a daylight dream

I’m free, and that is why I seem so lost. There is nothing more bewildering than a heart that is not confined to a certain landscape and can keep its merging and entwinement with heavenly interruptions. My emotional landscape is so fragile, and at times I despise it. I can withstand so much but there are certain subtleties that seem to enrage a wildfire in my chest. And I heave out the smoke of it being utterly painful to bear— the beads of sadness in my eyes, the colour of it, the fragrance of my aura. It murders me— love. In an attempt to be freer to love, one must break the shackles of all enslavements. When it is I, enslaved to the earthly, and I who must be submissive to surrender, is torn apart in between. I honestly choose not to be human most of the time. I see myself in all creatures; wildflowers, willows and blackbirds. But not in the I who is me when enslaved. Forgive me if it’s ever too much. My heart is akin to the brightest star, it needs the truth to burn.

How tender yet wildly lonely it is to feel so estranged in this world. When it’s the bus ride home and all at once, some certain worldly affairs seem so uncertainly meaningful when unrooted in God’s loving grounds. I often look back at my day and find I’ve been to meaningless terrains that have wasted my energy on the inessential. I go home starved for God’s guidance and a listening heart that would understand of the perils of humanhood. I do not want but to cling to what truly serves my soul. Then I miss you, for just a look in your ever-present gentle eyes and ease floods me. A softness that cleanses all the panicky, turbulent parts. How much I’d have to wait missing you, and how much sacredness is required for it to feel utterly timeless.

How is it possible that I miss you so much, that you’re so far away when all I need is but your embrace in the darkness of brokenness? My tears stream this moment as I paint the unfettered streams of love I have for you. I’m ever so broken when I try to shine without you by my side. The littlest attempts to receive glory make me want to die. And why is it that I do not want to go further without you? It is a relief to remain so small if you’re not here, with those reverent eyes of yours, seeing me to wholeness and selflessness. Nothing makes sense if I’m not on this mountain with you. I break apart this morning and stay silent, knowing that eventually, I need to come back to your heart. You’re not far. You never are. You’re planted in my soul, like a sun. It has to be this, or nothing at all. - you never really ever leave -

  How can my heart not break with a warmth such as this, exemplary, beautiful and ever so welcoming. How can I not but lay on this earth and spread my arms while I am coated and soaked in golden, buttery waves of delight! I close my eyes so many times. By that I mean, I close my eyes that see the truest beauty of the world. Like how I told the children today how there is utter in compassion in a fly surrendering it’s life to the treachery of the Venus flytrap. Often, and most when I am at ease, I forget about what is never enough. It is enough in the sunshine, eyes closed, the window of death open wide. This week was rather exhaustive in a sense that made me arrive at the gateways of brokenness. Brokenness that is arrived at when you don’t melt in beauty enough, when the magnificence of the world is a burden rather than a blessing— how far away I was from flawlessness, rather the lens of flawlessness that we ought to put on gazing at our imperfections. There were times when I felt ...

I may be bizarre and outlandish, but there is a certain bizarreness in being estranged in this world. I march out of comfort to the garden while the deep blue arcs adorn the sky in a velvety aura. I march out of certainty to embrace the plantations of loving intentions. How I wish you were here, marching with me. Your boots are covered in dew, rambling and rumbling over the treachery of it. Mine are soaked to the sock, and I rumble on indifferently, the hems of my dress tossed in earthen streaks and moist goodness. I’m not alone. It’s Venus here, shining my way to sun-up. The garden is desolate and forlorn, and it reminds me of you, somehow. I dig my hands into the dry grass and pull it out, and nobody can see is that I’m making safer nests for wilder things to grow. I plant chamomiles. Perhaps, I was meant to be a wildflower in your field. It’s not as grand or as world-changing, but it is wildly sweet, and it lives with such audacity and fervor— ultimately the life I’d like to remembe...