Always and Nevermore.

Coffee, pen, a tortured mind and a neverending night.San | 21 | Writer | Physicist | Bold and Reckless

[weavewordsfromdreams]

On her wedding day she smiled at me She looked beautiful, complete with her new bangles, They chimed in discord as she waved at me, ‘It’s a present’ she mouthed, pointing to him gleefully 'An infinite circle, what a lovely wedding present', I thought I always knew it was her from a mile away Those bangles spoke louder than her words ever could ‘You want to get some ice cream?’ she would yell in my direction Running up the stairs two at a time, bangles clinking against each other, glass against glass, yellow against red, like a disorderly sunset striving to put on a show Like a classroom full of kids talking all at once, Disharmonious and often downright annoying But a comforting sign of happiness and life She’d always come by running up the stairs, two at a time Wrists adorned with the colours of the rainbow, pastel blue, lavender rose, delicate lilac, and some I didn’t recognize Tinted with the shades of twilight, glazed with the stars twinkling in the night sky But lately she had been different More fragile she had become, with the passing of time She felt the weight of the bangles around her wrist now Bangles or handcuffs, she didn’t quite know Unbearable they had gotten, mimicking her life A marriage or a lie, she wasn’t quite sure Today, I heard those bangles and prepared for my routine ice cream call, Suddenly, the clinking stopped, replaced by a piercing scream I ran to the door and looked down the stairs, There she stood, clutching her wrists, bare like the autumn tree, blood trickling down her wrists, tears streaming down her face Little pieces of glass, strewn all over the stairs Shattered on the floor, sepia shades reflecting off their smooth curves ‘No more’, she cried, ‘I refuse to do this anymore’ And it seemed like all joy had left her world for one split second But then I remembered, she was her own rainbow, she was her own light in the dark, her own protector She didn’t need a bangle to define her She was her own patronus… (at Washington, DC) https://www.instagram.com/p/Boo8FzYH8cS/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=rm1oav2pr7i6

[weavewordsfromdreams]

It is indeed the saddest of days

Men in white standing somber, hands clasped behind their back

Women in black, faces pale and lifeless, expressions mournful

Their bodies entrenched in the swirling background,

silhouettes of black and white and seventy three shades of grey

Their gaze fixed on the grave. Mounds of dirt piled

Over on top of each other, crushing the earth

and the bones buried underneath, underneath their skin

Bones clad with fine jewelry, leather boots and silk scarves

Lipstick in shades of violent and strands of gold-yellow

Flitting aimlessly in the air, caught off guard by the wind

that kicks up the dust over the coffin

Being reduced slowly to the ground, beneath the ground, buried

along with the bones that bury it, and the dreams that died with it

Filters romanticized the scene, the vibrant hues of mayfair

The soft blue touches of valencia, and the playfulness of gringam

But none could hide the wailing echoes of mourning

None mistook it for anything but what it was

The funeral of a human conversation, the funeral

of those words that were yet to be shared

The funeral of the unraveling of the naked true human self

Mourned quietly, distantly, by people covered in layers

used as shields to protect themselves from the viciousness of a world

where a human conversation was only found

buried in the dirt

Quietly they mourned, and then clicked and posted on Instagram

#rip #missyou #wishyouwerehere #foreverremembered #deathofthehumanconversation

Blood on their hands, paint on their nails,

They went about their merry way, validating their existence,

head buried in their likes, comments, shares, anything

Still alive, and yet, not quite human anymore.

Instagram chuckled, pleased with his training

Little did they know, they were burying fragments of themselves everyday

Self destruction is, after all, human.

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Spent a good part of the day hiking up this volcano so I could pretend like I was very casually hanging out above this sea of clouds waiting for this other volcano to give me some fire. #guatemala #guatsup . . . . . #wearetravelgirls #antigua #volcano #fuego #postcardsfromtheworld #adventureculture #demmayanstho #graciasadios (at Antigua Guatemala, Sacatepequez)

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Wheelchair bound, and yet traveled through time. I remember reading ‘A brief history of time’. I remember being awed, intrigued, and inspired all at once. I bet I wasn’t the only one that felt that way on reading that book. It’s not often that theoretical physicists get much of a fan following - but how could you not be in awe of someone with such a brilliant mind and a dynamic personality. Dynamic-an odd choice of adjective for a man in a wheelchair, some might think. What if I told you that he communicated through a speech-generating device using a single cheek muscle for several years of his life. What if I told you that at scientific meetings, he often spent several minutes typing away furiously at his machine, and when the system spoke his words it turned out to be a joke. What if I told you that at 65 when asked if he wanted to experience weightless in zero gravity, our wheelchair bound man happily accepted. His contribution to cosmology is of course, extraordinary, changing the way black holes are understood. However his humour and resilience is what won over more hearts than the average scientist can ever hope to. Hawking radiation- fitting coming from someone who spent so much of his life radiating knowledge, as a cosmologist, as a philosopher, as the cool dude in a wheelchair. He said he believed that the human brain was merely a complex machine that will eventually stop working when the machine breaks down. Well, I second that theory, and might I add, his machine was pretty darn well oiled to have lived to almost 4 times the expected ‘expiration date’. I will leave you with a joke Stephen Hawking once came up with: What do Sheldon Cooper and a black hole have in common? Answer: they both suck. RIP. Gravity won’t be the same without you. #stephenhawking #rip

