I’m skeptical on love, but stay with me

You and I were involved with each other once,

Then we never saw each other again.

Until one night at a Good Charlotte concert

Only at first, I wasn’t sure if it was you,

Because the other night,

Our two bodies were moving together,

I never got your name

I only remembered your face

In the middle of the packed crowd,

I see your auburn locks and your dress, colored like champagne and fresh oyster pearls

Wait, can it be?

Is it you?

I have to do a double take

Maybe I am hallucinating

I might have sipped a little too much wine before this event

No, my mind isn’t deceiving me

Everyone raises their cellphone back and forth

During “I don’t want to be in love”

I find myself maneuvering my way over to you

I pull my own phone out and join you

Our eyes become acquainted with each other again

At first you seem surprised, me too

Smiles quickly melt that surprise away

Before long, you and I are dancing, jumping up and down,

And singing along

I lose sight of all other people next to us

Even the band

The only one I see

In the glimmer of lights

Is you

After, I find that I’m inviting you back to my place

When I open my eyes and see you playfully strolling your fingers across my shoulder

I didn’t bother listening to self control yet again

You ask me if I believe in love

I answer,

Well, you know that song we just heard?

You hold the sheets in place and nod

For now I’m not sure

But I do believe in fun

I believe in taking chances

I believe in making mistakes

And you reply, that works

So here we are, two strangers

Who may be just a little skeptical on love

At least in the way we were taught

We’ll create our own futures

No one gets to decide what’s right or wrong but us

I decide to treat myself to a long weekend in Lisbon. I pack my bags with lightweight clothing I can move in; the hills are intense in Portugal, and so is the dancing. When I come to the part I always struggle with - packing that tiny ziplock bag of liquids - it’s an easy decision to ditch the hand sanitizer for perfume. Perfume is like an armor you wear out into the world that makes you feel truly yourself. You want it to linger in people’s memory - that perfect scent that’s created when it seeps into your pores, combining with your body chemistry to make something uniquely you.

When the Uber arrives, I have no trouble recognizing the driver in the photo as the man in front of me. His face unobscured, I can see he has the same smile as in his profile picture. It’s somehow sensual - like he’s keeping a dirty secret - and his lips look full and soft.

“Kate?” He asks.

“That’s me.” I do my best to give him an equally up-to-no-good smirk because flirting is my favorite past time.

As I slide into the back seat, he tosses the last of a cigarette out the window before quickly rolling it up. “I refuse to let you catch a cold,” he says.

How chivlarous, I think, as I catch his green eyes in the rearview mirror.

“No worries,” I tell him. “I run hot.”

He laughs and turns down the radio. “I guess I haven’t gotten over the whole ‘better safe than sorry’ mantra from these past few months. Besides, maybe I can start a new business - Luke’s Luxurious Sauna On Wheels. You wanna be my first customer?”

I laugh and just say “sure,” as I try to play it cool.

“Wonderful. For now, let’s use our imagination. See the cigarette smoke still floating around in here? Let’s pretend it’s steam. Now just take some cleansing breaths and share this air with me.”

I chuckle nervously for a minute, but decide to commit. I close my eyes and we both inhale and exhale deeply, while I wish I could get a buzz off the lingering smoke. I’ve always found the sensation of Nicotine swimming through my blood suspiciously similar to feelings of pure lust. I guess that’s why they say people crave it. As I settle into my seat, I picture me and my new friend Luke in the back of this Escalade, wearing nothing but towels. He pops open a bottle of champagne and pours me some in a slender crystal flute, looking me in the eye as he sucks the overflowing foam from the top of the glass. I feel my cheeks flush and can’t help but grin.

“See? You’re relaxed already - I can tell. Clearly, your first visit to the sauna mobile will be on the house.”

With my eyes still closed I say, “Well, I can’t resist a good deal...”

As we merge onto the highway the conversation hits a lull, but I don’t mind. My imagination works best when I’m at ease in the quiet. I picture myself already in Lisbon, sitting at a tiny, crowded bar, smoking and drinking port, laughing while a man leans in close to playfully critique my Portuguese. Outside, music echoes in the alleyways and, for just a short while, I’m transported before I’ve even gotten on the plane. I can’t believe it’s been two years since I’ve escaped the states.

#

Before I know it, we’ve arrived at the airport. Luke, my Uber driver that I am now officially on a first name basis with, gets out of the car and unloads my bag from the trunk. He opens my door and extends his hand to help me out.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” he says, and I laugh.

