Dying. The day worth living for...?

as i trudge up education..
as i walk towards career..

as i see responsibility at the horizon..
as i listen to all that advice..


as i sit by my diary, my canvas, my mind..
i wonder about the place in which i lie confined..

winding my way to or through
family.
friends.
teachers.
colleagues.
''others''

i think about things that go beyond

the general classifications..

as i lie here,

the newness of this silence

stirs up noisy thoughts..

between all that joy,

and much sorrow..

through all that work

and scarce rest..

with them, without them,

surrounded by things which are mine,

and things i want to make mine..

i look out the window

and suddenly i know...

all that i'll ever own..

or possess..

all that i'll ever be able to make mine,

is Now.. this moment.

and it's a lot by itself..

so much so,

at times i feel it's so much,

that i don't know what to do with it..

a moment.

small and diminutive it may seem...

taught me

that i was dying.

a lot of us die,

before we realize

that we're alive..

and capable of living..

that moment...

small and diminutive it seemed on arrival..

defining and sacred on departure..

as it nudged the next moment to ask me:

is dying the day worth living for...?

.

like i need you.

yeah.
so you decided to walk out on me.
after years of being together,
and ranting about how perfect we are,
to anyone who was ready to listen.

u came to me with little or nothing..
i gave u all that i could.
in return,
you taught me...... .

i now realize why you made this scrapbook.
with all our stuff in it.
not so that you can flip through our good times..
but so i can weep holding that book.
not because i need you anymore..
but because the child we're holding in those pictures does.

you came to me with little or nothing,
i gave you all that i could..
in return,
you taught me...... .

like the images in his picture books,
you are now the picture parent,
in the storybook of his life.. written by me.
he's already begun pointing at your pictures,
wanting to know where you are...
he waits expectantly for an answer,
that's non-existent.

your departure couldn't have been better planned.
running away like that..
but i have a right to know. i do.
did you just wanna get away from me,
or was there another.. ...?

those wounds, those scars,
on you, that i helped heal..
are reopening on me..

you came to me with little or nothing.
i gave you all that i could...
in return,
you taught me..... .

at times i did wonder,
about whether he loved you more....
but now it kills to know.
he sits in your chair
and sleeps on your side of the bed.
coming to me only if he hears me sob.

i hope that you're happy.
after all this....
and don't come back.
because.
you came to me with little or nothing,
i gave you all that i could.
in return, you did me a favour.
you taught me...

how never. to love again.

.

black in white in black.

ebony black ivory white,

when mixed, produce a grey fight,

contained in black is whiteness so pure,

the virgin white has in it, the black to endure.

a ray of white illumines the black,

a spot of black stains the white,

black if you look back,

up front is white light.

gyrations made by silken, soft white,

sculpt the coarse lump of black...

steadily penetrating into the white,

black makes its slow attack.

leaping into the darkness, so black,

flees white, spreading light,

making attempts to grasp it black draws back,

for despite its blackness, it can view the magnificent sight.

bit by bit,

the white reflects the black in it,

dances divinely the flame in black that's lit,

so white, so pure, that it makes my black submit.