I remember the last time someone told me they missed me. It wasn’t long ago.

People, places

habits, faces.

I miss everything.

Every little detail.

Every reluctant smile.

Every fleeting moment.

I miss it all so much that it’s the same as not missing anything at all.

And just like that

 I’m empty.

Instead of bearing the pain of missing & longing & remembering,

I look ahead

And keep walking.

Navigating this treacherous labyrinth we call Life.


Pouring down,

drop after drop,

All these memories

reduced to fragments,

instances seconds moments,

And maybe there’s no harm in remembering.

Maybe I’m the true recluse,

Blissful as a loner.

Maybe I’m the only one who still remembers,

the only one holding on.

But maybe there’s no harm in remembering.


Like stabbing someone who had their whole life planned,

like ignoring someone who needed a hand.

Like judging someone who’s scared to be themselves,

like forgetting someone and putting them on the dusty top shelf.

Like discouraging someone who never felt like they belong,

like stealing someone’s story and singing their song.

Like caring for someone and then telling them goodbye,

like hurting someone who’s afraid to cry.

Like breaking someone who’s afraid to crumble,

like tripping someone who’s afraid to stumble.

Like deceiving someone who’s very innocent,

Shaking their belief and giving their heart a tiny dent.

Guilt tears you apart into tiny shreds,

shaking fingers and bowed heads.

So recently I’ve been obsessed with Charles Bukowski, simply because his words manage to take my breath away and stick in my head.

                                                        Some lose all mind and become soul; insane
                                        Some lose all soul and become mind; intellectual
                                                    Some lose both mind and sole and become  accepted.

During his youth Bukowski was shy and socially withdrawn. His father beat him three times a week from the ages of 6 to 11. He says that it helped his writing, as he came to understand undeserved pain.

The best thing (in my opinion) about Bukowski’s writing is how he can perfectly capture unexplainable emotions and frustration with his words. Past couple of weeks, I couldn’t get myself to write, and then I come upon Bukowski’s words; “Somebody at one of these places […] asked me: ‘What do you do? How do you write, create?’ You don’t, I told them. You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

He’s a source of vivid inspiration and taught me a valuable lesson. Don’t Try.