I tell him I can’t promise anything and then wink before heading for the revolving doors. I immediately start shaking my head, wondering who I think I am when I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket.

“A belated Valentine’s dinner when you get back?”

I can’t believe he’s just texted me through the Uber app. I turn around to see him leaning against his car, phone in one hand while he waves sheepishly with the other. I see an airport cop to the right losing patience with his lingering in the drop off lane, but Luke doesn’t seem to notice. He flashes that smile again, and I yell, “If you’re lucky!” before heading inside.

The terminal is packed. Some people are clutching roses and heart-shaped balloons. Others are dressed like they’ve already arrived at whatever beach they’re headed to. (I’ve never understood this.) And I take a moment just to watch. My fellow travelers are standing shoulder to shoulder in line to check their bags, hunched over next to one another illuminated by the glow of boarding pass printers. There is laughing, shouting, crying and hugging. The world spins madly on before me and the noise is something beautiful.

I smile to myself as I head to security and try to think of a way to make going through it sexy, but I realize even I’m not that charming. Plus, I usually don’t let people see me with my clothes off until we’ve at least shared a drink together. Meanwhile, these security guards are seeing me down to my bones in that X-Ray scanner without so much as a hello. I am not feeling properly romanced.

Once I’m finally able to make my way through the security check and on to my gate, I see that nearly every seat at my terminal is taken. I do a squint and scan across the rows of seats until I spot an empty one, then casually speedwalk over to it to beat out any competition. Luckily, I make it unchallenged and uncerimoniously plop down into the plastic chair, kicking my feet up and onto my bag. I am the picture of vacation relaxation. Seated to my right, a man wears a shirt that reads “Don’t Tread On Me.” To my left, a woman with a haircut that screams ‘I work in a mall salon’ sneezes into a handkerchief. She puts it back into her purse and rests her hand on the arm rest beside me. I am completely unbothered.

When they call for first class boarding I try to look aloof, sauntering to get in line. In truth, I’ve never flown first class before and I’m jumping up and down inside. I picture Tom from Parks and Rec saying “Treat yo’self!” and laugh out loud. So much for maintaining my cool jet setter persona. I think that maybe I can save it if I pretend like I’m talking to someone on the phone, so I take one Airpod out of my ear and examine it like I’m making sure it’s working right before putting it back into my ear and nodding vigrously as if listening to a riveting story.

Once I reach my seat, I abandon my performance in an instance. I look up to the sky for a brief moment to confer with cupid. Luke who? I ask. I then look at my boarding pass and back up again at the number just above the row, to make sure I have it right. Thankfully, I do.

I am 6B, and there in 6A is a specimen of man who looks like he could be Theo James’ twin brother. I’ve spent an embarrassing number of nights fantasizing about the actor as of late, since I just binged yet another period drama in which he also happens to star. I will never quite understand how they were able to make a man and a woman simply touching hands while rowing an old wooden boat seem pornographic, but I would recommend it to anyone. I also argue that at least some of that sexual tension had to do with the man himself. Theo is everthing - simultaneously brooding while tender, statuesque yet rugged. His skin has a beautiful golden tone that makes it look as though he radiates with a gentle warmth at all times. His hair is always perfectly tossled, and his voice is what you might expect an exotic dark roast coffee to sound like if it could talk. And here I am, standing before his equally jaw-dropping doppleganger. I take a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

#

I point at my seat and say, “I’m just there,” as coquettishly as possible.

“Ah, sure,” the doppleganger replies, with a rich tone and a lovely accent that I hope I’ve heard correctly. When he shifts, his cardigan clings to him as if wet, showcasing the muscles of his arms, stretched taught across broad shoulders. Once he’s in the aisle, his eyes meet mine as he says, “Here, let me help you with that.”

I let out a puff of air. I was right; he’s speaking with a sing-song Irish brogue, my absolute favorite kind of accent. And what’s more is he has the same smoldering gaze as Theo, but with eyes that are a lovely shade of gray like the Wild Atlantic sea that I imagine him emerging from, flush and dripping. He has the kind of look that says ‘I’m hungry, and I might just devour you.’

To that I say, here’s your fork.

When he takes my bag and lifts it into the overhead bin, I try to start conversation veiled as an exchange of the normal pleasantries.

