I close my eyes
And imagine a world without name droppers
No Instagram No Tiktok No Twitter
A world without small talks
And lame chats about the weather
A world where silence is not only welcomed 
But preferred
A world without opinions, only thoughts and ideas 
Open minded ones
That don't judge, discriminate, ridicule
That don't start world wars and end marriages 
That don't impose all kinds of gods 
And weird diets 
That don't shoot rockets 
On some OTHER people 
Just because they are OTHERS
I close my eyes 
And imagine a world where humans wonder
How to be better humans 
Living among other humans 
Being, feeling, moving
Like humans do
In their natural habitat: NATURE. 
How to be human beings in nature 
And then I open my eyes 
And see the cages.
We are all prisoners of our own making.
But we can all be free
IF WE ONLY IMAGINE.​

Dear Disappointment, 

You're my bad. My making. My mistake. 
Without me messing up by expecting something from someone some place or some thing, we wouldn't have met now on a late chilly Tuesday night. This time, I summoned you by putting some hope into someone. And boy, I feel you right there sitting heavy on my heart. I feel your cringe worthy self shaking your head at me, as if to say 'I told you so...' And you did. You did tell me so. But I didn't listen. Hope grew strong in me and clouded my judgement. Hope brought along expectation with her, and now I was under their bonded spell. And now, as expected, here I am, tangled with your long and brutal tentacles. As if I was your prey all along, dear Disappointment. 
I will not mince words tonight. Nor will I find the good in you, the lesson that you give me with your presence, the meaning that you have. I will not do so because I feel the weight of you tonight and you are heavy. Too heavy for optimism. Too heavy for hope. 
The only hope I feel is in that quiet inner child's wish that you had not appeared at all, and that the friend who disappointed me tonight, wouldn't have done that at all. 
But alas... neither I or you are time travelers, and wishing is only kept for birthdays and shooting stars. I will feel you and all your weight, and maybe come tomorrow, your weight will be a bit more tolerable to bare. 

With you, reluctantly, 

​Me. 


​

To live in the world without I. What is that like? How does this body of mine feel without attachments? Without history nor future? What takes place of memories in one's mind when there is no I? Or... is there no mind at all then? Is all of our existence the experience of IDENTITY that won't let go of us no matter how much we try.
To live in a world without I. Like a baby, entering the light. Born into an existence and little by little that baby would wear his or hers or theirs identity mask. They'd have their personality. Their traits. Their quirks. Soon there'll be wants and needs. And tantrums. And 'It's MINE!' And love. And hate. And memories. And hopes and dreams. Soon there would be an I in that little person's body. There'll be a mind mostly occupied with itself. With surviving. Survival of the I is the biggest game the mind plays. It's its biggest goal. Quest. Urge. All it craves is to EXIST. The I longs for infinity. Longs not to be forgotten. Tries to hold on for dear life. 
Imagine - to live in a world without I. 
It is not a question of WHO we'd be. But WHAT. 

PATIENCE
(noun)

*The capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset.

I suppose I was searching for the definition of the word today because I needed a sliver of connection to what Patience actually IS. Because you see... I haven't felt it in so long... that it is out of reach, and seeing this simple definition in the dictionary reminds me what it is and why I now don't have the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset. And that's OKAY. Today, that's OKAY.​

A PRETTY GIRL - wants to be a princess. 
Walks like all the models on the runway
In her tight fitting clothes
That show her cleavage 
And her curves
And how desirable she is. 
A PRETTY girl - smiles when construction workers tell her to
She blushes when they whistle 
She hands out her phone number 
And she blows kisses 
To strangers who gaze. 
A PRETTY GIRL loves to fuck doggy-style
Because she knows all she is is a bitch 
That must be fucked by
Some drooling ugly men 
Who won't even look at her.
A PRETTY GIRL never ages.
She never wrinkles
Or gain weight
She never slouches 
Or poops
She never sweats
Or burps
Or farts.
No - A PRETTY GIRL is PERFECT.
Like a Disney fantasy.
But not a child's Disney fantasy, 
But rather the man himself -
The Walt in all his Disney patriarchal glory. 
A PRETTY GIRL IS a fantasy. 
She's YOUR fantasy. 
You, the man gazing at her, from your throne.
Who would she be if you won't look at her? 
Comes to think of it - She may not even be here at all. 

