Chiku Diaries

The bird soared the sky so wide, where the wind blows soft and free. It glided over the frozen lake, believing love was meant to be. The ice below was cold and thin, but shimmered like a beautiful dream. The bird flew low, so full of trust, unaware of the cracks unseen. Then came the storm with it's laughing eyes, and mummered sharp and deep. The ice it loved began to break, a secret it could no longer keep. The bird fell fast, its wings grew weak, the water pulled her tight. But the storm just stood and closed its eyes, "Ah, such a perfect sound tonight. How lovely, the way it breaks just right." Yes, the bird adored the storm, Not the bird, but the breaking he adored.

 I love lavenders too much. As a flower, as a color, as a feeling. To me, they are calmness, quiet warmth, a soft sigh of peace. Just the sight of them, even in a photograph, makes me smile. And yet, I have never seen a lavender in real life. Not once. Receiving them? A distant thought, moreover, I have never even been given flowers. My love for them is built on pixels and filtered frames, on Pinterest boards and fleeting reels. I admire them through the beauty the world has shown me, without ever knowing if that beauty is real. What if, when I finally see one, it disappoints me? What if its color is duller, its scent fainter, its presence less magical than I imagined? But then again, a flower cannot deceive. It is what it is, and that alone makes it enough. Wait, doesn’t trust work the same way? We know only fragments of a person, the side they choose to show through a screen, across a table, in fleeting conversations. And yet, with nothing but intuition, we trust. We hand them ou...

Just another word plain, overlooked. I searched for its meaning, found definitions stacked like bricks  to ask humbly, to plead, to seek alms. But none of them captured the weight it carries in the spaces where words are swallowed and hearts go unheard. If begging is merely asking peacefully , then tell me, don’t lovers beg without realizing? If this is what it means, then perhaps I, too, am a beggar. I have begged not on streets, but in silences. For presence, for kindness, for hands that do not slip away. I have begged for the well-being of those who never saw the storm in my own eyes. I have asked without speaking, lost without leaving, given without receiving. Life has a quiet way of taking, hollowing, emptying. And now, though I have shelter, though I have all that should make me whole, something remains missing something unseen, yet essential. So I wonder, is a beggar only the one with an empty bowl? Or can they also be the one with an empty soul?

For you, I would save my last piece, let you warm your cold hands in mine. For you, I would wake before the sun, just to send the first good morning sign. For you, I would share the "equal" slice, yet somehow, yours would always be more. For you, I would trade my window seat, so you could watch the sky and soar. For you, I would wish on every 11:11, dig through jokes just to see you smile. For you, I’d let you pick the movie, even if it means sitting through it twice. For you, I’d swap my lavender for black, pause the drop of my favorite song. For you, I’d fill my notebooks with hearts, missing you when days feel long. For you, I’d change all my passwords, reminding to the day you came. For you, I’d learn every rap verse you love, just to sing along and say your name. For you, I would take the longest way, just to "accidentally" pass you by. For you, I’d write a thousand poems, turn whispers into lullabies. For you, I’d fold love into paper, tiny hearts in every sha...