In memory of the 230 people who lost their lives.

See here in my heart, a sea full of tears And pieces of fading shadow everywhere. I want to cry and scream and pour all the pain out of my heart right here. You can't imagine how much scary and painful it is to be silent and listen to your burning heart I swear. I want to throw my words about what I always feel when my only dear heart starts to blare. The fear in my silence,the sorrow in my eyes,have no words to explain this unending nightmare. Now I am scared of the word 'Life' and why I am not dying, even seeing all my good memories disappear. If someone gives me a second chance, I will never take it to be in the same sky with no stars,the chaos and living in warfare. To me lying on broken glass seems easy but dying often with this broken and wounded heart makes me scared. All the broken pieces of my soul that I have lost in my own dear world, how to fix them, they are nowhere. I want to say goodbye to this daydreaming character and to this wild lair. Why do I feel my heart when there is no love, affection even no sympathy in the air. Ah! my shaking heart, its hard, its hard to breathe here and to find peace somewhere.

The worn welcome mat under my feet that read ‘Home’ felt like more like a silent question than a confident statement. The bouquet of daffodils gripped in my hand slumped in disappointment. It had been an attempt, a $7.99 attempt, to fix the growing tension of passive aggression that had buried its way into my marriage. The fights had been long and inconclusive; filled with more sighs of frustration and creased foreheads than any words. Accusation after accusation, attack after attack. A war I definitely didn’t sign off on at the wedding altar. Even in the rare case I was home for dinner her stares directed towards me were almost as unpleasant as the food on the table. The apartment was void of electric lights when I entered to see a collection of white pillar candles dotting my path to the kitchen like distant stars. Soft music played too softly for me to make out the words but something light that seemed to fit the scene in front of me. The low wooden table was dusted in layers of flour and some had migrated to heaps on the floor like a dusting of snow. Imprints of footsteps led the floured prints in delicate circles around the kitchen like a dance. Every bowl in the kitchen had somehow made its way to watch the baking festivities, some filled with abandoned ingredients and some left barron. Butter wrappers were crumpled into greasy tumbleweeds. Whole raspberries stood in victory over the remains of the many smashed and smeared ones. Granulated white sugar laid in suggestive grainy lines and dark brown sugar mimicked wet sand. A sticky red substance gleamed at the bottom of a bowl and dripped in slow blobs from a rubber spatula, pooling into a candy apple red puddle. There was a distant ticking nearby from the handheld timer stationed next to the stove and from inside the lead colored oven came a glimmer of marigold hue. As I examined the remains of a late night baking experiment I sighed in defeat. I was home later than usual and it was no surprise that my wife was nowhere in sight. She had failed to clean up the kitchen before she went to bed but in her unmistakably loopy handwriting, she had left me a note. ‘Dessert?’ it asked, tempting, crooked and written on a left angle like always. The familiarity of the note felt like a peace offering I'd been waiting for. Though it often worried me that she had no problem going to bed with the oven still on. As a heavy sleeper I would hate to even imagine what would happen if a fire had broken out. A loud alarm halted my worries and I looked to the timer nearby for an explanation. It remained quiet but realization set in as I recognised the noise to be police or ambulance sirens nearby. An every night routine for someone who lived in a city crowded with constant crime and tragedy. I relaxed my shoulders. I didn't realize they were hunched up to my neck with tension. I tried to ease into my night. I breathed in deeply to smell the pie in the oven, just moments from being ready. The timer sounded as if willed by my mind and I moved to shut it off. The handmitts barely fit my hands as I blindly reached into the oven to grab the baking dish. My glasses fogged up instantly as I attempted to take a look. I shut the oven door with my foot and placed the pie back on the wooden table where it was first assembled. When the fog on my glasses eventually cleared I saw a sight that horrified me. Amongst the carefully lacerated dough strips and the bubbly crimson berry filling, was a severed finger. Despite being dark, blistering and bubbling like the pie’s filling, it was still recognizable as a finger I knew well. My wife’s ring finger, with a diamond wedding ring still attached and shining. My body hit the floor with a thud as I became too dizzy to stand. Why, how, why, how, why, how, why, how. The words flashed in my mind like red and blue emergency lights. My wife’s note wasn’t innocent or an offer; it was a threat. I don't know how long I stayed seated with my back to the still warm oven, with the faint music in the back and the slowly congealing berry pie most likely laced with blood. The floured footprints were smeared and replaced with my own; the delicate flour dance long over. Most of the candles had died leaving me almost completely in the dark. One lone candle stayed burning, flickering as it fought its inevitable end. I felt sick; the sugary berry air had been ruined by its topping. The rot was setting in or maybe it was in my head. I was shaking as I attempted to move, crawling down the hall to the single bed room. The door was half open and I pushed it with a shaky hand to find the bedroom empty. The silence was unnerving, even more than the lack of my wife’s presence. Crawling to the made bed I propped myself up on the bed enough to see an identical daffodil colored sticky note like the one left in the kitchen. Scrawled in the handwriting I had admired for years, I was presented with another message. As my eyes scanned the note, over and over again like a skipping record, I realized it was the last message I would ever receive from her. The note lacked accusation or apology; endearment, entitlement or explanation. Two short words of finality, she was long gone.

