Owen Belen
Bio
A teller of stories.
Stories (8/0)
Freedom Is an Illusion
I travel through the barren land of my mind, displaced and alone. A heart brimming with curiosity was stripped of its radiance, a world once vibrant with beauty now tarnished and gray. A heart heavy with expectation, my head hanging in my hands, running my fingers through the cracks. I saw a spark of hope as if a searchlight in the darkness. A way out, a way to escape the horrors I’ve ever seen or had. A pilgrimage in search of that which is lovely, to rekindle the fire. I pack my bags and prepare for the journey of discovery. A long, winding road led me to where this energy is abundant. I’ve come to the place where the light prevails and the soul heals, where the heart adores. I find my way to a tiny town full of magic and joie de vivre. A place where whispers of the past enquire and secrets speak in the dark. I unpack my bags and allow the magic to wash away with the tide. My heart mends, and my spirit rises from the depredation. I think about the lighthouses lining the coast. The view of the ocean was too great for me to ignore. The adventure of getting in my car and driving was overpowering. Finally, forgetting about my torment and worries was exhilarating. I depart early in the morning, pulling on my jacket with a grin. I speed down the freeway, the wind blowing in my hair, the sunshine on my shoulder. The lighthouses loom like giants on the sea, brightening up the coastline.
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Poets
India Changed My Life Forever
I remember the first few hours when I saw India, which seemed to be a long fuse worldwide. I was so tired and overwhelmed that my body felt sick, and my heart beat too hard. The more the plane descended, the more I saw out the window. I saw so many small, brown dots around the airport. They appeared as big, messy heaps of boxes, just thrown there randomly. At first, I thought it was trash. But as we landed, I saw tiny houses where impoverished people lived. My heart twisted; it was not their house seeing that for the first time. When I walked off the aero-hotel, the air was not fresh; it smelled terrible, was hot, and was sticky. I felt shivers down my arms when I walked into the hall where you pick up your bags. So many people instantly came to me, some just grabbing my bags, wanting to carry them. I needed clarification, as letting someone else take my stuff felt weird. It was like reading stories from old ages when one man could order another, and I wouldn't say I liked that.
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Poets
Obsidian Is Alive
I live in a realm of darkness and curiosity, where the very ground conceals secrets and riddles, the answers to which are well beyond my reach. The cavern beneath Mount Etna is a maze of contorted rock and hidden riches, where daylight never shines, and the shadows of torches and the ghostly phosphorescence of cinnabar are the only illumination sources. I am fascinated by the cavern's beauty: the stalagmites, vast columns of rock that ascend from the ground like titans and are studded with gleaming adornments and stones, capturing sunlight and creating a treasure-trove of wealth and fascination. One stalagmite, however, stands out: a gigantic monolith of completely unreflective obsidian that glows blackly, swallowing light and color. I am drawn to it by a magnetic-like force; though Clement tells me it will boil to the touch, I am not frightened. Indeed, when I put my palm upon it, I am startled by the device's warmth; it is red-hot, pulsating with unseen living energy. Clement explains it is a conductor, a turning device that draws and converts all force it contacts.
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Poets
I Was Blind to Your Lies
My heartaches are too heavy to carry with every step I take. It’s a dull pain that never goes away, a wound that will never completely heal. I think of you, of how you used to make me feel Of my feelings for you, of a broken heart that was real I remember our days, the night, the moments, our times together The laughs, the tears, the whispers, the dreams, the dare I remember the way you looked at me, the way you made me feel Like I was everything, the only thing that could be real It was all bullshit, a mirage, a mask you used to conceal The deceit, the lies, the shattered heart I could never seal You said you loved me, it was all just a game A game you played so well, that I could never claim I was blind, I was gullible, the only one I saw was me The only person my heart and mind could ever see You were all in my head, thoughts, and desires I was trapped in a heart fueled with fire I thought you were the one, the special one I sought But you were just a dream, a mirage, I had overly fought One day I woke up and found you gone No goodbye, no word, not even a song I was left with a broken heart, nothing more I could do but mourn I tried to move in, find someone new It was hard, almost impossible, after all I’d been through I was stuck, filled with the same pain The same pain that made my brain insane I thought of you, and all we went all through Both joy and sorrow, laughter, and cries too. It was all a lie, a mask you used to fool. The truth hurts, so I used to be excellent. You said you loved me. That was just a play. I was trivial; my emotions made prey. I was foolishly in love, hypnotized by my want. I lost my mind; I was in it; I couldn’t recant. I thought you were the one, but you weren’t. It was just a dream, a tale I thought I burnt. I’m still looking, still searching, continuing to find A love genuine, a love mien. It’s still hard, a journey defined. It is a journey of pain and heartache, that’s fine. It was a heartbreak journey, not settled.
