I am in constant shifting phase these days, not very sure about when this is going to end. But mostly I like to put the blame on the phase of my life that I am presently in. but this phase has left a vacuum in me, a vacuum not entirely negative but something that always stay, a vacuum paradoxically staying when everything else is leaving: friends, family, lovers, emotions, feelings, concerns, sensations, words and voices, almost everything or maybe it’s their leaving that caused the vacuum to be there at first place. Who can tell? But these days apart from hours that I spend over-thinking or obsessing over anxiety I am always eager to fill this vacuum with more poems, more books, words and verses, phrases and sentences, and memories of art making and living. The more life draws its grip closer to me the more eager this vacuum seems to be of living, the more conscious it is of the shortness of its breath, it gallops and grasps for energy and vitality and air to live on, so this vacuum is my eagerness to live and learn? Or maybe this vacuum is what my heart left behind when it wanted to leave, from places it was hurt or taken advantage of, to places that were a harbinger of good days and hope. It was like my heart saw those places and it wanted to leave my body and be there, for it could no longer take the pain those who I belonged to were inflicting upon me. It looked at me with eyes of a child, and just like a kind mother my body let it go. it took a part of my mind- imagination- along with itself and last time I heard from them they were at a better place, a place far away from the world, maybe a place Rumi mentioned in his poems, a place beyond the concepts of right and wrong. My logical mind sometimes think of them – heart and imagination- to be selfish to leave us behind just like a jealous sibling, but my body knows how to ignore its complains while affectionately listening to them all the while, cause like a mother it knows how it feels to be at the place it is. So this is how mothers understand their poles apart children? I shift another pose, stretch another knuckle as I resume my writing. But this morning when I woke up I wanted to make art, how did I end up writing? But I want to complete the short story that I was writing, another project of writing I took up last month, and I have that unfinished book on my bedside, a half-remembered poem tucked in my pajama pockets, I have photoshoots all planned up in my mind, and all the recipes I want to try, I remember I wanted to leave social media but I wanted to reach out to people, and somewhere in between wanting to do all these things and indecisions, I keep staring at a wall, as a heart shaped vacuum appears.