The Meaning of Life

Stop asking for the meaning of life –
all you will be is disappointed.
The world’s dirty secret is that there is
no point,
no purpose,
no hidden meaning,
no reason for existence,
no sacred rite of passage.
You are not alive to make the gods happy,
and your heart does not beat 80 times per minute
to make you happy. If you must know, life is
growing up and realising what your parents meant
when they regretted not spending time with their
families. It is the journey of a hormonal teenager, and
understanding that the feeling when we hold our
first born has been felt by our parents and
grandparents. It is the circular motion of a ripple,
for our house is no longer home until we
have kids of our own. The reason to your life –
is to experience, because what is a more beautiful
way to live than to experience the pits of depression
and the mountains of love, the weeks of adventures
and the years in school, the weekends of regrets and
laughter with one too many memories. The experiences
will not matter when you die. You will go into the
earth with your restless nights and coffee strung mornings,
your one night stands and the way you felt during your
first heartbreak. Your experiences matter now, in this instance
and this moment. This is all you have.

Coffee Artists

I drank my coffee as the sun began its descent, 
dancing with the clouds on wild colored rides. 
I was sitting North and you were sitting a little Southeast, 
but I could still catch glimpses of your eyes and the way
they walked over the sky. You had a cigarette in one hand,
a pencil in the other. Your brows were furrowed and I 
could tell you hadn’t brushed your hair in days. You grazed
the pencil against the paper and I could hear it sing of the 
great defeat against a blank sheet. Your eyes were like 
binoculars and watched for the smallest details. Often times, 
you’d erase what you just drew with a slanted pink eraser. 
Draw. 
Erase. 
Draw. 
Erase. 
Draw.
Erase. 
It went on like this until you got a sudden flow, your inspiration
hitting you like your cigarette hits your lungs. You let the pencil 
washed onto the paper and created mountains of lines and circles and
shadings and the changing from darkness to light. I couldn’t see
what you were drawing, and I wondered if you were an architect,
or a struggling portraitist, or simply someone who needed to 
clear their mind and watching them fill this white blank page was the 
only way to release yourself from the demons and photographs 
that your mind creates. You drew, and I wrote. We were artists,
sitting at the same place at the same time, and although to this day 
I still have no clue what you create, I knew that we collaborated. 
You breathed as I did, and you bleed as I do. We were a lot a like,
and we contribute to the world what we could. 
We are truth. 

The Devil’s Home

Misery loves company, and I’ve 
been a friend for years too long. 
Sadness is the devil and my body
is his home. I’ve tried to find ways to make him leave, 
trust me, 
maybe if I’m happy he’ll evaporate from my skin like hot water, but
no. He has dispersed himself into my bloodstream,
and makes every joint ache. 
You might know him. 
He is the pain you feel inside your bones, breaking to the marrow, 
as if your ribcage will implode with another heaving breath, 
and he is the monster of ideas that instead of living under your bed, 
lives in your head, a cliche I know, but hear me out, 
he makes you believe the worst in yourself, 
don’t you dare stare into that mirror. 

Some people have created hollows in their bodies and he’s found his comfort there. 
They’ve tried to get rid of them, quick cuts on pure wrist, 
trying to bleed him out of their system – scars show your battle and survival. 
Some tried to starve him. 

But, honey, you’re letting him win,
and I want you to look at your veins, 
rivers of pain which once held love,
they have forgotten the stream, but it hasn’t left. He
hid it away in the deepest waterfall drops of you, 
dig deep and find yourself. Beat him at his own game,
make your body your home again,
it does not belong to Him. 

Storm

The rain knocks on my window,
running from swollen clouds
It’s thunder claps like an eager audience
and the lightning flashes like a photographer mesmerized by every view.
Each frame a distorted refraction of the smog painted sky
and raindrops collect into puddles, not one alone
huddling as they cower from the winds lashes
and in all the chaos of a storm, calm spreads throughout me
purification through ripples in fire
that send shivers down my spine of the crackling thunder.
Through the frail window frame I float inside myself
and like the rain, I travel, and explore the parts of me I could no longer ignore
Into tender mud and embracing concrete crevices I found myself
and I’m trying to figure out what I will leave as my mark.
As a painter signs his canvas, I smudge the glass
and my reflection is blurred, unaware that hours have passed.

Paired writing with Cristian! You’re going to want to check out his poetry.

Okay

A good friend of mine once told me that there is always a reason to be happy. Me, being in the bad state I was in, began to think and realize that he’s right. I remembered the things that make me happy such as snow days, or holding hands. Warm baths and music. Paper and a pen. My list began to grow, filling pages of my notebook. It reminded me of something I thought I might share with you:

If you’re in a bad place right now, I want to tell you that it’s okay. Sometimes life isn’t fair and throws things at you, and you’ve been through some tough times, but it’s okay. You’ve had days full of tears and nights full of endless thinking. Maybe you’ve thought about ending it all. But please listen to be when I tell you that it’s okay. Because right now, you are here, and you are breathing. And I am so damn proud of you.
I know you can survive these hard days, because you’ve come this far already. You’re stronger than you think. So, when you’re upset and don’t know what to do, take a deep breath and feel the air go into your lungs, making your body alive. Make a list of the things that make you happy.

Breathe. It is okay. You’re here. And, I’m rooting for you the entire way.