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Inked Thoughts and Midnight Monologues

A fluid state of being with a memorable trail, through a river full of thoughts I sail. Leaving the labyrinths of a chaotic world behind, it’s a journey through the jungles of my subconscious mind.

Limerence

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The light from the old bulb dies down slowly and in the fading of its iridescence, I find myself drunk in the very idea of your flesh. It’s mine to own and yet, your wings take flight and disappear before my eyes in an instant. You’re a known memoria, like the one Kurt Cobain sings about. Every crevice, every scar and every dream- only if you could see yourself through my eyes. Birthing fantasies at odd hours, I think about the collapse of the universe around me, within me. Everything seems to unhinge itself from the invisible clutches, it’s like a candle melting away softly in the dead of the night. Dissent is our drug and without it, we lose ourselves in the dirt of this existence. The grandeur of your garb leaves me in awe and makes me question the impossibility of it all. Scenarios of sensuality. Nyctophilia. An act of art. Gravity cannot contain me. It’s one of the gifts I have. Reveries and stars. They’re my everything. This kind of sensitivity doesn’t come easily to many. They’re all soft machines, encoding for their impending demise. It is one of my sadistic pleasures, to see them all behave the way they do. But sometimes, this cocktail I drink so fervently, it degenerates into dysfunctionality. In its wake, a rush of warm feelings render me strangely tipsy. So many of them. It feels like an overdose of a wrong prescription, that of love. But, it can’t be it. Oh, the way it consumes me entirely. Head to toe; every vein, every cell, every atom. All the time, it finds its way back to you. It’s always been that way. It’s both a blessing and a curse to see you oblivious to it. Your eyes, they seek to call me names of an eternal affection. When you’d look into mine, all you’d see is the lust for control. I don’t really know why my mind wants, almost needs to sink your body, every inch of it, into my kingdom of calamity. You produce waves and I savor their magnificent sight. You are the forest I tread when everything seems to be lost. They say, we all come with a baggage. You’ve helped me to not only unpack it, you’ve taken the baggage away from me. To the distant sea with all those waves and you’ve left me with you and I don’t know what to do except for loving you till the end of time.

The Galaxy Song

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My fingernail tastes like nectar as I sink my teeth into it. The air is a furnace with fumes that feel both drowsy and dreadful. This summer trance is an eternal one, without a saving grace. My room is like a cubicle of sultry fantasies. In my head, I rule the world. I control their desires and their dreams. The social compass I carry is broken, it has been so for a long time. Solitude and the smell of homegrown leaves. The television stays mute, for the conversations in my mind are too ebullient for this world. And too crude. They cannot handle it. Neither can I, of course. Chastity is tragic. So utterly unspectacular. I want collisions and sparks and flames. The cosmic patterns continue their dance and when the world sleeps, I remain the sole spectator of the spectacle. The lines on my palm reveal and reflect my fallen angel status. Such twisted theories. God, how I love them. If there’s anything that causes me both pleasure and pain, it’s the beautiful mess of my mind. As cluttered it may be, it helps me to understand the universe a little better when I want a break from unravelling the beastly secrets from the dungeons within. After all,  what’s life without a little whimsy? Staring at the ceiling, I imagine it to be a galaxy waiting for me to come back home. It sings to me in ways most people can’t. It’s her song that helps me sleep at night. Crooners and lullabies of the lovers, be damned. The universe speaks, always. Feel her movement in your bones. When life pleads for reawakening, you must respond to her clarion call. It takes a lifetime to listen and a second to crumble. Deathknell or daylight. Winter or spring. The ground or the galaxy. What will it be? We were born to die but also to fly. We may lack substance and meaning but there’s a always a purpose. Find it. It’s calling you home, somewhere in the starry stratosphere, where you’ll be safe and sound.

