All's Well That End's Well

Over time, real time, life has segmented me in sides and faces with very vague definitions.  I sense that there are things about me that are routinely yet obscurely fed to a vending machine which gives me newer passions, different interests in return. Maybe I can trace it back to “when” but “why” is draped in nights when I lay awake with a dream in mind, and the next morning seems to blur it into a background that slowly fades into wallpaper that needs to be torn down because it’s just not as pretty anymore.

I know what you mean. 
December raises the downy hair of yesterday on the back of my neck. No embrace for the girl of that calendar month, just a sigh of resignation and despair that rustles all the other pages of the calendar. A whole year of good intentions and failed dreams that cling so desperately to that wall and under my skin. It’s like the realisation that last New Year’s hope was just an impulsive mistake and I forgot if I even made any resolutions.

And it becomes an yearly abstraction, a push that plummets fractions, breezeblocks, out of an otherwise linear tower of reality. I look back at the lost pieces, and with what may be an illusion of growth, smile. That ache seems so small, unimportant, and what I have now seems okay for a minute. Maybe longer. Depends on the length of the song I listen to, and the longevity of the setting sun.

I can only say it in a whisper but this year has magnified the aches that have lingered for a lifetime. There’s a desperation in looking for the missing pieces in the fading colours of the sunset. In the hungry chaos of noisy gulls, I try to collect my crowded thoughts into groups of words that might ease my chapped lips and pour my coffee in the morning. I string them into necklaces and charms made of sentences – poems of moonless Septembers and melancholy Sundays. That way I can at least look at the dawn without shielding my eyes.

There is something about words strung together in a sensible philosophy. Its incomparable to have had times in your life that sharpens its blunt edges and cuts into parts of you, refreshes everything somehow, and becomes strange to look at. Like gawking at your reflection on the mirror plated wall of a hair salon, while the barber keeps trimming your hair in a really bad way but all you can do is investigate your face and strike your eyes with a gaze they obviously meet. Just to realize, that it’s all there what needs to be, what isn’t, will grow back with more original strands and fibres. There’s always a road to walk towards everywhere, and since ‘all roads lead to Rome’, why does anybody worry.

As we nudge December I look at the ocean and ask it this question.  Sometimes my catastrophic mind is too primed to see the tragedy in a gust of wind, to tread water when I need to swim more purposefully to my metaphoric Rome.  The sea answers me in soothing syllables of its rolling tides, calmly led by sing-song directions from the moon. And there I see that maybe there is a path for me, that I am connected by gossamer threads to possibilities I have always longed for but never thought I’d find.  Love, even. I just need to dive in and let the wind swallow up my caution and taste the salty water of the dawn.

The sea has all the answers, it’s like a friend for all seasons. It’s funny to think that whatever is marked by anything doesn’t make sense to anything except the candle and the lighter, or the sea and the rocks it washes away from the shoreline. So, we ramble on and gamble with our hearts, and tear pages, anatomies away from old chapters and our memories become a collage of these broken bones. So, in our search for love and happiness, we see too many disappointment and aches but to not linger on them would be best. At least, that’s what I think.

So maybe as the clock ticks this time, we should linger in that place where soft lanterns and gentle hands light and guide the darkened alleys of our hearts. Maybe it’s in that dim but shimmered glow that we find a stillness and a beauty.  A calm within our storms where there is no pitch black or bright white and there is an infinite wave of connections between all of us. Because surely, it seems that this is where we should linger, in that place where the paths lead us to each other.

By Watt and Rachel from In Mind and Out .

May everyone lead 2020 with brilliant direction!


 Vanishing to the last degree, disappearing in the empty streets, 
 Sweeping ashes into angles with his bare feet, 
 He circled the window panes, as he crossed many lanes, 
 And reached a place between the river and the concrete front. 
 The spare colors in the darkness of the hour, 
 In the desperation of his sighs, from the air he devoured, 
 Shone brightly in the direction of the flowers, 
 As memories replayed themselves in between his eyes, 
 And they painted his dreams with stories of the past, 
 Which he then fastened to his mind, then in his veins last, 
 Lies, secrets, and shadows that he crossed with ties, and truth, 
 With all its marriages- 
 To the sea of vast blues, 
 To a stand of the news,
 To the view of the sky, 
 And his last goodbyes.  


