Swan Reflections

  A lifetime feels too brief, too thin to hold all that I feel. Rings and vows; these words we say, they barely brush what’s real. I don’t know about destiny, or if we’re meant to last. But in every lifetime, I hope we cross paths. I want to be the quiet autumn, where you drift to me like a falling leaf. I’ll stay like shadows on quiet roads, hidden in places only you know. If I could, I’d be your armor, soft but strong around your heart, and you’d be the shield that I hold, the guard who keeps us safe in the dark. And though the world may call it fate or claim we’re bound by some line, I don’t believe in being owned, only in finding, every time. So if in this life I’m not the one, let the next one bring us near. In every life, I’ll look for you, hoping you’ll find me here. - A. Swan

 Love, Family, and the Passage of Time It was the beginning of 2024 when I first watched About Time (2013), Richard Curtis’s tender film about time travel, love, and family. Back then, I thought it was just a love story sprinkled with time travel; a sweet, endearing romance between Tim and Mary, filled with heartwarming moments and lines that nestled into my memory. "I love your eyes, and I love the rest of your face too." Simple, yet somehow unforgettable. I smiled at their love, at the charm of it all, believing that was the essence of the film. First Impressions of About Time When I first saw it, About Time felt like a gentle romantic comedy. A quirky time travel twist gave it flavor, but at its heart, I thought it was a love story where Tim finding Mary, falling for her, and cherishing her. Re-watching About Time  A Year Later A decade later, I watched it again. I mean, TODAY. And this time, everything shifted. The romance, once the centerpiece, now felt almost seconda...

Virginia Woolf was not for the people who have a weak of heart.  She was a writer who made language bend and bleed until it revealed the truth of her own misery and the ones similar to her; she was a genius but like a wall of a house with cracked walls.  If you think she's just another dusty modernist author, you're mistaken. Her name is likely familiar to you from Mrs. Dalloway, A Room of One's Own, or that notorious suicide note. Literature has yet to find a way to bury Woolf's ghost. So, let's chat about her a little so that we get to know her ghost. Childhood: Trauma Was the Family Heirloom Virginia Woolf (born Adeline Virginia Stephen in 1882) did not exactly win the lottery of happy childhoods. Virginia lost her father a few years later, her half-sister shortly after, and her mother when she was thirteen. Imagine attempting to restore your sanity while grief is sent to you seasonally like an undesired subscription box. It was referred to as tragedy in Victoria...

To be or not to be, that is the question. Okay, fine, I’ll admit this time. Yes, I don’t know. I don’t know everything yet I know something. To be or not to be, that is the question. I don’t know what I have to be. What I will be. And what I should be. Whatever I’m becoming, should I be that or not. Whatever I’m doing, should I do that or not. And this dilemma is solely not mine. It’s with almost all of us. Okay, fine, maybe a few of us. Sometimes I wonder how interesting experiences and humans can be, that no sole experience or narration belongs to only one person in the world. Uniquely. In fact, you’ll find many who have sacrificed their comfort to give freedom to those who needed. You’ll find many who have lost their dear ones. You’ll find many who remain unchanged even after a heartbreak. What I’m trying to say is, from the world on a tiptoe to a house succumbed in comfort, no narration is unique. Are we all similar? I think so. I don’t know about you. I see people and I see storie...

If morality is shaped by power, does that mean justice is merely a construct of those in control? We have different truths. What you consider a lie might be the only thing that has ever kept me alive, and what I consider to be true might be a lie to you. The world is not as it is; rather, it is as we have experienced it. All of our beliefs are a patchwork of our experiences, pieced together by memory, reshaped by time, and warped by necessity. Subjective or objective, truth is never straightforward. If it exists at all, it is merely a flimsy delusion that we hold onto, persuading ourselves that what we perceive is true and that our emotions are warranted. However, truth is not an independent entity; it is burdened by consequences and the ruthless indifference of reality. Is a father a criminal or someone in need if he steals to feed his hungry child? When a soldier kills for his country, is he a murderer or a hero? A liar who saves—a liar or a savior? This is how human behav...

You know that feeling when you’re just… there, watching life go on around you? Everyone else seems to be moving, loving, belonging, while you’re standing still, holding everything inside. That’s what this poem is. It’s me saying what most of us don’t say out loud that sometimes love is silent, unseen, and it hurts in a way you can’t even name. It’s about those nights you cry and nobody notices, the pages you turn looking for some sign of yourself, the pieces of you you leave behind hoping someone will find them. This isn’t some perfect Shakespeare kind of love; it’s messy, brackish, raw. But it’s real. And if you’ve ever loved someone quietly, or felt invisible in your own story, or carried a grief you couldn’t explain, then this is your lake too. This is your Swan. I may not be the Shakespeare of this time, Maybe not even Jane Austen in the newness of this shifting rhyme, But I am the Swan of this vast, endless lake The lake where I watch other swans entwined, Their wings brushing, th...