HOW DO I

HOW DO I

How do I sleep with voices in my head –
telling me what to do, what to say,
who to love
in a torrential rain of unspoken words,
this cascade of love misplaced
from desired keepers
whose intentions long expired;
all memories are deadweight.

How do I sleep with footsteps in my head –
walking miles into a receding path
of all that’s forgotten
bursting from dams across distant shores
like prisoners newly reprieved;
we are dredged up beached whales
awaiting a death sentence
we hardly know is coming.

How do I sleep with a bullet in my head –
point blank fired,
lodged in a hollow in the shape of you. 

How do I sleep with these raindrops in my head –
a constant drip-drop, walls a-stripping
till what’s left to fend against (you)
is but a thin membrane.

xoxo,
Viktoria Jean

How do I

Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take

A meeting, a perfume launch, and an after-work HappyHour at Words Worth — all these on my only day home this week!

Loving what I do because I could be spending the entire day in bed with my truckload of books, but if I’m not filling up my days and making sure I’m dead beat by the end of the night, I feel underworked and downright lazy.

Come to think of it, I’m turning 23.

Working has made me feel that age is nothing but numbers, cuz nobody ever takes that into consideration. Being too young or too old doesn’t give you any excuse not to be at optimum efficiency. It’s so strange for me to be the youngest most of the time, yet nobody treats me like a kid. And I appreciate not being treated like I can’t handle myself plus 250 people.

Today I had this strong epiphany while doing up my chignon – that is, my hair is not growing faster than usual. Rather, time is flying day after day without my conscious awareness that it has slipped me by. Didn’t I just transform my long hair into a bob a coupla months ago?

How many more days can I still tell my colleagues “I’m turning 23”?

I just know that when it’s time for me to say “I’m turning 25”, I want to be a hell lot of a better person than I am now. And as always, no regrets.

 

“My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.” 
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

plugged into my iPod under my umbrella in the rain

Nobody knows we were meant to arrive in somebody else’s life
for reasons so obscure we speculate,
and plunge into the same mistakes,
putting a name, a cause, a title, a status allowing them to stay.
I’m listening
to your favourite overrated songs;
button sunken from the days you’d hit replay.

Plugged into my iPod under my umbrella in the rain,
I’m mistaken for a trespasser –
“ma’am I’m sorry to say
we’re closed for the day”.
Apologies to the most important people
are hardest to articulate.

We overlook –
Miscommunication, misunderstanding,
misinterpretation, mistakes
mis-en-scene
mishaps.
Drafted apologies.
I have my music,
I am okay.

Micro-managed music libraries, neatly filed, documented, genred,
starred biases;
playlists with names we (only) appreciate.

Useless music loops through my headphones,
caught in spirals
unable to escape,
muffled by the downpour
outside my

Splintered spokes of useless shelter
then carelessly discarded by the sidewalk
as I watched you
Ice-cold raindrops.
Your halo bruised from standing too long in the rain.

Can’t I simply like your smile,
the way you toss your head as you turn to walk away.

XOXO
silhouettekiss

umbrella

P.S. It is so cold in Tokyo my lips are blue
Why on earth didn’t I bring an extra coat…

the fields are frozen gold

reindeer

As though ten winters have passed since we arrived,
thin ice beneath our heels, snowflakes in our breath.
Lucent white in ten miles’ sight
no sign of impending summer.
Yet somebody dreamt of this perfect world.

Such a waste of lush green pastures
every leaf chilled to the very spine –
botanical shards of piercing ice.

White winter world.
Wherefore art thou, Colour?
Blood runs through these icicles,
every touch ten Fahrenheits too cold.

Truth be told, it’s colder as your heart gets old,
even the summer fields are frozen gold.

P.S FTS. Wrote this so quick.
So many fricking things in my head.
For the first time I can’t count
the number of times I swore out loud.
Adieu.

how I go to the woods

“Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this too, was a gift.”

dark

“How I go to the woods

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore
unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love
you very much.”
― Mary Oliver