If  I lie to the stars,
To wrap up the shit that I've been dealing with, 
And to cover it in smile printed paper,  
Then I knew that in the sorrow of everything, no one can hear you.  
And if I cry in the ruins of a sand castle,
bury me and remain in the flare of the sun.  
Until the night wears on howls of the tiki bars, 
absent in the mind,dull in the body,  
tired state of the fingertips sketching the moon with round Ray Bans,  shadowing the hues of its whitened width.  
As I tie my legs to light bulbs, 
 loosening my eyes,  
breathing down from above,  
hanging from the ceiling, 
separating every fragment of my body until something touches ground, and someone comes around,  
to feel the light of warm life.  

Guessing Gaps

Remember how it used to be, 
Holding the world in arms, 
Not rustling finger against it,
And like all your best friends did,
You would look at the world with grit, a soulfulness that could never fit
Now that time's gone. 
But it isn't wrong to speak with what your skin keeps,
What crawls thru the synapses and reaches you mountaintop head, 
Setting its flag of feeling on a proud pedestal. 
But maybe desire lives fast, dies young, 
And your feet creep thru the yards for some days, hide behind the sun rays. 
So, you can raise your gaze to the night when it lasts, the day is adjusted into your life. 
Sparks soar and collide, 
Dreams drive thru the highway, 
And your tragedy is more than home,
Here's to comedy that stood thru the night's shades. 



An alleyway stood beside a retail store once, Jim walked toward a glass box. It encased cigarette packs, a Gatorade, a Rolling Stone magazine all set against an Ocean’s Twelve poster backdrop that embraced the back of the box. Jim brought it, and carried on.

As his feet reached curves and corners of market squares, the street came to an end. It was followed by a bridge that led to another street, by this point he felt tired. It was the finale of his enthusiasm or so it seemed. Advertisements wavered on billboards about perfumes, and festivals. Pick-up trucks drove by with all their trashy glory bound to the back. A taxi hammered in from nowhere and escorted him home, the driver twisted his head, cracked his knuckles, crossed his legs, and somehow matched the movements of his vehicle.

Jim placed the box of December on the high shelf, amid stacks of birthday cards that he didn’t give, or maybe he received them, among his prized vinyl records and a lavender scented candle that glowed all it slight in yesterday’s dark, now flickered with a tiny flame on its miniature wick and melted body.

“Another year” he admired, knocking his body down to floor.


As you nervously chuckled behind a camera,
Your mouth widening on your face, your lips pushing your cheeks to your eyes, your skin wrinkling joyfully underneath,
The sky grew colder.
Cold and coolly separating the spectral bands of light in the skyline.
Tonight, you said, would be another night hiding behind the distance that buzzes alight on telephone wires,
Your mind fiddling with the reality, storing it at the front of your vision,
In the look that recorded the moments passing by, bolting, and yet collecting in a box of memories
That will rust with age, and marry with time to escape the brain that holds them,
To reach states of silence, quiet, and to hide forever in darkness.
A handful of curses slip from the cracks of your fist as it flies across air to punch the truth taking your dreams awa .

Aeroplanes line above, glittering in fluorescent imaginations,
But the stars grew dull.
Doors that were red, and blue and funky in Cuban styles, turned black and white, zebra-striped, waiting for that shadowed while,
To flicker in crying drops of rain,
To remind you of an upcoming movie- unwinding in celluloid banners, lapping over each strip as it falls to the floor.
Tragic. Is it not? That it will never revisit you. That magic.

White Lines

In shadows or in skin, he felt he had hungered the gaze of the sea.
At bay, midnight, the day lost the sun to the night.
He mourned, bare chested, with the cold wind clawing at his shoulders,
his heart expanding underneath, eyes level to the fading horizon.

People soared thru the limestone cliffs, splashing feet in the face of the waters.
His head followed the images flashing in the pale fire of moonlight.
Then they receded to a house with a brick bedded ceiling, with thin walls.
Sounds came unstuck in the air, mingling with sweat and grains of burnt rollups.

And from behind those walls, morning hit his feelings,
He bowed in open wind.
His mouth whispered stronger than any word before “And love, be brave”
When the daylight began to flicker, he immersed his body in the sea,
fishing for some days he had before in each bubbling breath.
Then the uprising water delivered him to shore, with a smile hanging from his lips,
and his shivering body clutched in his fingers, heading home, or finding one.