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.




The wind plays it derisive ballad as my thoughts fly away to distant lands at the stroke of midnight. Old melodies revisit me but the halls of menacing secrets have been locked away safely lest a trespasser should invade them. What I’ve been seeking has no name, has no shape but is built by the occult mind maze encapsulated by the smoke of skeletal burdens. There are dreams but how transient they are, like visitors from Nordic countries, too eager to flee, wrapped in vapors of invisibility. Sleep chokes me for hours at end and reading old books feels like partaking in a train wreck. There’s harm in even the most innocent of gestures-paranoia, with its sinister shaped clouds raining over me while everyone else seems to be bathing greedily under the skin resurrecting sunlight. I’m assured of one thing though: control is captivating. It’s a new power I’ve stumbled upon. If used well, I could own desires, twist things my way. How hungry it makes my soul. I’m nothing but a hyena smelling blood. How interesting things become through perceptions unheard of. Corrupt me, heavenly sin. I await my downfall, ever so diligently.




These daydreams strangle me with a passionate grasp, they clutch me till breathlessness takes over and leave me just as I am about to die of ecstasy. If I could, my hands would run all over your body and soul alike till I’ve stripped you off naked because beauty and sin need to fuse into each other till they’ve become one. They can never be separated, for that would be one casualty I cannot afford. These desires run deeper than you can ever imagine or understand. Volcanic eruptions and midnight fog pales in comparison to what we are. The entire universe starts and ends at our feet. We’re grand yet mediocre. Steeped into the seas of profaneness. If the gods ever tear at my flesh, they’ll find crimson perversion. I don’t claim to be an ordinary human whose life is spent doing the same old acts patterned in pedantic squares. Give me something mechanical and watch me destroy it to death. It’s not weak to give in to your whims, I say do it day in and day out. Breathe out puffs of apathy from that cigar and spread the grey ashes into the abyss of the society. Weak is when you stop chasing these fantasies, When you become afraid to feel them living inside you. Do not let them slip out of your grasp forever or this war will rage on. To feel is to be vulnerable and to be vulnerable takes strength and courage. The sand of this eternal hourglass will lie suspended in the cold air the day you revel in your dreams and when that happens, I promise you, it will tremble your bones with a vigor and wonder you never knew existed.



Such worthless wonders claiming to own and rule this world. Truth is, they’re not us, they can never be. They’re magpies and street dogs and ravens cloaked in human skin. Their ambitions are reduced to dust and their lives are mediocre. Such blandness repulses the core of my being. To live like them is to live in vain and for all the thousand lifetimes I get, I’ll choose to be wise and be one with my art rather than kiss the gravel and breathe in their dirt clad gutters. God gave me wings, yet I love my roots a little too much. It’s all about redemption in the eyes of that bleary image you see of yourself in the mirror. Doubt and despair rises like a black burst of smog, it tries so hard to choke these lungs. Yet, we inhale. Some choose to rise above this empty laughter and leave the unceasing desire to be normal. The ones who do so are the ones who thrive. Simplicity is a child, a flower that blossoms in the middle of nowhere. It’s the storms that shape you. Don’t get me wrong, but beauty is in chaos, in the perfumed pertubations of our heavy hearts. They will worship whatever glitters. Yellow sunlight and a flock of birds. That’s not imagery, that’s convention. That’s the norm. We’ve been taught and told to like all these things ever since we’ve walked this planet which is why every damn kid out there tries to chase the light. What is this light, anyways? As a grown up, I know now that it’s nothing to be chased. It is within me. I am the light I radiate and that’s about it. Nothing romantic about it. Glorification of beauty makes it rust, it’s like tasting honey with sugar. Saccharine suicide. These painted lives, they’re supposed to have all the colors, even the dark ones, stolen from every spectrum, from every galaxy, from every shade that there ever was. Even the sunlight smells sleep, at last. I know not why but even the night sky seems to be so much more beautiful when it’s dark. So, take my hand and don’t look back. All I want for us is nothing more than every color in our palette. The ones who are too absorbed in mediocrity will perish soon and that’s when we’ll come out to celebrate a life meant for living the way we live it- in colors that don’t even exist yet.




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



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


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


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.




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



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.

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