You are cloudy days
Overcast skies

You are the promise of rain
When it's coming
But you know not when

You are confusion
Contradiction
Thunder and lightning
Fire and electricity
Powerful

You are a hurricane
Of doubts and fears
Devastating
Punishing

You are a black hole
All-consuming
Famished
Yearning
Needing

Yet human
Imperfect and flawed

You are everything
And nothing

Me.
Mine.

Comfortable

I tend to think in pictures. And there are certain pictures that are constantly in my head. That I tend to hold on to, that I wish I could translate to reality. They are extremely cliched, but for me they are important. It's a paradox, seeing as how I hate being cliched, but hey, sometimes it's allowed.

A sheet under a tree on a breezy evening. Me, leaning against said tree, reading. Or proofing/editing what could possibly be the next big bestseller. You lying with your head on my lap. Dozing or reading or listening to music. Or even just daydreaming.

A comfortable four-poster bed. With a massive and extremely soft blanket. Us cozy under said blanket, watching something on a laptop or on the BIG TV.

You are lounging on a sofa. Channel surfing. And I am on the floor, resting against the sofa, reading or working. Your hand is lazily playing with my hair.

The one thing common in all these things is how comfortable it all is. Feels as natural as breathing. It's just the presence of you that is important. What you are doing is irrelevant. It's familiar, it's warm, it's a feeling of home.

Because being with you, is like being home.

Naked

Naked
Powerless
Beautiful
Raw

Stripped
Of defences
Of masks
Of walls
Of pretences

Completely, truly vulnerable
Trusting
Scared
Honest
Frail
Human

Giving
Surrendering
Entirely
All one has
All one is

No protection
No guards
No lies

You might see me without my clothes.
But only I can choose when you can truly see me naked.

Two Double O

So it's that time again. When I try to come up with something genius to signify this milestone in my life, because a milestone it is.

Two hundred posts. And four years of writing. About fifty posts per year, four posts per month, on average. That's quite a bit if you break it down.

And again, after thinking about it for the longest time and drawing a complete blank, I am just going to say that I am thankful.

For books. For language. For the ability to translate to writing all, okay, most of the thoughts that swirl around in this head of mine; for the ability to string together a coherent sentence. For an outlet. For communication and conversation. For poetry and art. For inspiration. For thought itself. For great thinkers and authors. For the ability to remember and record. For memory. For colour and light. For pictures. For technology.

I am thankful, for words. They are all I have. All I ever will have.

Four years, two hundred posts, and a never-ending journey of discovery.

Here is to you, dear blog.

Here is to me.

Full opposite

Holidays are supposed to rejuvenate and revitalize. Recharge your batteries so that you can get back to work better and refreshed. They are a break from the drudgery of every day life and they equip you to handle it better when you get back. They give you great stories to tell and write about. Maybe even a few adventures.

At least they're supposed to.

Then, why do I end up feeling even worse than before after I get back from a holiday? They're never long enough and the goodbyes just keep getting more difficult. You would think that the more you take, the better you end up feeling, but it seems to be working in reverse for me because all it shows me is that what I am coming back to just doesn't fit right anymore. It just ends up being a horrible jolt into a very depressing reality. Where the escape ends up being a trap in itself.

Holidays seem to end up messing me up even more than I was before I went on them.

Sigh.

Talk about fail.