Tomorrow

O road, O river, where do your paths converge?  

O lover, O traveler, where do you part?  

O kindred souls, when will your gathering emerge?  

Tomorrow, will you arrive as yesterday did, then depart?  

Since today's self cannot overtake yesterday's trace,  

Do you love the me that exists in this fleeting space?  

Years and months vanish without return, yet how do wild grasses ever grow?  

Will tomorrow's wind caress me like childhood breezes once did blow?  

Where did yesterday wander, as childhood slipped from my hold?  

Tomorrow, I long to lift your lovely veil, to behold  

And meet you as one meets a bride, mysterious and new.  

O traveler, cross that bridge now, never cast a backward glance;  

O lover, kiss his lips deeply, let worldly troubles melt in romance;  

Tomorrow, you bring mortals together, yet tear them apart;  

You ignite hopes in their hearts, yet grant them delight;  

You leave regrets in their bones, yet make them forget.

Though travelers find rest in foreign lands they pursue,  

Do they ever forget ancestral fields drenched in dew?  

Though lovers' beloveds dwell in chambers apart,  

Do they ever cease gazing at the hanging moon's heart?  

Though human fates rush like tides that ebb and flow,  

Do we ever abandon ideals that in our bosom glow?  

All things beautiful lie buried beneath hurried footsteps' dust,  

Who will gather morning's dewdrops, brew them into wine we trust?  

To drink deeply in fair days, in drunken slumber stay,  

Never to awaken from this nectar's sweet sway. 

Dear Future Daughter

My sweet child - gentle darling,

Come into the kitchen and lay your head on my lap.

Let me brush the dawn-kissed curls from your warm face,

Trace the softness of the flesh where your neck curves and your pulse echoes.

My sweet child - beloved girl,

Show me where the hare of hurt has hidden and burrowed.

I’ll kiss the ache away into tendrils of tender tranquility,

Brush the honeyed droplets of tears into the rain-soaked air. 

My sweet child - delicate doll,

Strike the raw soles of your feet on the Earth.

I’ll sing as you dance and twirl, my nectar soaked feather,

Hum like the songs of the birds that carried your sweetness to me.

My sweet child - my kind child,

There is laughter in your mouth,

And the smiling sun in your heart,

Someday I’ll see you soon.

Is Love Truly Blind?

The other day I found myself - as one does - scrolling through Netflix in an attempt to evade revision for my ever looming exams. I seem to have spent so much time doing this that I have simply exhausted any good shows with the slightest bit of potential, leaving naught but lazy, predictable and exceedingly dull selections in my wake. However, against my better judgement, I decided to turn on 'Love Is Blind'. 

I went into this with virtually no positive expectations and fairly little confidence in the unoriginal producers and directors that often make these carbon copy shows. To my surprise, I found it alarmingly entertaining - albeit in a patronising, commiserating way towards the 'contestants'. The show markets itself as a 'feel good', wholesome programme that delves into an overarching query: is love truly blind? After half-watching 6 out of 96 episodes - as you can tell - I am exceedingly qualified to speak on this topic.

First of all, the real question we should be asking is: is love truly blind, or are these people just fiercely delusional? I don't know about you, but proposing to an individual you have never met and have never shared any real life experience with other than 10 days of talking at a wall with is pretty insane. I'm not sure if people go on this show for clout, for laughs or because they have no idea what a genuine relationship looks like, but either way I'm a little concerned. Don't get me wrong, it makes for good TV, but bonding over Christmas does not equate to impacting the trajectory of someone's life. Also why on earth did everyone fixate on Christmas? No, liking it doesn't make you destined for each other. Congrats, you're part of a majority - you’re not special. 

