Thoughtful Brain, Troubled Mind

Singularity and Boldness (or the lack thereof)

This is of a hand, of an ear, of a bone that each I know is only within me when I watch it speak, an it that becomes a they soon after, this subject thickens the torturous delight. It is beyond a flame, a rich blue, of inferno that is not warm but hard to swallow, of a softness light as vapour, of weight heavier than ceramic. I am not quite sure how intelligible this motivation is. I know its singularity because of how they are all connected to one node and one node only. One must need more than a pair of eyes, a larger heart and two brains—to write and to feel simultaneously. One is not enough, never enough. He, she, them, all bodies that are smaller than their souls and spirits. Pen on their toes and arms, they write and spin, notes falling off the sharp edges of their esoteric smiles. Those people, these men and women, walking fleshes sometimes sedentary, silent and attractive—stories I want to know but would never ask. Through it all, I thought music played a part, but when it reached a decrescendo, I breathed with difficulty but still beating, my eyes parched no longer. I could still talk, still murmur. I could feel a love laterally wrapping me. I felt a different emotion, a birth, as if my body has reached another biological capacity—one I found hard to eschew. But if I believe that the mind and body are different, then what is this biology?

Now I take a sip of water, of warm, warm water. I feel the smooth fall of thick water, then splitting itself into a binary within my chest, I lose it immediately after. I know what drinking water is, what breathing with regulated fours is, what stretching toes on prickly Singapore grass is, but this detachment from watching Art thickens tonight. A sentiment I have fed and one that will never die. What does the body want that the mind is excited by? 

And now I can’t quite write, I can’t churn the feeling. This singularity in expression, this predictability in writing comes only when three words appear, another four concatenate and I have two sentences I know I must write down. The accomplishment of which is then perpetuated by the instantaneous feeling of how massive this motivation has become, how my body feels like writing will only make me feel like I am accompanied, like I am understood. Woolf has said that this is intolerable—this revelation is reinforced, I grieve for the absence of company.

Yet that is the truth of the matter: no one has ever felt so passionately for the movement of limbs and their defiance of gravity. Franz Schubert now you tell me!

When I end, the body will return to its machinery, a dead, dead matter, or in better words, an entity.


I must not sink

My fingers are ready to write, my mind is now ready to spill. My feet are thrown outwards, now my pencil will fill. I am far from the sea and you are the sky – all of you are. The suturing of them both is an idea copied and repeated. We believe in individualism but are drugged by the poets and the artists who marry us in harmony and make us believe we are one when we insist we are two.

We have become quieter, our lapses into madness lesser, and periods of an expected decency greater. Value does not exist without limit. So limit has been manifested under the short sunlit period today. We stood peaceful, like rocks beside a creek, listening to a busker singing “Stand by Me” by Florence and the Machine. Everything felt like a grand theatre and I was part of a performance that would never end. I now see why Virginia Woolf would prefer the violent jolt of London to the silent anaesthetic of Richmond. London is one with many voices, each apportioned an identity interlinked. It is a must for Charles Dickens to be born, for Jane Austen to be born, for Christina Rossetti to be born, for poets and artists to exist and immortalise the upset proportions of the world. Will I write a book? Why are we embarrassed by what we read? I must let the soul suspend and not always push it back to the body. I must write more and read plenty. I must not sink.

I, to you

It is with certainty that he will go. It is likely that he was, out of all my uncles, one most capable of intellectual conversations relating to university, to marriage, to the abounding uncertainties as a father of three daughters who are so different in disposition and in beauty. I could sense the tense depression of my cousin—the eldest of the three. There was a tangible command to ensure consistency in treatment and to not let commiseration grow. Fatality is frightening and in the knowledge of being mortally helpless, one cannot help but simply invest in hope. Nietzsche would have scorned at that choice. But if it sustains the living, does sustainability constitute to a lack of utility? Seeing a vase of flowers, absent in reality, put my aunt in grave shock. A nebulous entity too, my grandfather perhaps? I was reminded of the poem Sylvia Plath wrote in the hospital; I was reminded of so many things; buried memories resurrected naturally and they walked, without flesh, without colour, in the funeral in my brain. The possibilities in that evening—for both him and her—seemed so enormous, so cosmic, that to be walking or simply reading in the veranda must belong to an experience that even joy cannot equate to.

His wife, my aunt, my mother’s sister, my cousins’ mother, has her torment stabbed, due to the repeated explanations to the pattern of visitors entering opaque doors, disrupting a possible peace understood only by two. I wonder, after we leave the room so comfortably dull and so cold, what happens to her breathing, to her fatigue and to her happiness?

To be conscious, to be watching a man once so full of metabolism wither like a flower, trivialises all human capacity to help. When will you speak in a language we can understand?

A vacant motel

I adjust my sorrows
To gears perfect
I listen to its beat
My lungs retract

My temper never prone
To overt enthusiasm
From your excess, thus I loan—

The lack thereof—
I don’t feel I ever scorn
To affect

We talk of nudity
Of character, I mean
Your tolerance of mine
Is slowly turning fine
This weight, I bore in you
A trait, I detest too—

Reading and poetry
Breed crevices beyond honesty
To these doubts, no answers fill
Rises a plaintive woe, immortalised by quill

In dreams, in memory

I dreamt of war quick and fast
Of sanguine faces
And whirlwinds of dust

I pray to thee
Imploring whence does humanity
Gain its infinite glee

To a sickening dismay
As with all other prayers
On that bed I lay

Without an answer I slept
Ruminating in the limpid air
There in the far distance a lady wept

To whose horror! To whose gain!
Are flesh and blood harbingers of pain?


This emotion will be unintelligibly, improperly and unjustifiably transcribed. Oh why do I even try! I can no longer figure my way through words; I am undeniably handicapped. These are growing dissatisfactions of which there are no ailments, no solutions! It is a biological disorder; a tumour growing and hurting the insides of my gut, my lungs, my valves, my skull and possibly culminating in the glorious penetration out of my skin—screaming in absolute liberty! Oh why do the bones want more? Is skin not enough?


My brain is now of twisted nerves; I can’t concentrate on the fleeting nor the whims, nor the insufferable smells of cigarettes burning up, they will combust! I feel I am two: splitting into forms of which I know not, my desires are undergoing mutation, my fears are undergoing change like the unpropitious morning weather—rain or shine! what brine!

I want to breathe life into the undying constants and the great contentment that most possess. But this is a desire, a duty perhaps, which is socially obnoxious. A different happiness does not mean a lesser one. I must remember! Perhaps I need to apply this theory to myself, to just lie back, to relax and breathe in regulated fours. I am a brick about to shatter into rubble; I am a lark—indecisive and sickening and brazen! You told me umpteenth times and I am learning not to be. There are times when I value that passionate pursuit yet times when I seek other more joyous activities. The indulgence of which obliterates my propensity for writing and my marking of growth, my dying youth, my moulting self.

I am going mad! My words are disjunct!

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