Thought Jukebox

"How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?" - Dr. Seuss Dear Eighteen, Lately I’ve been wondering who will be there to take my place, a year- a few years from now, to write me this sonnet of what life has to offer. Trust me, the next year of your life is going to be like a screenplay you’d half expect to be adapted from one of those movies or plays you so endearingly loved. I promise you this- you’ll never want to love melancholy again. Then again, you’ve never been one for poetry of the faint-hearted. You’ve never been one for the eye of the storm. You’re human. And that entitles you to hurricanes and stormy seas, war-torn mind palaces, the survivor’s guilt that comes with surviving. Currents of despair, bullets…and bullet points, roller coasters that can’t stop…won’t stop. The wheels will keep turning, the waves wil...

Did you know that the centre of a Protostar (the star in the middle of a nebula) is called a Nuclear Furnace? So you can call that the star's "heart". The heart of a star is a furnace. Not much unlike the human heart." - C. Joybell C. To my fellow-star tenant,  Thank you for the adventure.  Space and time had a fight. A break in the continuum, a shooting star you wished upon that was already dead. What you believed was infinite, was empty. Empty like the vacuum in your heart when they took a piece of you and you let them. Is there a word for that? Now that you finally understand why storms are named after people and nebulae are not? You, you are made of stardust- they crushed you and you let them. And isn’t that how stars are born? Crumble. Collapse. Burn. Glow. The twinkle in the stars you used to wish upon was replaced by the twinkle in your eyes. Is there a word for that? What you wish for may destroy you, Who you love...

War clouds gather, here comes the rain.  War never changes. War loves courage. War loves passion. War loves peace. War loves piecing macabre tales, end on end, and death after death. War loves retelling survivor story after survivor story, forgetting the guilt, the hurt and the anguish of unchained memory. We are, after all, in so many ways, just prisoners of war. Prisoners, you and I. Enslaved. (Though not of the same wars.) And everywhere I go now, I see prisoners- prisoners of hope, prisoners by betrayal and prisoners by choice. The ropes that bind the fragile wrists of one are ropes that rescue another. While the non-combatant reads between the (side) lines of War, The Pacifier realises that this is War in all its forms. This is loss in all its forms. War loves patience. War loves endurance. War loves loss. Loss- when you lose something you thought you’d never have to live without. Loss- when you lose something you fought so hard to...