Too Old

She felt old. Like the world was pushing down on her for too long and she did not have springs in her feet to jump back up. Like yesterday's sunset was the last one she will ever see. Like for the first time, life is too long.
Like she had already passed the finish line, but she kept running.
Like being alone wasn't punishment enough, it had to last forever, and then when she found someone, she lost them in a blink.
Her eyes could not see the far away bright expectations others had, nor could they see the little miracles right before them. They could only see that cold, empty space in the middle.
Sometimes here views were brightened by the glasses of a laugh following a family dinner burnt chicken, or a grandchild's picture just for her, but those were merely moments.
She would slowly walk the peaceful park she use to storm through, making sure she's not home late from the dance.
Her lungs were too weak to accept all the air she wanted them to have, and the smell of sweet flowers no longer reached her memories.
She was lost in the town she grew up in, feeling very well every one of her memories being pushed out and replaced by someone else's, younger and stronger.

She did not know about the bright memories others had of her, never to be forgotten.
So she felt too old.

Cicmila

Letter #5 "Dear Rain"

Dear rain,

There are so many things I could say. We've been friends since the earliest days, and my god, have I grown fond of you! You seem so perfect, the way you set the mood. Sometimes I think you are all a day is missing. You see the world in such a special way, and I am forever grateful to you for trying to show me that. You, of course, washed away all my fears, I feel safer with you around at night. You go perfect with tea and piano. With warm hugs, or blankets. Or both.
On my first ever concert, you made the piano keys so slippery I made countless mistakes. I don't resent it, you made it special.
When I didn't know what to do you would always unite me with someone under an umbrella. I would escape that, of course: it's so unfair that you have traveled so far, just to be denied touching my skin.
Dearest rain, I love you. You make every moment that more special, and you make decisions that much easier to live with.
But rain, you made mistakes. I will never forget what you did may, 2014. You took so many lives, how could you?! I can't forgive you for that. I won't.
Oh, rain, you seem to follow me everywhere I go, so I've made peace with you and let you in once again. Thank you, rain, for everything. You mean so much to me, you will never know. If I ever have a daughter, that's what I will name her, Rain.
Come on, rain, let's hold hands and walk down the path to a new year once again. I will be waiting for you on the other side of winter.
See you soon, dear friend.

Yours always,

When You're Alone

There are some special moments.
When you're walking down a street in the middle of the night, and you feel like you are the only person in the world.
When you put your headphones in sitting by the river and you just breathe slowly and gather your thoughts just to let them go wild in the next moment.
When you look at the mirror for so long you don't recognize yourself and you don't feel as alone anymore.
When you find yourself feeling free enough to put a tiny hop in every one of your steps. When you sing to yourself and nobody else, because that's the only time when your voice sounds so beautiful.
It's the moments when you feel alone in the best way possible. When you're not paranoid that someone can see you or hear you or read your mind. When you know you won't be judged by anyone but yourself. At those moments, what do you think about?
Do you think about the time in eight grade when you kissed your best friends girlfriend, but you both decided to never tell? Do you think about the silly plays you use to put on for your parents friends when you were five? Do you think about the diary you had when you were eleven, that you promised to write every single day, but forgot about it the next day, because when you're eleven there are so many more important things to think about. Like what you're gonna get at the candy store. Do you think about the bills that you have to pay but you know you can't afford. Or do you remember all the times when your guardian had to pay the bills, but all you cared about was the new toy and now you're devoured by guilt? Or do you think about the cute person who you shared eye contact with in the bus this morning, and in those few short looks you imagined a whole future with them, a whole lifetime worth of memories that are yet to happen. And then they get out on the next stop, without giving you anything more than a smile. Bummer. Do you think about the chocolate chip cookie you had in the morning, and diet you promised to go on the night before? Do you think about how awesome it would be if you were on a huge stage singing the tune that's been stuck in your head the whole day? It's ok, we all wanted to be superstars at one point. Do you think about life and death and the greater questions? Or do you think about the light you left on when you left home this morning? Do you think about the time when that nerdy somebody you secretly adored was so obviously hitting on you but you were too young and dumb to realize? Do you think about the time when you went and cut all your hair off, just because you could? Do you think that your life is a movie and that moment is an epic scene with awesome background music?
Because it is. It's a scene that you should remember. Whatever you are thinking about, when you're so alone that you can be your true self, it's the core of the beautiful structure of thousand materials called you.
So love those moments and be thankful for each and every thought, because you're the director and the star of that movie, and you won't get a sequel. So make sure you do it the way you want the first time around.

