The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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Unbreakable.

I built my walls up strong and high

So nothing could harm me; 

But when those walls came crashing down 

It set my old heart free. 

And though this world is dark and cold 

When you’re trapped here all alone;

In your absence I’ll find strength 

I’ll seek happiness on my own.

(As part of my new blessing counting mantra, I’ve decided my poetry should be a bit more optimistic as I tend to scribble with cynicism most of the time. I’ve always found it harder to capture hope and happiness than melancholy and sadness, but I hope in time I can improve my positive writing and, in turn, my positive outlook in life.)


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Blessing Counting

I used to face every problem that came my way with passive pessimism; I met minor issues with quiet complaints and grumbles, saw a world in grayscale with a slightly musty smell. Everything wasn’t great, but it wasn’t awful either. 

Now that I’m beginning to experience actual sadness, I’m seeing life in a different way. If I let each bout of melancholia drown me in its sea, or let myself be suffocated in sighs of depression, I could not consider myself alive. And so, while shutting myself alone in a room, cradling my cracked carcass of a heart in my arms and crying until I can feel no more tears come to greet my cheeks seems like the easier option when facing dark times, it is not what I do. 

I count my blessings now. 

For every scrap of sad news I hear, for every lurch of disappointment I feel, for every urge to break down that rocks my corpse I give myself a reason to stay standing. I tell myself to put a damn smile on my face and survive, because what’s the point in being anything other than happy? This world is so full of the bitter taste of loneliness and gloom already, so what harm would a little bit of hope do? Why on earth would I lock myself up in all of my doubts, depressions and disappointments when I could simply choose to be happy? Why should I continue complaining when I have so much to be thankful for? I’m alive, aren’t I?

This is how I survive now. And I urge anyone who feels trapped behind the dusty cobwebs of cynicism to try out optimism too. Because, let me tell you, the world looks a hell of a lot brighter in colour. 


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Sans Doute

Aujourd’hui, pour le premier temps 

Je peux dire que je me sent vraiment content 

Et ces sentiments existent grâce à toi. 

Quand j’imagine tes yeux, ton beau sourire 

Ou le son de sa voix 

Je me trouve avec un sourire grand et 

Sans doute, je t’aime. 

Et si cet report n’est pas l’amour, 

Si tu me blesse, 

Si mon cœur se sent chagrin 

Je me sentirai pas de tristesse, pour 

Sans doute, je t’aime-

Et le reste? Ça ne fait rien.

(I wrote this poem a while back, and while things have changed, feelings never really do, so this will always be relevant. Also, excuse my terrible French, I have not spoken the language in months)


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About Time

I watched a movie about time travel and it made me feel so happy to know that maybe someday I’ll find my somebody. I’ll find someone who will teach me how important and how fragile time is, whose every smile, laugh, tear and word will be a golden second in the great ticking clock of my life- somebody whose every fibre of being is soaked in by my mind, who makes every day a great adventure that I want to relive over and over. I’m intoxicated with the idea that someday I will have someone so special to me that no better time is better than the present, that despite every bright sunrise I’ve seen, every beautiful sky I’ve seen fall, there would be no reason for me to ever turn back to the past- for there seems nothing wonderful than the future awaiting me; a future with this somebody- my somebody.


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Cries of a Traveller’s Heart

If I stand too still for too long, I can hear the whisper of the world,
The softened hush of lands undiscovered and stories untold
Begging me to leave behind my life and run away.
If I pause even momentarily, I can see in the back of my mind,
The daring adventure of sunsets to see and people to find
And I smile slowly to myself- ‘One day.’


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The Art of Living

I want to live a life full of colour and vitality,
A life full of potential and opportunity;
I want to get out and see the world
Feel foreign soil below my feet and smell
The strangeness of foreign air.
I want to fall in love with life and living,
With personalities, places,
Feelings and faces-
I want to discover.

I want to dance, sing, taste, smell, hear, see
The kaleidoscope of beauty that cascades
Through the air and ripples through the sea.
I want a life full of smiles and laughter,
A life where I wake up with wonder
And fall asleep with satisfaction gliding
On tired but smiling eyes;

And in my time of dying I want not
To think of ‘could have beens’ and ‘what ifs’;
In my final moments I want a familiar smile
To crawl across cracking lips, a smile that knows
‘I may have not lived a perfect life,
But I gave it a damn good shot.’


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We Could do Worse than be Lovers of the World

I do not understand those who do not love art. Mathematics and sciences are exquisite in their own right; there is something magnificent in the intricacy of numbers and something oddly beautiful in the proving of theories, of correction, and of truth.

But art, art is beautiful in that it asks no questions, and yet holds every answer. Art is beautiful in that there is not simply the stark black and white of rationality, but a kaleidoscope of colours in between. Art is beautiful in that it lets us see inside ourselves, to beyond the bones and blood that science comprehends, the cell counts and pulse rates that mathematics understands- it sees our being, and it reflects us in itself.

Art is beautiful in that it is not just present in pictures and poems and films. Art is a showcase of the parts of us we cannot fathom into sentences. Art is in the tears that course down on our faces in those dark empty nights, art is in the smiles that glide effortlessly from our lips on those bright mornings. Art is in the gentle sighs that lace through the fading twilight, and the laughter that froths in the afternoon sunlight. Art is in every hair that raises along goose-bumped skin, it is in hasty goodbyes and lingering kisses. Art lives in the words of our favourite song, and in the patterns our footsteps make in the first fall of snow. Art hides in the scribbles of our cluttered words on crumpled yellowing pages; it is smeared across the canvases we paint in blood and tears, in lies and love. Art nestles in the crevices of our palms, in the curves of our eyelashes in the dusk. Art is there in every breath, every heartbeat.

I do not understand those who do not love art. For we are human, and in ourselves, we are art.