What is a dream—if you aren't a little obsessed, if it doesn't make you restless enough to wake up before the sun does every day? Is it really your path if it doesn't test your limits, weather your spirit to the last bone, and make you jump off uncertain cliffs to meet your goal? Do you really want it if you don't show an indistractable focus until the very end? Are you prepared for the highest of highs without experiencing the lowest of lows? Are you really loyal to the person you want to be if you don't push yourself out of your comfort zone every second of the day where suffering feels natural and transformation feels distant? Ask yourself today - are you worthy of your dreams? If not- BE.

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Somewhere in Northern Italy, she's sitting against the couch and playing guitar, singing to her dog. She loves country songs, and peace, and meaningful conversations. I watch a cloud over me, passing by, I immediately persuade it to be my messenger. "You look the prettiest when you sing without an audience." I whisper to it and send it to her door. A drop of rain teases my cheek. The sky knows. I smile.

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She says this earth is too small
to house everything I have to share,
that I should tell her instead,
because she's vast, like the sky:
distanced by fate, yet always just near me.
She's strange, for liking me this way,
for seeing me like no one else,
for wanting me so endlessly.
She's so strange that no matter how far
I run away from her, the road always
ends at her door.

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The stench of June,
A reminder,
You have to go.
This time around
When the rain visits
I will open my heart,
Let it wash away every inch of you
From my being.
On the empty surface where once
I buried all the wishes I had,
A new garden will grow
Of roses, sunflowers, and lilies.
I will flip death like a player;
On the other side, I will live gloriously.

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Have you ever met someone who remains eternally romantic in the way they lead their life in your eyes? What do they do? They too suffer quietly just like you. But do you know what else they do? They light a candle in their closed room and read a book while sipping a cup of coffee, they hum songs randomly, talk to the birds that sit on their window sill, whisper to the winds, send messages to the clouds, dance in the rain, sit in forests for hours and smile at strangers. They are so in love with the privilege of being alive that storms pause before them to wish them well. They flow in sync with nature. They love passionately, live intensely and die with a smile.

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Excerpts from the book I never wrote

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Hope is a scam but I am addicted to it

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Forget-me-not

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