writings
in deep water
Sleep is a stalker that wants my life, weighing me down like the bricks a murderer ties to his victim before pushing him into the sea. I must get away! I must wake up. Help me.
this room’s not for rent
Know that when a jammed door will not budge, it’s because the air behind it, simmering with discontent, has coalesced into a blob of a figure resting its weight against the door, like a human is wont to do when he doesn’t want you barging in.
You see, even rooms want you to respect their personal space sometimes.
So leave it be.
beetle mania
The stone tossed the beetle into the sky, knowing flight makes it happy. And the beetle grabbed leaves while airborne, as a souvenir for its friend. They stay away from water, knowing one will sink while the other swims.
So there is much sadness when it rains heavily.
The next time you see a beetle zig-zagging madly, know that it may be grief-stricken, because its friend has slipped under water.
Gone, forever.Whenever it pours, tiny hearts break.
balloon girl
Balloon girl had enough of drifting aimlessly in the sky. She threw her weight to one side, to steer her rubber sac body as best as she could, into the flight path of an oncoming aeroplane. The pilot never saw her.
She popped, and plunged to earth like the expulsion of a foetus from a mother’s body, while the rubbery remains fell alongside, like airborne placenta, till they all collected in a bloody mess on a field.
Because, you see, death from that state is birth, and she needed the plane to push her out of an existence that was never meant to be permanent. No, it wasn’t a death wish at all; just the insane desire to really live, to feel the wind in hair and taste the air, even if only for a short while.
Balloons aren’t all happy things, she would know, and now her body tells it so.
absolute futility
she smashed her head on the wall, over and over and over again.
and when it bled all over her fingers, she thought she would smile. because this was what she was familiar with. the futility of every thought and action.
absolute futility.
she launched herself full and strong against the bloodied wall, but she could not die. only her spirit died, again and again and again.
patterns
There are patterns to things. Like eating grass and grass by the wayside. Like cuckoo and cuckoo. Patterns. There was a pattern to my dreams recently too, but I didnt write it down in time, and now the memory of it is gone forever. But patterns remain. And patterns assert themselves over and over again in our lives. Patterns take the form of routine and monotony, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. They can be reassuring, and give a semblance of control over one’s life.
Patterns though, are hard to break, and that’s when we get headaches. Headaches are patterns about to be broken. When you’ve broken a pattern, the pattern dissolves and headaches disappear. They persist only because it is a human condition that we resist attempts to break patterns, and also a phenomenological condition that patterns themselves resist breaking.
Patterns are afraid of being broken.
the girl and her suitcase of words
inside her shell (pix from Wallcoo) She kicked off her tiny white shoes and crept inside her pretty conchshell for a good read. It was a book of inner thoughts she penciled whenever a free moment found her.
They didn’t seem to find her much any more, so she went searching. The seagulls asked, ‘why haven’t you come lately?’
And all that was sad and beautiful tumbled out in murmuring answer from her suitcase, succumbing to the soft waves echoing faraway shores, rushing for the blue lady’s liquid embrace.
She watched, as words etched itself on a page, the invisible pen wielded by quiet thoughts strengthened by froth and spray.
She watched, as the seagulls flew over her cradle and her chapel.
cold comfort
i think this is all a tragic irony.
when the sky rips itself open and flings itself onto earth, i feel so alive. i feel like the sky has flung itself, axis and planets notwithstanding, all at me. and i feel less alone when this happens because how does one feel alone when you have a sforzando of a million raindrops accompanying you, and crying the tears you cannot find inside you? i love the haunting grey skey and the tumultuous snow of day. i love the angry red sky and the black ashen flakes of night. i love how conflicted i am, i love how steadfast my course runs, and you realise i say i love it because there is no use in hating it, because there is only wistfulness.
why have you gone? i’m not through with you, come back, come back.
rip yourself open again for me, again and again.the magic of friendship
Sunny thoughts in rainy weather, dreary scenes that turn appealing – the beauty of everyday scenes wax and wane with how we feel. You see, even the most beautiful landscapes can be rendered meaningless sometimes. And the comforting presence that good friends afford us is the magical fairy dust that transforms things.
Good company is the best company.
