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?


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?”


Melito Saldanha

04. Winds of change. 

He was not just my reflection 

We could’ve been just a mirrors work

an outline, indefinite.

He was not just what I saw through glass and on it.

He was so much more than that.

He was everything I was. Everything I would be. 

I could see my face in his eyes 

and in his soul, I saw mine.

Time was just a measurement of something earthly. It didn’t matter when I met him

We didnt feel new. 

Us didn’t feel like something that had just begun

maybe because my soul met his a long time ago,

and maybe because I had known him all along.

It could’ve been an illusion 


but I touched us. 

I stretched my hand out and touched what we had 

and it didn’t turn to dust.

It was tangible and I knew it was true,

but that’s not the reason why I believed in it. 

That it was tangible and apparent, wasn’t the basis of my faith in us.

What lead me to have faith in us was the times that it wasn’t evident.

When darkness opened its arms and embraced us, for life demanded it, I put forth my hand and couldn’t touch us, what we had. In the darkness, I couldn’t find us, 

but when I closed my eyes and let the fears silence themselves, I knew, I knew love was still there. I knew we were intact, unbreakable and alive.

I knew that in the dark somewhere, 

We were there, 

and we were together. 

I’ve never been sure about anything in my life. 

Changes frighten me, 

but not with him. The decree of uncertainty is just a distant voice in the background, barely heard, declining, and long gone..

I have never been the kind to be sure of anything, I know change is inevitable but 

I know that even through times that don’t seem so beautiful, and when life makes chaos swirl

we will be against this raging world

and through everything 

we will be…

We will always be


Some days I wake up as bright as the sunlight that hits my face. Go on with the day like a ‘normal’ person would. Pamper myself with some good breakfast, a good book, some good articles, laugh with a few people and some Memes to laugh at. Other days I want to lay in bed, not move or even lift my eye lids. There is no motivation at all. I wonder how I could be so bipolar and hold extreme emotions sometimes but I guess when you’re depressed and happy at the same time you can’t tell how and why and all those questions are just a hoax, a mayhem that you can’t figure out, yet. I don’t know why this happens. I wonder if it is normal, perhaps it isn’t but I don’t talk about it because well, who talks about states of the mind right? We’re all building graveyards of ourselves, burying deep what we feel, and adorning these emotions with a coffin of brown polished, golden bordered fear. Sometimes I want to run and build a beautiful body i can admire and sometimes I want to make a map on my hands with a blade that leads to nowhere. Sometimes I want to be with people but sometimes I run away, I run away because I’m afraid I guess, I’m not sure but I run away. I’m feeling extreme emotions and I have learnt that it is normal, but what I haven’t learnt is how is it so hard to tell that somebody needs help? 

How is it so hard to comprehend unusual silence, unusual moods or even detect the faintest of depression in the eyes that glow so fraudulently. Not everything that shines is gold?

How is it to hard ? I wish it wasn’t. I sometimes leave clues hoping somebody will understand.

Sometimes I hold up my make up boldly and dress like it compliments me, but sometimes I run a dark line across my eyes just to highlight where the soul is missing, where I’m empty and where I yearn to be read from. -WANDERER