“I think the place where poets meet
lies in an inner space between
the ribs, the lungs, and hurting loneliness.
A poet fills his bags with rose petals and
empties it on the head of another poet.
Her hair is full of petals.
There love poems rhymed and metered bloom
and in that moment of raining flowers
is the place I want to be.” Nina sorreno
Perhaps, that place is the blog for me. I had this strong urge to type even when the body said, it is time I call it a day as I have to limp myself to work early tomorrow. Dad left on 31st of December for our hometown. Mom is still with me. I hated his guts when he was around. Perhaps, hate is too strong a word. I disliked his guts around mom, dominating and oh so self-righteous. Somehow, I wanted him to know I DISAPPROVE. Perhaps, this is all because of my teens, where I grew up worrying too much they’ll fight, or cried too much that they are fighting, or I was too idealistic, or just plain crazy. Yet, if I were to die, I’d want one of my friends to let dad know that I blogged here, and I know he’ll be the only person who will appreciate this place and his daughter as she is, very emotional, imperfect, suddenly funny and so full of anger. See, even in death, there is a part of me seeking daddy’s approval. He dotes on my husband. It was important to me that he approves of S. Perhaps, I wouldn’t have married S if dad did not like him.
They say the internet is written in ink, but I had to tell my story somewhere. Sometimes, I regret letting some friends know I blog here. I miss my old template too. I am missing sleep right now, and S. He is in the US. I am craving for some potato chips too.