[weavewordsfromdreams]

To my love today, and maybe tomorrow

To my love, I held you close to me hoping to hear your heart flutter but instead I heard the calm of someone who know what he wanted. I want you to dance with me, but your arms don’t align with mine and your eyes dance a different song, one that I have never heard before. If we prevail, know that you were my everything, and probably will continue to be, until you aren’t anymore. If we don’t, know that I have loved you more than I have loved any part of myself. That I felt inadequate when not around you, and I felt abandoned when you didn’t want to be around me. Know that you lived and breathed and loved within me, and I suffocated, gasping for breath, every time you said nothing on the phone and everytime your responses spanned a fraction of mine. Know that I broke trying to love you, my arms gave away, and my eyes stopped lighting up. Not because I didn’t love you, not because you didn’t love me, but because I grew tired of the game we played, the days we let pass us by. I grew tired of a forever maybe when I wanted a forever only. I wanted your fingers to trace my skin as you spoke about our future, our babies and our dog and all our hopes and dreams, forever in your arms. Instead I found intermittent exclamations of hope for our future, interspersed with silence. I was always a romantic, and you were never one. I guess I grew exhausted from trying to make my dreams reflect my reality. I grew disillusioned. People say go after your dreams, you can make anything happen. How do you make something happen when you’re the only one who speaks the language of your thoughts. How do I explain to you that I need more love when you’re giving me all the love you’ve got. How do I learn to fix you when I’m breaking inside. I have never loved you less, and I will never love you more, but if don’t make it, know that I would’ve dragged a body across the seven seas for you. I would’ve given an arm and a leg for you. If we don’t make it, know that it wasn’t for lack of trying and it wasn’t for lack of love. And as long as you know that, you will always carry with you a part of my heart, just like I carry the whole of you in mine. If someone else comes into my life, know that it will never be the same. They will never be you. Know that you held a part of me, and you took it with you, and you will keep it until the day they bury you, and on that day, I will come, and bury a part of me alongside you. Know that nothing and nobody can change what we were, not my husband, not my lovers or yours. Know that I loved you hard, and I love you today. As I will always love you, and want happiness for you and love for you, in ways that I never could give you. And if ten years from now, if you and I are still you and I, know that you once were my everything, and I lost a part of myself to be with you, but I found another part of myself in you. And as I write this, drunk at 2.30 am on a friday night, I cannot help but think of all the happiness that lies ahead of you, with or without me, and live vicariously through you. I cannot help but think of babies you might have and a job that you’ll be amazing at, and a loving and wonderful wife that you’ll marry. I cannot help but think I don’t know if I’m the one, but I’m sure as hell lucky to be a part of you. I’m lucky to have loved you and touched you because no experience I will ever have will be the same. So wherever we may end up being, thank you for the feelings, the emotions, the experiences, the moments that shaped you as they did me, the times that left us feeling more confident, more sure of ourselves, more us. Thank you for being a crutch to a girl on one leg, and thank you for loving me hard. You made me who I am, and I can never ever stop loving the part of you that lives in me. Goodnight, mi amor. Tomorrow is a brand new day.

[weavewordsfromdreams]

The Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico has been nothing short of spectacular. From snorkeling with the turtles in blissful blue/ pink waters to visiting the Mayan ruins and quaint island towns, Mexico proved to be far lovelier than I imagined. Also, we lucked out and skipped pretty much the entire cold spell over North America. But turns out I can't just take an infinite amount of time off of sciencing. Who'd have thought! #adiosmexico #winterishere . . . . . #yucatan #mexico #chichenitza #cancun #tulum #pinklake #beachbum #blueisthewarmestcolor #travelphotography #passionpassport #artofvisuals #followmefaraway (at Playa del Carmen, Quintana Roo)

[weavewordsfromdreams]

The long and winding road... #sanfrancisco #sheisnotlost #napavalley #finewineandagoodtime #goldengatebridge #lightphotography #throughthelens (at San Francisco, California)

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Such a humbling experience to be amidst the most magnificent mountains and volcanoes, the bluest of waters and the kindest of people. Indonesian hospitality is unrivaled. #indonesia #solotravel #bali #bromo #backpacking #couchsurfing #dametraveler #nakedearth #passionpassport #sunriseintosunset (at Indonesia)

[weavewordsfromdreams]

In search of solace

[weavewordsfromdreams]

It grew with each breath, ballooning out of control, until boom! It lay plastered on his face. Bubble gum masks were back in fashion.

