Ideal self

The ideal person you wish to be,
That perfect image you’re aiming for,
What if part of you is already free
And you are that deep in your core?
We’re afraid to do what we want,
Or idle in front of the change,
And it remains merely a taunt,
There, but still out of range.
But if we know we’re already that,
We’re less scared of losing the way.
We know where we want to get at,
And the path on which we should stay.
So think of things that better you
Instead of unexpected evolutions,
As things that bring out your true
And keep looking for solutions.

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Three days, three quotes – day 2

Thank you, herSCREAMINGshadows, for this nomination! Forgot how fun it actually is.

The Rules:

  1. Thank the person who nominated you.
  2. Post a quote for three consecutive days.
  3. Nominate three other bloggers each day.

The Second Quote:

Criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing. (Aristotle)

And a little something inspired by it:

A heavy rain on a lake
Means no wave stays unturned,
But no circle ever reaches
More than centimetres across.
People will always talk,
Many words, with many mouths,
With many distractions as well.
They leave no trace behind.
You can’t satisfy them all,
But nor should you ever.
Choose quality over quantity.
Your opinion is the only one
Which actually makes a mark.
You’re your harshest critic,
So don’t set that bar too high.
You achieve more stumbling forward
Than running on the spot.

 

I find this a very encouraging reminder. I tend to have this bad habit of worrying about whether I do things right or just make a fool of myself. But the truth is, I’m probably doing both at the same time. I might do something horribly, which isn’t the best feeling in the world, but I still do it, which is the only thing that matters. Progress and criticism don’t happen one without the other, and I’m not going to give up on the former just for fear of the latter. So come criticize me, baby! 😉

Again, I won’t make specific nominations, but please take this as an open invitation to join in the ‘Three days, three quotes’ challenge!

Soul pieces

I’m serving you pieces of my soul
And your shrugged thank yous
Feel more like slaps in the face,
Salt to go into the wounds
I so willingly inflict on myself.
But it’s ok. Souls are organic.
Like plants, cutting little pieces
Only makes more flowers grow,
So maybe I’m keeping my heart open
For the completely wrong person,
But it makes so little difference.
The only right person is myself.
I can keep shouting all the wishes
Of what you should do for me
But, like the rules of genies,
The universe seems deaf to those,
So I’d rather wish you well instead,
And make sure there’s enough
Goodness to go around, and hopefully
It will somehow come to touch me too.
Take all the pieces you want,
And some of those you don’t want too.
I have enough to keep regrowing,
Reborn into the person I want to be.

A beautiful day, a beautiful year

The longest journeys start

With the same kind of step

As crossing the street.

You need the same letters

To write a whole trilogy

As a single sentence.

A lifetime is the longest measure

We would ever be allowed to know,

But it’s still just moments

Coming one after the other.

So at the strike of midnight,

When you plan your next year

And the hope of having it all

Breathtakingly beautiful

Sounds like a daunting task,

Remember that a year

Is just a collection of days

And resolve to just have

One beautiful day after another.

Organic growth

Storytelling is an integral part of nature.
Writing is an organic kind of growth,
Nurtured by bits and pieces of surroundings,
Its water and sun and fertile soil.
It repurposes experiences to be made,
And lets itself enter the cycle,
Be consumed and provide nourishment
To other minds for further writing.
It’s a tree that forgets to run out of fruit,
The same seeds planted again and again,
Each time bearing slightly different shoots,
And making beautiful natural hybrids.
The inspiration may ebb and flow,
Another cycle to mirror moon phases perhaps,
But it’s never quite gone. Maybe repurposed,
A type of water’s circuit through nature –
A writer’s writing, a writer’s reading,
And a writer’s simply living his life.
There are times when one takes over others
But it just shapes the original crystals
And pours back into one’s expression of art
When it returns to its fluid, nurturing state.
Writing is growth, and always will be.
Perhaps that’s why nature makes its way
Quite so often into bits of poetry.
Maybe they match, two sides of the same coin
Growing together and from one another.

Healing time

It’s said that time heals all wounds,
But it’s not time that does the healing, is it?
Time is just a necessary catalyst.
It’s like saying that fire boils water.
Fire is definitely needed in the process,
But I’m yet to see a fire start, look around,
See a pot of a water and spring to boil it.
Time is just an instrument we yield,
And healing comes from our skill in yielding it.
Time wouldn’t mend bones that you keep breaking,
Wouldn’t fix you if you don’t set them first,
So why would our souls be any different?
I think I didn’t quite understand the saying,
I think people misunderstand it every day,
Because it’s not about how much time passes,
It’s about whether you use it to make things right
Or if you keep making those mistakes,
And if your mistakes are meant to cross out
All the wrong choices until you find the right one
Or if you just become proficient at making mistakes.
Time is just the instrument.
We’re the ones who heal ourselves.

Pieces of you

We walk around with pieces of you,
A string of something that connects us,
Usually invisible. It only start to shimmer
With a careless gesture. An automatic word.
They are things that trip up our body,
Making us pause a second after we do them,
At the physical feeling of unfamiliarity.
But they are old friends to our minds,
So we suppose we must have imagined it
And we go on, none the wiser.
They are things that make others blink strange
Because in our place flashes another face
For just a split second of recognition.
But they don’t know why, don’t see the strings,
So they assume they’re just tired,
And they go on too, none the wiser.
I do know though. I’m used to standing back
And watching. Following the patterns.
So I can see it when the strings shimmer
And I can follow them straight back to you.
It’s strange. A little impossible.
Just like yourself, I suppose,
If you could possibly have so many pieces
To have so many to give away,
Plant them inside us, and let them grow.
Wait. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?
Maybe you’re not that impossible.
Maybe every piece grows by itself,
And we only need the seed of one each.
Because I’ve watched you too.
You have other strings, running the other way,
Pieces of other people that make you up,
Some of them that you gave to us too,
Connecting us to people we’ve never met,
An ancestry of similar strangers,
A family of unknown friends.
And surely they – they couldn’t have
Such an infinity of pieces
To pass on to you to pass on to us.
I like that thought. The idea that it won’t stop
And I’ll be passing on pieces of you too,
While I’m passing on pieces of myself.
That you’ll know people before you even meet,
And I’ll understand pieces of strangers
That follow a string of somebody else
That you connected me to in the beginning.
I should thank you – thank you for the chance,
For your strings, and for your pieces.
But most of all, thank you for letting me
Turn them into my own strings, and my own pieces.