Tag: personal

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 fewer, 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.

Old People

I get reminded of lonely old people whenever I drive past barren trees. Sickly branches and wrinkled trunks parallel to that of aged paper-like skin, where their protruding veins are similar to that of the coarse barks. They say that old trees have a spiritual entity residing in them when the time comes, to safeguard the tree and to guide lost travellers. I take their word for it.

At dawn and then at night, I witness the callous draining of youth away from your face, like a reversed injection, slowly and noxiously. Dining together is the thing I cherish timelessly. We talk about Buddhism, my seeming metamorphosis to a misanthropic, our similar taste in music, relationships and many more. Somehow, I knew you’d be plagued by and by. Please, don’t get consternated by this biological process, love and philosophies will be retained. Pain and hunger will soon away.

Youth like water is wasted. The beauty of it only appreciated when solitude overwhelms, when tranquillity coerces the radically reverberating heart to quieten down. Alas, epiphany always has her way of settling herself comfortably in the seats of one’s soul, ever late in her arrival. The only thing that can accelerate it is when tragedy is a moiety of it. Just as how humans begin to see their creases on their faces, it is a cue for her set in.

It is in youth that we repress the seeming voices of maturity, creating a crater that breeds a dearth of appreciation. Maybe this is why old people are so pensive, yet fervently filling the rooms with constant chattering. They appreciate presence and they value self-awareness. Afterall, it is in experiencing something palpable that one is convinced that what is going on internally is real.

Then again, perhaps there isn’t much to think about ageing. The cinematic visualisations of men and women sitting comfortably in rocking chairs, where silence is their solace have been presented since time immemorial. Otherwise, the gravely distressing portrayals of depressed grannies breaking out in speciously wicked laughters, for they declare, “If you never laugh, you’ll never scare the depression away”.

how painful it would be to age
where the gurney is our supposed haven
‘n ailments seem to tear more than heal
born alone, leave sole

    heads hurt
      like the periodic gonging
of the grandfather clock
  muscles ache
    like the subtle breaking of bones
born alone, leave sole

pull the curtains
we’re not zombies but sunlight
don’t kick the bucket (I implore)
born alone, leave sole

I hear your sporadic gasps
I hear your outcries
I hear your lamentations
I hear ye drops of despondency at irregular intervals

I am sorry, dear body.

The Wrath of Hades

It’s a mystery how sad and suicidal music are ever so intriguing, evoking pangs of woe and melancholy that are perversely gratifying. Its slow and paced melody resonates strongly in the heart, heartstrings dance and the heart palpitates rhythmically (mayhap that’s the rhythm your heart uncommonly makes when a certain sort of incomprehensible blue seeps in). As our eyes begin to see, the grotesque sight of reality becomes ever so lucid, making her poignant stench awfully overpowering, intoxicating and in many ways, virulent.

We’re given limbs, only to be treated like marionettes, given eyelids to blink, a mere portryal of being alive. We’re given a heart, to contain and bottle the vice and malice thoughts that are not prohibited by forces to expound and articulate. Remember, “Nothing can truly be answered, even if so, it breeds more doubt.”

In an idealistic world, Aristotle’s theory of happiness is perhaps pertinent, yet written to feed us mere mortals with dusts of hope and streaks of inspiration. The more I contemplate about my aspirations and goals, the more I feel divided — stripped off bare and vulnerable. We seek validation more than ever before, seeking to be lauded by forces that are competent enough to elevate us and bring us to this platform of grandeur. We articulate even when thoughts are nothing but sheer hot air, donning a seeming concrete coat of intelligence. (I am sorry for the burden ye have to carry) Everything is either blown out of proportion or ridiculously glorified in shared contrived smiles.

The inherent desire to dominate is not worth the talk but dire. The stench has become acidic, turning gardens into deserts, backed by the sun’s sweltering rays, they rip the ground open, releasing the wrath of hades. We land ourselves in an extremely hapless situation where helplessness is our pillory. We can only resort to broadcasting them on the media, write about them in newspapers, hoping to engender some sort of reform. (But are we?)

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
that vile thoughts are ubiquitous

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
that lusty thoughts are pointless craftsmanship

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
how inherently bereft of compassion
they are

Soon, the wrath turns murky, covering the faces and inadvertently, morphing our most pristine and innocent selves into carriers of vice. The hypocrisy of creatures is simply revolting. It’s as though we’ve gotten intoxicated by the poignant stench of reality. Filling our stomachs not with food but with a bag of conceit air. We engage in small, contrived talks as though our lives depended on it. We’re not reliant on bread and butter, but on mere intangible things that are not even quantifiable; circling our lives around frivolous things and seeking admiration. We don’t realise the very fact that we are living, only when we rest on the gurney do we come to realise the fallacies that have been committed. We can write pages about them, sing a multitude of songs or cry a bucket of tears. But pathetically enough — and quite truthfully — we are nothing but creatures thrown into an abyss where we acquire nothing but mere phoney traits.


Gale, blow away the melancholy and sadness.
Cloudburst, wash the calamities with your pristine water.
Fill the noise with hypocrisy no longer but with naturalistic echoes.

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