Burden me, my lad

Burden me, my lad. The Lord gave me ears exclusively for that matter. What is it that’s taking your focus away from my passionate eyes? I seek not an attention undivided, but I am used to a zeal sparkling in your eyes, but tonight it’s vanished.


And I care not for the spark to return so that you’d gaze into my eyes with familiarity, though I can be selfish; I ask of you to speak so that your burden becomes mine. Let it be split between two hearts instead of one. And you can trust in your confidant in keeping your words sealed by wax. Burden me, my lad.


Should you wish to have me carry it all in my exiguous heart, I would surely make room in my heart, if it meant yours would be vacant. It hurts seeing you immobile, existing just by flesh with a mind wandering elsewhere.


It’s not your gaze, I seek. I want to escort the daffodils growing behind my ribcage to yours. I want love to sojourn the chambers of your soul without you having to question its extraneous visit. You deserve the love, my lad, you do.


I ask of you to see my soul as your sea, where you can dump your secrets in its bottomless well. There’s this loudness in your silence that I could not pretend to be deafened to. I hear it in your steps, your stirring of a cup, your sighs. It’s a worrisome silence, my lad; speak to me.



If I think of February, all that comes to mind is this: the month of love. I had kept this the basis of how I wanted my month to be, overfilled with affection, and in a sense, it has guided me through the not-so-lovely-days. I challenged myself this month to write every day, and the outcome of that was coming to realize that writer’s block is nothing but a myth. I’ve been facing weird days as usual, but writing took my mind off of it.

Listening to Başka Biri by Güven Yüreyi + Yağmur by İlyas Yalçıntaş feat. Aytaç Kart

Drinking hazelnut latte

Reading Daisy Miller and Other Stories by Henry James

Eating walnuts

Chopping the damaged bits of my hair

Wearing layered coin necklaces

Practicing driving around town (post obtaining license)

Feeling hints of spring

Challenging myself to write every day

Facing a lot of “weird” days

Curling my hair and putting flowers in it for no reason

Filling up books with page markers

Finishing up my red journal at last (2014-2018)

Feeling nostalgic and reflective

Contemplating updating the vision board and mood board

Spending less time on my phone/laptop

Anticipating spring with urgency

O Gardener

O gardener—whose fond hands put the lilies to sleep—allow me a summer with you. I heard the villagers say you carry tales of farmers who were on this earth before you, and I’d love to be your sunflower.


O noble gardener, I am envious of the way your garden is drenched with your love. I can hear the desert rose humming softly upon feeling your presence in her air. The vine leaves dance with the wind, fondling her green on your pale white. What gracious face you have.


And what patience you have, gentle farmer, as you await the tree to bear its lemons. You crush the leaf, saturating your wistful heart with the citrus smell, reminding yourself that beauty is worth the wait.


Nature noticed the way your eyes gleam upon the sight of the daffodil, and she sighs in harmony. For she, too, was enamored by its golden petals that declared the birth of spring.


O gardener, talk to me of the rose and her cultivation. Teach my inept hands how to pluck the flower without disrupting nature in her sleep. I’ll work for you until the season bids me adieu, and you can pay the deed in roses; I’ll pay mine in verse.


Artist: Puung // http://www.grafolio.com/puuung1

In March, it’ll be officially a year since I introduced my spring muse to my readers. A year later, and my feelings for him are still humble and pure. May I bore you with one more heart dump?


He has buds for lips. He has eyes laden with purity, and generosity runs through his blue veins. Were I to describe his heart’s color, I’d say it’s pastel-hued. I cannot process how one could converse with him without secretly fancying him, or maybe that’s just my lack of discipline?


I just want to take refuge in his arms, the safest place on earth. I seek a perpetual embrace for all the times my heart broke over an ill word or a mistreatment. I want to be babied and pampered by him. I want his kiss tattooed on my hands.


My spring is made of blooms and buds that are known for their enviable innocence. His kindness puts mine to shame… to shame. If people were to praise my empathy, what would they say of his? My tenderfoot speaks to me in a manner so refined that I cannot hold myself from silencing my urges.


But they’re innocent urges, I promise. That’s what falling for a flower does to your soul: it softens you. It… softens you.

My Driving Experience: Fear of driving, anxiety, and regrets

Where I live, you can obtain your driving license at the age of 18, but I’ve made up my mind when I was a teenager not to drive, as I’ve seen how scary it can be (or maybe because I live among guys who drove at as soon as 11 years old, thus making me traumatized?)


Fast forward to two months before turning 24, I put “driving license” on my vision board, giving myself from February 2017 to February 2018 to achieve that goal. Or if all else fails: the goal was to drive before turning 25 at least.


First lessons

I remember my first driving lesson vividly because I refused to touch any pedals, even when she’d request me to push the throttle. Let me just say that I was lucky to have an instructor who was calm and lenient, which helped me mute my anxiousness, or at least render my nervousness void.


For instance, I didn’t catch the speed bump on one inside road one time, and I hit the brake so hard that it startled my instructor. To my surprise, she only said: “So what? Even I didn’t see it. No need to hit the brake so hard.” So. Calming.



