Janka Ali

some days,  
it feels cruel,  
heavy,  
almost impossible to understand.

you wake up  
and everything feels a little too much.  
the world keeps moving,  
but you do not know how to move with it.

and then, somehow,  
there is one day.

just one.

and everything feels different.

the same sky looks softer.  
the same streets feel warmer.  
you laugh without forcing it.  
you breathe without thinking about it.

you do not even know why.

maybe someone said something kind.  
maybe someone stayed.  
maybe someone looked at you  
and made you feel like  
you were worth listening to.

and sometimes,  
you find the courage to tell someone  
what you have been carrying inside.

it is scary.

because feelings are strange things.  
they become real  
the moment you give them a name.

but when that person listens,  
when they care,  
when they do not make you feel foolish  
for feeling too much—

it feels almost like being understood  
for the first time.

you think,

maybe this is what life is supposed to feel like.

being heard.  
being cared for.  
being loved  
without having to earn it.

but life is strange.

because even beautiful things  
can change.

a person can become distant.  
a moment can become a memory.  
a place that once felt safe  
can suddenly feel unfamiliar.

and the same heart  
that once felt so full  
can become quiet again.

i think that is the hardest part.

not that good things end,

but that while they are happening,  
we never know  
they are becoming memories.

so maybe life is both.

cruel and beautiful.  
heavy and gentle.  
lonely and full of love.

maybe we are not meant  
to understand every day.

maybe some days are simply meant  
to be felt.

and maybe,  
when the good ones come,

we should let ourselves love them  
while they are still here.

Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.

Ill throw my youth away to put you in reserve.