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28 Years Later;

Another year has graced me, and I cannot stop smiling on this warm 14th of October. Ive experienced this day 28 years in a row now, and for some reason being here today feels like a new experience.

Ive been writing these birthday posts for 6 years, and weird enough I do not cringe when I read them {22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27}. Perhaps it is watching yourself become someone you now know, but had no idea you were becoming as it happened. So much has happened, but when has it ever not, and I’ve grown but when has that stopped either?

A part of me wants to make lists of my achievements and my failures, and put in front of me plans for later; maybe even goals for the next 5 to 10 years; but a different part of me doesn’t care at all, and that’s the person I like, that’s the person who I’d been working on for a while. This is the person who wants to just be here right now, watching my cats sleep through noon, and sit beside a few lit candles and some incense. This is the person who grew out of countless insecurities and crawled anew out of self sabotaging fires and crippling anxieties. This person is here now and i cannot be happier. This person doesn’t want to buy anything special or take memorable pictures in fear of losing the attention received on this day. This person is basking in it all and feeling absolutely grateful to be here, along with so much love and acceptance.

Twenty eight years today, and the ride becomes softer because there is no other way to live. Maybe in not resisting it all we can learn to open our hearts to the adventures we need but not necessarily want. Maybe there is something waiting to be uncovered in the pits of our stomachs, something weightless and boundless; a sense of liberty from stories we cannot stop telling ourselves and one another.

Perhaps when the lines on our faces become deeper, we get wiser in retrospect. Life then feels laid out in front of us, and the stories all combine into one overarching narrative; a moral then presents itself to us in all of its triumph and tragedy. Except, time doesn’t have to work that way, time is not married to waste. So, what if we can take that wisdom we are bound to get to from others, and live by its virtues today? What if we really listen to the people who have been here longer than us, people we appreciate and look up to, people we consider mentors and teachers. Would we still live the same way and be the same people if we listened intently, reflected and acted upon it?

I write this piece today, and I catch myself wondering if it is at all relatable to you my dear reader. Then again, must our experiences be all the same?

Absolutely not, and that is the entire point.

Finally, and most importantly Eat some cake; Live a little!

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The Writer

The problem with this entire urge right here is that I really don’t want to spill anything, I don’t want to say anything, but I need to write.

I need to write because writing confirms and forgives, writing attests to a truth and does not shame a lie. Writing helps a thought out the door and into the world to find itself bare and made of dust. Writing helps thoughts come to life and does not judge what gets to live and what cannot see the light.

Some thoughts dwell in the darker rooms, and once a light is flashed through, they dissipate into emotional tiredness. You cannot understand what was holding you down so heavy, but you know something was lurking there by the ache in your back.

The problem is that when a person writes, something must be said, and lies although end up being written, a general tone within the text undermines them. The reader can tell: This is a truth, this is most definitely a lie. Sometimes the reader can detect the lie that the writer has not yet uncovered. The dance is spellbinding, which is why I have an addiction to writing. People mistake writing with bravery, but I do not suppose there is much courage there. It is quite the opposite sometimes. Written words are many times, ones that could not be said to someone, they hold a weight that a human spirit cannot receive by ear, but only indirectly, only by being read.

Words are heavy, and they seem to fly sometimes, when the tone is light and the vibe is smooth. But they collide with paper and they converge with light and shadow to bring us a message. Sometimes we read a single line and a masterpiece effect takes over; we cannot get over the message conveyed in the way that it was by the person who did. Life is beautiful because it allows us to say what we really need to say, and because we might by some far away stranger or by a wise young child be heard and understood. The experience after all is so distinct for us. We cannot imitate another person’s living mannerisms no matter how hard we try, we are forever merely us and whatever makes us that, continues to nudge us into a form of fulfilment that only we can nod in recognition to.

Photo by Olenka Sergienko on

The human within the grand scheme of everything wraps herself in words and in winds of pleasure and pain in hopes of finally becoming superhuman, in hopes of waking up one day with shattered consciousness capable of accessing the mystery of life. The dream runs below our stories and our secrets, as it bursts in the words we write and attests to the essential struggle of finding meaning that would save us all.

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Marriage Material

A lot of the things that I want to say about getting married are being waved away by congratulating people. They dismiss the process and its Ok. Perhaps the experience isn’t as deep as I think it is, but perhaps the experience should be taken to its limits because nothing lived marginally in life is worthwhile; sometimes full immersion is the better bet.

So surely congrats are in order, but also some major dramatic text must follow; knowing me.

The Good old rant

I close my eyes and I can hear the voice of Alan Watts, mixed with the voice of one wedding planner. One is telling me that nothing really matters, as long as you remain true to yourself, and the other is telling me this is the most important and defining time of your life. Nothing will ever be the same again. So you need to add flowers and light, and hang angels from the ceilings, or else; doom.