To my misfortune, I had to have a different instructor for my parking classes, as my initial instructor didn’t teach parking. The transition from someone lenient to someone so loud and scary caused me trauma. I was counting the minutes until the training was over as she was yelling her directions as to me. I was proud of myself for not crying at that point.


For the emergency brake bit, she told me: “drive angry!” and when I passed this logic to the other instructor, she couldn’t help but laugh. Now that I think of it, it was instructions like these that exacerbated whatever feelings I already accumulated during my driving experience.


Driving anxiety

I’d like to admit that driving anxiety was there whether or not I chose to train, so it was NOT something I developed the minute I signed up for classes. It was there from my late teen years when I decided not to drive at all.


Then the routine went something like this: the night before I had training, I would wake up so many times in the night and at times, insomnia would be my friend. Along with trauma and anxiety, I faced morning nausea, where I’d fill my glass with my “nervousness remedy,” which consisted of: green tea and a few chamomile flowers in my tea filter.


It took a toll on my physical, mental, and emotional threshold, and I kept all of my issues brewing internally. There were rough months to undergo basically.


Driving late regrets

Do I regret driving late? YES! When I put two in two during my reflection, I realized that I wouldn’t have had this anxiety so severely if I attempted to drive earlier in life. Every fear and panic attack only accompanied me after the 22, which was after I completed university. The unemployment, in addition to being away from this constant day-to-day socializing (university) caused me to freak out more than normal, avoid humans, avoid opening up, and so on.


What now?

My current situation is this: I refuse to drive alone, and I’m going to need to drive alongside someone for a while before I can fly off on my own. Embarrassing? Yes, but at least I took note of my anxiousness and I decided to do something about it.

A King Stays a King

I seat myself by the window, where the sun is casting warm rays through the panes. As I was sneaking glances in between my sips, I found the perfect candidate, the next victim for my writing scheme. I dug quickly into my gray purse to withdraw the journal, but to my misfortune, he fled with the winds; but I can write of him from memory.


He sat outside the coffee shop accompanied by what seems to be a cappuccino, given his age. He wore a cap: maroon, navy, and beige in color, and it read: A King Stays A King. He held his mobile phone under the table, his back arched, as if secluding himself from the group of loud ladies sitting nearby. A cigarette was muffled between his fingertips, and his face was barely visible, mysteriously hidden under that cap.


I’ve convinced myself that he must be in the final laps of his 20s, if not, early laps of 30s. I will search for him next Tuesday in the same spot I found him; I need to see him again to continue this unfinished draft.


But then I worry that I’ll not be able to know it’s him due to time and my forgetfulness. What if he wore a different cap? I’ll remember him. I’ll remember him from his bulged veins.

Tuesday. January 23, 2018. 11:38AM


A part of me thinks that he must be a Libra. I don’t know which part of him pulled me to continue gazing askance without a shame, but I loved studying him to what has felt like hours but in reality they were only a few minutes. Something about his beautifully-aged facial features appeared so comely in my eyes. There was this unspoken mystery that I was suddenly dying to decipher.


It seems to me that both him and I winded up here due to the same quarter-life crisis that spearheads us into lounging in cafes alone. I’ve convinced myself that we both held our addictions cupped in our palms, he, his cigarette, and I, my novel.


Were I to shed my skin bare, I’d admit that I’ve always held this captivation toward men of Mirdif. Every stolen glance and skip of a heartbeat took place in that thoroughfare that I’ve been swearing by since 2013. Every love at first blush occurred there, and I took what I knew so little of and wrote tirelessly until I became so mad in the head. So help me God with this one.

Tuesday. January 23, 2018. 4:49PM.



Do I keep this muse to myself? How will I find the words to describe someone I’d forgotten the shape of by now? But Gosh, I cannot stop thinking about him. Should I name him? Sigh, people-watching is perilous for a writer.

Wednesday. January 24, 2018. 6:40PM


So perhaps excitement dragged my feet here again, or perhaps I am officially the habitue of this coffee place?


I promise you that it was my pen that was frantic for another scan. I promise you that the sun was itching to peck your skin sun-kissed. I promise you that the ashtray was missing your cigar debris too. But I? I wasn’t looking for you; I promise.


Thursday. January 25, 2018. 11:17AM

This Red Journal

I dread the day this red journal winds up in someone’s hands for I’ve written unconscious, tipsy on coffee and dark chocolate. Every trace of doubt and every glimmer of feeling were recorded here; some published, and some humiliating to be shared. The majority of the pages have secret initials adorned by cloud doodles and broken stanzas.


As the years passed by, I wrote with the journal half-closed, in fear the words might jump to a stranger sitting next to me in the coffee shop. Anxious dump on blank pages merged with unexplained infatuations toward men older than I am. I pity myself for putting those emotions in print, when I could have talked to someone about my undying phases.


As much as this journal tugs at the heart, I am afraid someone might rummage through the pages one day only to discover that they didn’t know me well. I am afraid they’d be surprised by the identity I hid deep within my uncensored entries.


I fear they’d beat themselves up for not decoding my sighs soon enough. I fear they’d detest themselves for deciphering the loudness of my stares too late. I worry they’ll embrace the journal, hoping those permanent words could rebirth me.


Hold tight onto this red journal; let it elongate my memory when I leave.