Destroy What Destroys You

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

– Haruki Murakami

Wild Horses

It has been said that most of us, in fact, are wild. There’s a part of us that still sits unmined. There’s a piece of our soul that still commands stardust, is still locked in the heavens, that part of us that has been described as fire. As hurricanes. Warm and disastrous. We have both the power to weave and the power to unravel.

Birthday in Bali

It was green. So, so green. The epitome of earthiness. The Tegalalang Rice Paddies reminded me of green tea and tamarind. Sprinkles of lemongrass and sprouts of Cleopatra’s rose. I stared so long I swear my eyes began to bleed into the sky. Standing out over the edge, I realized this is life. This is what living must be. And I regret that I had not done more of it. It was set behind miles of street markets and bustling cement roads. Watching women sit under ceiling fans and men pick bits of banana from their teeth. I wandered into the most stunning textiles shop. I cannot possibly describe the colors. I was feverish from the amount of colors.

People Watching

From here on this four-legged stool, I can simplify the universe into little pockets of the globe. It makes life a bit easier. Compartmentalizing like this. Seeing pieces of me in everyone else. Realizing that we are all ridiculously connected even if I will never know the faces of 99 percent of humans on this earth. And what’s more is that I will know even less about the space that surrounds our planet. The galaxy. Galaxies. What lies beyond.

Coming Soon

Each person has a passion. All of us have a fire that sits dormant in the pit of our souls. But it only takes one spark to ignite it, and once that happens, it’s fireworks. And there is no going back. For me, that fire comes in the form of the written word. In stories. In literature. In the piles and piles of books I have scattered throughout my bedroom.