Except this is the third piece of dramatic text I have written, and it still feels too awkward to write; let alone share. Usually my words flow seamlessly, they come out un-calculated and relevant. Most of the times I feel like I’m making sense. Now I don’t.

I’m not making a lot of sense because despite everything, and despite my ability to withstand and accept and embrace imperfections, I cannot let this be imperfect.

I’m not making sense because statistics make me uncomfortable and the odds are not to my favor. I care about marriage and divorce world averages, and I also know how fickle human beings are.

I’m not making sense because teamwork takes effort, and a lot of time I like to do my work alone. Because I pride myself on being nauseatingly diplomatic, but also stubborn in my methods.

I’m not making sense because I could be dramatic and inconvenient, my moods will upset and undermine others’ feelings if left uncensored.

There is so much that doesn’t make sense, and I suppose will not. There is so much intertwined in one person’s struggle, so how do you navigate another person’s?

The Awareness that something isn’t right

My ego gets weirdly awakened when I write those things: Labeling and victimizing, assuming and judging. A recipe for disaster. So, the alarm must go off. Something must be uncovered because our egos are never right.

The Transformation mentality kicks in

I always felt an instant reward, a cognitive rush from turning something abstract into something meaningful for me, and for others. Transformation is beautiful, turning one thing into something else naturally is a very rewarding experience.

So I stop myself here, and I try to recalibrate my thoughts, perhaps lining them in a different way will smoothen out the transformation. Perhaps removing myself from fear, control and dreadful stress will open up my sight.

Shifting into marriage is a transformation; a brilliant one. Making a choice that one person versus everyone else is the partner you want to do life with is breathtaking. Literally.

In transforming material from one state to another, a lot is lost; and that explains the feelings of sorrow one develops. But with loss comes novelty and the space is created for new material to become what it must. So being aware of always leaving space for ourselves and for the other is incremental to reach higher levels of happiness.

So who are we in standing in the way of transformation that is natural in every way possible?

There is love and hope in our unison, and there is space for struggle, the singular kind and the compounded one. We build together what we must, and we let go of forced living. One must learn to be free continuously, and if we keep on learning; then marriage must be the space where people learn how to free themselves and each other. It must be the space for people to work against fixed cultures and dive into creating better quality of life for themselves and those that surround them. I think that is the purpose of picking a partner: growth, creation and soft nourishment of each other’s unabashedly brave spirits.


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A child on the 27th ride around the sun

I keep having the same dream, one where I am young, younger than I ever was; and I am starting to believe one thing only. My dream has never been to grow up, possibly never will be. My dream is to forever be the child I knew at 8, the child that grew to be 16, and has now become 27.

The child lives on and crosses time zones and experiences that nobody really should. The child lives on and meets lovers and haters, finds hiding places and extreme emotions. The child serves the greater good and suffers from indecent thoughts. I remain that child as I attempt to learn and walk on. I remain that child as I suddenly need to have answers for things I never questioned. It seems that walking in the shoes of a growing person becomes tricky the longer you walk.

See, kindness helps, love helps, people help and everything has a place in the greater story we tell ourselves and each other, but the only thing that never changes is the child that is constantly in awe of the life happening all around. We suddenly become capable of handling experiences bigger than us, smaller than us and beyond us. Something is in control but not us. Twenty-seven is the number of breaths I take when I get anxious for something stupid, it is the number of steps I will take as I walk down the aisle to my future husband, it is the number of people who still care about me despite my lack of social adeptness. Twenty-seven is just a number, but for some reason it is heavy; which makes me wonder how Seventy-two-year-olds do it.

There is a certain glory, a form of an ego boost to be able and cut past the bullshit. There is a freeing sensation beneath all the weight. There is a knowing that you hold on to as long as you hold on to the child within you. The child always knows something, the child takes life as it is but also with an underlying understanding of the comedy of it all, the unrealness of it. How funny is it really, to be considered old and young at the same time by the people around you. You go to a cousin’s 12th birthday party and you are so old. You visit your grandfather and suddenly you are a baby again. So I do not take it so seriously, hopefully never will.

I write to tell my story, and to describe the sometimes overwhelming feelings that come with living a good life; one that has allowed me to still walk on both my feet, breathe well and look alright. The longer I stay here, the funnier it gets; to be fair the less I believe any of it. The longer you open your eyes, your heart and your mind to the world the more you find pieces of yourself looking straight back at you. You pick some up and you leave some to be free elsewhere in the world. Life gets heavy, so do we if we don’t watch our weight, but the point is to always cater equally to our senses. Don’t eat too much, don’t think too much, don’t get caught up. Catching and releasing is a pleasure and one that I intend to keep.