Those were the days, now reminiscence When I look back to the joyous childhood, I trodden by Lasts in mind, but lost to find Flashing infront, gazing at with teary eyes Those were the vanished days When I asked God, please pour rain for an hour And wait for having a holiday blast So I chitchat, enjoy watching Doraemon with Mom's snacks Those were the happiest days, When I look at the clock to tick 4 in the evening, Rush to my house hurriedly, before Heidi meets goatherd Peter between the chill hills Those were the innocent days, When I counted days, for my birthday to arrive So that I could show my new dress all around and Pick a friend of mine to distribute chocolates at school Those were the precious days, When I used to wait for my piggy-bank to fill So that I could give gifts to my Dad on his birthday- With his money, No! No!, with my pocket money Those were the silly days, When I felt sad to mention my friend in letter writing So that the other one would fight for his place And then we all end up with explanations Those were the lovely days, When we became parents by playing Mother-Father games, And looked after children When we found relations among ourselves and felt shy When L wins in FLAMES Those were the blissful days, When the dark streets at night and hide-seek games Left many memories behind, Aunties around complained and my serious Mom Turned my cheek red Those were the unforgettable flaunting days, With lots of friends and our innocent childish acts I smile at, a bit with a little sigh And cherish those for the rest of my life.

Oil Painting, 40x60cm canvas. Abstract style self portrait. https://www.instagram.com/metanoic_art/

The universe seems to go against all that I cherish. There appears to be a battle between me and the universe, a fight I am bound to lose. I have forever been a stranger to this fate. This endless void that feasts inside, will it someday go away? sinking deeper with each passing day was my dawning a mistake? Spoken, unspoken, said, unsaid words of mine are ever erroneous 'tis said a damaged heart can be mended what of a heart deprived? tears of mine that have streamed as yet hopefully schlep entirely the remorse and remembrance I've endured to date; never have I belonged to this fate.