Some artists are not separated from their art.
They embody their ART with their entire being.
Such is Christen Lien. A musician, a storyteller, and artist.​

I had the honor of hearing Christen play her stunning cello storytelling music close in my ear through the long forgotten audio app CLUBHOUSE. She blew my mind with her attention to feelings and telling an emotional journey through music.
Her descriptions of the inspirations behind her music, her 'muse' was as melodically enchanting as the music itself.
And seeing her video like this one, and other videos featured on her IG page, is witnessing also the undeniable performer that she is. A performer that connects to her work and invites you the audience to join in. A  force. An original. She drums to her own cello string. 
Here's a taste of her art. For more, follow her Spotify channel.

Dear Discomfort,

I wish you had a different name. A name that would be less.... uncomfortable. Saying your name 'Discomfort' brings this queezy-squeemish-mugh UNCOMFORTABLE feeling in me. One that pains on my heart. Like a rock that just SITS there. Taking space. Adding weight. Bothersome. Irritating. BUMMERsome. 

Oh, Discomfort. You come and go, but these days. Or... TODAY - you've come and stayed. For a long while. You've reminded me places where I have yet to grow. Places where I'm stuck in. Places where I feel you so heavy on my chest, that my inner child goes running to cry her face in the bed's down comforter. And that comforter was comfortable, hence its name... but only for a little while. Once I rose from it... there you were again. Reminding me of the mountain I am climbing while being deeply afraid of heights. 

Oh, Discomfort. You are an important one, aren't you? We credit Fear often, but you are like the subtle tell-sign that Fear follows. You are the guideline, the guide, the leader taking me to a path of new growth, changes, learnings, lessons... for wisdom to drop in, one must first embrace YOU dear Discomfort. And today, I DO embrace you. I cherish you. I hold you close to me knowing that you are a better armor than the stronger of metals. You're a shield even in your invisible shell. You're a positive even though I don't bother telling you that because most of the time you are just really really UNCOMFORTABLE.

So what do I say to you on a day that we've been on each other's throat? 
I say thank you. And I say it again. And again. Until you feel some of that heavy-feeling of DISCOMFORT. 

With many thanks...

Me.

Once upon a time there was a TIME
That flew by like a bullet train speeding off into the horizon.
It was a TIME that one does not forget, long after TIME has passed.
TIME didn't know how precious it was.
It was oblivious to its own power. It was insecure and fleeting in its existence. 
Like so many of us, TIME walked on this earth feeling invisible. 
And to many - TIME WAS.
Some were keenly aware of its presence. They were the poets, the artists, the monks. 
Others, the over-achievers, were keenly aware of TIME'S impending disappearance. 
They were the anxious, the competitive, the fearful. 
Some were unaware of TIME'S presence, nor its impending disappearance.
They were the lucky ones. The children, the spared, the crazy ones. 
But TIME was the most oblivious at all. Unaware of its own existence. Too wrapped up in its own demise to notice its aliveness. 
When lastly TIME drifted away, into a horizon far in the past and far into the future, 
What remained was the remains of presence. The DEATH of TIME was all that there was. Alas, there was nothing without TIME lurking nearby. There was a long never-ending stretch of nothingness. 
Greet TIME before it leaves you, crazy one. 

And here we are again.
Seems as though my daily blog has been hardly 'daily' lately. So it seems...
But in truth? This little blog of mine grew up and sprung above the pages of its book, or beyond the html code of its site. You see, what started on the blog as a short story back in the end of 2021, a short story named 'Rebel Rebel', manifested into fruition and became a MOVIE. Or, well, is in the midst of becoming a movie. And I had to go and immerse myself in its birth, just like a mother who zeroes in on the task at hand. The task was to walk it out onto the world in courage. The task was to walk it carefully, cautiously, courageously. The task was to write it on my feet. And so I did: I directed this once-a-short-story-and-now-a-short-film and headed production of it. Lots of firsts for this little birthday girl. 
And am I now changed thanks to that? Oh, yes. I have taken my writing to the next step, the inevitable step. I've taken my creation into the logical place - the SHARING of it, and I teamed up with magnificent talents that supported the journey and the birth of this little short. The end isn't here yet. In fact, this is only the beginning. The beginning for 'Rebel Rebel, and the beginning for me as the new woman that I have grown up to be. A WOMAN. Not a child. Not a girl. Not in doubt, in fear, in anxiety and insecurities, but rather a woman who is BOLD and HUNGRY and COMPASSIONATE. A woman who likes to take her dreams and turn them into a reality. A woman who is a REBEL REBEL indeed. A woman that knows that the all seeing eye - is her very OWN. 
So yeah, it's been a while, but I was here all along. In the cocoon, waiting to explode. Waiting to leap. Waiting to fly. And now my wings grew wide enough to carry me upwards.
​To what lays beyond.
Happy birthday to me.