Man loves to fear,

of what he knows nothing about,

but is fear truly a pathway to succession in anything at all,

braveness and courage they say conquers anything,

but how long does it last,

is something they know nothing about.

If man were not to fear,

but try to understand and be curious about the wonders of life at all.

he could be the being the one above us all.

Curiosity as it is isn’t a divine gift that is given to the privileged few,

but a desire to know that is born within.

Questioning and love to know as a simple act as it may be,

is an act not done by many.

Life may have questions that cannot be answered, but it’s not the questions that cannot be answered, it’s life that should be questioned.

#poetry #Life #motivational #quotes #inspirational.

©Alipoetry, All Rights Reserved.

My daughter-in-law Estella wraps a scarf around my neck and tugs firmly to knot it. I tolerate the babying. Might as well. “Take care, mamma.” Her words are only slightly muffled by the pristine white mask covering half her face. A shoulder squeeze through blue latex gloves suffices in place of a standard cheek kiss. She is saying goodbye.

It’s more kindness than my own son offers. Perhaps I should have been better to Estella while I had the chance. Luca stands in the corner, his own mask in place. The three of us have matching sets. As I open the door, I pause, giving him one last chance. He takes it.

“Mamma.”

I turn expectantly, and he’s eight years old again, a boy who needs his mother. Suddenly I can remember every bedtime story, every boo-boo kissed better. I try to pinpoint when the distance between us grew so vast.

“Mamma,” Luca repeats, and he takes a step towards me. For a second, I think he might hug me, wrap his arms tightly around my waist like when he was little, but then I watch him grow up; his eyes harden, his jaw sets. “You are strong, mamma. The doctors will help you get better quickly, and then you will return to us, sì?”

I nod, wondering how much of his own words he believes. I haven’t been the invincible mother of his youth for a while. Would he have gifted me a final embrace if he knew he would not see me alive again? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

This time when I walk through the door, no one stops me. “I love you,” I offer over my shoulder, and I gather the echoes into my heart before the door closes behind me.

I am not going to the hospital. I’ve always hated it, that bustling, chaotic, hotbed of disease. And death. The nobler part of me refuses because it feels wrong to steal a spot from someone younger and more deserving. The selfish part of me refuses out of fear of past ghosts. Both parts agree that we will not be going to the hospital.

I walk for a few blocks. The streets are practically empty, but I see the homeless man I sometimes spare a few coins sitting in his usual spot. With minor protests from my knees, I take a seat against the wall a little ways from him. His eyes widen at me. Maybe he recognizes me? Maybe he’s side-eyeing my Valentino handbag. Either way, the rattling cough I let loose is enough to scare him off.

I pull down my mask and reach into my coat pocket. I’ve filched a pack from Luca’s stash of Davidoffs that Estella doesn’t know about. I hope he forgives me. I know how hard he works to sneak them in the house. I light one and take a satisfactory first drag.

I’m halfway through the next cig when I allow myself to contemplate my situation. At twenty years old, I boldly proclaimed that I would stop fearing death at sixty, that I would have lived enough to let go. Now, at seventy-three, I want to box that arrogant little shit’s ears. Still, I have chosen death over the alternative. I get through five cigs before I push myself up. It’s dark. I must head to my final destination.

My family and my husband’s family have been buried in the same cemetery for generations. This means I have a little plot of land reserved for me between Rafe and my oldest (and favorite) sister, Bianca. I plop down on the black soil, ignoring the complaining of my joints. One hand props up another cigarette, the other traces the words I know from memory etched into Rafe’s gravestone.

Rafael Matteo Giordano

1939-1999

Loving Father, Husband, and Brother

He’s been gone for a while, long enough that I only feel a dull ache in my chest when thinking of him. Not long enough that I’ve forgotten the pain of doctor’s visits and medical treatments and all the other messiness that comes with lung cancer. I suck in a lungful of smoke, and my hacking grows so violent that I have to wait a few minutes before I can take another.

This is how I plan to go out: smoking my way into oblivion. Lung cancer can’t kill me now, the way it took my husband. It’s too slow. I laugh in my mind. My throat fails to make the correct sound.

I lean back and look up at the stars. They are beautiful, and cold. I shiver. I haven’t been stargazing since Luca was a child. It’s harder to breathe lying down, and my inhales now come in shallow gasps. I will slowly drown in this sea of bones. I bring the cigarette to my lips and close my eyes.

I trust the stars are still shining.

Dear Dipshit Depression,

We have been together for a long time. I can’t tell you how long because I’m not sure when you first arrived. I remember when you came to stay, but you had been hanging around the perimeter of my life since my first memories. I managed to ignore you until the day you moved in when I was eleven. The reason you were able to move in at that time is simply that I chose to leave my home. I only meant it to be temporary and tried coming back home a few times, but you completely filled up my house with your stuff I was never comfortable again. I lived with you at my house until your things became my stuff. I was forced to remove everything I collected and only have vague memories of a few of my most prized possession. Those I hid in a tiny hidden closet, so you were never able to destroy them. I would go to my wardrobe from time to time looking for “the me” you thought you shattered. I left my closet with just enough strength to survive your abuse, but I was never able to stand up to you.

You wanted my life so desperately, and there were a couple of times I almost handed me to you. Among my prized possessions was a formidable little slight of a person named Survivor. She never entirely defeated you, but she was strong enough to drag me away at the last minute. I would leave home again so I could be safe from your violence. Each time I fled Survivor found safe places for me to hide and regain my strength. The years of working with Survivor have been many and challenging. My tiny closet became filled with more prized possessions until one day, I could not fit in another item.