“Aw, thank you. I really appreciate it. If only I could grow a few inches, I could handle this myself. But unfortunately,” I gesture to my small frame, “I think this is as good as it gets.”

I notice his eyes dart quickly from head to toe.

“But good things come in small packages, right?” He chuckles.

I resist the urge to squeal and instead let out a loud “ha!” that I’m immediately embarrassed of. But I’m also relieved. As beautiful as this man is, he’s also saved me from my typical airplane awkwardness. I’m usually stuck trying (and failing) to hoist my bag above my head before someone takes pity on me and helps. I’m a smart, independent woman, but I can’t defy physics. Thankfully, he jumped in before I could further humiliate myself.

Once my bag is stowed, I slide into my seat. To do so, we have to face each other, our torsos softly grazing one another for few short seconds. In that time, I discover that he smells like oak and leather and bergamot - basically, his perfume armor is that of a very sexy fireplace.

I haven’t even managed to put my book in the seat pocket in front of me - not that I am hoping to get much reading done now that I’ve met my seatmate - when the flight attendant comes by.

“Would you like a cocktail sir?”

It’s 10:30 AM and the plane hasn’t even finished boarding yet.

So this is first class, I think.

“Ah that’d be grand. I’ll have a Jack on the rocks please.”

“And for you miss?”

“Well I guess I shouldn’t let him drink alone. Prosecco for me, please.”

Your move.

When she turns to make her way to the bar cart, he places his hand on my forearm.

“Hey now, don’t go blaming your poor life decisions on me. I’m but a humble man in desperate need of the cure.”

“The cure?” I ask, geniunely confused. “What’s 80′s rock got to do with this?”

“Ha, right. I believe you Americans say hair of the dog.”

I blush. “Oh, okay. I was about to go on a tangent about new wave for a second. But in this case, I say I’m but a humble woman on vacation, where I make my own rules. And today’s rule is that drinking must begin before 11 AM.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckles. “So are you off to visit your long distance Portuguese boyfriend for Valentine’s weekend then?”

“Nope. This is a solo adventure. Though if I play my cards right, I might head home with a long distance Portugeuse boyfriend.” I smirk, anxious to see how he’ll respond.

“Hmm..But I’m not Portuguese. So how’s this going to work?”

At that quip, I nearly die and go to heaven, but God says she wants me to have a religious experience with this man, and I decide I must do as I’m told. Besides, it’s rare that I meet a guy who can just keep up with my banter, let alone hold his own so well. Every time I serve, he cracks it right back to me. I have to rush back to the net to volley, sweating. I am playing a Serena level flirting game at this point.

“How presumptuous of you, sir!” I say. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Well that’s an easy fix, isn’t it? I’m Ian. And you are...”

I extend my hand toward him, as if I’m about to give him a formal handshake.

“Thirsty.”

I shift my hand abruptly into the air and delicately wave my fingers at the flight attendant like I’ve long had experience summoning the help. I’ll find time to be disgusted with myself later.

“Excuse me, miss, can we get another round, please?” I ask, as I settle back into my seat and smile at the bemused look on his face.

While we wait, I tell him I need a sip of what’s left of his whiskey to tie me over. Carefully, I place my lips right on the spot where his last left the glass, leaving my cherry lipstain behind. I can feel him watching me, so I gaze over my shoulder and lick the moisture off my lips.

“It’s Kate.”

And at that, the engines of the plane begin to roar. We surge forward, our bodies vibrating as the force pushes us backwards into our cushy first class seats. I wasn’t paying attention, so I’m startled and instinctively grab his hand. He leans in close and whispers.

“Don’t worry. The takeoff’s the best part.”

#

We spend the next seven hours of the flight bouncing between this kind of flirty chit chat and peppering each other with questions that are usually considered off limits when first meeting someone. (I can’t in good conscience pursue someone who has anything other than feelings of utter contempt for Mitch McConnell.) We also do some dozing off while leaning on one another instead of airplane pillows because day drinking is tough in your thirties and as nice as first class pillows are, they’re not as good as a warm body. I’ll admit, I also spend some of this time wondering what it might be like to join the mile high club, especially after I’d gotten several glasses of Prosecco in, but I decide that my fear of accidentally sticking my foot in the toilet and being sucked out of the plane is greater than any other urges I have right now.

