One candle lit for your beautiful spirit.
Another for the faith we have put in you.
One more in the hope that you will not disappoint us.
Last to complete the row.

I was writing you a love ballad
But then
Four sets of hands (or were there five?)
Grabbed me by the throat
Shouting for their share

Adulthood

Walking down the street, she doesn’t realise that she has a hint of mustard on her cheek. Or that pieces of her hair are attempting to kiss the sky this morning. 

Love is large and looming and these are matters of little importance.

Back in her single room flat, when love breathes in her neck and slides in her mouth, her eyes dart to the crack on the wall.

And she is reminded that the (now) insignificant will seep, ooze and dribble hot on her cheek instead, unless she pays attention to it. 

The sea is silent
To hear my sighs,
A few gasps,
And a rising disappointment. 

This Post Is Not About Me

"A kong-an is like a finger pointing at the moon. If you are attached to the finger, you don’t understand the direction, so you cannot see the moon. If you are not attached to any kong-an, then you will understand the direction. The direction is the complete don’t-know mind.
[…]
You must keep only don’t-know, always and everywhere. Then you will soon get enlightenment. But be very careful not to want enlightenment. Only keep don’t-know mind. Your situation, your condition, your opinions — throw them all away."

Though I'm not sure I interpreted it the right way, these words struck a chord with me. Especially now as I notice that most of my sentences are centered around "I". Everything around me is about me. 

I also wind up writing a lot about my limitations, which in turn brings limitations to my writing. Constant self-analysis causes paralysis.

One of the best things about fiction is that it can be made from scratch. I've never used the power to make something on my own - the freedom is as unnerving as it is inviting. Time to begin.

Dare

In her dream she is dragging a chair into the corner of a park with bald patches of green. This is just the kind of ground she used to play on while growing up. She finds a spot for the chair and picks up a stick to draw a circle around her. She is stark naked and the dark, wild cloud on her head stands against her pale, exposed breasts which don't seem to weigh her down like most days. She sits on the chair with legs spread. She senses some shuffling around her but it is too dark to see anything. She waits with baited breath. This is how it should be.

Spirit has decided to take flight early in the morning. (This is her first time)
The night before, she calls up Body and Mind and discusses her plan at length
They bring in Doubt for consultation
So she packs all necessary items including a jet-pack
For one must always look at the possibility of failure
Then preens her feathers for a couple of hours
And mumbles prayers till dawn cracks
She wakes up late next morning
Spirit has now decided to put the plan away for next day.


Spirit takes flight. She flies.