I noticed you became complacent to the point you ignored me. The only time you became aware of my presence were the times I tried to reason with you to clean out your clutter in my house. You became so enraged I had to leave or hide. I eventually realized my pleas for you to change fell on deaf ears, and it was up to me to begin to clean house. I had to find another room to continue to store my new possessions. From my tiny hidden closet, I found a space on the other side of the closet door. It wasn’t a large room but once I discarded the clutter, there was room enough for me to grow my life. With Survivor’s help, I learned to disguise the room. You never noticed my gradual infiltration.

Memories of your abuse overwhelmed. I fled my home to escape the pain until my friend talked me back home. I was a yoyo for years, but I claimed additional rooms for myself. Survivor and I found other friends. Slippery came. The three of us together learned to slip away anytime you got close. Soon, Runner came. Runner convinced me to take back more of my home. She taught me to outrun you when you caught me in a room with your stuff. Your space became smaller, and you became enraged more often. You bullied me more and I was compelled to leave home more... I was afraid for Survivor, Slippery and Runner and instructed them to stay hidden. I abandoned home to avoid the hurt.

Survivor, Slippery, and Runner found me in my exile to introduce me to a new friend. I did not desire another person to protect. My protestations fell on deaf ears. The day I met fighter was a pivotal point in my relationship with you. Fighter took control of my dire situation and instilled new energy into my life. I accomplished more than I had ever dared hope. As I recovered more rooms, you reacted with more anger and violence. My friends stayed right by my side even when I ran away, encouraged me to get back into my home and stand up to you. Fear reared his ugly head more often. I resisted my friends; I demanded they leave. I lashed out and yelled about how difficult and conflicted my life became after they arrived. In the past, I knew the safe places. I kept chaos away and you quiet. Now, I daily experienced something different and uncomfortable. I told them I was tired of fighting this war.

Alone, defeated, dejected, and abandoned. There was darkness all around, but it was quiet. I faded into nothingness until I felt the gentle touch of strong arms as I l was lifted from the cold dark pit called my life. So great was the warmth and comfort I did not think to resist. We were joined by my old familiar friends, Survivor, Slippery, Runner and Fighter. No one spoke but the warmth and strength of their presence were palpable. I became engulfed in it.

My surroundings became brighter, and I had clarity for the first time in a long time. My rescuer stopped as did my four friends. I looked into His eyes and the kindness and love electrified energy into my soul. To my dismay, He moved to put me on my own feet. I began to struggle but one more look into His empathetic eyes calmed me and I relaxed and let Him place me on my own feet.

I was surprised at how good it felt to stand on my own. The lead, the exhaustion, all the fight was gone, and I became exhilarated. Fear became a figment of a long-ago memory. I learned my new friend’s name, Overcomer. Overcomer began our conversation by re-introducing me to my four steadfast friends. He reminded me how faithful they had been, and no matter how far I ran, they continued to seek me out. I could not doubt their determination to keep me from being isolated and alone.

I wasn’t sure how to get you out of my house, but Overcomer showed me the way. I’ve always had the ability; I just didn’t realize I had the power. With Overcomer by my side and Survivor, Slider, Runner, and Fighter behind me, I demand you leave my home. You are not welcome anymore. Take everything you have and get the hell out. You can take the keys if you want but they won’t work. Overcomer has changed the locks on my door and injected a force field on my windows. You will never be able to sneak back into this place. You are not strong, and loud can’t hurt me. Go, gone, desist, and cease from my life!

@wabisabi.

Maybe I'm afraid that you were simply lonely.

That it had nothing to do with me.

It could've been anyone you got attached to.

Or maybe I'm afraid that I was simply lonely.

That it had nothing to do with you.

It could've been anyone I got so attached to.

And maybe I'm afraid because I'm lonely all over again.

I am a lost girl,

trying to find her way.

I am a broken girl,

living in a broken world.

I am a stressed girl,

a depressed girl.

Lost in my own mind, even though it's the last place I want to be.

Heartbroken

shattered

lost

confused.

Unwanted and unloved.

What am I to do?

“You’re a screwup”

My mother yells at me as I’m backed into my corner

“You were a mistake, a fate I’m unable to escape”

I’ll sit in my corner

Looking down at my chewed up nails

And my imperfect messed up screwed up hands.

I’ll sit in my corner

Silent

Alone

Destroyed

As I let my mother scratch her claws

And snap her jaws

Like a wild animal attacking its prey.

I’m nothing more then a fucked up little girl

To my perfect, strong, hard-working mother.

I’m a screwup because my floor looks like a world war,

And my war leaves socks and muddy footprints in her perfectly trimmed house.

I’m a screwup because like my room

My head is a disaster

Inadequately organized

explosions of stress wrecking the perfect harmony of my family.

I’m a screwup to my mom

Because instead of touching land mines of broken promises

I took a pencil and a paper and wrote “no”.

But writing is a disaster,

An invaluable art of destruction

Bringing nothing but chaos to a life my mother has so carefully granted me.

I’m a screwup

Not worthy of this life of ease

Of perfection.

And yet

The only mess I’m living in

Is this corner

Caged by a roof forced over my head.

It’s a constant war

In which I never fight back

A war that leaves me bruised and bloody

From words of insufficient care.

How can I be a screwup

When I cook up love for my siblings

And serve them nothing but a good life?

How can I be a screwup

When my room overflows with words and knowledge

Like my “A+” brain?

How can I be a screwup

When the life I’ve chosen

Is the one that puts a smile on not only my face but others?

So mother,

Now that I’m out of my corner

And living my life as a perfectly good screwup,

Let me ask you this:

How can I be a screwup

When you screwed up way more than me?