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What strategies do you use to cope with negative feelings?

One thought.
Another thought.

They come and go
like a river that flows.

Sometimes
I just sit on the shore
and watch.

Until I get bored.

Negative feelings…
like a forgotten folklore.

Sometimes the river swells
tries to pull me under.

I swim.
and swim.

Not to win
just to make sure
it doesn’t fill me completely.

And when I reach a quiet place,
dry and still,

I take off the clothes
of those feelings
and throw them off a cliff.

Then I stand in front of the mirror
and say:

I came like this.
And I will go like this.

But while I’m here
I guess I have to dress up
to cover a little shame.

Sometimes
I punch a pillow
just to let the steam escape.

Sometimes
I walk.

And keep walking.

Until the feeling
gets tired of chasing me.

I don’t want to carry it home
and stack it
on top of others.

Sometimes
cold water on my face.

And the feeling slides away
like droplets
running down my cheeks.

Sometimes
I take a bus ride.

And leave that feeling
on the seat beside me.

So far
the driver has never called
to say
I forgot something.

I just hope
no one picks it up.

Maybe it gets washed away
when the driver cleans the bus.

Like a fish
rising for a moment
just to see the sky,

I keep checking my mind
to see
if any ragged feelings remain.

But truth is

We need both
negative
and positive connections

to light the bulb
inside the mind.

A little doubt
might save a life.

Might stop us
from standing too close
to people
with the wrong energy.

So when a negative feeling arrives
I don’t fight it first.

I detect it.

Where did it come from?

I examine it
like a doctor
studying a patient.

But no medicine.

Because feelings
are natural.

They visit.

They leave.

And the river
keeps flowing.

Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.

Dear young man,

Congratulations.

You scored a century.

One hundred years on this spinning rock…

not bad for someone

who once told his friends

he wouldn’t make it past fifty-five.

I didn’t think you would reach this far either.

But here you are.

Still breathing.

Still watching the morning sun

crawl through the window.

Tell me…

are you still writing poems?

Do your old lovers still wander

through the corridors of your verses?

Some of them might be gone now.

But I know you…

you never really let anyone leave.

Maybe your great-grandchildren visit you.

Maybe they sit beside you

and ask about the world

when phones were smaller

and dreams were slower.

Do you still avoid mirrors?

I remember you once admired an Irish poet

who hated the sight of his own aging face.

Tell me…

what do you do these days?

Do you meditate?

Does it help quiet the ghosts

of the people you lost?

Or maybe some of them are still here…

sitting across from you

sharing a cup of tea

like old conspirators of time.

Time…

it must have moved quickly.

You probably paid the mortgage long ago.

I imagine the day you made the final payment

you walked back home

feeling lighter than air.

Did life reward you?

Did your poems win medals?

Did anyone stand up

and clap for your words?

Your teachers believed in you.

They carved patience into your bones.

Your parents…

they might not be here anymore.

But maybe you understand them now.

They raised you like a young plant,

watering you with effort,

placing you carefully

in the sunlight of love.

And now here you are…

a tree with many branches.

Still, I know something about you.

Even surrounded by love

loneliness sometimes sits quietly beside you.

That’s normal at one hundred.

Tell me something though…

Do you still ride a motorbike?

It wouldn’t surprise me

if the old man still rides

down some dusty road

with birds as companions.

You always loved the language of nature.

On the morning of your hundredth birthday…

did the sun greet you?

Did the birds sing your name?

Or did someone knock on the door

just to check

if you were still breathing?

I hope your eyes still work

and you’re reading this yourself.

And if someone is reading it for you…

please thank them.

They are helping a man

who spent his life chasing

honesty, kindness,

and a little bit of beauty

in a noisy world.

If a machine voice is reading this…

well… forgive the future.

It doesn’t always know

how to carry warmth.

Your room must be full of memories.

Old photographs.

Letters.

Half-forgotten songs.

Maybe some mornings

you cry a little.

Just enough

to lighten the heart.

You know this already but let me repeat it.

People come and go.

Life is a river.

You cannot ask the river

to stop flowing

just because you love the shore.

Tell me…

Do you still walk outside

to get your newspaper?

If you do…

you’re still a strong man.

What music do you listen to now?

Do the old songs

still echo inside your chest?

The world must be full of strange voices now.

Artificial ones.

But somewhere out there

I’m sure a few beautiful souls

are still singing.

And you…

you are only one hundred years young.

You’ve walked through many autumns,

many springs.

Flowers.

Bees.

Storms.

Mom used to say something about you.

She said no matter how old you become

there will always be a child

living inside your heart.

I believe that child is still there.

Running.

Laughing.

Asking questions.

So don’t think about dying now.

You are a living memory.

Any day could be the last…

but don’t leave this world crying.

Laugh.

Laugh loudly.

Challenge God a little.

Tell Him

you’re not done yet.

Learn new things.

Plant a flower today…

even if you think

you might die tomorrow.

Because when that flower blooms…

your breath

will still live inside its fragrance.

And please…

don’t forget your medicine.

Take care of yourself.

I hope you remember me.

I am your younger self…

still confused,

still hopeful,

still trying to understand life.

Waiting to become you.

With love,

Frain

Where would you go on a shopping spree?

If I had to go shopping  

I wouldn’t go to a mall.

I would go  

to a strange little shop  

somewhere in the universe  

where they sell impossible things.

First

I would ask for Thor’s hammer.

Not to rule the world,  

not to break mountains,

just to knock  

a little sense  

into the heads  

that keep starting wars.

Then I would buy umbrellas.

Not ordinary umbrellas.

Umbrellas  

like the ones in Kingsman.

The kind that don’t just stop rain  

but stop bullets…  

missiles…  

drones.

If one umbrella  

could save a thousand lives  

I would buy a million  

and hand them out  

like street vendors hand out newspapers.

Forgive me  

if this sounds violent.

I am not opening fire  

with guns.

Only with a pen.

My bullets are words.

My hands  

will be stained with ink  

not blood.

Last night  

something broke inside me.

Emotions rose  

like a flood in the dark.

And suddenly  

I needed more things  

from this imaginary shop.

Handkerchiefs.

Soft ones.

Enough  

to wipe the tears  

from every forgotten face  

on this planet.

So that one day  

tears disappear  

as if they were never there.

Fear too.

Gone.

Like a bad dream  

that the morning refuses to remember.

If the shopkeeper allowed it  

I would buy a capsule

a tiny one

small as hope

that could end hunger  

before the sun sets.

Because most people argue all day.

They jump to conclusions  

build ideologies in seconds  

stack lies on top of lies  

and try to call it truth.

But hunger  

doesn’t argue.

Hunger just waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Maybe that shop  

also sells a remote control.

One button.

Just one.

STOP.

A button  

that pauses the noise  

the hatred  

the endless shouting.

And if I still had some money left  

I would shop for simple things.

Roofs  

for heads that sleep under rain.

Warm clothes  

for bodies that shake in winter.

Food  

for empty plates.

But survival alone  

is not life.

Even a caged bird survives  

if you feed it.

What we need  

is a life

without fear.

A life  

without threat.

Maybe this question  

gave me imaginary money.

Maybe that’s why  

my pockets feel full of dreams tonight.

So yes

I am going shopping.

If you want

you can walk with me.