one-hundred-sixty-five.

fortune,
not in a pay cheque.
summer,
on a sunday morning subway ride.

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one-hundred-sixty-four.

sitting on the curb
just to feel the sun.
eyes closed,
no headphones.
a reminder that the heat,
the brightness
and the way your eyes flutter
when the light coats your centre
are real,
unlike the typed out problems
in your inbox,
explaining tasks to complete
with weak
direction.
something the giant star in the sky
would never even think of doing.

one-hundred-sixty-three.

i don’t have one identity.
i am instead a layer of multifaceted bricks,
each level a different chapter,
each hue a new idea,
each bump a unique thought
and each shade a valuable step.
i am a combination of passions and possibilities,
i am not a static two-dimensional wall.
i can take risks, feel regret
and still carry on.
i can be flourishing personally
and still want growth professionally.
i can feel too tired, yet content,
and strive for a harmonious status quo.
i can be happy with what i’ve built
and still manifest a steeper climb.

mantra.

one-hundred-sixty-two.

if we talked about anxiety then,
the way we do now,
in our separate lives,
in different cities;
with our separate pals,
in different threads,
would our worlds have continued
to collide,
instead of disrupting over
‘uncanvassed’ trauma?

one-hundred-sixty-one.

wise:
not for the letters at the end of your name,
but for the self-reflection and questions:
“why does this experience cause me _____?”

blame. shame. pain. gain.

one-hundred-sixty.

a long drive
way into the trees,
so high the sky
is barely visible
until the break in between.
the stream trickling
under the paved bridge
to an open body of aqua,
turquoise-green,
fresh, rocky water.
a quick glimpse of the scene
before you speed by
and the forest looks like a blurry photo,
again.
not enough time to check if the
river was running dry,
but enough to recognize
it was flowing fine.
at first glance.
at first probe.
at first inquisition.

the passenger’s seat.

one-hundred-fifty-six.

hands clasped in prayer,
right at the heart.
innocence and religious,
hoping something greater is listening,
somewhere above us,
hidden in the pink-grey clouds
at golden hour.

holding an opal crystal,
tracing a bracelet,
repeating an affirmation,
talking to the one you lost too soon.

whether organized or personalized,
hope is defined by the hopeful,
dreams by the dreamer
and wishes by the wishful.

alive, dead or in-between.

one-hundred-fifty-five.

how do you become confident in a name?
one you were assigned at birth?
how do you allow it to roll off your tongue,
without the fear of how others
will automatically perceive you?

tell me.
i don’t know what that’s like.