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Give me high heels and diet coke and I will rock your world!

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Hello 2017! (at Fell's Point, Baltimore)

[weavewordsfromdreams]

You disappeared into the stars, and suddenly, the night sky was so bright that it blinded me.

[weavewordsfromdreams]

You make me feel like art

Sometimes I visit art galleries, and every time without exception I am absolutely awestruck. wonderful places they are, simply wonderful, wrapped in rainbow-shaded paintings. Bejewelled. Exquisite. Rather intimidating. I let me eyes flicker from one painting to another, from the soft lavender strokes to the royal patterns of turquoise blue to the vehemently raging patterns of amber. And whilst I may not comprehend the art of art, I do hold in me the ability to appreciate a good thing when I see it. So I lounge about, carefully identifying each piece, letting myself drown in the translucent luminescence of carefully shaped marble lined with flamboyant sapphire. I try to make myself as small as possible, as imperceptible as I can, as I scamper about dodgily with all my senses heightened and my heart so full of pure blind emotion. I look at bold blending of colors, and boundary-less altering of forms and shapes. I try to recreate my favourite pieces of art in my head sometimes, imagine myself-palette in hand, canvas in front of me, whilst staring at the work in question. I observe carefully and thoroughly and then I begin, laying out the foundation, drawing the lines, mixing the right colors, smoothening those strokes. But almost always, when I superpose my mental masterpiece on the original beauty in front of me, I fall short by a thousand miles and one.

I love art, art in all forms, I really do. But occasionally I come across a painting that was likely made by a child. Bold squiggly lines intersecting arbitrarily, often in ways that don’t please my sense of aesthetics. Or blocks of paint thrown recklessly against the cold-black canvas staining it with blotches of all colors one can imagine. I don’t recognise the art in these pieces, they’re often in the contemporary art section, but then again, I’m more old-school I reckon. And while this work of art seems so inconspicuous and almost insignificant to me, I often find a couple of what I can only assume are either hard-core art connoisseurs or aesthetically impaired peering wistfully at the painting, with slouched shoulders and a creased brow, as if trying to decipher some sort of secret code. I don’t know why, but for some absurd reason, some people actually seem to think this very ordinary, bland piece of work that could potentially have been created by a fool, is a beautiful work of art. I don’t understand how this simple, flawed painting was the winning-trophy for some in the crowd. I feel like that painting when you look at me, confused and grateful.

You look at my eyes, on cold-groggy mornings, barely open, bland and barren, and you smile. You look at my eyes when we watch movies, heart-wrenching movies with the most beautifully sad stories, and you catch me right in the middle, peering out from over tear stained pillows that I clutch on to, half in sorrow and half in the embarrassment of watching you watch me. And still, you smile as you pull me in and kiss my forehead. You look at my eyes on bloodshot nights and on bloodshot mornings, you watch them crease up sometimes, you watch them glow occasionally and once in a while, you even watch them curl up into a recess. You look at them with the thirst of an artist and the passion of an art collector, longing to discover them, to understand them better. You look at my lips, watch them curl up and curl yours up simultaneously. You kiss the bottom of my feet, kneeling down, as if you were worshipping me. You listen to the sounds of my stomach and you hear music, you hear melody. You analyze my crevices with a pensive admiration, longing to explore further, understand better, delve into every little corner.

I am an admirer of books, and although every once in a while I pick up a new book or two and plonk it upon my shelf, in my times of dearth and despair, I inevitably retire to the trusted few that I read over and over again. I look for quotes that I hadn’t found before, I explore emotions that failed me the first time around, I assume characters that seemed rather insignificant before, and roll through the book with them. And no matter how well I know a book, the smell of its pages always seems different when I open it again, and I hold it close to my body, hoping the words will seep in through my skin, and then I will become one with the book. Some movies too, hold a special spot in my life. On an ordinary day, experimentation is all well and good. However, we all have a cozy nook where we feel familiar, where we feel safe. And no matter what, we can always come back home to our favourite book or our favourite movie, and re-find ourselves through it. You know my favourite movie, you know how it moves me, how it changes me.You know that inspite of chanting along the lines of the movie with the characters, each time I watch it, I find new parts of the character, and with that I find new parts of myself. Longing to understand them better, I rewatch and reread. That’s how you make me feel. You know me, you do, and yet you cling to me, as if to try to rub my scent on to you, as if to taste my breath on your tongue, as if to read my thoughts in your mind. You know me, and yet every time you look at me, I feel like a piece of art. And for that, I will always love you.

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Politics, it is Dad finally found his son Dancer died inside

a haiku a day

[weavewordsfromdreams]

Again no one was home Flakes of paint fall off the wall Dilapidated

a haiku a day

[weavewordsfromdreams]

'What if' her dreams spoke  Nostalgia was her best theme  Outdated, yet again

a haiku a day