Tag: beliefs

Weekend Plans

“So, what plans for the weekend?”

Don’t tell me you haven’t heard this question pop up in every corner on a Friday afternoon. Because I sure have heard it, and it rekindles my temper.

Why, you ask? It’s a harmless question, you might say. And I’d agree with you, except it’s a useless question too. It’s a conversation starter, yes, but the most I’ve seen people reveal about their weekend plans is their meeting with friends.

No one goes into much detail. Because it’s awkward to tell others you’re planing to hook up with a stranger on the first date, or you’re planning to elope with your high school sweetheart—or worse yet—that you’re planning on introducing “the one” to parents who never approved of your choices.

While the couplings are in trouble, we singulars have problems of our own. Would I be thrilled to tell people I’m planning to hang out in my room alone watching the latest in Blacklist and sleep for hours afterward? Of course, the thought of lounging in my pyjamas all day thrills me beyond words, but to the ones looking so eager and curious to know my weekend plans, I’m just sad and alone. I don’t bother myself with what they think, until they wear that sad expression one uses in the deathbed of an old granny.

Why should anyone have plans for the weekend at all? Why not go home on Friday evening, kick back, relax, and wait for the morning to tell you what to do that day? I’d rather do that than have my entire weekends planned, mapped out, and scheduled. Because, when I do plan to cook up a terrific single-serve meal, I’d just land in a power failure.

So, that’s how my weekend went. What about yours?

Of Poetry

I’ve always enjoyed poetry. But I never understood reason, until now.

Poetry is

It’s true, people write in poems things they can’t speak of, things that are too personal, things that make us vulnerable, that make us cringe at ourselves, laugh at our stupidity, and scorn at our vanity.

Every poem is a bitter reminder of the truth we’d rather not hear. Every rhythm and every rhyming couplet — from “black wires grow on her head,” to “The old Lie: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” — every piece of poetry is a whiplash to humanity.

And maybe it’s necessary, to take that serum once in a while, to hit ourselves with a dose of poetry and question everything we ever stand by.

The Walk

We walked along the dock.

Me caressing new blonde locks,

Sneaking at his inviting looks.

He looked outward, wandering,

Mind wondering, stride meandering.

We walked along the dock.

Me trying to guess his mind

In hopes he wouldn’t mind

And I squeezed his hand hard

Though he made it only harder

I wish I could convey all I feel

to extract emotions as a lemon peel

But as he looked down from the vantage

I knew then we weren’t in one montage

His life was one with high seas

And I — was just high on weed.