 

Us against the world

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Ephemeral vanity. Storms. Electric radio falling down a tub. Bullet holes. Bubbles in summer air. We’re everything, all at once. Reckless and cautious. Motionless and spinning. Night and day. My atoms dissolve into your body and your mere touch ignites my being. Sweat and tears. Broken promises and midnight embraces. We are nothing more than strangers but breathe together through each other’s failing organs. Windows of the past life and closed doors of the future. All we have is now. You and me. Us Against the world. Lying in shades of the sycamore tree under a sky of indigo. The hue of your smile. Nature’s daylight never had such colors. Ambition fades away. Sins come alive. Mock me, if you will, but this is what it amounts to. There are landscapes with our names on the dirt. We belong in a world we haven’t seen. Yes, I’m soft as clouds when it comes to you but thunder is all I’ve ever known. You’re the sun and the rain. You’re the light in me and my darkness. Choose wisely and act on it, for your ruin is in my hands and mine in yours. It’s always been that way. Help me in becoming what I want to be and I promise, one day, not far from today, we will leave this mass of mediocrity and merge with the mist.

Image Infatuation

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We walk with our eyes open and hearts closed. The soul never stops yearning. Cramped apartments with empty tea cups. Sliding down the bath tub and breathing in numb oxygen. Passing down the streets at lonely hours and seeing old men drinking out of brown paper bags. Dull colors and bright colors. Frequencies of ships lost in torrential storms. A sound, a cry; heard but ignored. The hurt in these eyes. The façade of futile smiles. The temperature soars, so does the anger within. The cat with devil eyes. Glistening in the dark of the night. Choked prayers in small town hospitals. The propulsion of an airplane flying from Bangkok to Bulgaria. This world, with immense everything. Black jackets and old records. Neon lights of an Asian pub. An old library somewhere in England. Rubble. Rust. Romance. Iced tea in dry summer heat. Fleeting joys. Broken toys. Aliens and the supernatural. Guitar strings and John Keats. Elegies and ecclesia. Community at its best. Society at its worst. All is same. Different is everything. These images never leave my mind, and in this dark world, this becomes my only light.

Whiplash

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Bite into me as we dissolve into broken pieces of nothingness. Hurt me, so I can hurt you back, so I can carve these contusions into your body, so I can put the waves of the oceans in your eyes. Deceive me and then cry. You’re the wind. I’m the tornado. We don’t have to do this endless dance and then die. But you make me do it. You. You. You. Jesus Christ. So oblivious of my pain and still so intricately woven into it. Into me. We’re one. We’re one like the sky is with the sea. The hokum of a horizon. The falseness of your friendship. The madness of my mind. You’ll be the end of me and yet everything begins with you. That smile is etched in the sunrise. The glimmer of your eyes make the stars feel unworthy. You’re the sin, you’re the light. When you leave, I taste the darkness. And it devours me. You stand and stare. You let it in. You make me hate you. And yet, here I am, battered and bruised in a love so deep that it can never be known or seen or felt. It transcends me, just like it transcends you. It’s written somewhere in the stardust of the souls, gilded with the light that only you can radiate.

Riddle me this

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I pity the classicists of the 18th century. Blind devotions. Lust for sanity. Pestilence and empty wit. I recently read about how they were deceived by the dulling film of familiarity which they never tried to see through. The romanticists knew better. They scraped off this film and draped the world in the light of their imagination and well, everything struck them with iridescent, prismatic effects. I could’ve been a Byron but never a Wordsworth. I have never known the surface, I’ve always been friends with profundity. And meaning. I don’t see Nature as a spiritual being, capable of making me serene. I have come to terms with how I can never know calm, not because it’s beyond me but because I cannot, I just cannot live with it. Chaos makes you descend into madness. But, it is the only way to evolve. Sometimes, I tend to ask questions to myself that have no definite answers. Sometimes, there are no answers at all. My thoughts are too abstract and I hide behind my metaphors and images. I’m not too proud of it but that’s how it is. The bare truth. Passengers in their fluid sleep, dream of landscapes they’ve never seen. The torrential winds that unknowingly attempt to wound the wings of birds are the same winds that push them towards the edge of the eternal horizon. I despise change yet I thrive in it. I hate it when I drown in my emotions but I know that without them, I’m nothing. I seek solitude but I’m afraid to be alone. What is this life? Philosophers, poets, scientists, humble farmers and I’d dare say, even the wild beasts have tried to find answers to this unanswerable question. Is it a quest or is it a journey? Do you seek the truth or do you stay receptive and wait for it to come to you? I’m just a speck of sand in this deserted desert waiting for the same torrential winds that will bring me the rain. The rain may give me a few answers and even if it doesn’t, it will bring a smile to my face. And a countless number of thoughts, of course. Writers like us, we take the weather too seriously anyways.

