Growing Up #2: Less of Bubble Baths

I’ve always thought of bubble baths as a metaphor for sauntering around, to have the short time in betweens for day dreaming. The bubbles dispersing into the air, the smell of shampoo, but more importantly, the time at hand. These bubble bath moments include anything from saving the world as the next Wonder Woman to being strangely excited about buying a nonexistent pair of shoes.

The older I get, I find myself scrambling for these bubble baths, overwhelmed by the amount over the plate that is to be done. At times bubble baths mean cutting down on some other priority.

Less of bubble baths mostly means waking up from dreams into reality, the bittersweet realization that day dreaming cannot solve half my problems.

Or maybe, they could?


Second week of writing a snippet on Growing Up. Saturdays are perfect for overthinking, lamenting and having some more hot chocolate or litchi juice. 

On Days Like These

On days like these when the sand in the hourglass seems to be sliding faster than usual reminding you of how much of what remains to be done, let it not dishearten you, I tell myself, let is remind you of how far we’ve come.

There are days like these when turning pages seem the hardest most of all, when time flashes by as the to-dos of the expected life remain uncrossed,

On days overwhelmed by the possibilities the eyes can gaze through but afraid of the probabilities that play along,

When fear of the known chokes more, filling every vacant space,

On days like these,

Let us be.

Be with the wind as it erodes the flesh away,
flow with the river as it does since time immemorial,

Standing like a spectator between all of it.

On days like these,

Counting each second with hopes to slow it all down.

On days like these.

Blue Waters

Time,
is like a river
with strong currents,
and I am a rock
between it.

I wonder if
I will find
pieces of myself
eroded away
through these years
scattered unto
streams and lakes
and finally the ocean.

How will I
ever remember if
a part of me
reaches the
blue waters?

How will I know if
my memory
floats unto the surface
splashed by the
passing ships?

And a piece of me
still remains
where it began,
right at the rivers
waiting to be
carried away time and again.