bookmark_borderThurs. 22 April 2021; 03:14 – Bed

Earlier tonight I began reading Hisham Matar’s novel, In the Country of Men. In it, the narrator’s mother speaks of grief, a topic I have been reading about, experiencing, and thinking of quite a bit lately.

“Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo.”

Spoken by the character Najwa in Hisham Matar’s In the Country of Men

A thought occurred to me the other day. I had heard (or possibly read) the phrase “it’s what you do that matters” which is similar to the phrase “actions speak louder than words.” I thought about this for some time, and I began to wonder what if saying something took as much effort as doing something. What would the world look like if it took as much effort to speak as it did to perform an activity?

Continue reading “Thurs. 22 April 2021; 03:14 – Bed”

bookmark_borderPoem: A Melancholic Watercolor

A Melancholic Watercolor

The trouble with losing someone 
who opened your eyes
to a new way of looking at things,
a wonderful new vision,
is that after they're gone
your own eyes remind you of them,
seeing what isn't there.
And so everything is shaded,
slightly greyed,
and life becomes, for a time,
like a melancholic watercolor.
It's a beautiful gift...
a terribly beautiful gift.

bookmark_border15 April 2021 (feat. The Blanket poem)

Another night of restlessness.

I wrote a poem while lying in bed. I think it’s too sentimental, and therefore too amateur. Is sentimentality amateur? If so then there’s no hope for me. I am far too sentimental.

Yet I have problems with sentimentality. At least overly sentimental writing.

— (read on after the poem for an unintentional book review) —

Continue reading “15 April 2021 (feat. The Blanket poem)”