I arrived early this morning and made myself comfortable. Of course, it was an accident because I would run late most of the time. More of an anomaly, I would say, rather than an accident. And I never have breakfast. Oh boy, are those days over. Even the first meals on Saturdays don't materialize before two in the afternoon because I fall asleep on the couch on Friday evenings, which gives me the chance to fuse my once-in-a-week nine-hour sleep with a decent four-hour nap during the day. After that, a bottle of self-loathe on Saturday because every ounce of energy between my bones seems to evaporate. Or is energy more prone to melting? Anyway, I would then usually merge with the couch. That morning was a Thursday morning, meaning the amount of work per shift reached an almost bearable number. Something I should probably give our firm credit for. But my bosses aren't the architects of this schedule. It is mandatory to fulfill a Gaussian curve by law. You know, like in schools. So, I guess the organization that needs to be given credit is the government. Wednesday was the day everybody clocked in with a fuming mouth spilling through the draining twelve-hour Wednesday shift. Every hour holds additional twelve hours within because the work is so goddamn stupid. Not to mention that Tuesday was the same as Thursday - a bit easier than Wednesday, so waking up on a Wednesday morning was truly a piece of shit feeling. But, the system worked. You'd get a looser Monday after the weekend, pretty nice, you know, to get the blood flowing, to crack the old knuckles, and you'd get a slide after Wednesday so that you wouldn't feel like a corpse on the weekend. On paper, that sounded like a well-thought-out-pro-working-class-people system, even though I hated it. I really did. However, I respected it. But I digress. After clocking out at six, I went to Rideau Rouge, a nearby restaurant. Well, not exactly a restaurant. It was a restaurant of some sort, but not as classy. And much smaller than your typical restaurant. But it wasn't a diner either. It had six tables for four, but the owner, an Egyptian immigrant, wanted to pass off an aristocratic European image by naming it "Rideau Rouge," french for "Red Curtain." Quite transparent, but we still call it The Rouge, regardless. A french breeze to feel a bit European after work. The menu was both in English and French, so some of us, from time to time, scuffled with the French side out loud, only to be mocked properly. But all of us, in our collective silence, appreciated the delicacy of those words. We envied the Europeans for having the opportunity to fall in love and declare wars through such words while we used them to order stew. The curtains remained red since the Rouge had opened its doors seventeen years ago. Something I should probably give the Rouge credit for. I went there for my daily soupe au poulet. A nice bowel exercise for afterward, I would eat a whole Monday and Friday worth of food to compensate for those twelve hours. The job started at six, which meant I should wake up at five and finish at nine in the evening; it was pretty much a wrap. But this, you see, was a Wednesday evening, meaning I can afford another hour or two because the Thursday shift starts at eight. But this evening was unlike any other Wednesday evening because on my way from the Rouge I saw a girl and her father, I suppose, having problems starting their car. And they have seen me. And we all saw that we all saw each other. I wasn't a mechanic, but I did, however, fit the description visually because, unless you're a factory worker, you can't tell each factory branch apparel apart. So I offered to help with the car but made it clear that I had just finished a 12-hour shift down at the Rug, so my assistance spectrum was limited. We first looked at the hood, where I touched some things here and there but mostly pretended that I knew what I was doing. I knew the basic things, the ones obvious to the eye. If there is smoke coming out of a certain part, that should be the problematic part. I looked like a car guy but never really was one. We decided that the car was just in need of an extra push, maybe, so we tried it, the father and I. The girl was behind the wheel. The process didn't take long, so I managed to scoop some Wednesday evening after all, or so I thought. See, after you sell twelve hours of your precious life for a buck down at the Rug, you're not left with much to hold on to a day. And I made a choice to give a scrap of my Wednesday spirit to infomercials and late-night screenings of classic cartoons, so pushing that car did it for me. I went to bed an hour and a half earlier, and the thought of forcing my eyes to follow the caricaturistic actions of drawings exhausted me. I fell asleep immediately. I woke up forty minutes earlier than usual. A Thursday morning. Around seven in the morning, I managed to score some quick breakfast and walk to the bus. I arrived early and made myself comfortable. I brought a book with me because I felt I could read it this morning since this was one of the few slow-paced mornings. I always sat on rear-facing seats to avoid giving my seat to elders. Driving backward gave them nausea, I think. A frowned-upon solution but a very legal one. It was always empty at first. The bus. It was long too. The more people it picked up, the shorter it became. Somehow the same elders always joined the ride last in both directions. Never understood that phenomenon. But that wasn't for the rear-facing seat occupants to understand. Three stations away, we found ourselves at a little bus station where the bus always stopped, even though there were obviously no people for it to stop, ever. At least for the last nine months, there weren't, but I doubt people from around here stopped taking this bus after I got the job at the Rug. That's just the driver driving his routine the same way since the dawn of the vehicle. I wouldn't be surprised if I walked up to the front only to find a picture of a man in a driver's hat taped to the steering wheel. So, it stopped at the usual fourth station. The bus symbol was painted on the ground in fluorescent yellow, on which stood a girl in a long brown dress and high black boots. I felt she got tired just by looking at the bus as if this was the third of sixteen buses she had to jump. She sat on the left side of the bus, the rear-facing window seat, picking up her lifeless thoughts. I mean, it was around seven o'clock in the morning, so every brain in the bus was still buzzing, and if it weren't for the loudness of the decaying engine and the tires and every broken part of the bus, you could probably hear it. I rested my head on the cold bus window, hoping to doze off, with the book in my lap. Unopened. It was a January morning, and the bus radiators worked at full capacity, so usually, it didn't take long for them to knock me down to sleep. The girl turned my way and glanced at the book. She turned away but then leaned over to take a better look, and this time she was a bit more captivated. I, however, haven't paid much attention to her. I was sharper today than I am during most mornings, but I still couldn't bring myself to care enough about her concern with my book. I could have moved my hands so the title could be read more easily, but I don't know. I was looking at the telephone line, as I always do, considering there isn't anything exciting going on beneath it, and my eyes propelled me far ahead to a point in perspective where I could see both the people walking on the sideway and the lines resting above their minds. I looked down on the sideway and saw a young boy, around ten or eleven years old, standing with his mother, waiting for someone to pick them up. The mother scanned every car coming their way. She wrapped her little boy in winter clothes up, and when the bus got closer, I could see the little Inuit was carrying a wooden crossbow toy. It was probably a homemade Christmas present since those were common in poor neighborhoods. And just as the morning thoughts of suicide started creeping up on me, the boy aimed the crossbow at me, pretending it was real. So, of course, I imagined how it would be to fall out of my seat, letting the book end up on the muddy bus floor, together with the girl, me, and an arrow pierced through our necks. Au revoir.