During our marathon conversation, we discover that we’re both staying at the Palácio Belmonte, a former palace turned boutique hotel in the historic Alfama section of Lisbon. At this point, I was starting to think I was being punk’d. This place has only has ten suites - what are the odds he would be staying there too? Besides, it didn’t exactly strike me as somewhere a bachelor of his age might go to stay. It’s a former 15th century palace and akin to sleeping in a museum, decorated with the art and fixtures of the time, restored using all the traditional techniques - a period romance lover’s dream - but I couldn’t see him being taken with it in quite the same way, so I say as much to him. This demands some explanation other than divine intervention.

“Ah, did I forget to mention I’m a history professor? Trinity’s footing the bill for this one. I’m researching the origin of azulejo tiles, and the Palácio Belmonte is home to Lisbon’s largest installation of them. 3,800 of them, truly massive.”

Though this is impressive and I want to know more, I’m not sure I can process anything properly after I hear the word “professor.” The man is sitting here, casually evoking my school girl fantasies. Cupid, you beautiful little cherub, you.

“No, Ian, you failed to mention you are just as big of a nerd as I am. Please tell me you have some tortise shell glasses in that bag of yours...”

Ding! Just then, we are interrupted by the plane’s speaker system.

“Boa noite. Good evening, passengers. We are approaching our final destination of Lisbon, Portugal. The local time is 10:30 PM. It’s a clear night with the current temperature at a pleasant 68 degrees. We hope you enjoy your stay and would like to thank you for choosing Delta.”

#

When we land 20 minutes later, it’s as if a spell is broken. In the air, I became made of it - light and unconstrained - but on the ground I feel heavy, faced with the reality of what could come next. Ian is a stranger I met mere hours ago. I can’t expect him to carry on with me in Lisbon. Like Uber Luke, I must tell myself it was nothing more than a fun way to pass the time, to make sure I’ve still “got it”.

I am a strong, independent woman.

By the time I decide that all I need is ten gallons of water and a greasy Francesinha to make me feel better, Ian grabs my bag from the overhead bin and says, “So, do you fancy sharing a cab to the hotel then?“I stand there for a minute in silence, possibly with my mouth hanging open.

He must see the surprised look on my face because he quickly follows up with, “Ehm, it’s the economical thing to do isn’t it?”

I laugh and touch his arm, raising a mischevious eyebrow. “That’s not the only good reason, is it?” I say, trying to let him know that I’m absolutely definitely totally not trying to ditch him.

“I suppose it’ll be a good craic with you in the car as well,” he says, trying to tease. I take a minute to savor the way he says, “cahhr.”

It’s just a short ride to the Palácio Belmonte, and when we enter the lobby Ian asks me to join him for a drink and tapas at the hotel’s terrace bar. Both of our body clocks are out of sorts, so we’re still wide awake and ravenous. We’re also in luck that late night food is Portugal’s specialty. It’s not rare here for you to see people going off to dinner at 10 PM, with some restaurants staying open and serving until 2 AM. And as one of the main reasons I came to Portugal was to eat as much meat and cheese as possible, I am more than happy to take him up on his offer.

We agree to meet at the bar in an hour, after we’ve had some time to unwind, unpack and freshen up. I wasn’t sure I could possibly unwind, my mind running wild with the possibilities the night might bring, but I could try to do the other two. I dump my duffel onto the bed and contemplate putting on the slinky black dress I brought for dancing, but decide against it in favor of trying to look more effortlessly sultry. I opt for black flowy tie-waist pants and a black crop top that shows off the Joan of Arc tattoo on my rib cage. I refresh my lipstain and tie my hair back into a sophisticated chignon, with just a few tendrels loose to frame my face. Before I leave the room, I dance under a few spritzes of the perfume I packed. I look in the mirror and tell myself, you are a glorious redheaded female warrior before making my way down to the bar.

I get there before Ian. While I wait, I step outside and it’s as if my body awakens from a deep sleep. From the terrace, the view of Alfama and the Tagus River is something of story books. The city pulses with life, lights bouncing over red terracotta tile roofs, the sound of Fado music lingering in the cobblestone alleyways, the laughing and shouting of lovers and families and friends as they make their way home or onto the next bar. The night air carresses my skin like an old friend and I take a long, deep breath. It’s then that I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer to do this.”

Ian stands before me looking effortlessly chic and seductive in linen pants and a collared shirt, the first few buttons of which are undone. He leans down and tucks my hair behind my ear before cupping my face and kissing me like we are lovers that have just reunited after years of war. I stuggle to maintain my balance.

