Where We Belong

I was dancing on the moon,
No rhythm, no gravity
You already reached the stars
Oh, how blinded you were by their light
I gave up on my moon dance
I returned to gravity
 There was a meadow; green and empty
It became my new home
So I could watch you from afar
Making sure whatever star held you captive,
Didn't burn itself out,
Didn't turn into a black-hole,
Didn't consume you completely
The moon was never my place
You mistakenly thought I belonged to a constellation
So you went out star hunting
I am only a light to guide you home
You belong to your heart
And I belong to...mine.

Life forcing itself

This is not me. I don't know who this is but it's not me. I don't know where I found all that courage from. I said what needed to be said at the right time and I put everything else aside, my pride on the line but not my dignity. I turned around, walked away from the scene and sat again with my friends. I sat staring at the table, I had no idea what was going on around me. I had to get away for a second. I went to get myself some water. I felt a knot tying in my throat, tears were so close to gushing out. This is not me. I don't cry. Now I can go on a whole day without food. I could sit without saying any word for hours on a stretch. I stared at how people got so worked up on things and envied them. I used to be like that, this is not me. I'm sure it will pass, I'll make sure it does. No one seemed to change, they all were the same and I....became an outcast in that moment. It didn't feel good. No one noticed, and I sat there in-between. Wishing they did, wishing someone forced those tears and words out of me, at the same time wishing they wouldn't because this is not me, they can't know. If you can't understand it, how will you ever be able to explain it? I needed someone at that moment, but I let no one in. I was failing everyone around me, and I didn't care. I'm telling you, this is not me. I care, I listen and I am there. But I didn't care, I was listening and I am nowhere near where I need to be. 
Tell me, who is this?

Mrs. Dalloway and my illness

I'm sick. My complexion is pale. I lie on the couch of my living room. The TV is switched on, vibrant colors I never see in my daily life are on full display. I pretend to be interested in the show, because of the fake sense of normal it gives. It's ironic because there's no one around to pretend that to, just myself. It's rather sad too, isn't it? How I lie to myself so. I keep thinking of how I need to mop the floor, dust my bookshelf, take down the laundry, and countless little things. The house needs me if no one else does. I liked how depended on me. She'd call me to switch off the lights to her room, share a thought or a memory, ask me to indulge in one of her whims, watch TV with her. My mere presence was all that she needed. I was envious of that ability; to not be scared of words. I didn't utter my words when I thought them meaningless, and now as I begin to realize their weight, I shy away even more. I can never be sure of anything these days. All these uncertainties we like to entertain. Now, perhaps I don't need anybody anymore, all I need is their need for me. How untrue.

I think that in another place, time...another soul...another me... There would be a knock on the door. I take a few minutes to leave my couch, and to my suprise I find the most beautiful purple bouquet of flowers you'll ever lay eyes on. "Get well soon," the note says. I take it inside, and just sit holding them. I never wonder who they could be from but that gesture is what gets me through my illness. I take myself out of that scene with a strange smile playing on my lips. You'd think an image such as this would make me depressed. How could I not think about who is it from? There my imagination begins to fall short, the scene I pictured is flawed. I delude myself thinking I sit happily holding the flowers, they'd be so much more. So much more. I stop daydreaming and leave the couch. I pick up my copy of Mrs. Dalloway. Flowers brought her to my mind. I go with her to buy flowers for her party. I am no longer ill. I am floating free in Woolf's mind. I strangely think I've never bought myself flowers, I've never bought anyone flowers. I reluctantly close the book to think, about flowers, and nothing else.