Truth is

Truth is much of our lives are spent dreaming, of what could be-what should've been and what would've been. We watch the stars at night and trail the setting of the sun with our eyes. We mourn the passing of every great moment, and we torture ourselves with regrets from days long gone. We entertain the thoughts of "what if", sprinkling our minds with these words assuming somehow if we just did something different our lives would've been different.

We would be different.

Maybe more confident, or successful, more spirited or even at peace, or a thousand different things. And in time this word becomes our silent mantra: our daily mental chant to ourselves, like a lullaby that lulls us to sleep every night of a different time and place, a better future: and falling through the cracks we hear maybe... we wouldn't have made as many mistakes or had as many regrets, and now looking back we see where we went wrong and what we did wrong-- errors in judgment that cost us so much or setbacks that set us back for so long...

Or tiny little lies that spiraled out of control, mutating into monsters of ferocious power that somehow turned the tables on us. Until looking into the mirror becomes an ordeal, until seeing the person staring back at you becomes a war you fight everyday, subconsciously, unknowingly. And slowly, but surely, we end up hating who we've become. The person we no longer recognize that deals with the rest of the world while our real selves are kept hidden and locked away in a tiny, cramped corner of our souls.

And yeah, we might laugh off our problems as issues we've solved and not something that goes far into the tissues of our very beings--instead turning our tears into ammunition. The kind of fight so critical to our sanity we brush off and turn into soulless jokes of a cheap kind. Hoping to be the center of entertainment, and so entertaining others because it keeps us occupied and distracted from that void within that plagues us to no end.

And just for a few moments we can ignore who we've become and instead bask in the admiration of others, seeing as they might. Confident, vibrant, full of life. A light that draws others like moths to a flame. Even though that light burns inside.

Heartache

Sometimes my heart hurts. It hurts so much it feel as if it is being tightened, slowly, carefully, expertly. Until it feels as if I can't even cry out. Dredging up tears to release the pain becomes an ordeal in of itself. And I, I feel as if I'm being split into two while dying a little inside all the while.

It takes a lot for me to write this. To share with the world what I have resolutely refused to tell anyone about. How strange this must be, to bare my soul to complete strangers, to anyone who wants a peak inside while keeping hidden from those who most care about me.

Times like this I want to reach inside and tell my heart there is no need for this much pain. That though it might hurt intensely at times, keeping quiet is a fools game. One destined for silent heartache and painful loneliness. That imagining oneself self-sufficient in matters of the heart are childish thoughts, better left in moments in the past when a kiss could cure a scrape and the presence of the sun could wipe clean the dusty moodiness that lingers inside.

And even though it might feel as if it is straitened until suffocated, the pain is necessary for real joy to be experienced. For how can we know day without night or appreciate the light without darkness? It seems as if everything has a contrast, in order for us to really understand the beauty that is life.

And it is for this reason that I bear my heartache, silently, patiently. Because I know from this will come moments of sheer joy. The kind that feels as if the sun itself took up residence in my soul, radiating from within powerful rays of brilliant light.

Making me feel once again, that anything is possible.

Desiderata

-- written by Max Ehrmann in the 1920s --
Not "Found in Old St. Paul's Church"! -- see below

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.


Be cheerful.


Strive to be happy.

Who am I?

I am Maralei. The writer. Maralei. The one who uses words like weapons, arrows off a crossbow. I write because many a time that is the only way to make sense of this world. Make sense of myself and who I am and what I'll become. And even though I live in a world that chooses to "paint the landscape in blood", I'll paint it instead in flowering words that will make it an easier place to be. I'll string words together that form a lullaby, a poem, a short story or just my daily thoughts. And maybe throughout it all might we know each other--perhaps for once might we get a glimpse of one another without the masques we put up- so terrified of our own potential.

Maralei

Maralei is a small area near the city of Boorama in Somalia. There is very little there nowadays. Just rocks and a few trees with a landscape that best represents the setting of the African sun.

But once upon a time this land was home to groups of nomadic travelers, entire clans that came and went upon its surface. The trees gave shade and the rocks hid rivers underneath, while the land, though fertile and arable, provided scant sustenance to the herds of animals that swept across its surface. Eventually though, the nomads stopped coming and moved to the city, the wells dried up and the few trees still there were cut down. Some people stayed behind. And they instead began to farm the land that for centuries was kind to their ancestors. My grandpa was one of them.

And I, though many generations a Maralei and now twice removed, live on the opposite side of the world. The land here is vividly green and wet, raining incessantly with thunderstorms that ravage the sky and home to a people of startlingly pale complexions--beautiful in so many ways. But my heart belongs to another place, it travels back in time to the setting of the african sun over a dry, yellow land that was once home to lions and giraffes, hyenas and gazelles, and my nomadic ancestors who traveled for days in search of the African dream: water.

And even though it has never seen it, my heart longs to experience the hot arid land and the soft, playful wind that teases ever so lightly--with a nostalgia so sharp I sometimes wonder where it comes from.