When he pulls away, I say, “That was great and all, but what I really want to know is if the rumors are true about Irishmen. Can you make me a great cup of tea?”

He laughs and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“I guess you’ll have to stay with me until the sun comes up to find out.”

“I’ll do anything for a good cuppa,” I say as I slide my fingers into the belt loops of his pants and kiss him again.

#

Over the last two years, I’ve missed human touch like this, but what I’ve missed even more was the feeling that I was truly alive. Isolated and unable to escape my house, let alone the country, I’d gotten used to living with this hollow feeling - a hole inside my gut that I realized I’d only ever been able to feed with the things and people of faraway places. And don’t get me wrong - Ian is unreal. He’s like Portuguese street art that sprung off the wall and straight into my life in radiant technicolor, his spirit glowing a warm orange, his body buzzing with a quiet intesnity. I can’t wait to see how our adventure unfolds. But even if this thing is fleeting between us, I know I’ll be okay. With the coronavirus finally gone, the only things I need to keep going are a backpack and a plane ticket. Travel makes me whole, and the journey will forever be my first and greatest love affair.

But for now, I’ll see if this can be one hell of a runner up.

Loves like an unlit match you say?

Ok I’ll bite. Let’s play!

On its own it remains stable even neglected.

Correction on the condition that you’ve tamed your propensity for following around the opposite sex with an erection. Starting friction fires. Does it remain capable despite being to often neglected

Clearly I only speak of my particular male point of view. The female’s and every other male’s being beyond my realm of expertise. A view askew!

"Act One! Cut to two!"

@@@@@@@@

Chapter 2

Riding Eight AT-AT’s

“Achu!"

"Fuck you. Bless you. An unlit match ain’t burned no fat yet. Your blowing smoke to stoke the fires. So when if ever you do catch me smoking and turn me in. It won’t be the first time disciplinarians come across my name"

"Yea right. If I was born yesterday maybe. Oh wouldn’t you just love that? I get labeled a Karen while getting you over the first hump towards martyrdom in the process. As if?"

"Hey I just implied you’d throw me under the bus. For getting high. Not murder me Captain Overkill. You got some serious thighs. Why you gotta hate? I was hoping we’d go out on a date and relate thru a shared taste for flammable literature sometime Bookworm."

"Dude! I’m fine with burning some tree. Idiot! Just keep your filthy cigarettes away from me. Yes I’d love to get high. Fire it up shit 4 brains."

"Ah dude like because sulfur-ing thru me getting an idea. I.e. Flaming out stinks like eggs? Which were not born yesterday! Burn! But no don’t ever get a perm your hair is beautiful."

Love is like..........

"Unlit matches! WTF" (where’s the fire???)

@@@@@@@@

Writing Eight @@’s over Hoffa’s icy grave.

The Valentine’s Day massacre of teamsters by two planking Esuesue (e-sue-zoo) troopers spray painting 8 @’s on ice-e walls. In and around the city of Harnniple on the Hoff’s barren Barnacle bay. Just devastating the local freezer burners. Writing graffiti propaganda high up the walls with the help of the Empire’s heavy articulators. Put the troopers at the tip of the lightsaber “burning spear" Well out of the reach of their competition. Wining the day for the establishment. Coming soon! On the KOOL network “Revenge of the Jedidiah” the same thing only set in Jamaica man.

Selfishness is choosing to help yourself over someone else. Selflessness is choosing to help someone else over yourself. So if everyones life, happiness, and wellbeing are of equal value, then why is being selfish frowned upon? Aren't those things basicaly the same?

The only difference is that one helps you, and the other helps someone else. So isn't encouraging selflessness, in itself, a selfish act?

like a midnight breeze

that swept in

through my open window,

you were here

and then you were gone

fluttering the windowsill

and my heart

taking with you

a sliver

of my love

and carrying it up

to the moon.

-

-

-

☽

you made me think twice about my life choices, you stopped the hurricane in my mind and cradled a storm for me to fall into

you said the ocean was too deep for the likes of me

so you let me drown in a sip of tepid water,

that one sip was you

just a thick poison in your sweet affection, coated sugar served its purpose

your hands buried in my skin, your whispers sinking into the brain

lips against soft flesh and meaning lost in hollow bones

the punishment felt like a prize

until there was no more me for you to take

leaving me with new lines but without a shape

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYluMAO1b7Y

Your voice still echoes in my ears

somewhere around my heart

in the pit of my stomach

in my knees

pulsing on my neck

where the breath

of a kiss not given lingers.

