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