Cicmila

Sunrise

They say the sunrise is the most beautiful thing one can see.
I often disagree.
I want to see the tears in a parent's eyes while he watches his firstborn get his diploma, holding the camera in shaky hands - the same hand that use to cradle his tiny baby's head while he was burdening his mind thinking will they eat tomorrow.

I want to see pain a lover hides from his other when he hears she's going away. Because real love hurts.

I want to see the freedom of a girl finally finding the courage to dress her wrong-gender body in a dress.

I want to see the joy on a child's face when they pick up the first fruit from the tree they had planted with their parents, realizing they have a purpose and are able to create something so beautiful.

I want to see the face of my other half that follows the words "I love you".

I think compared to all of that, a sunrise is nothing special. But I would like to see it.

Sometimes, I really wish I wasn't blind.

Cicmila

Fool

Sometimes, we're just fools. Sometimes, we would sacrifice everything we have for one thing that seem important in a single moment. Sometimes we would risk everything for a single glance. Because when you put it down, that is what it's all about.

We worry so much about the future, that we don't focus on the present. And then spend the future wishing we could change the past. It's not fair that life doesn't have a tutorial. It just throws you in the fire and lets you get about on your own. Good luck, fools.

And not every story has a happy ending. But life isn't a story. Life is a compilation, almost a series of many stories. Some of those stories last a few moments, some last for decades. Some are so important they blur out everything else, and some overlap.

Dear fool, we write our own stories.
What are you gonna do about it?

Cicmila

100.000

Your heart beats over 100.000 times a day, you so often think about stopping it. As if that would make the world better. As if in this world 100.000 heartbeats don't mean a thing. They do, so appreciate every one of them.

Almost a quarter of us skip lunch daily, trying to trim the size of out waist, but do we forget that we have a whole generation looking up to us, and 80% of children age 10 are afraid of being fat, well how wouldn't they be?

50% of women age between eighteen and twenty five would rather be run over by a truck than be fat, but for lord's sake, ladies imagine how ugly the tire marks would be on your skin if, despite all your hopes and wishes you somehow manage to survive?

Little girls are more afraid of being fat than they are of nuclear war, cancer, or losing their parents. But I guess it is normal, since they themselves are the only thing they have to look at in the mirror, they were taught since they left the womb: that they are little princesses waiting for prince charming, so they have to be beautiful to attract one. Why would they ever have anything else but their looks to offer?

Some maybe tried to teach them that that is not all that matters, but what does it even matter, since whenever they bring to school a book instead of a pocket mirror, they get laughed at for believing that they could ever be anything more than a thin waist and a pretty face.

So they spend half of their 100.000 heartbeats wanting it to stop.
The other half they spend trying to pick up little pieces of their confidence and dignity, gluing them together with love they have for themselves, but if they don't have enough then it all just falls back apart.

But I guess if a nuclear war starts, at least I will still have my pretty face.

Train Station

"I'm scared", I whispered, wishing I could hold those fragile, old hands tighter.
"Don't be." The old lips spread out in a grin. "If a bird never got out of its nest, it would never have learned how to fly. It is the same with you."

How could I tell her? She was so hopeful, a five-year-old look bursting through me form eighty-year-old eyes. How could I tell her that my knees are shaking and that I am hardly holding the tears back. How could I? She wanted this for us so bad. For me, she would say, but... I always knew it was her dream, too. She just didn't have the strength to see it through.

"What if I lose my way?"
"I hope you do, dear girl. Because that... That is the only way to find yourself. We all have a path. Some are more clear than others, but in the end, we are all walking down a dirt road. There are struggles along the way, but you know all too well that the most beautiful roses have the sharpest of thorns."
"I don't understand! This is all just so confusing, and it is happening all so fast!"
"Don't fight it. Embrace it. You have just discovered a new chapter of your life!" She slowly cupped my cheek in her tight palm. "You are so young, and you have so much in front of you. I only wish I had your courage a bit sooner."
"Courage?! How can you speak of courage when I can barely hold my ground from fear!"

"All aboard!", said the man in front of the train.
"No...", I whispered, "No, not yet! I am not ready!"
"You are, little bird! Trust me, there is nothing I want more for you than to get up on that train and see where it takes you!"

