Sex. 

Sex is not the ultimate expression of love.
For a matter of fact, there is no absolute or ultimate expression of love.
Love is beyond skin.
It is in the care, that renders them to be your shadow on a sunny day.

It nestles in the way their arms perfectly envelope you, stealing you away from the world.

The expressions of love are little, the most mundane things that you can imagine, the most ordinary deeds or the the most simplest.
Love is not materialistic. It is not about the expensive presents and dates or the weekend trips. 

It is about what the heart feels and the soul projects through gestures.

It is not in words, but in what you do.
Love is in what you do.

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Book love?

Words bounce from the pages and filter into my mind like images in motion, 

and everything around me suddenly stops.
I am in a place I don’t even know existed, but it’s beautiful.

There is wind without wind. There are mighty dragons around me. I’m walking through the mental turmoil with Frankenstein, or I am running with Elizabeth Bennet to Netherfield. The flight in ‘The Book Thief’ is one that I took and Max is my angel too. I’m the tension in Lés miserablés and the Child in Blake’s Songs.

I have also been Lochinvar, and abducted a bride.

I also am listening to the nightingale and wondering if this is a dream or am I asleep?

I was the kite and the mud and the journey in “Kite runner” and when Hassan died, I died too.
I’m fighting the case in “How to kill a mockingbird” while I sneak into my neighbours house too. 

I run away like Margo and I find myself a miracle like Landon. I also am Iago, plotting a plan that will unfold like a perfectly folded paper, when left loose.

I’m also the message in a bottle found. I’m the letters in “Colour Purple” and I’m punished like Shylock. 

I’m Frodo and I’m on a quest while I also am Thorin waiting to take back my home.

I live in the shire like Bilbo does, a complete Misanthrope, and I relish and savour the world as differently as Gus. 

All this, I am, when I’m right here. In one spot, in one corner of the world, like a spec of dusk floating somewhere, yet paralysed.

All this, I am, when I’m reading.

When the world embrace me and take me into another dimension where reality is just the past or somewhere else entirely. Obscure, I know, yet 

I am all this when I’m static in one corner, huddled up with a book and a cup of hot coffee

and people ask me “Why do you read so much?” -Marlyn Pereira

Mendacity and Vulnerability. 

“The sun hid behind the clouds. It was a black and white kind of colourful day. My feet sweaty from nervousness and fright, and my palms, waiting to hold a freshly brewed cup of caffeine, waiting to kiss my escape, and play tongue with the taste of it.
There was no wind that day, but there was essence. The essence of heavy silence. The precedent of uncomfortable loose thoughts like threads from a torn cloth. An essence that always lingered like a question unanswered. 
My mind spoke to me, or did it?

Anyway,

The peculiarity of normal things is that no one talks about it and because no one talks about it, it’s normal.

Vulnerability, however, is pretty normal, yet not spoken about.

Considered a weakness, vulnerability is looked at with shadowed eyes of plastered strength. 

There is a demand to be stone. 

There is a demand to be concrete. 
“It is beautiful to be vulnerable” somebody once told me and I wondered,

if it would be beautiful for me to panic, with a terrible heart ache like when a spear is stuck inside it, and I can’t pull it out, 

if it would be beautiful to break down in the middle of the night while everyone around is dancing to music and your ravenous mind is waiting to devour you whole.

I wondered if it would be beautiful to tell someone that I’m insecure about my appearances, I know I shouldn’t be, I know I show I’m confident but I am.

I wondered if it would be beautiful if I woke up screaming from a nightmare almost every night because someone taught me to be afraid of the dark when I could barely understand what this world was about. 
I wondered if at all vulnerability was beautiful, and I realised it was. It was beautiful because it was like looking at somebody’s naked soul, nothing to hide, 

but the world does not the naked soul beautiful.

The world is in love with a thousand levels of mendacity, and here we are, 

hating the truth 

hating the fact that we as humans are, after all, vulnerable 
because, come on, 

aren’t we too?”

Black memories 

It did not feel taxing, 

the fourth time,

or shameful,

the way 

your hands 

went down

to parts 

of me

even 

I wasn’t 

acquainted with 

yet.
It did not 

scare me 

anymore, 

It did not 

make me 

want to 

leave 

this body.

I had left

already.

This, 

these hands 

and feet 

and these eyes 

are just

vacuum and skin.

I did not 

feel disgust 

the tenth time, 

in that corner 

in the dark.
I did not 

want 

to run away 

I was home.

I did not 

want to escape.

There 

was

none.
I did not 

feel the pain

the seventeenth time,

when 

my mouth 

slit open 

and bled 

from 

too much 

force.