Your voice still echoes in my ears

whispering softly

words you will never say

as your hands caress me,

your arms embrace me,

as softly, gently as the dream

in which they occur.

Your voice still echoes in my ears

with promises of love

that wasn’t and will not be

feeding a hunger

for the taste of lips that lie

with every breath

in the hollow echo of your silence.

i am a divided individual

split up into peices of every person who has defined me

fuck individuality

i am a masterpeice of personalities all foreign to me

all the people who have shaped me like a batch of clay ready to burn

they dont know that even when youre inatimate you can hurt

i just wanted to be work of art but i never know where to start becuase

you know how they say the whole is more than the sum of its parts

well my whole being doesnt have any parts that are me in it

i guess i can still be more than the sum of my parts but

i am just shattered images in the mirrors people look at when they stab me in the back

i am nothing but a canvas to attack and watch the colours of the lost cause fade away

i am the play by play of a game another team won but the fun never was passed on to me

i am light mint green

my favourite colour for years

the colour i will never associate with the tears the caused by the people who treated me like a needy dog

if i was ever religious, losing faith would be my god because i cant stick to one constant without falling out of it and getting insecure

i find my sense of myself is divisible because i am a divided individual and peice by peice they add to me and then the stories of broken friendships make the puzzle complete

cant you see that i am made up of what theyve made of me

i wish i wasnt leftovers from the all you can eat buffet that they created out of me

but in this trash heap i find myself writing diaries

stories about the people that seem to complete me

i pave a way through the garbage around me

trying to find more of me than just this overwhelming sea of memories

i fall apart and shadder like a broken bone

but even with each puzzle piece all damaged and incomplete,

i am not alone

there’s still a personality to whatevers left of me

i had a moment today where i realized that people dont have to define me.

i am so much more than whats behind me

i am a complete individual with a past, not yet behind me

and its making me think im nothing but the people who left me

but

i am a poet, an artist, a collector of weird thing

i am non binary, im lgbt, i am a whole hearted, empathetic person

filled with creativity

im walking faster every day and im watching my past start to trip and make its way behind me where it should be

along with the belife that i am a divided individual.

What happens when the voice inside your head has no hold over you anymore? When you're so consumed by everything around you, that you've been enslaved by your very own mind? What happens when the words that come out of your mouth don't feel like yours to begin with? Who do you turn to then? Is there salvation? The mere thought of being hopelessly corrupted cripples you, when your insides writhe and fight against you. You see no door that can possibly lead you away from yourself. This helplessness is man's greatest fear. This is what breaks him, but this is also what puts him back together. Because once you're broken, what other path could you take but go back to where you came from? You look for a new beginning, with nothing to lose, all your fears obliterated because you've already lived through the worst one. When you're shattered to an infinite limit, there is nothing more you can do, but get the fuck up, find the broken pieces and put them back together. Because quitting has never been an option.

"You're not brittle, you know", he says.

"I know", I say, wiping the last of the tears from my cheeks.

I'm already broken.

I turn my back on him just as my lips curve upward in the form of a smile.

“I cannot take this anymore - talks on depression and upliftment, good times and hope, faith and moving mountains. Nothings seems to be working; I have reached the end of the road.

“That’s ok. You are entitled to feel all this once in a while. Only problem – don’t make it last. You are tired – rest a while, you are sad and upset – its ok to break down and cry. But since there is more life to be lived, you will have to get up and start all over again. It’s never the end of the road until death.”

“I cannot muster the strength to do anything. Ghosts of fear, uncertainty, and failure engulf me to the core.”

“Nothing is known to anyone – we all are living in safe heavens under our delusion. Just take it one step at a time, one day at a time. Focusing on your daily stuff, doing the mundane. You just have to believe that you are given everything you need at any point of life. Make the best of whatever you have and when you do that there will be no lacking. Life doesn’t always take the routes perceived by you. Just let it unfold and make the best of whatever is given to you. Slowly, all things will fall into proper perspective. There are tough times, we learn, we change, we grow.

“I don’t know. Like I have no faith in anything and am left with no hope. I am so shattered, cannot think straight.”

“Trust me - All that I have seen teaches me to trust the creator for all that I have not seen. There is day after night, there is sunshine after rain. We just have to learn to dance in the rain. That's what I do!