I was slowly moving towards the door of train I had only a one-way ticket for. I let her hand and it stood there in the air for a few more seconds, like I didn't even let it go.

"There are beautiful things to see in this life... I've seen so many, imagine how much you will!"

I took another step back, and felt the cold steel of the train behind me. I took one step inside. She was still there, looking in the direction where she assumed I was standing. She waved, like she was supposing that I waved first, and she was just waving back.
In the end, I waved too. I don't know why.
I found my seat and tried to look through the window to the one person I had known, and that I am now leaving.
"I'll be back soon...", I whispered.
I know she hoped I wouldn't be.

Cicmila

Spotlight

Everyone wants a spotlight moment. Every time I watch a TV show and someone comes out of nowhere and blows away everyone, making their wildest dreams come true in a matter of well planned minutes.
I really want to have that.

But how can a writer ever have a moment? How can anyone who sits behind a keyboard ever be in the spotlight? I beg to know the answer. I need that. I need to know what I do is not just wasting minutes of my life. I need to have someone tell me what I'm doing is the right thing. That wanting to be a writer is ok.

Because that's the only thing I ever knew how to do.
I was never a good singer, never the best in school, never a good ballerina, never a good daughter, sister, never good enough to do anything. But I could always write. It is more natural to me than breathing. It is the only time when I feel like me.
But what's the point, if I will never get recognition?
I'm not trying to be bigger than Tolkien and Hemingway, I just want to be me.

The first time my mother told me I am running away from real life by escaping into my stories, I did not write a single letter for five months. And those were the hardest days of my life. After that, I knew there was nothing else for me to do... But write.

Still, years later, I feel the knot in my stomach where my confidence once was. And the sinking feeling I get every time I remember all the words I write will never be read by more than a handful of people. I ask myself:
Is it worth it?
Is it worth the tears I get every time one of my characters cry? Is ti worth the pain I feel when they lose someone who was their anchor? Is it worth the unnamed feeling I get when I realize their happy moments are not actually mine?

I just want my spotlight. I don't want to get anyone else's. I don't want to be someone else, I only want to be able to do the thing I've been doing the past lifetime.

I know If I were ever to stop, I would be lost. End of my writing would be the end of me because we are just two halves of one whole: Just as my stories do not exist if I don't write them I don't exist if they are not there within me, guiding me.

And again I wonder: Is the spotlight really worth it?

Cicmila

The Sailor and his Rose

When I was a little girl, I remember asking my grandmother to tell me the story about the Sailor and his rose. She would make me think she wouldn't tell it, but I knew she would when I'd see her putting the kettle on.

When I was just a boy, my father and I planted an oak tree. It was somewhere far away, or at least then it seemed far away. We would go every year and visit it. It grew taller each year.

I remember she use to wrap us both tight in a blanket and start the story with "Once upon a time". Well... Once upon a time, there was a Sailor and his rose. The Sailor loved his rose very dearly, but when he would have to go to the sea, he would leave the rose behind, promising he will return.

Every year, when we would go to the oak, I would talk to it. My father would just leave us there, he knew I had a lot to tell. And when I was suppose to leave, I would promise I will return, because I knew he would be waiting. 

One day, the sea started raging. It came down on the Sailor's ship like a monster, devouring it. The Sailor fought, with all his strength, crying the name of his dear Rose. But the sea was stronger.

The first year I didn't see my oak, I was age twelve. My father just said, "next year, champ". Back then I didn't know young trees brake when the wind is strong.

What he didn't know that while he was screaming her name instead of taking breaths of air, Rose was with another man.

The wind was too strong. When I took my first shot, it broke me. I tried to resist, to fight, to stay strong, but the drug was too much. I had to give in. I was just a young tree... And the winds were to strong.

Rose didn't care! Rose was drinking off another man's lips! Rose was sinking deeper and deeper into sin. Rose could feel that the Sailor was dying, but Rose didn't care!
...And my grandma never told me that. She didn't think it was important, maybe. She didn't think I could take it. But I did. And day after day, I sit and wait for him to come back.

The winds blow both ways, and the one that thought that could destroy me, never could have guessed there is a stronger wind. One so much more powerful. One that would push me back to shore. Because people aren't oaks. And one day, I came back.