I did not 

feel 

the need 

to wipe the blood 

off my 

thighs.
I did not 

feel the pain

or the sting 

of your nails 

cutting through

the insides 

of me.

As a matter of fact 

I did not 

feel

anything 

at all.

-WANDERER // B l a c k M e m o r i e s 

Hi, I’m a woman

Hi. I’m a woman, 

and no I will not be defined the way you chose to define me, 

but are my screams really comprehended?

I will not align with the shape of an hour glass,  eat a little less, because my waist is not as blessed, 

as you wished it would be, and,

I will not break a sweat for hours.

and not be gentle or shy or docile 

but will you then accept me?

I’m not afraid of being excluded and marginalised 

I guess that’s what I’m used to, considering all your ties, 

of mindless restrictions on my mind, my body, my clothes and even my choices.

I’m a woman, 

and somehow my dignity hounds me

because you’re not letting me breathe 

shoving it down my throat 

that my vagina is an oath, I have to swear to the right man, my husband, 

and this is what, from the deepest corners of Mt heart I loathe, 

because you persistently persist 

your rigid chains on my oh so feeble ankles,

and sow in my mind a dirty seed

that I’m only an object and nothing more 

seems to me, like it’s better not to exist.
I’m a woman, and it’s so much baggage today

because I’m the more vulnerable one

and you are the protector 

but aren’t you violating me too?

I was told the only limit to me, is in my mind

by learned, wise professors and speakers, 

but reality is a void, I can’t simply ignore that kind,

and it keeps throwing me into a pit 

where you keep letting me, 

the limit to me, is my vagina, 
I’m told to be soft and I’m asked to be shy, 

as I see today, equality is one big fat lie, 

and I look around and see too many ropes, at my disposal, for me to die,

from the measuring tape to the rope and from the rope to the clothes and from the clothes to my body.

You have turned me into a prison

and I can’t breathe, 

this temple that was supposed to be me,

is now simply a confinement 

and I’m shackled, 

because you’d rather have me suppressed 

than have an equal.

Best friend.

When I was a little and somewhat losing people, I thought having a best friend was about having “my person”, somebody I could have forever, someone who would be there for me, someone who would never fight with me or turn against me.

It was a pretty magical notion to be true.

I thought having a best friend means constant contact, conversations everyday, good days everyday, and I thought it meant having the world in one person, but reality is complicated to comprehend and yet it’s beautiful when you finally do.

I recently came to terms with the idea that a best friend is in fact not somebody who will never ever argue with you, it is somebody who will fight with you the most, whom you will want to punch out of anger, but you will overlook the rage and choose to understand, whom you will forgive a million times if needed.

It is somebody who cannot always be there with you, everyday, but when you need them they leave the world behind. It is somebody who constantly annoys the hell out of you, makes fun of you, but respects you the most. It is somebody who has the courage to forgive, to reconcile, to build from the broken again, to make a home from what is left.

It is somebody who gives meaning to the word ‘forever’

Somebody beautiful told me something I wish I had understood long ago, that best friendship is about quality and not quantity with regards to time, memories, or conversations. It’s about how meaningful they make your life.

It is about having people who you can go back to, regardless of the time chasms, no matter how bitter the end, 

and when you do, 

it’s just the same as it was where you left off.

-Marlyn Pereira

Reason.

“I realised something very important the other day. 

If your reasons for doing something are anything but yourself, it’s nothing more than a compromise, it’s not genuine and it’s obviously not right.

Even if it does feel like the right thing to do right now, somewhere down the line it is going to feel like a mistake. 

If your reason is something else than your own will, or someone else then there is a possibility that you will be lost once that reason goes away.

You see, you are letting somebody else, something else, be the fuel to what you do. 

You are putting power into something else, power to control you, your mind, your actions and that I think is very unhealthy.
Don’t do something because someone expects it of you. If you can’t write a poem today, don’t. If the charcoal won’t etch your mind on the canvas, don’t, leave it white. You don’t have to do it because someone asked you to. Let things flow. Don’t agree to force yourself. 

Let your reason not be others wants but let your reason be genuine.
In simplest words do something because you want to, because its an energy flows from you instead of you forcing it out 

Do it because you feel like, not because someone asked you to.
It is so important to realise that your reason has to be yourself, because if you don’t do things because you want to do them, regret is going to clog your nerve someday so bad, that life will seem like rope around the neck.

It is important to be your own reason because everyone can leave someday, but you’re stuck with yourself.

You need to be your own reason because you matter, your dreams, your aspirations, your desires matter. 

You deserve to do what you love.” -WANDERER // Do what you love Because you love it