the collection of over 100 novels, poetry books and drama texts that line my shelves
literature that has taken me to far-away castles and jungles, that has let me see the marvels of the world with my eyes fixed on the 26 alphabets the English language has. literature that has rescued me from the depths of my own doom, and plunged me into thin air where I throw my limbs around like oars on a boat only to remember that I can fly, that I am flying. literature from which I have been forced to think about who I am, only to end up stealing, borrowing, and instilling parts of who I am from the same literature.
torn scraps of the photos that cover the walls of my childhood bedroom
photos where I am smiling, not smiling for the picture but smiling in the picture. photos where I am surrounded by friends, family, old and new, both remembered and forgotten. photos where we are young, blind, crazy, confused, sad, angry but most of all alive. photos of 6-year-old me that I see and laugh at but quietly, silently yearn for, long for, in the comfort of my own creeping, dull anxiety about growing up. photos clicked through a pandemic, between continents and oceans, with families and those made families, at school events and weddings, from happiness to sadness and everything in between.
papa bear, and lara jean
my best friends, my most trustful confidantes. they have seen me howl and sob, they have seen me dance and fall, laugh and hit my head behind, get yelled at and throw a punch. two soft toys that hold so much love, so much power, so much forgiveness. you can hug them and feel the soft, ethereal haven of being fully, completely, irrevocably, undeniably, unconditionally accepted. and you don’t ever have to let go. ever.
the designs of beach rocks that decorate my study table
those that have always reminded me that despite living in a cemented, hollow, clandestine jungle, the ocean is near forevermore. those that remind me of the waves hitting the softs and that drapes my tired legs and seeps inside my skin to heal every jagged, rugged, crooked thing. those that remind me that even the water gives birth to uneven, abnormal, eccentric tiny things that look sturdy from the outside but break if you apply pressure.
the blue chart paper with every note ever addressed to me
notes that tell me that I am loved, wanted, desired, missed, thought of, laughed about, reminisced about, cried over, fought over, blessed, appreciated and looked after. notes that come from people long lost as letters collected dust and rust grew between telephone lines, notes that come from people ever ingrained in memory, whose laugh I can recognize at a screaming, chaotic, restless supermarket and snap my head around and let my eyes hungrily wander.
my mother
because she will stand until she is burnt red trying to save everything in the house that belongs to me and my dad.she will try to find the water and extinguish the raging flames. she will become what she cannot be without knowing that she is still someone we need her to be. she will forget we are in the middle of a fire and the only thing she needs to protect is herself.
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