within a painting, deep in the mountains, a quiet lake resides. its hue as vibrant as emeralds. 

at noon when everyone rests, you’ll hear the gentle breeze of the mountain sift through the willow trees that embrace its edges. ever so often, and ever so softly, it will strum the lake’s surface — and if you listen closely enough, you will hear the water play a symphony. 

a lonely tune that heals the hearts of those who slow down enough to listen.

the monster opens its mouth and bares its teeth,

it disguises its intentions as a warm invitation, with a honeyed veil – swaying, as if its movements are strings and it plays a mother’s lullaby,

and I – as a first time lover, a dancing fool, a siren out of water – walk into the ocean to meet the sonata.

it deeply moves me to know that I have a growing collection of things again. for years I’ve stopped seeing the joy in collecting because I’ve internalized that I’d leave it all behind on this earth when I’m gone anyway, which is a day not that far off, so what’s the point? — but now whenever I see all the pretty dinnerware and perfumes, the crystals refracting sunshine and the books littering my room, I feel comforted in a way. it may be subtle, but the tides are changing. it feels like the beginning of a chapter that I’ve been longing for. 

the light shower may not want to choose to stay in my life, but it made me realize a lot of things. it made me acknowledge that a part of me is still soft, and open enough to be able to let someone in, so therefore I’m not completely hardened like I thought I was.

I don’t trust myself on top of very tall buildings, so I eat ice cream to distract myself.

there’s something symbolic about it. how I got on a red train and got off at the red coded station, to go to that french cafe with the red facade. I also ended up choosing a little red dessert. 

the first bud of a rose, summer’s watermelon, the gleaming bead of a wound — making its way into my vision when all I’ve ever been used to was blue.

in my childhood home, where the walls are a powder blue, I find my mom in the kitchen –

her busy hands wrapping; plastic molds mimicking the shape of rabbits, of bears adorned with hearts and the lone bud of a rose in bloom, metal bowls, nuts and sticks lining the table, strategically placed as if decorations on a cake.

I watch her move, the saccharine scent of the sugar dancing over me, my eyes glossing over the assortment on the table.

she warns me not to take anything,

so I remain, eyeing the chocolates take perfect shape, her gentle hands wrapping them one by one in plastic and how they sit adorned with colorful ribbons.

she tells me they aren’t for me.

so I eat the leftover crumbs, 

and all the other odd shaped pieces that are imperfect to share, to offer

and whatever leftovers my tiny hands could steal when she turned to grab her next batch from the depths of the chartreuse-y door of the refrigerator.

I remember the taste of the sugar, how the cream melted, how the food dye stained my fingers green, and my palms red

and for a brief moment, I wondered if I took one of the perfect pieces she set aside, if she would notice –

if she’d eventually know

(she wouldn’t, but a part of me still wishes she would).

I now know the action wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

grief simultaneously makes time feel unbearably slow and yet I can barely process how almost a year has passed since it happened.

I wrote a novella once that was circled around grief, but I was writing it blind. at 19, I only understood the death of the self, as I had to grieve for parts of myself, but not loss.

“It takes billions of years to create a human being — and it takes only a few seconds to die.”

been reflecting a lot about humans and death lately. about the fragility of existence and memory. about how grief clings, buries itself inside the people who remember. 

I’ve been thinking about how long ‘dying’ truly takes. if it ends simply after the fact. 

is death concluded as soon as the person takes their final breath? does it end at the second their remaining pulse flatlines; when their hands turn stiff and cold to the touch — or if it’s when the last tear is shed from their memory?

is one dead only after a person that remembers them recalls their memory for the last time?

What a gift it truly is to experience life on Earth.