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