Latest Entries
176. about the girl on the frozen lake
My Hidden Lives // Prose / The Art Of Leaving

176. about the girl on the frozen lake

Will I tell you a story of walking on the frozen lake? Will I tell you about my father’s warning, not to do as others do? The small girl on the edge of the crowd, waiting for her brother to return from his exploration and take her back to the shore by the hand? The little girl, walking away from her brother to explore on her own? Is it metaphor I am ready to accept, or an analogy I am eager to escape? Continue reading

174. what we built could’ve been anything
My Hidden Lives // Prose / The Art Of Leaving

174. what we built could’ve been anything

I’ve been thinking about distances: inches on a map, seats on a train, hands on a clock, clasped hands, roads, the minimal proximity between two pairs of lips before a kiss is inevitable. I’ve been thinking about cities, I’ve been mapping rivers. The microscopic synapses in the geography of my brain. I’ve been building houses … Continue reading

171. how Joey helped to dot my i
Coversations with Joey / The Art Of Leaving

171. how Joey helped to dot my i

Good question, Joe. Best one. As usual, I have no fucking clue. This has always been the structure of our conversations. After the initial pleasanteries we became too fond of to discard even after decades of intimacy, he’s suddenly come out with a question that defies all answers I could possibly give, then we’d sit on the makeshift bed as some mild, saxophone melody made its way from the ’59 and into the air, slowly sifting the minutes of the evening into little eternities of silence. A contemplative, congenial one, not too uncomfortable to bear, but loaded enough to make you grow. Continue reading

170. the beautiful ugliness of becoming
My Hidden Lives // Prose / The Art Of Leaving

170. the beautiful ugliness of becoming

Today, I am thinking of us, and I thought it might please you to know that however beautiful the ugliness here is, it is nothing compared to ours. The years, the awkward history, the pure joy that comes out of glorious imperfection. The time we’ve spent staying, in the dark patches of our lives, in the in-between bits of what we’d thought then life was supposed to be. Continue reading