Confession

What would you have me do?  Tell you that I think you’re cute, funny, kind, and sweet?  That I find your intelligence incredibly attractive and your presence invigorates my desensitized senses?  

And for what?  So that your silence can continue to foment my inquietude?

No love.  I will not say those things, for you know them all too well.  

Rather, you will see me running through this world like the carefree wind blowing by your ear.  Do you hear that?  It’s the music of my soul, ecstatic in its knowledge of the vigor of my power.  A creative soul.

Take your time love.  Mull over what you need and what you want.  Peruse your thoughts.  Listen to the words you yearn to say and heed the silence that you hold so dear.

When you’re ready and your lips regain their usual smirk, I will know if the words coming from my lips are the words we need to hear.

———
“Confession” by Azul Serena

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Of Life and Hair Loss

These days he spent a few extra moments in front of the mirror, lamenting his loss with each tilt of his head. He didn’t tell his wife this, but he kept count of how many hairs he’d lost overnight; she’d never believe him. It appeared that last night’s casualties amounted to four: three from his temples and one from the crown of his head. At least these days the recession had tapered off to no more than five hairs per night. He sighed deeply as he gently caressed his hair before opening the door and stepping onto the cold tile floor that led to their bedroom.

He was only 24 years old when the hair loss began. At first he didn’t pay it much heed. It was unthinkable that his luscious tresses – the same ones that women envied – would succumb to this mundane tragedy. By the end of that year he could no longer ignore the truth that stared back at him every morning when he raised his head from his pillow: he was balding.

Initially the fear was nothing more than undiluted vanity. He liked running his fingers through his hair while he talked to pretty women. And he certainly liked the sensation of the rushing wind ruffling his hair as he biked across the city. Losing his hair was equivalent to losing his power of seduction. Preposterous.

Now it was a matter of practicality. A balding head implied years of wisdom and an unquestionable resignation to Life’s many whims. He had neither. He had energy to expend and goals to contrive. He had bravado. But he certainly did not feel complacency. How then was he expected to live with this unwanted burden? (Or lack thereof considering the lightened weight of his head.)

It was tragic to realize that he had set the value of life on looks and vanity. Nevermind that he had a roof over his head, a loving family, and a solid college education. Looks and vanity were his downfall – he was the true son of the fallen angel. He was human. Thankfully, as a true human he also had undying hope. He knew beyond doubt that his hair would never grow back, but that didn’t stop him from hoping otherwise. Maybe this hair loss had its benefits after all.

———
“Of Life and Hair Loss” by Azul Serena

Cosmic Collision

We were both comets
Fiery and raging with purpose
Searing our paths through the vast universe
Leaving a wake of wispy granules
Ready to join in the creation of greatness
Confident and unerring in our trajectory,
An empty vastness of potential unfound and untouched
Beckoned us forward and onward,
Until we crossed paths
And paused.
Nevermind that the manifold mysteries of the universe
Rushed past us as we lay suspended in time
Quietly learning our silence and melodies
Intently studying our wars and our peace
Slowly learning our purpose
As individuals in a world of infinite infinities,
As Titans in a world of our own
Born of a gentle collision of cosmic proportions
With fires more potent that the steady flame
Of our singular passions.

———
“Cosmic Collision” by Azul Serena

One Year Reflection

A year ago I set out on a journey to share my writing publicly with the blogging community. I was nervous and half expected to fail in this endeavor because I didn’t know how my writing would be received. Today, I am humbled by the responses and interactions with my fellow bloggers. I may not have the opportunity to interact with you in person but the idea that my writing resonates with you, and yours with me, is more than enough encouragement to continue working on improving myself as a writer. Thank you for your time and support!

Here’s to another year of learning and growth!

With gratitude,

Azul Serena

———
“One Year Reflection” by Azul Serena

For My Sisters

This piece is dedicated to my sisters, in both blood and spirit, who are learning to navigate and reconcile their journey through life.

You’re pulled left and right, up and down,
You twist and turn, and bend and snap.
You succumb to it all until you break,
Splintered to the core, shattered at the tips.
You lay fragile and wounded
Until your faint tremor,
Like the unsteady stance of a colt,
Becomes a force to be reckoned,
A mane tossed in the air, a gallop imprinted on earth.
Don’t be afraid to run and pause at your leisure,
To emanate truth as fire and ice,
And touch with a stroke that’s both tender and tough.
Don’t be afraid of the pull and the tug,
For both teach a side that previously hid from your eyes.
You’ll be pulled left and right, up and down,
You’ll twist and turn, and bend and snap.
You’ll succumb to it all until you say, “Enough!”

———
“For My Sisters” by Azul Serena

A Collector’s Item

Her shop was overflowing with trinkets of ordinary appearance. She was an artist and as an artist she saw the beauty and magic of mundane objects in ways that many could not comprehend. For this reason rocks became living documentaries, succulents became isolated universes, and chips of wood became modes of communication.

At first glance, her shop was the embodiment of disarray, but upon closer inspection, it was evident that she had created sections with distinct functions. The northern-most corner – where the books were stacked by height and the walls were covered in an assortment of ever changing colors and lines – was used primarily for the indoctrination of unsuspecting victims. This corner represented her alter-ego: the educated woman who was tearing away at the established ivory tower not so that others could gain access, but rather so that she could demonstrate that chaos was beautiful. The southern-most corner was her least favorite because it represented work and structure. Although she fought this structure by tossing at it every conceivable art form, the glaring light of her monitor and crisp monthly calendar were fierce opponents that could not be vanquished. The east-facing corner was the most guarded section of her shop for it contained the one treasure that she valued above all else: her collection of people.
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