InMeditations, Writing

You’re Still Here

Primitive writing in my 20s


Last night, as everyone slept, I went through my archives and came across a handful of primitive forms of what was once my writing. (My back-in-the-day writing.) In hindsight, a lot of what I wrote was very amateur-like, but filled with raw emotions, nonetheless. I was not surprised to find a constant theme in those pages: sorrow. Most of my writing then was inspired by a mean-spirited poignance. But, I had an unusual morose disposition then. Today, that theme has changed. However, there is something about this poem that I have always been drawn to.  Maybe it’s because I know where my heart had fallen while writing it. Maybe it’s because I actually do feel at one moment in time it was a work of art. Would I write it differently now? I will not deny there are parts I would change and I thought about making those changes before sharing this with all of you. However, I decided against it because it wouldn’t be authentic. It wouldn’t be the drawn unfiltered voice of that 26 year old girl. This was/is a part of my many plateaus during my 20s. (I wrote about those years here) Hence, the poem remains untouched. And for whatever it’s worth, during those years, I wrote completely and truly unguarded. So here she is, the freehearted me.

You’re Still Here

A breeze makes its way to me

Through my window


(Entering without welcome)

Pass the curtains

A pause

It floats

A white cloud above me

With hues of blue


Not wanting to disturb



As I lay


Under the covers

In oblivion

Giving me a keen stare

Slowly moving closer

A familiar touch

I mistake them for your hands

They envelop me

Bind me to the moment

Sheltering me


I know it’s You.


I walk amid a crowd of people


Desire becoming foreign)

I see them




For them-

Life is balloons and whistles

I hear the sound of cars

The engines

The beep of the horns

Then Silence

(Life stopped for me long ago)

It follows me

I recognize its presence

Fuses with my shadow

I know it’s You.


In bed


I look at the clock

One o’clock in the morning

A ray of street light

Sneaks its way through my window

Its reflection on my face

I know it’s You.



Another day

The breeze enters my window

Brushes my face

Greets me

I get up

Peace follows me to the kitchen

Sits with me while I eat

I know it’s You.

You’re still here.


Do you have any pieces from many years ago that you would share? What was your reaction when you read and heard your voice of long ago? What emotions did it provoke? 


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  • sanjeetsen

    Brilliant 🙂

    March 22, 2015 at 9:46 am Reply
    • soulconalas

      Thank you for reading it. 🙂

      March 22, 2015 at 8:51 pm Reply
  • Belkys

    I enjoy your writing.

    It will change. You’ll evolve. You’ll grow. You’ll change. If you’re like me your prose and poetry will change with each new experience. I pity the 14-year old me who wrote all those morose words with more questions than answers. That’s obsolete. What remains the same is the spirit of who I am. One’s style and form of expression doesn’t change. It’s the John Hanckock of our work. Thanks for sharing. Expression and creation of the arts has always been for me the much higher states of my otherwise lowly human existence.

    March 22, 2015 at 8:39 pm Reply
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