaneous need to feel. And the pure, sheer fear, of what I know is coming.

That if I allow myself to shake, I’ll fall apart. And nobody, not me, nor even you coming back would be able to put me back together again.

So I’ve been allowing myself some words. Mostly technical words. Dry, desiccated facts, terms and phrases that would drive a rock to boredom. I trapped every instinct pushing me to let everything screaming and hysterically laughing out, or even in words approximating it. I have been systematically, intentionally, exhausting myself to the point where my restless brain is forced to shut down by my aching body each and every night. There has been no space to feel, to think, to let any of this come anywhere the visible, palpable surface. Because it would make everything real. And I’m not ready for real. I’m not ready for the barest mention of real. Real means me having to face an endless stretch of truths.

But these lies, they sit like a hot coal in the middle of my chest. I don’t know which pain I prefer anymore.

I’m so, so alone. He’s not there. He’s not there. And that’s become the sum backbone of my existence. My days are propped up by stacks and bricks of work and responsibilities, because they are interspersed with.. nothing. Not him. Not the mention of him. Not even the fact that he doesn’t belong to me anymore. Not that I don’t belong to him. And never will.

I’ve been breathing in a handful of maudlin words. Admissions and tiny, tiny permissions of grief that I let myself briefly touch. Smear the closest letters I find onto a surface, pretend it’s poetry, and fall back into the forced, safe, nothingness. I’m craving solitude, terrified of my loneliness, and growing heartsick of the people I’m filling every inch of my day with. But the nights…

I miss him in every inch of the pale night. I cannot fathom how it can be this heavy, to carry a hollow inside. And I wonder. Which of these exhaustions will finally drive me to sleep.