"One must have a little chaos in themself to give birth to a dancing star" -Friedrich Nietzsche https://instagram.com/caffeinated_epiphanies?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y%3D Must I compare thee to a summer's day? When thou art the wintry tempest of the most powerful night, the power you hold ethereal, your person most divine. You cannot be a summer's day, for thou art the blooming spring Perfumed air, singing with muliebrity engulfs you in it's divinity, taking inspiration from the way you grow, from your ashes, like a phoenix, you take flight. And if you were a summer's day, you'd be a burning sensation of undying passion- nature's promise of a better tomorrow. More than being just lovely and temperate, thou art a force of nature to be reckoned with.

A short, honest portrayal of what a relationship with a parent can sometimes look like. As we sat down across from each other, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. My palms were sweaty and I could feel my heart accelerate with every beat. It didn’t take long before my eyes started filling with tears and my lip began to quiver. Unconsciously, I started taping my leg against the hardwood floor. As I began to get a grasp on my body’s subtle way of telling me to get the fuck out of there and never see her again, I felt her cold fingers settle assertively on my thigh. “Stop doing that, you know it drives me crazy.” Her tone was cold. Emotionless. She waited a few seconds before removing her hand. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do anymore.” I tried matching her energy. She had years to perfect various manipulation techniques, this is a game I can’t win. She can see right through me; I know it, and she knows that I know it. I slowly moved away from her, calculating and carefully considering my next move. How sharp should the movement be? How far away should I move? Should I keep up eye-contact while moving away from her? I wanted to show her that I don’t need her anymore. That I don’t care about her and that she no longer has power over me. However, both my body and soul knew that it was complete and utter bullshit. I love her, how could I not. It’s what society commands us to do. On the other hand, society also encourages mothers not to be heartless and cruel, but she doesn’t seem to care about that. “Don’t be like that kitten, you know I mean well!” If she uses that horrid nickname one more time I’m gonna need an exorcism. The audacity. Her tone completely shifted; from ice-queen to some Morticia Addams type shit. “Don’t call me that!” I stand my ground. Little does she know that underneath that confident tone I managed to force out of myself lies more fear than I have ever experienced before in my 18 years of life. “You called and begged, so we are doing this on my terms. What did you want to say? I’m listening.” I watch her mouth open just a little bit as she tries to find the right words to start with. It’s taking her a while, so, while she thinks, I signal to the waiter asking him to come over. “Could I get one iced, black coffee please? And maybe a slice of banana bread.” I can almost hear her rolling her eyes at my order. I am waiting for the “Are you sure about that last part? You should really watch what you eat” comment, but I know that this time around I won’t hear it. She knows she is stomping on thin ice with me and, as much as she lacks empathy or compassion, she is not an idiot. “I’ll have the same thing please. Minus the banana bread.” I can feel her stare. The tension between us must be really palpable since the waiter, who’s more or less my age, basically runs away from us the second she finishes her sentence. “Can’t a mother just ask her daughter to go out? I wouldn’t say ‘begged,’ I shouldn’t have to, you are my kid.” She says in response to my previous remark. “A mother can, you can’t. You can lie to yourself all you want, but please have the decency not to lie to me. I paid too much for therapy to go through this shit again.” I should leave. I should get up and leave. I feel like such an idiot for thinking that maybe, she finally gained some perspective and reflected. I guess not. I should leave but I don’t. I don’t even attempt to, I stay still, waiting for her response. “Listen, I think you are being unfair. I don’t know what kind of stories you’ve been telling yourself to so deeply convince that little mind of yours that I was a horrible mother, and am at the root of all of your problems, but it’s not the case. You have to stop victimizing yourself.” I feel my blood boil. I’m not sure if I can do this. She makes me question my sanity on another level. “It’s not a ‘story.’ I haven’t been telling myself anything. Just dealing with the consequences of what you did and reached an informed and reasonable conclusion. You were a shitty mother. End of discussion. Time for you to accept it.” I say summoning all the cold and resentment that I have for her. “Why? Because I didn’t lie to you? Because I didn’t tell you that you are the prettiest girl in the world? Because I didn’t come to your school plays, cause you couldn’t act? Because I was honest with you when no one else would be? That’s what a mother’s job is. Doing what is best for her child even when it doesn’t necessarily please them.” “Who’s telling stories now? This is not about those things and you know it. Stop deflecting. Even though what you just said wouldn’t exactly win you a ‘mother of the year’ award either.” “Then what is it about? What did I do that was so horrible for you to move out at 15 and not say a single word to me in 3 years? That is outright cruel.” For a moment I just stare deeply into her eyes. Her deep blue eyes; the one thing she gave me that I don’t despise. Those deep blue eyes I used to trace while she would read bedtime stories when I was little. But that was before everything that happened. It’s hard for me to blame her since I know why she is the way she is, but justification doesn’t just alleviate all of the pain and trauma she left. I get another urge to leave, and yet again I don’t move at all. My brain is furious, but my heart travels back to that little girl who used to look up to her mother. I wanted to be just like her. For a couple of years she was my role model, she was my mom. And then my dad left one day and she just became Natalie. Nothing more. The bubble burst. A child idealizes their parents until the day they realize that they are actually just regular people; they stop being mom or dad and just become normal people. Normal people that you usually are somewhat fond of but that is not a given. I give myself a second to collect my thoughts. How do I say this lightly? “How about all the yelling, the throwing, the crying, the emotional blackmail, the financial blackmail the…” “That is not-“ She tries to interrupt “The telling me I am the reason you’re suicidal,” I keep talking over her protests, “the telling me how much better off you would be without me, all the missed birthdays, all ‘the phone goes both ways’ comments, all the coming back at 4am without letting me know, leaving me all alone, all the neglect, emotional abuse and suffocation you put me through. That’s what was bad enough for me to move out. Is that reason enough? Or do you want me to keep going? God knows I can.” I almost whisper that last part because of the lack of air left in my lungs. I can hear my voice cracking, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing my cry. I start biting my lower lip, struggling to avoid the unavoidable. Panic takes over me when I feel a cold tear, slowly rolling down my cheek. It stings. I quickly wipe it off and pull my gaze back up to hers. I stare at her lips, desperately waiting for them to part but they don’t. The discomfort grows along with the mounting silence and tension as I refuse to take a step back. I notice the sun moving through the white, wooden, distressed window blinds; a few rays shine on her rosy cheek and a couple of others reflect off of her earrings onto the espresso machine situated on the bar on the opposite side of the cafe. My mind wanders to the background noise which consists of people chattering, the coffee machine running and glasses clinking together, forming a loud cacophony of sounds. No one around us knows what is happening. They are all going about their lives as usual. While the earth parts underneath my feet, their world is perfectly fine with no visible disruptions. “Are you gonna say anything? Or did you just feel like wasting my time?” I know I’m being harsh but she deserves it. My heart aches for what my siblings and I had to go through. It also aches for her but in a different way. She never even tried. She didn’t care. We didn’t need much, we didn’t really ask for anything. We deserved better! “It’s a lot to take in,” she mumbles. I keep staring into her eyes, deepening my already intense gaze. As much as I tried to convince myself that I don’t care about the turnout, I do. I need her to say what I want to hear. I’ve been waiting for it for so long. Just one apology, one promise to change, even just showing willingness to change would be more than enough. I would forgive her. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Her words echo in my head as I get up and leave just as the waiter brings the coffees and piece of banana bread over to the table. The confused look on his face is permanently etched into my mind.

A tribute to the beauty of Yellowstone National Park, stretching across Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho.