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Mountain of Rocks

Among the mountains, tall with their peaks
Are small mountains of rocks
Surrounded by rivers and streams
They go unnoticed, as the mountains stand high
Withstanding most natural disasters
But often: Avalanche!
Residual rocks
and dirt and dust
crumble a
cross the

are built
of these rocks
You and I were
made to fall apart over
and over and then build ourselves back up again
Falling back into place, each time stronger

The dirt and rubble piles high over time
At first, just appearing
as small piles of rocks

But what the wild notices is different
than mere human recognition
Nature knows better:
Those small piles of rocks
Become mountains over time

Watch what happens in the wild over time
With rocks like that strength gathers
and moves rocks into mountains
Moving mountains is hard
Try building one from
A mountain of rocks
It’s worth the wait of nature

Your Pain

I am trying to remember
Your pain
While leaving space for mine
I am trying to forgive you
But you keep nudging
And nudging
In small ways
Never letting me forget your existence
And how could I?
We are entwined
Even after they cut the cord
Even after
I cut it myself
With each slight nudge, I almost fall for it
I almost fall
But I am not ready for us to exchange words
I am not ready to hear your voice
I am not ready and neither are you
We need time
And perhaps
We’ll fall back into place
But not this place
Not this space

The greatest tragedy is that I am starting to forget
What the space was like
Before I cut the second cord

Before I had to


I found an old necklace
You gave to me
Several birthdays ago
Only now it smells
Not of smoke
But of dust
A smell I much prefer
It is not a nostalgic pang
Of awful memories from years past
It doesn’t make my head spin
My eyes close
Doesn’t make me close the box
Hide away in a drawer
It is not smoke now
It grabs at me and indents
It lies against my chest
Saying here, I’m here
I’m still here
It hangs around my neck
But it doesn’t weigh me down
Doesn’t hang heavy anymore
Like smoke in the air


Why does this always happen?
Here comes the sickness:
A stagnant and still pain
It follows me where I go
I can’t seem to find time,
that is free of any sort of pain
They say though, what is life without suffering?
But I just want to say:

It’s me, isn’t it?
Trapped in this body
enduring the ruins of loss
I am a magnetic field for pain
Because I know it well
Because I’m a caretaker,
at heart
It didn’t stop with mom
It started there, my innate need to save
When all I want to do is live

I think this is living
And sometimes, it feels closer to death
Another part of living that I can’t seem to shake
The constant nearing of loss

Sometimes I feel my needs contradicting themselves
And my words too
Which I have silenced for so long
Because they too are conflicted and inflicted
With pain, with uncertainty, with indifference
And painfully with apathy

I have silenced myself
I have kept silent, stagnant, still
It’s less conflict
It’s less real
(if it isn’t written)
(if it isn’t spoken)
No longer is it fresh
Words so dull they fall off my tongue and collapse
Words that have been so muffled, they look like shapes of words
That once were sentences
And now just lay there
Dead weight that I need to let go of
but I only lay there with no sound

I think I silenced for too long
But I can’t carry the words anymore


I keep coming back to this place
It keeps happening
Surrounding me
Everywhere I end up
I am a magnet to sadness
A magnet to the dark
I keep getting pulled in, wrapped up
All I’ve been is a bright light
Dulling and flickering out

I never wanted
To be
without sadness
It’s a part of me
This sad piece in my head
I drift into and out of from time to time
But did I always want to be
A flickering light?
Encompassed by darkness
Covering me
Like a veil
Everything painted
With a dark tint

Did I always want this?
Did I?
I’m not so sure

Under Folds

We put winter clothes away
And pull summer clothes out
We put summer clothes away
And pull winter ones out
I do the things you taught me
You don’t teach me anymore
But I imagine you unfolding
And unfolding
And putting away
And taking out
And folding
Back, over, under
The way you showed me
You do all the same things
Just the way you showed me

And we put the things away
For them to be taken back out
We take them back out
Only to be put away
Far, far
Back and away
Into the box
Under the bed
With the shadows
The crumbs, dust
Where not a thing glows
Where it’s quiet, still

But still,
We put things away
Because we don’t want them out
We put things away
Because we don’t want to see them

We put things away
Because we desperately want to see them


Frosted January

I drag my hands
the frosted blades of grass
Tips of frost underneath my nails
So cold
they burn
And I burn with
where am I going?
what am I doing?



