sometimes i think i only live inside your blood because i haven’t learnt to live in seperation.
you’ve been saving me so long, you know. and now, how do i tell you that it wasn’t worth it, my love? death will come and get me in the end and it will transpire to you that i was always closer to plath than to anais.
the death instinct shakes the salt out of me, it’s the pearlescent blue of the vein branches; it will reach the heart eventually, it’s always there, diffused in the blood.
i’m always going somewhere, bumping into hurts, renewing my lease on life. and we all know life doesn’t come cheap and death doesn’t come fast for plain janes like us. sometimes i wish to break the mould like sylvia plath, but for now you love me and i’m still tough and sharp like a piece of shattered glass.
i see vendors of big issue on the streets and i wish i could take them all in. as a child, i planned to set up a house where homeless would sleep until they got back on their feet. now, all grown up, i can only smile at such grand dreams and buy the magazine from the kind face smiling at me in the rain.
the world is full of pain.
the battle with religion began as soon as people like us really started to think exponentially.
why is there suffering in the world?
who wrote the books of god?
who speaks for him on paper and by spoken word?
who knows what he’s thinking, who knows where he is? …
… et cetera.
the question is why, the question is who. and this is cliche, i admit it. but still, please just think for a moment; that’s all it really takes.
blind faith is difficult now.
there is a burning need to understand it all before truly committing. there is a need to feel something convincing inside, like a sign, like a beacon of light, a fire.
the two halves of my brain work differently. my two eyes see seperately. and i see a world split in two.
the religous half, with its crusades and jihads, all in the name of god; the door to door preaching and pages of propoganda; with its communities safe in a blanket of warmth, comfort, love emanating from each other. and the other, with its splashes of paint, freedom, passion; sexual promiscuity to distraction; with its own very kind of love – rugged breathing and two bodies amalgamating in the night; and words are salvation from pain.
so there’s the bible and the works of marquis de sade, side by side on the table.
we all live in our own sort of moderation: in the world of two evils or of two goods or of a million shades of grey. too scared to ever advocate anything for the fear of choosing the wrong path, the wrong light, the wrong word.
and if it were not for certain death, i’m sure i wouldn’t dare to breathe.
drink me through a straw
and make me swirl:
i’m just a hurricane in a bowl
waiting to shake up the world.
there was everything and nothing
a spiral spinning phosphorescent blue, ̶
i see that world in you.
no response. my heart is the silence of the world sleeping.
i barely wrote about him: he never seemed to matter. you are my prince, patience incarnate. often all i need is that little piece of silent tenderness: i am simple but i change with the northerly wind.
all i seem to do is read and sleep: summer brings deep slumber to my senses and burning sun only makes itself felt on the nape of your neck. when my eyes see it, the gently tanned skin colour of sandalwood, an urge from deep within me wants to cradle it with the palms of my hands, feel its warmth as if through it i shall hold a ray of sunshine, all warm and sensual, taken from a book of mild erotica.
funny how when i felt it last, rejection felt like a consuming fire in every which one of my pores. now, it is a slight breeze tangling up my hair, soft sand in my eyes, thorny roses brushing against a scab: strangely seperate from me.
you think i can’t see the pain in your eyes. true, you hide it well, but i know you and i know that i told you that he mattered in more ways than one would care to. i’m sorry.
S is nothing; i am love.
it’s about aesthetics, feeling, about loving contour and form and not it straight lines … and i got too attached to you, S. funny that, i try to live without feeling.
no response. so we learn to fly.
Posted in chapters of my life
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i won’t wait on you,
but not because i don’t want to:
maybe i would have done on any other day—
that’s not to say that i don’t hate
standing at the train station waving at a departing train.
it’s not me, you understand?
in me there’s always an impulse to chase it.
just water, baby, to chase it.
just water, a silent drizzle of impending rain:
it’ll wash the world off your shirt—
and i will smell crisp cotton again.
Posted in excerpts
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pick up the stone
and throw it
like a bomb.
i’ll see the ripples
on this side of the world
in the snapshot
of the fire
in that pond.
the ducks will bear your witness.
another “Sunday 100“. maybe i’m becoming predictable with the way i aim the stones. but i doubt it.
Posted in excerpts
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will anybody tell me if i’m missing out on life?
will anyone write me a letter just so i know?
and everybody seems to be making a film, a compilation of their thoughts right here, right now. irony is, i’m wasting my words on the wind, across the telephone wires that stretch inside my head. and when i am brave enough to speak my words out, they are spoken to you alone. what about the rest of the world? how will they ever know?
you made a film with your friends. i guess that’s what you do in youth.
me? i used to leave my colouring books blank for fear of spoiling them. funny me.
and whenever creativity came to me, i wrote the words, drew the pictures on scraps of paper. i still have some of them. little pieces of my mind written in quickhand.
and though none of them relate to you, all that i remember of X is there: they are silent exultations, utterances of pain and dreams. they are free.
sometimes, i still wish i coloured those pictures in.
and sometimes i know there’s no use wishing: it’s all too late now. i’ve sketched my life out in this morning sunshine. whatever happens now was always meant to be.
Posted in Uncategorized
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