This is a sad world, ladies and gentlemen.

I’ve read a book. Romance, yes. I almost didn’t read it. It was not that badly written and it even had some aspects I enjoyed, I just didn’t like the main character. She was, well, just not what I’d expect a grown up woman to be. But I also admit that she had a sense of humour I liked, and I was intrigued by the story enough to read it whole.

I do not wish to name the book. In short, a woman and a man met, fell madly in love, and then started to discover that they didn’t know much (or anything at all) about one another and that what they learned was not what they expected or wanted or liked… However, they decided that they were still in love and wanted to make it work. A bit of denial here and a bit of compromising there. All good? Of course not. Not at all. But they did make it work, yes, eventually. (Surprise, I know, totally.)

For me, not the best book, not the worst, I’ll probably forget it soon, it didn’t change my life and I also don’t regret reading it. Readable. Fun (mostly).

What made me write about it is what I read when I added it to my list of read books. I discovered that many people were kind of disappointed (perfectly acceptable), that many people disliked the main character(s) (I can relate to that), and – well, that many people disliked the book because she and he wanted their relationship to work, because they didn’t give up.

Hm. Of all the flaws I think the woman and the man had, this was one thing I admired. Not the denial part – I could understand it, I just didn’t like it. The part where they decided that their love is strong enough to overcome their differences, the part where they decided they want to be together even when more things worked against them than with them, the part where they build bridges instead of walls – that was what I liked.

It may not be very common. Maybe that’s the reason. We give up. I’m no different. I gave up. I might have my reasons or excuses (depending on your point of view), but the whys only change understanding, not the result. I gave up. As many of us do. Do I believe we must suffer in relationships? That we must take whatever is thrown at us? That no matter what, we must stay together? No, not at all. Never. Once again it’s about balance, the grey area, the line between giving too much and too little.

I simply think it’s a sad world in which characters (or people) are disliked because they want their relationship to work. Because they refuse to give up. Because they stay together even when “they are so not meant for each other”. It’s a sad sad world…

Alenka H., 2022

I write about or to many things and people, but rarely about and never to Him.

Because, what could I say?

That our relationship taught me not to trust, not Him or others, but myself?

That I’ve spoken all the words long ago and even shed all the tears and there is only an emptiness left?

That I have no hope anymore? No hope for Him, no hope for us, and no hope for myself?

That, even more, I know it’s just my weakness that I stay with him?

That I’ve never been lonelier than when He is in the same room, but universes away?

That I touch Him because I’m so hungry for human touch, ashamed, because it’s not His touch that I crave – He is just the one physically near?

That I am sorry, so sorry, for Him and for me?

Alenka H., 2022

Perhaps I’m the last person to speak about love and relationships. I’ve failed them all. I’ve made mistakes. I know I’m not whole, or healed, or reasonable, or wise about feelings.

Maybe I’m not the smart one. Maybe I’m not the one that sees the bigger picture, maybe I’m not the one that understands anything.

I am, however, the one that at least tries to learn. Grow. Understand. Heal. Go on. Go further. And stop and look at herself, when needed (oh so often!).

Even through my failed relationships I tried to learn from my mistakes. Tried. What I believed in, what I thought, changed so many times. Each relationship, not just the romantic ones, showed me something new. A new part of me, and a new part of life. Of, well, relationships.

With every new experience I’ve changed. Relationships changed. What I think I know changed. How I see life changed.

Can I really say anything about love and relationship? Yes. I can. My truth will never be the truth of everyone else. Not even of most of others. It’s entirely possible that it won’t be anyone else’s truth. It’s also entirely possible that I share it with someone. Whichever the case is, it is my truth. Today. Tomorrow it may change. Today I can speak of love like this…

I don’t think love is about attraction (but it doesn’t hurt either). It doesn’t need strength (but sometimes it takes strength to love). It doesn’t need sacrifice (but sometimes sacrifice can be made out of love). It doesn’t need gifts, it doesn’t need declarations, it doesn’t need profound poetry or ecstatic music (again, none of those things hurt… I guess). It’s not about saving someone. Having solutions. Taking care of others. All those things can be faces of love, manifestations perhaps, or acts out of love. But… Even when you cannot offer solutions, it doesn’t mean you don’t love. If you cannot take care of someone else, because circumstances are as they are, it doesn’t mean your love isn’t real.

Love is (not just, but also) about respect. I thought I knew that. I did, in theory. I’m just not sure I ever felt it. Really felt it as the truth, as something that is not just an welcome yet unessential part of love. Because of all parts, pieces, elements of love, I now not only know, but feel too: with no respect there is no love.

Respect is not something you can give by saying “I respect you”, it’s one of those things that are true only when really meant. Acted upon. Felt. Lived. Cherished. As is love…

Am I any wiser? I guess not. It’s just another thought… A faint memory of a moment I felt respected. I’m thankful for that moment.

Alenka H., 2022

Poets are always a little bit dead – we die each time we write something. At the same time a little bit of us lives forever with anyone who reads it.

For a Dead Poets group on MeWe. Thank you.

Alenka H., 2022

Maybe it’s time to be honest with myself again.

That’s so hard, isn’t it? To reveal, to see the wounds you know are yours. You are at the same time the one exposing, the one exposed and the one exposed to. And also the one who is cleaning the wound. With alcohol, damn it.

When I started this blog it was not with one goal or reason or “mission” alone. The talks behind it were about many things. The plans. Ideas. Wishes.