When I learned that the story was actually what it is, I couldn't blame my grandmother for not telling me. I would be hurt by it. But it was a strange place, where I heard how the story goes... In a pub on the docks. I was sitting when I saw the framed piece of paper. Old, burnt, drowned. But the text was so clear... "The Sailor and his Rose".

I walked into a pub on the docks, and sat by a most beautiful woman. "Hello", I said, "My name is Sailor."

"Hi.

...I'm Rose."  

Things Fall Apart

Things fall apart. They brake or malfunction, they get lost and forgotten. They get damaged and bent. Things fall apart. Things. People. Things. People. Things.

People fall apart.
When there is so many pieces missing or that have been replaced, then how much of the original must remain until it's not considered alive anymore? People fall apart. They fall into themselves or they explode for everyone to see. They fall apart from each other. They get lost. Forgotten.

Things fall apart.
But for every broken piece there is someone who cares. Who will bring a tube of glue and put it all back together. Piece by piece. Put the first two together, wait for the glue to dry, then add another. Glue. Sorry. Glue. Sorry. Glue. Sorry.

For every wrong word. I'm sorry. For every tear shed. I'm sorry. For every hug I didn't give. I'm sorry. For every I love you there must be I love you too. For every Always, there must be a Thank you. For every Goodbye, there must be a Hello.

Things fall apart. Things get fixed.

Cicmila

Beauty

I remember very vibrantly
The first time I could look in the mirror and say
"Damn! You're hot!"
I was still an XL then, but that doesn't matter.

Look, I'm not here to tell you that looks don't matter.
Don't be fooled.
Your looks will determine 70% of happiness in the first half of your life
So yes, appearance is important.

But what I want to tell you is that
Nobody knows what beauty looks like
Actually, scratch that!
Everybody knows what beauty looks like!

To me, beauty is the girl with
Red hair and green eyes
Who wears confidence like her second skin.

To you, beauty is the sun kissed blond
With abs of steel that dances around in a bikini.

To you, beauty is the shy overweight guy
Who plays the guitar ever so silent,
But always loud enough for you to hear.

To you, beauty is the ambitious girl
Who just won't get her head out of the books

To you, beauty is the guy in old converse shoes
Who refuses to get politics out of his
Messy, blond hair covered head.

To you, beauty is the guy who sits quietly in the corner
But when he talks about something he's passionate about
His eyes could light up the sky.

The thing is... I don't know what beauty is to you
But I will tell you what it should be

To you, beauty should be
Whatever you see in that mirror.
So go take a long, hard look.

Cicmila

Photographs

Old photographs are everything.
They are backups for our mind. They make sure we don't forget what happened. That family dinner. That night out with friends. That crazy dangerous thing we did together. That hug. That trip.

They are art. We frame them and put them on our walls to make them look nicer. To hide the scars beneath. Because there's no heartbreak that a warming frame of a memory can't fix. Because they fill up the empty space on our desk, there where our work should be, but we would rather just be with the people in the picture.

They are open wounds. They are the friend who doesn't answer your call when you need it most. They are the one who broke your heart, now staring with those bright eyes behind the glass. They are the one you hurt and the one your pride won't let you apologize to.

They are scars. They are the things you need to see to know that there has been worse. They are the faces of those you thought you will never see again, but they are now by your side. They are the time you broke your hand and couldn't play, and the first concert after you've healed. They are the time you cut all your hair of, because your best friend had cancer. But they are now by your side.

They are connections you didn't know exited. They are the place that reminds you of your first kiss, even though it happened miles away. They are the water under the bridge that brings tears to your eyes, and you will never know why. They are the wise words you don't know where you heard, but they guide you through life.

They are gold. They are the moments gone away, never to come back. They are the ones buried beneath the ground, always to love. They are the "I wish I had" and "I should have done it". They are the gears that turn in your heart and the oil that keeps them running smooth. They are all you have of the past.

And yes, some belong in photo albums in the attic, because that makes them even more special when once excavated. But if you let the dust sit for a moment too long, they will be gone forever, so be careful. And the ones on your walls... You will, not once in your life, pay attention to them. They will blend in, become just a thing you pass by every day, but do not be fooled. They are the first thing you will notice if gone.

Cicmila

Back Pocket

Love.
I want to share with you something
brought to my attention by a constant section of life
called hate.
It's something that looks at me day after day from my mirror.
Haunts me in the looks of those whose approval I seek.
And I have a problem with that word, "approval".

I use to think love is something small and fragile
Something to hide away in your back pocket
Keep it safe, so no one unworthy would see.
So no one could hurt.

I use to think love is a special word,
That I mustn't give it to anyone before I'm sure they'll give me theirs.
Because there always has to be at least one love in your back pocket.

I use to think you can only love the people
You knew for a long time, someone from down the street.
Someone you grew up with, but no.

It took me years of pain and heartache
A thousand offers of other people's hearts, and my offerings as well.
It took me a long time, but now I understand.

Instead of a pinpoint I thought love was, it is actually a never ending pit.
Instead of hiding it in my back pocket, I now know I can give and give and give because of the infinity of feelings like pine needles under thick snow just when the sunny smile melts it away.

And if you take the leap and start falling into that pit,
You just might fall in love, and that's ok.
I started digging that infinite hole of love
And the moment I found out it has no bottom
I started sharing. I started loving all and everything.

And if you find someone to love down your street
Then you're lucky, but if not it's ok.
I fell in love with Aragorn at the age of 10
... Ok maybe I had a crush on Legolas as well.

But what I am trying to say is that love comes
In all shapes and sizes, all universes and feelings
And don't be scared to give everyone your love
Because I promise, you won't run out.

But... Just in case, keep a little bit of that love
Down in your back pocket.

Cicmila

Mother, please

Can you tuck me in bed
Make sure I am warm
Can you get me some water
Mother, please?

Can you get me this toy
Or these shoes
Can you help me with homework
Mother, please?

Can you pay me this and that
Can you drive me here and there
Can you accept me for who I am
Mother, please?

I saw my path
Different from you
And I want to follow it
Mother, please!

You may have started off safe
But you too had wild ideas
You followed those dreams, remember
Mother, please!

I could never live in a world
Where my decisions aren't my own
So don't choose for me
Mother, please.

I know you mean the best
But sometimes
It's not the best for me, but for you, understand
Mother, please!

I'm not trying to push you away
I need you in my life
But don't hold me back
Mother, please!

When I try to talk to you
You walk away
Why won't you listen?!
Mother, please!

I don't care how old I am
I need you in my life
Please don't let me go
Mother, please!

I know you see
The tears in my eyes
Don't ignore them
Mother, please!

I know you don't see
Yourself when you look at me
But I'm not you, nor will I ever be
Mother, please.

I'm getting tired and weak
Pick me up from the ground
I can't stand on my own
Mother, please.

I need you.
As I always had and I always will
I need you.
Mother, please.

Cicmila

Rhymes

I wanted to get back to my roots
And write a short story
But it ended up a poem
Again.

And I'm not sure why
I always had the tendency
To put my thoughts on a scrap of paper
And not care what others think.

Wait.
That doesn't rhyme.
But neither does this
And here I am
Doing it all over again

Not caring what others will say
But you are the ones reading this, not me.
So I guess I do care a bit
You see...

I made that rhyme for you
As I, once again
Bow in the dirt
Seeking your approval

And it makes me think about
All the people I give my approval to
They don't ask for it
So I won't ask you.

Fuck, I just did it again....

Cicmila

A Little Bit

I grew up being told that too much of anything is bad. So on my own I developed a "a little bit of anything can't hurt" lifestyle. I was having fun and it was going great. I had a bit of it all and I loved it.
But some things I wanted more of. I guess you can never know how much you can take before "a little bit" turns to "too much". But i thought I could handle it.
No, sorry to break it to you, this is not a story about drugs or alcohol. I stayed clear of that because people warned me it would lead me astray.

But nobody warns you about the one thing that took me over.
As a child, I was always favored for being so ambitious. My parents were proud of me for knowing in first grade where I wanted to go to college.
But my ambition drove me mad. i was always looking years, decades ahead. I was as successful as anyone could wish to be. Other people didn't understand me. I married a man who wanted me for my money, but he left when I told him the date I wish to give birth to my first child.
My ambition made me paranoid and afraid of fate and coincidence. I didn't leave anything to chance.
Not even my death.
I am sixty one as I write this and twenty years ago I hired an assassin to kill me on this night.
i cannot call him off. this is the last thing I will ever write. The last thing I will ever do. This is a warning.
Life is not worth living if we leave nothing to chance and fate.
I hear my death knocking on the door. Here's my last message, I better make it quick.
Let go and enjoy. I wish I cou

Cicmila