Swallowed by darkness,
trapped in fear,Β
fear of the darkness
Iβd hoovered and hoarded.
Consumed by guilt,
by pain, the struggle of knowing
you made mistakes, took closed routesΒ
that secured this lonely fate.
Until the day I were saved,Β
the day you grabbed my heart,
the day you made me change.Β
The day you gave me hope,Β
the day my dreams replayed.
You gave me light and for that I give thanks,Β
for fixing the brokenΒ
and filling the blanks.
If only for myself I write these thoughts, Iβll write yet more, to satisfy my own yearn for expression, my own desire to be heard, to matter, to be greater than the some of my parts. I know that my mirror reflects a man greater than itβs shown, a man with potential untapped and projections uncapped. I see a man of honour, I see a man of trust and wisdom. A man whoβs allowed experience to guide him but knowledge to shape him. I see him stand, I see him speak, compassionate and firm, a glaring light.
Yet still most days I wonder. Most days Iβm aware of who I am, who I was and who I would like to be – and I wonder, had my previous self been a little more free, free to think free to read, free to learn, free to be; and he had stood before that mirror would he see what I now see? And if that be true, then had time been wasted? Maybe. Or maybe itβs the experience that allows context to be applied to new knowledge. Maybe itβs the pain, maybe itβs the memories, maybe itβs the thoughts that only I can access, in the darkest corners of pneuma that even allow such a reflection to be possible.
These moments lead me to think that my vision isnβt in-spite of experience, but tethered to memory of all ilk. What I mean is that hope is a result of understanding ones experience and supplementing that with knowledge. Iβm saying that growth in and of itself is doomed vanity hunt. For I could educate myself one thousand times over, make all the right decisions on paper and still not be a better Asya.
Hope is my wonder and Iβll be forever busy…
Written today, Iβll read it later,
penned September, remembered forever.
Better days both ahead and behind,
the beauty of life, thus the wonder of time. When I read this later Iβll know,
how things panned, not how they penned.
When I read this later Iβll understand,
who I am and how things went,
what will be when all is said
and who Iβve become once this ends.
Whatβs decided now, Iβll visit then,
for only time will bring understanding.
Only history can judge my steps;
for we are all but footnotes in the end,
Seen 24 summers and winters too.
Where it pours it shines,
where itβs cold there is warmth,
on this journey of mine
who knows whatβs due.
So Iβll visit this all later, for now Iβll leave this to you.
Hereβs to my 24th season.
Asya Valentine βπΎ….
What we are is endless,
what we are is recollections,
joy and anger,
souls marked by distance
and bound by time.
So to those who touched my life,
I pen this;
ode to friendship, kinship,
ode to love, the father of glory.
Glory for those who touched this story.
The days page turns,
companionship fans the flare of faith,
each bond rare and hard to break.
I cherish those ties, so hard to make
and give glory to those who fashioned this story.
Engulfed by storms, when it rains it pours; no shelter for our dreams.
Despite the facts, all that we lacked,
in hope we stood,
with unreachable goals and the ignorance of innocence.
Time ticks, each of our canvasβ painted, they who were pure now bruised and tainted, sad and broken, alienated and dangerous.
So we leave dreams to sleep, if all loves attached to conditions just leave us be. From dreams to reality,
so many wide asleep, as we lay fast awake in our nightmares.
Open minds meet closed eyes.
Just pain and sorrow when we shut our eyes,
we hate this world but love our lives.
If only time could be renewed and history replayed.
Iβd redraw the canvas, renegotiate our hate, redraft our deal, incubate the pain.
Provide us hope, ignite our dreams, engage our joys and redefine βweβ.
But where imagination and reality cross, we fine tune our desire, give glory to struggle and speak truth to power.
Iβll remember the joyous days, the moments of wonder, the smile I wore, within your presence and so much more.
Times forever,
yet scarce – and wasted,
mortalities reason.
Yet, if given a thousand years;
Iβd still remember our time together.
The spills, the laughs, the moments that made me wish a single moment could last forever…
The moments that visions are built on,
the moments that myths yield, I shall forever shield, for they are moments that I refuse to relinquish.
For if I had a thousand more Septembers;
no less of those moments will I remember.
You shaped my world,
revived my hope,
which made my world.
So if those moments must pass, then let that be, let moments fade to memories – just capture them.
If time is forever, then so to is our bond.
And if somehow… if somehow this may find you;
mΓ©rci, mon amie, mΓ©rci.
Still Busy In Wonder,
Asya Valentine.
βRemember, rememberβ no sooner forgotten,
The allure of wonder, yet another broken promise.
For it was written but it never went that way,
So weβre left with the promise of better days,
a tomorrow of love, a peaceful hereafter.
Hope turns to fear after another disaster; I carried your dreams before you could bare the burden,
I etched your memory in blood and soil.
I wished to clear the storms and seek new pastures,
but you watched as my hope just went away.
You watched me weep, oh if time could speak; youβd understand how lonely this life can be, how cold and damaged a broken heart becomes, when time fades and curtains close on better days. You will remember me and know that you should have loved me yesterday.
Split and destroy, divide and rule,
the ploy from a few to divide us all.
If it is the system that reaps rewards
and handles allocation; where nine tenths
have nothing because itβs captured and hoarded?
If the many must struggle for the gain of a few?
Then why not should one suggest, to take it from you?
Shame and pity for all of your flaws,
you have all you could want yet still want more.
βLies, damned lies and statistics‘
the story from the graph and the ground are so so different;
off with the platitudes,
time for solutions, the systems not broken – itβs working, we need a revolution.
The dreams of a young idealist, how brutal and cold this world can be.
How firm and resolute itβs grip may stay, with each passing day my ideals decay.
Since long Iβve denounced religion, yet my state remains, so in this state, I find I pray.
βIf an answer exists let it be revealed, if ignorance is bliss, then a burden it is. But, if happiness is this, I want no part.β
A young idealist, for years to come, Iβll walk my path, a lonely one.
Iβll keep this hope, if only that,
to speak truth to power and understand that actions are neither static nor binary.
Understand that without friction there is no change and during those times I pray;
βThough my existence is not perfect, I live in peace, with shelter and hope, the chance to dream. And oh to the extent to which I am free, if my freedom is lynched to the infringement of that of others, then is it not our duty to speak for our Sisters and Brothers?’
Have you ever had to smile when your down and your out, just to see tears swell your eyes when nobodyβs around?
For the last thousand days you were βholding things downβ, with not a peep, not a word, the slightest incline or sound.
Then you stop to think about what youβve been speaking about, read your own words off the page but you canβt speak them aloud?
Wonder how good may it feel to be free for change? To see joy in a Mote, to reason again.
