I tried to write a ghazal. At the time of trying, I was speaking to friends about how – when I was a younger Pao without friends, when I sat alone in a corner of my room, surrounded by books – I used to feel like I was a dusty, forgotten doll in an old, abandoned library.
I had this mental picture of a small library out in the forest. The roof was made of glass, and had been broken and shattered in places. Thick ivy and vines were taking over, overgrowing the building. The books were wrinkly with age, just like people get. The dust was settling over the place, and the eternal golden autumn sunlight would sift in through the broken glass and growing vines.
And I was a ragdoll, left sitting in a armchair in a corner. Watching the place slowly decay and fall to pieces. The air smelled of old books, autumn, lavender and clove oil.

I miss that place.
I wish I could draw picture of places like that.

In an armchair in the golden dusty light
sits a ragdoll forgotten by everyone

All surrounded by the ancient, wrinkled books
the ragdoll sat there forgotten by everyone

Eternal, golden autumn sunlight sifts through
broken-glass roof forgotten by everyone

The books are her silent, storytelling friends
but stories are forgotten by everyone

The dust settles, gathers on the memories
in the still woods forgotten by everyone


After having been quite sick, having a crisis and a lot of crying, being terribly broken and being otherwise in a terrible condition, things are finally looking better again. Tickets to go to England is booked, and I am leaving the third of march. I am still not sure I believe in the existence of aeroplanes, and I keep on forgetting the whole thing. That I am going to fly. Say wooosh. It is rather scary.

Things are getting better, but it is still a rather unstable and fragile thing.

I want to be writing more, here and at the other blog, but I have really not felt well enough.


Today, Mothersister is coming over with her kittens. I will have them here, while she and her male renovate and repaint their lair. White paint and black fur does not constitute a winning combination…


I find myself missing Second Life. I also want to create First Life clothes for myself. Or buy new ones. And a bag or three. Good, practical, nice bags.


I am torn between feeling happy and hopeful, and clawing despair. Content with my life, and hating myself and everything about me.

Tomorrow, I will become twenty-four years old.
What am I doing with my life? If I were to die now, what would my regrets be?
I usually don’t do regret. Regret is not my strong side. I try to not do regrets at all, at least not get new ones. But… I have a few ones now.

Have I done what I could? Have I tried my best? Could I have done things any different?
No. Yes. No. Nothing could have been done differently. A few things might have been able to have been done slightly better. But, I shouldn’t have any regrets. I did the best I could. Didn’t I?
Is that true? Isn’t that true?

I have a nagging suspicion that I really didn’t.

So many things has happened and changed the last year, the last few months, the last few days.
It felt as if I died, and as if I have to find a new life again.

I should do things that I like and enjoy doing.

But it is still so cold. It is still winter. The world is still sleeping, dreaming. But my dreams have all ended, and I woke up to find myself starving again, the world still frozen, no food to find.
No food for my body. No food for my soul. Hambre del alma.
Grammar for my mind, words and patterns for my mind, to distract me. But no dreams. No drawings.
A poem written in patterns, by rules. No feelings.

It’s so cold.

paint the walls with your blood, little cat.. cry your song to the heavens…


It is so cold.

Tomorrow, I will be one year older. And in a bit more than two months, the new year will begin. I haven’t needed it this much for several years. But I have a lot of regrets to burn…

/pao – 18 feb 2010 – 21.09

1 comment so far

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  1. The only comment I would make about your Ghazal at all is that strictly each couplet is meant to be able to stand alone, and if I remember correctly, yours was a continuous poem.

    A lot of people who write them in English ignore that requirement. So it’s not necessarily *wrong*. I just like them with the independent couplets :-)