It is time I admit… When at last it came to life, formed as a collection of poetry, deep down I did it because of the need to be heard too. To feel like my feelings matter. Like the words I bring to life matter. I think, yes, that I hoped it would give me some comfort. Some sense of being seen, valued.

But it doesn’t work that way… If someone cares about how you feel, you don’t need to broadcast it to matter. And if they don’t, then no bold letters, no loud words will make it heard.

I am thankful, because I’ve got to know some magnificent and wonderful people because of this blog. I’m thankful for them. I’m especially thankful for one unique person that made me realize just how much I missed sharing love for poetry with anyone.

My own poems, yes. Because even though I’m not a poet and I write to let feelings go, it’s so so touching to be appreciated. And his appreciation was even more valuable. Not that nobody ever said anything nice about my poems. (True, it was not the persons I wanted the most to care… Never…) However, I was raised to know there are different levels of literature, there are those who write and there are writers. I believe everything written has some value, if not for others then for those who wrote it, and I acknowledge it, but I cannot deny that not everything written has the same cultural value. I have no illusion of my word’s worth. Yet I cannot say it didn’t feel good when someone who appreciates and knows literature says they like what you wrote.

But more than that it was sharing love FOR poetry, the poems that touch me, not mine. It was the gift of sharing a poem you love and it’s appreciated. It’s this wonderful warmth when you show something you like and the other person likes it too.

So yes, I’m beyond thankful for those moments. Darling… The time that you dedicated to me meant more than I could ever express. It was one of most wonderful times I’ve had. I’ve been able to show and be me as I was not in a very long time. Maybe ever.

Yet, I can see it. People I meet for a moment or two, however special they are, cannot be expected to fill the void I have in me. Some things, unrelated yet so synchronized, made me think it’s time to admit. I was hungry, starving for being seen, heard, understood, appreciated, liked, wanted. It is time I admit this blog is partially (perhaps even mostly) about me and my want. It is time I also accept it doesn’t work that way.

After all, again, I believe if there is someone who truly cares, they show it. And if they don’t… You can’t make anyone care. You just have to accept it.

Now I am here, wondering if I should stop with all of this or not. Wondering if I should accept what is, or continue what I need. Wondering if I should shut down the blog or not.

Perhaps… Not long ago I met someone who lives very unconventional life. We talked for some time. I asked him if he shares his experience with anyone and he said he doesn’t, that it’s for him, and he doesn’t really know if it would matter. I told him what Whale said to me long long ago. Sometimes sharing is not about you. It’s about anyone else, someone else, somebody, anybody, perhaps just one person, who will read it when they will need it most and it will, in some way, mean something to them. Touch them. Maybe help them, maybe just make them smile or feel not so alone.

I don’t know if my words are what needs to be shared. I know they are not some great poetry. But they are me. Raw. Honest. And maybe, just maybe, sharing makes it better for one person in the world besides me. If it does, I can accept my personal, egoistic drive to continue with publishing.

Alenka H., 2022

Sometimes I feel like it’s all in vain. Like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I cannot change things for the better.

And sometimes I feel like it’s all some kind of punishment. For what? Maybe my sins from many lifetimes ago. Maybe my choices, my deeds, thoughts, or words. Maybe… Who knows?

And most times I feel like it could never be better. Never for me.

The thing is… That thought makes it better and worse at the same time. Worse when I think of the future filled with what I already feel. Better, because when I know I could have nothing different or better or happier, then I cannot hope or dream of that.

The moments I wish things were different are way worse than then moment I accept this is it. The moments I dream are even worse. The moments I hope are the worst.

Alenka H., 2022

Some times I considered someone a friend. Close one. I never had many, some times I had none. The ones I had, I game myself to them. When I give, I give it all. When I offer, I do it sincerely. When I say I’m here, I’m here. I was there. Some… were not.

It doesn’t really matter, not to me, if the one did it on purpose, if they were aware, or not. My feelings of being used, of being deceived, were my own. Not other-one’s fault. It was my decision to jump when they asked, to always be prepared to come, to answer when they called, listen when they talked, comfort when they hurt.

Only recently I accepted that I needed something else. A friendship where I would be equal. Where I would be listened to too. A friend that would take their time for me as I take my time for them.

But it was always my decision to give. Maybe not even decision, since I’m not sure it was always deliberate, conscious – but definitely my act.

Not long ago someone told me he tries not to expect too much, because he knows he will always care for others more than they will for him. Yes, it hurts when you see that you give more than you receive. His words, again, put things in a different perspective. Seeing a part of you in someone else makes you rethink how you see yourself. Saying the words you really mean to someone else makes you rethink the words you tell yourself.

A part of me that hurts wants to learn not to jump, not to give so much, not to believe so much, not to become so involved. I know that when I give I give too much. I know that when I let someone close, I’m here whenever, all the time, whatever they need. And yes, it hurts that I’m not the same priority.

The other part of me remembers what I said to that friend that cares “too much”, who thinks “over caring has always been a flaw of mine”: maybe you see it as weakness, as fault, as mistake. I see it as gift. As something that makes you special and wonderful. A beautiful soul. A person whose caring is to be cherished and valued and appreciated, I told him.

And I hope neither of us looses the ability to care. Even when, at the same time, I try to shield myself.

The world needs caring, love. Don’t stop.

Alenka H., 2022