I drag myself
across the lawn

Then I lift myself
Throw my hands
To the sky
I am
I can’t
I just
To slow time
To slow down even more
the infinite wait
of dragging
Always in between two places
Two points
Two moments
I can’t seem to dig my hands hard enough
Deep enough
Into the grass and grab it
A handful of grass
and dirt
and life
I can’t seem to grab hold
And so I drag myself


I wrote this a little under 2 years ago when I was attempting graduate school applications. I feel that “purpose” is something I still think about, but I am happy to say that it doesn’t cause nearly as much anxiety. From time to time I am overwhelmed with anxieties of the future, but letting go is getting easier.

Upon writing a “statement of academic purpose”, I find myself drifting in and out of my own statements of general purpose. I keep grazing the borders of existential territory, as I so often do when I lay down to go to bed at night, only this time I am wide awake, heart racing anxiously.

Today as well as the day before, in between naughty and nice customers and pages to departments requesting price checks or nutritional information, I spent a lot of time at work inside my own head. I have realized that I normally do this. Although I engage in conversations with coworkers and the nicer group of customers, I am constantly lost inside myself, stumbling upon questions like, “what am I doing here?”, “why have I made the choices I have; ethically as well as emotionally?”, “how do I leave behind the worry of future loss and failure, and replace this worry with constant reminders of current possibilities, endless opportunities, and mere happiness?”

I don’t think that there is anything wrong with this, other than when anxiety dominates these thoughts, like now.

My room is lit the way it always is; two lamps and the light from my laptop. It was feeling like a sauna in here earlier because of our dryer and so I opened a window. The smell of cheap Korean dishes fills the room, mingling with the aroma of a red-smelling candle. If the colour red had a smell, I think you would know what smells I am associating with it.

I’m staring straight ahead into my closet, where I keep clothes, scarves, music, towels, and a nightstand. Every once in a while, I zone out and can make shadows with my eyes. Deep in thought, I think about “purpose.” I think about life and all it’s given and taken. Has life given and taken? Perhaps not. Perhaps nothing has been given or taken, and I am just going through the course of life without purpose without giving, receiving, experiencing. Sometimes, it feels this way. Other times, it feels like I am radiant and strong, beaming with a life full of experience, ready to endure the rest of this adventure. At some of my best moments, I am ready to endure this adventure with someone else; someone dear to me who is apart of this remembered purpose.

But as I stumble into darker shadows (after staring into the closet for longer than normal), I drift into a state of numbness towards surroundings and thoughts that pass by. Not so much impermanence, but the possibility of loss and painful encounters—all because of this force that drives purpose. For if we had no purpose at all, no desire, no inkling of an urge to be happy and purposeful, would we hurt at all? Would loss be as painful as it is? And if that’s the case, is it better to suffer misfortune and loss than to have not lived with a purpose at all? If there is no need for fulfillment, is there then no suffering?


I’m not frightened of turning the page. I’m frightened of the blank page. I never used to fear what my thoughts would look like on paper. I’ve avoided it lately. I think the only way to get past this is, most obviously, to write anyways.

Maybe I don’t need to figure out where the fear came from, or why. Maybe I just need to get past it. Maybe other writers go through it.

I miss my parents more lately. I wish that every transition didn’t cut my insides up and stir the movement forward. Wish the absence didn’t feel so gaping right now. Sometimes though, and lately, I am overflowing with hopefulness and change and wonder and happiness for life. Sometimes I’m just being and it’s splendid.

But then I have these nightmares, where all I want to do is grab the face that fills my mind, a haunting vignette. You’re red you’re red you’re red. A red blotchy, blur and short woman in my mind, staring blankly at me. God when will it ever make sense? Did you always want to be this way?

Your face in these dreams drills and drills at the holes you’ve already left in me. I feel worn out, dried up and dismal afterwards and sometimes it takes so much out of me to keep going.

And I do. And these periods become fewer and fewer, shorter and shorter. They are there but so much more is here too, and I have to keep trying.


On rainy days
When I put on sad music
When it’s grey and dewy outside
You come to mind
And I’ve no passion
The past trickles
Down the window
The memories pour
Into me and swim
You’d call me
Not often by my name
I’d listen
I’d hear
Each singsong name would roll
Off the tip of your tongue
And dance
Into my ear drum
Inside of me
I’d listen and follow
And now
As the rain is dying down
As the dribbles lessen
As the fog clears
I remember the moment you stopped
And called me nothing