Life had skipped some freer spaces, and capsized into hurdles posing as the road. He walked into the illusions that he had been birthed to and with all a blur spectacled the blue sky curving into the folds of earth’s edges, he gazed hungrily at the hidden light. This century missed his sleeves, injected straight into his arms, and they fell to his feet.

He took warm steps towards the ocean, sandy grains clinging hopelessly to his skin. And he quietly dissolved into each pit along the way, blinked, and washed into the aftermath. Shaped like a crescent, waves creeped into his ears, and wiggled into his nose, swirled in rounds, chasing a forward motion, and he held onto the balloon that was charged with his extinction.

Though I cannot feel, I can dream him, small as he seems, tied to his sinking body.

turning tables and clicking clocks

It felt like everything had moved elsewhere like thin paper at the first contact of water. Shrunk away.

Soon, the anguish was gone, his ashy arguments narrated once in sounds that twirled like swirling gusts of air, now enclosed in bubbles that would shatter violently at everyones sighs. He was left neglected.

Silence conquered the territories that once kept him proud, emptied his heart, flooded his mind with infesting taints of agony, of a hollow eyed longing. He lost himself.

Regret started to crawl in old photographs, and behind each mirror was a blackening memory, necrotic and wilting, like petals curling up in their final hours. Time began a changing image, infected by habits, a running movie in which he chased himself away, into rivers of tragic returns.

His hands would gnaw at pages, his lips would recite promises of the past, dreams that vanished into what seemed like another life. A head full of compelxteies that was mingling with blood and seeping into his shuttered mouth, flowing into fingers mounted atop static legs, body ungiving.

And he tried, and he cried, he broke loose into shards that blanketed the floor that made troubles bleed into its fractures.


Once there was a disco ball hanging tightly from above, clinging onto the ceiling, and it was the only place I longed to be, the only place I felt I belonged, and I hoped the populace was lacing my spirit onto its borders, accepting my hysterical blindness as charming, holding me in handles dimly lit by LED lights, and coolly arranging the squall of air conditioner blowing in since morning.

But you should know that fascination fades, and as you render courageous dialogue in the marvel of a minute, you may find in your heart that the truth marries reveries in an exclusive ceremony, to which your imagined happiness is seldom invited. Maybe as it walks down the aisle, and gives a bridal stare, and a shot pose, but only then. It’s only symptomatic of infatuation, to be dissuaded at the rejection of only a vision. And it just has to be a feeling, that directs you to the set-list of dim heaven, Ultraviolence and what have you, which may rebelliously begin without reasons.

I don’t know what has led me to live life under a reclusive, shrunk being. But it helps, it stirs ice along the walls, and mostly cracks the ice withing sweet liquid, but your mind swivels to the taste eventually. But if I search in videos and memories, I reach a place in olden times, where everything is a facade and I can’t remember having much cause to be down about, so I think this will be that too, and all I have to do is forget until I find something to remember.

Warmer the Night

Every day is a stint at waking early, yet staying up till soft corners of the dawn show their edges.

My mind wanders in between the seconds and hours of late mornings and nighttime.

It travels across the people I know, weaving elaborate fantasies of how they can function in our shared dimension. And when I print it in sounds, it flies unseen and unheard, like if a firefly grazed amid swans.

It laughs in lockdown, staring at the TV. Crazed at the bottom of the jailing well, unraveling the walls brick by brick, lie after lie, to soar to the surface once more.

When at the surface, touched with dirt from along the journey, it ties every loose piece with the truth.

Another day is another picture, blurred by yesterday.

Where do I go now? In the absence of meantime, and the penitentiary of the earth’s possibilities.

Somewhere or someplace.

The Sailor

He clung to his ship as it sailed toward another island.

This was a simple step, detaching himself from the ideas and the ways of old islands, and attaching to newer ones.

He could never forget the voyages, each had bitten parts of his boat. And all that he tried to hold together was a box of his souvenirs; painted boards of his intentions, and pages of his days and nights that had been bathed in high water.

The desire, the urgency of reaching another island had started to dwindle like the stars in the sky wrapped in murky haze. But somehow his heart recognized that he would reach his port of call, and his feet would cradle the sand, his body would squeeze the shore.

Yet he had chained his mind to surrender.

As he sailed into the island, his gaze was sprayed with infatuation. With his hair dripping wet and drops running races between his eyes, his hands measured the possibilities of the island. Signing each day with hope and reflection.

Forever Ago

There’s empty, open spaces once where things used to float about.

And those things were clinging to each word I said, and hiding in everything unsaid, and unseen.

Now, all my dusty daydreams are clearing away to make banks, and all hope washes in and takes away parts of it and flows downward.

If I follow this river and search for myself, will I see myself as a shadow on a surfaced rock, or will I see myself at the bottom floundering with all my life?

Could I see the sky then, is that the persistence of hope? Of dreams?

As I chase after myself, gazing hungrily at all I took down in my watery disappearance, will I have new things to keep?

Will I tire and breathlessly rest against the dusty beach of those things?

I’m coasting away, and yet still circling the same surrounding.

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!