Pot Pourri

I no longer press flowers between diary pages

Marking important events

To be forgotten for years at end only to fall apart as dust

No, I display dried flowers in vases all around my house

Quite proudly

Wilted and shriveled yet capable of beauty

They no longer need to be locked away

Into secret corners of my memories

And when these flowers start to disintegrate

I turn them into pot pourri instead

Spreading their fragrance anew


Depressive Episode

Dear Diary,

It’s been getting bleaker everyday – and I don’t speak just of the weather. There’s a sense of dread, of impending doom, overtaking my mind. I could care less for sunny days but would welcome some sunshine to filter in today. The grey skies aren’t unfriendly, but the harsh winds don’t seem to welcome me.

I got a new plant today though – after forcing myself out of bed. I remembered to water it. I placed it in the balcony to sunbathe after transferring it to a ceramic pot.

I think things will look up now – as each new leaf unfurls.


The bane of my existence and the sum total of every burning desire. The curse of my sins and the purging of my soul. The depth of my being and the echo of my heart. The best of all seasons and the worst time of the day. The innocent laughter of a child and the intentional deceit of fallible men. The turning of tables and that of the tide. The glistening of morning dew and the shattering of the sea. Living in every moment only to die every night.

What is love, you ask?

Before I kick the bucket

On the last day of my life, I wish to rise early and smell the morning air. To go for a walk amongst beautifully coloured flowers under a perfect, powder blue sky. I’d probably have milkshake for breakfast or pancakes or oats. Cannot pin it down yet, but something sweet for sure. I’d call up my best friend and ask her to come over. I’d discuss a recently read book with her over a glass of red wine. Or two. Both, the book and the wine. I’d spend the afternoon with my family – laughing, squabbling and laughing again. I’d enjoy the evening with the love of my life. Slow dancing to fine music that we remembered by heart. I’d go to bed content but before that, I’d write a poem in my notebook. Sigh!

But. Yes, there’s always a but. But since I don’t know which day would be my last – one can never really know for sure. I’d like to live like this each day. Is that too much to ask for?