More often than not, I am afraid I will never be happy, and it’s not in that agonizing, Nicholas Sparks movie watching teenager kind of way, it’s more like nothing ever seems to be good enough for me. Which is ironic because I rarely feel like I’m ever good enough for anything. Don’t get me wrong, I have felt pure, uninhibited joy and genuine fulfillment, but it never seems to last, and that scares the crap out of me. I chase things I love relentlessly, I take chances, I like to think I know myself thoroughly, but the emptiness finds me every time. I get bored too easily. I am rarely ever here, fully. I am always considering other options, painting my life in different circumstances and routines and places and people, and none of them are the right shade of contentment. Maybe to be human is to be always wanting and wanting and wanting. Maybe my need is meant to be insatiable. Maybe that is just the way we survive.


When the blinds are shut

(From the perspective of the sun to a lonely woman)

Do you know what it feels like

to be omni-present and invisible, at the same time?

To be the center of the universe,

and have blinds shut to you?

I imagine it to be like God.

You can’t pray to me only when you are grieving,

you know.

When you look bitterly upon your childhood

you pretend like you don’t remember the soccer games,

or the smile and sweat of summer,

how I held you at your grandparents’ house

in Florida on winter breaks.

I know you remember that.

After the dead-dark of February, I always

remembered you.

And here you are, again, forgetting.

I may be the smallest star in the universe but

I shine just the same for all the times

you’ve raised your glass to me,

closed your eyes, given your body, laughed

in my presence, just because.

You may feel like the smallest woman

in the universe, sometimes, but

someone will still raise their glass to you, count

on you being here tomorrow like sunrise,

want you with them like I was —

on your shoulders in the mountains in Morocco,

in your eyes on the water in Denmark,

during the golden hour in the park in Boston,

going down over the terrace in Spain.

Don’t think I don’t rise for you,

even when you feel like the darkness is just too much, know

that I will break the day for you

like I did at the funeral,

after the break up,

last Christmas,

during that fight,

the time you said goodbye,

at the end of every good thing.

I’ll always come back for you.


from behind computer screens

and empty interactions

you fantasize travel like it means escape.

like passport and plane ticket means

a cure for a restlessness that never seems

to quit.

move abroad.

think this exotic

think this glamorous

think this everything you thought

you could never have.

but it never takes long.

everything starts to feel the same,

soon you can’t tell the cities apart,

and it scares you how well you adapt

to every passing street like there’s no difference

at all.

can’t remember when it all became so casual.

can’t explain why you are restless, again.

why you want to go, again.

feel like you are disappearing, sometimes.

want to disappear, sometimes.

still think this too good for you, sometimes.

still think yourself not good enough for most things.

still wonder why most things are not good enough for you,

after long enough.

wonder how both can be true.

get on another plane,

hope it does not land,

hope you are somewhere, floating in an altitude

between here and there.

between gone and arrived.

somewhere you do not yet know,

where you are nothing

but in transition.