Same Old Love

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Eyes deceive softly, people swiftly. Sounds become mute movements from parched mouths. I used to be afraid of snakes but now snakes are people and people, snakes. Glistening in crimson heat, waiting to swallow you. Aching bones and silver shadows. Pretense rises like dewy mist in the air and as everyone around me inhales these fatal vapors, I simply stand and watch for there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe I can, but I know too well of its beastly futility. Our lives are enigmatic miseries and yet we ramble on about how beautiful we are. We are organic dirt, a splattered hue of scarlet blood veined creatures so fragile, so ephemeral that we splinter into thousand fragments thinking we’re on the verge of an immortalized epiphany. The truth is, you and I are as messed up as our ruffled hair and our skulls are secretly cracked with sinful entities. As much as they glorify something that doesn’t exist, we’ll always be surrounded by painful lies and people who hurt. You may think someone is perfect out there for you but there isn’t. Imperfections come masked in graceful figures reeking of a beauty that isn’t even there. Deception crawls slowly as time dwindles away in the lonely hour. People make you feel when you don’t want to. Crystals of tears succumb to the gravity of emotion and there’s so much to say sometimes that it kills you on the inside. Feelings would’ve never meant so much had it not been for the people you desire from the deepest corners of your heart. But when everything merges in an endless sphere of fear, morphed by flaws you find and people you pursue, all you’re left with is yourself- battered and bruised in a love that was never meant to be.

A rush of blood to the head

I’m going to see Coldplay live in concert in 3 days and I’m dying of the excitement. 

~v

Melancholia

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Long empty corridors reeking of old lost souls. Sipping on cold water, I imagine a land without organic dirt. Where would the dying leaves find a home then? Maybe I could carry some of them in my bag pack. It’s better to lie still and do nothing than to wait for calls from ghosts. People they’re called. Not to me though. One day, not far from today, there will be a reunion of those who breathed yet never lived. I don’t wish to be a part of it. I am made of smoke and dust and all things fragile and transient. They want to hold me but like the desert sand, away I slip from their soft fingers. Someday, I want to dance the night away in a dark room. Alone and smiling. The wine glass would swirl on my fingertips as I’d recall forgotten names under heavy breaths. That’s what I want. A String of friends turned strangers fly away in mist when I look at the morning sky and just when I blink, the day drowns into the stars of the night and I find myself talking animatedly to the wind. I shiver and the wind picks up its speed. Nature becomes hostile and I am reminded of betrayals and jazz music. I walk with a crowd that seldom thinks, that never feels. My bones ache but it’s not the pain, it’s the anger, perhaps fused with melancholy. They’ll never know. Such a pity, really. Such base desires. I’d rather mock them and sulk alone than be a part of something so utterly meaningless. The sounds of the sea are calling my name. I’m afraid I’ll drown if I go near them. They’ll find their faults with the sea too. It’s saltwater, they’ll say. It tastes sweet, if you ask me. Reading an old classic till my eyes hurt, I play some music for myself. It doesn’t help. It’s doesn’t help at all. These birds scream too, I’ve realized. Nobody who treads the earth as a mortal can truly know ‘meaning’. Maybe my veins do not carry optimistic blood, but I still believe in a truth that my mind tells me. Thoughts are my bedtime stories and chaos is a lover in disguise. The more I see, the less I know. It hurts but I shouldn’t let it. There are too many things left to be seen and too many things seem to be left. I can try to find the missing pieces if not solve the puzzle itself.

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