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Poets
Amazon River Is Cursed
I wander through the dark and mysterious night, lost and alone, my heart and soul drained; it was once full of wonder. The world is a dull and faded gray, once so full of beauty, a heart heavy with weariness. But like a beacon shining in the dark, a glimmer of hope appeared. The chance to escape, to break free of my fears. A journey, a quest to return to the magic I once knew. I must reignite the spark. I am once again full of wonder. I find myself in a place full of myth and legend. A place where the Yacuruna roam with their unrelenting power. The guardians of rivers, their secrets, and treasures untold. The place where the unknown lurks and the brave shimmer as gold. I think of the stories of beauty and the might of their ability to lure a victim into their sight. Their power to bring bounty and despair, the capricious figures dreaded beyond compare. I see them as beautiful, alluring beings. As guardians of the rivers, they might be unseeing. I see them use their power and their right. To bring life or to extinguish the darkest night. I think of the rituals and the offerings made. The worship and chant that promise aid. The shamans and healers do them for the respect, the beauty, the curse, and the land.
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Poets
Creativity Dies Without Inspiration
I wander through the desolate landscape of my mind, lost and alone. Once full of life, a creative soul now withered and left to atone. The spark that drove me was flickering and faint. A dream within reach, fading into the unknown. But then, in my darkest hour, a glimmer of dazzling light reveals itself. A chance to revive, rekindle, and bring back my fading self. A trip, a journey, to find the muse I once knew. To pinch the embers of dying passion, the rebirth of the spirit anew. I pack my bags and embark on a journey of self-discovery. The path is winding and unknown, leading me to a new city. A city where creativity runs free and wild, in proportions well-beaten. A sanctuary for the wounded soul, for my heart and mind to be smitten. I land in an ancient hotel full of history and tales. At this hotel, the walls breathe storied mysteries and thrilling details. I unpack and let the ambiance wash over me like a tide. Gradually, my creativity started to turn and stride. I ponder the endless times I felt like giving up. When doubts and fears would take over and steal me of my write-up. But I never let them win, ever, did I let them control. I rose every time with my passion, to let it unreal, uphold. I recall the days when my channel was filled with life. When views and likes flourished, it seemed like a few upsurge strife. But then it was all taken away without warning, leaving me lost.
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Poets
Family Is Everything
Experiencing the warmth of summer and the glowing faces during the scorching heat felt terrible; my feet felt heavy due to the conveyed sadness. It's yet another year since I failed to secure calmness in this barren place. Moreover, it only took a spark of hope to change it all— the winding road that took me to my haven; you could call it my sanctuary or comfort hotel. Memories drift over me like a wave hitting my feet while standing on a beach. From there, I could see Lake Michigan ad infinitum. I was a kid again, whether it be witnessing excitement or enthusiasm; my grandfather was the central author of my inspiration. His laughter led to my urge to discover more and be anything. In many ways, those sunny days of the year have paved new paths of experiences. I think back to the summers spent with everyone who adored me and embraced me for me. My grandfather, as tender and elaborate as ever, would take me on long drives country miles away. He would linger to point out his secret yet known places in the process. We would rarely visit the lovely roadside diners. We would sit and sometimes see the restroom, glancing over from behind a magazine secretly. The coffee was sweet and consistently hotter since then, and the smiles were consistently warmer than ever before. However, as much as we appreciate the
By Owen Belen10 days ago in Families
We Must Share Our Stories
I used to believe that they would be safe as long as I kept my stories safe in my head. Safe from the world's eyes, from judgment, and from slipping through my fingers and being quickly forgotten. But it was different; stories are not treasures you unearth and hide underground, hoping no one will find and steal them. They are akin to birds – if you don't let them out, they will die, their song erased. When I was younger, I clung to my stories like honeybees locked in jars, their humming perpetual and their light flickering. I would use them to pass the time, to keep myself warm in winter's chill, but I'd never set them free. And in time, I would take them for granted. And they would slip through my fingers. Little by little, the stories would escape, and their colors would dim. The world became dull, the seasons unchanging, and the adventure was less thrilling. Eventually, the stories turned into distant memories. I realized that stories, like the sun, need to shine in the lives of others for them to be as brilliant as they could be. Collect and keep them to yourself; their warmth will eventually run out. This was my mistake and my lesson.
By Owen Belen11 days ago in Poets