Time and Love

My Hello Kitty table clock (which no longer works), the cute glass frame beside it picturing a lovely summer camp day, next, in my cupboard the pink sweater granny knit me- most fragile things to look at and handle with care. Why do I still preserve the girlhood days as if they're yet to come back again? Some parts of them are gone yet not gone, for instance, my mummy's lap but I don't cry there no more, and my daddy's car, but I don't feel the same joy of riding it. I know the love hasn't but the offerings have changed. 

Well since I'm a blind believer in love and hopes and dreams and stars, I find it just superficiality telling me that  happiness is gone with the days of middle school, and now life's but a necessary evil, time bound death, no. I know deep within that I can be free-spirited again. Poets are not always dead and lonely. I am no more just shit like "Gosh I missed my train," or "Alack the day! they bullied me again," which I used to be till highschool, and early college. I am whatever I am, and I will be whatever I want to, even if it bothers the whole world, as long as it doesn't harm them, I'm fine.

I don't need wayfarers to hold my hand, rather I cherish the pathless woods, the lavender faerie tulips asleep, the plenty of ageless songs and poetries of nature of the lone ways I travel. Time, as I've come to see, is not a fella to be trusted: sometimes he lives in high falling cascades dropping straight down, huge smash; sometimes in the shallow, slowed streams with fallen sakuras frozen at their spot. It's tricky to demarcate the wounds time would heal and those that time wouldn't, and accordingly cry or not cry about them. 

The philosophies of love and time both agree, that we are "chosen slaves." You have either love within and time without, or time within and love without. When you love you love timelessly, when you lose it, your heart's just a slave of time, whatever it left behind and whatever it'll bring ahead. Yet we love, and our hearts deny to disown it; yet love and absence of love coexist, like the leafless trees and the fallen blossoms at their feet. 

With love,

Em

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