At the end of the day, love isn't blind. How someone looks is always going to be a factor, no matter how unprejudiced and unbiased you may think you are. Trying to prove otherwise just makes you seem very silly. Of course love is much more than that - it is also about the actual soul of the individual, but trying to deny the innate human instinct that determines your 'attraction' to someone is ridiculous. You don't need to be a model or possess whatever traits you may lack to find love because everyone likes something different. It both does and does not matter what you look like, in a sense, because to the right person love is not blind, it is vibrant and spectacular and attempting to blind yourself to this is really quite foolish. 

I'm not going to lie and act like I'm better than anyone else who watched this show because I did indeed enjoy it, and I will certainly be waiting with bated breath to see whether Sara and that weasel of a man - Ben - get married. But I do think that the premise of the show itself is flawed and somewhat discourteous to its audience. The show attempts to hide under the cover of a 'test of human nature' when really its feet and shoulders are sticking rather obviously out from the too-small sheets. I don't believe anyone truly thinks love is inherently blind or that the show is entirely truthful, and by acting as if we do, the programme does us a disservice. It takes itself far too seriously, and thinks far too little of its audience. I feel as though it would be significantly less ethically dubious if they presented it as a challenge and a low-stakes laugh rather than shackling couples into marriages when they know no better. However, I suppose it isn't really for me to decide for you, so this one is up to you. Do you think love is blind or rather, that there is beauty in being truly seen?

Haiku

Students studying,

As the children shout outside,

Happily playing.

As we did our test

Loud kids shout and disturb us

Quiet! A kid shouts

By then, I had forgotten

The answer to the math test

Now I grumbled

“It’s ok,” I said,

They were just having fun

I’ll just think again.

February 14th

February 14th.

I sit by my window as I watch the enamoured couples stroll through the dimly-lit streets. Soft notes from buskers singing happy love songs float through the crack between the glass panels. I force myself to look away. If only that were me.

Fourteen trips around the sun, and not a single valentine to date. Not even a candidate. Not really, at least. As delusional as I may be, even I possess the conscience to recognise that my stolen glances, silly doodles, and note-app rants are unreciprocated. I would be stupid to think I ever had a chance.

Always the lover, never the loved.

Yet still, I spend the bulk of Saint Valentine’s day dreaming about him. Relishing every shared moment, rare as they may be, savouring every instance of contact with his ensnaring hazel eyes. I scour through every form of social media I own, ravaging for scraps of his presence like some starving beast. 

Once more, a victim of Cupid’s single-pronged arrow.

Oh how I wish he’d look at me the way he looked at other girls, even if they’re everything I’m not. Beautiful, stylish, and the talk of the town named ‘Boys’ Changing Room’. 

But he doesn’t. And I should live with that. I want to live with that, more than anything. So that I can free my bleeding heart from his razor-sharp talons which pierce the organ each time I hear another girl’s name in his mouth. Names he’d throw around like a ball. He should really just stick to kicking one.

Those names have flooded my messages over and over, tangled within the frustrated sentences of his lament. The confession I so desperately wanted to type never found its way out. How could it? I’d only set myself up for failure. People tell me that the truth is freeing, but I have always found it daunting. What kind of idiot throws away a friendship they worked so hard to establish with one simple sentence? I refuse. Instead I rest in the ill-lit glimmer of hope that he will one day requite.

“It’s not love, it’s infatuation. And you, are simply deluded.” 

Maybe so. But my love extends itself in many ways.

For my passions, each and every one; from the nerdiest, niche things, to the most widely watched sports.

For the boys and the girls and everything in between who have stuck by me, no matter what stupid actions I have taken, no matter what stupid reasons I took them for.

For the man and the woman who brought me into this world, imperfect as it is, imperfect as they are.

For my reflection in the mirror. Despite her flaws, her troubles, and her mistakes.

There is more to my life than him, that is certain. I shouldn’t waste my valuable hours pondering and fantasising about a boy, no matter how driven, no matter how talented, no matter how gorgeous he is. At least, that is how it should be. We often find that plans do not function well in practice.

It’s February 14th. I will sit, once more by my window, wishing he was my valentine. Do I love him? I’m not sure. But I did write this for him.

For him?