I get wiser, but I also get sillier, and there is no basis to any of it. We work so hard to make our lives legendary, but we also get bowel movements that make us remember who we really are. The child runs free, the child pays no mind to the chaos. I choose to keep some of the lessons I have learned over the course of my life so far, but I also choose to drop a truckload of useless mind traps that I thought were lessons.

I cried when I entered this life as a baby, because who wouldn’t? so I still shed a couple of tears every birthday. A birthday is a reminder of the first arrival. It is an anniversary of being transformed from nonbeing into being, it is a reminder of life and the beauty of finding ourselves suddenly here. Birthdays also make us think about who we are, where we are and what we are doing.

And the best part forever and ever and always is the CAKE…until next year, let’s take this cake loving child in the body of a twenty-seven-year-old, on a ride around the sun.


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Musings on a Spiritual Journey

The list of lives I want to live keeps getting longer. The list of people I want to meet keeps expanding. There is so much that can be done, there are way too many moments to be lived that the mere thought about those paralyzes me. Does it paralyze you?

I find that writing does something for me, it helps me deal with it, it appeases my soul; and guards my mind against a sense of futility that cannot be escaped the older I get. See we entertain ourselves left and right, whether by going out and drinking our lights out or eating, or…the list goes on, to each his own. We distract our selves from a dryness, a bitterness that can only be uncovered in the stillness, that can only be tasted in the air when you are by yourself, captive to the lonesomeness of time you have no control over. All that we do helps us hush out the chaos that could easily unfold the second we let go. Except I dare ask, what if we let go?

What happens if you do let go of the wagon? might you fall off? might you remain at the forefront if you just stop doing it all? If you look away from the distractions, what will you find? Is it a life you want to live?

You see there are always two tracks at least, to how an event can unfold. Time will most definitely remain the same, the clock ticks away and you get one redeeming card that is ever renewed. You choose this or that, you decide on this activity or that, you weigh your options, you dive in, you stumble, whatever your usual method of living is, you just do it continuously and repetitively enough that it becomes your life.

We are not what we do, we are not what we eat, we are not who we see, we are not the dreams we have, we are not the time we waste. Or are we?

The fragility of our existence is astounding, and I know that we can feel invincible so easily. What do we make of a brilliant collision between fragility and invincibility, what lay in the very core of that? Maybe I have a dream somewhere in between those words, one that allows me to glide over the edges of those two conditions and live without deception, not just live, but document the atrocities of my mind and the frivolous buds of beauty that arise in the midst of that struggle.

The spiritual journey gets lonely, it also gets boundless, and limitless, so one must truly keep sight, and track the route; because it is surely not as simple as just closing one’s eyes and finding glory within. Within us are memories, truths, lies, pains, struggles, wonders, blessings and endless paths into a singular freedom.

Here I am, telling you and myself about it, just in case.


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Colors of the new Unknown

I cannot get this thought out of my head, something in the world is shifting, a new karma is taking form and I am unsure how the dawn will color itself.

As we journey into our cores, many layers unfold, but we always tend to miss something. Not everything can be uncovered, not everything must be known.

Tonight I sing to the unknown and all of its glory, all of its mystery and all of its truth. Unless we know ourselves we can never love anything else. But when we understand that we can never truly know, we understand how vast our vessels of love are, and how sweet our thirst is.

In unknowns lay our loved ones alive and dead, in the unknown lay our energies and our karmas. There lay time arm in arm with every spec of dust we have managed to move in the motion of our lives. And to tell you a secret, I think there lay the last piece of the puzzle. The unknown is the beast we must truly learn to love and tame.

We will never be afraid of anything ever again.

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Twenty-Six, shall we?

I begin again, at the beginning, twenty six and fully here. I have gratitude and a deep tremulous journey ahead. A journey not outwards, to you, or to the world, but inwards into my self. Because I do not feel that different, and I suppose age goes hand in hand with time, and if you don’t check the time you lose yourself. I want to lose myself in this beginning and only want to emerge again at the end.

Losing yourself begins with recognizing that there is a story you tell yourself, one that is fed by all of your upbringing, your culture, your fears, your passions, your dreams and your wildest desires. You could live your entire life telling yourself and everyone else that story.


Your could live your life free from all those conditions. Imagine your life Free from boundaries of a single story. Imagine living obnoxiously and inherently to the point of elation. Imagine being able to love yourself, faults,fears and all. Imagine being able to demand and attain your own freedom, not from the chains of the world, but from yourself.

Twenty six, is young; but I am both very young and very old. I was born yesterday twenty six years ago, but every day after that as well. Time is time as long as you bound yourself by it. Time is free of judgment and it is yours from beginning to end; you just decide where and how to locate those points.

“Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end; then stop.” Lewis Carroll