Losing every creative bone by the minute, I come tantalizingly close to existentialism. I don’t know if its bravery to stare right into it or to chide at it by giving it the name of boredom. I keep writing in my own head but everything seems to disappear behind a cloudy memory. What are daydreams but self-guided hallucinations? My fingertips move too often, a Parkinsonian tragedy for the pen that I never even hold anymore. The sun tells me to calm down and I oblige and the world seems still, even if it is for a fleeting moment. Peace feels like it’s on the run, a prisoner of its own device. I try to find meaning in this bizarre bulky world and in my foolishly charming attempts, all that happens is spectacular failure. Every forgettable indie song becomes an anthem for my coming of age, an event that surely has surpassed me by now but I keep waiting for it to happen, I cling to it like it’s the only thing I know and seek and need. Where exactly am I stuck in the age continuum? Somewhere between being a teenager for the first time and being an adult for the last time. It’s not a crisis for the early 20s, there aren’t enough wine bottles around to call it that. Yet. To feel just doesn’t seem like it’s enough anymore. How is one to feel without experiencing anything? Everything I feel seems to be an out of body sensation that I observe as an outsider. Am I really feeling it? Or am I just thinking that I am feeling it? Either way, it is overwhelming. I feel like I’m not emotionally equipped to handle the kind of emotions that I face. What amazes me though, is how empty my spirit feels despite facing all these overflowing emotions. Is there a way out of this? I really don’t know. But perhaps, picking up the pen is a start.
Seasons that dwindle on, leaving behind fragments of who I used to be. Heartbreaks at home and tea rituals forgone. To understand acceptance. To travel back into your own soul and stare at yourself- to the mess you’ve made and how bravely you continue to wear it on your sleeve. Hearts on display in the biting breeze of a December that awaits. In my mind, I go forth. Streets of Shibuya glistening in the wake of a soft spell of rain. The 1975 plays from across the room while the smell of some old perfume wafts in, a nostalgic overdose. I am learning, I am becoming. Not quite sure what though. Somedays, bitterness crawls through and settles in the dusty old corners of my heart. Despite it all, I reek of love, I bleed affection. To consume it in small doses, like a rat nibbling on leftover bread. Sanity must be honored. Thankfully, I lost mine years ago. Maybe that’s what allows me to go through seven stages of grief and come out of it both unscathed and destroyed. Dualities and paradoxes. Maybe this is what life amounts to- battles and victories. With your own self. As I continue to travel further into my subconscious and live with my reflections as my alter ego, I wage wars and there’s blood. I don’t really know what to call it, so I call it love.
The tryst between comfort and chaos. The cowardice at choosing the former. Wanting to embrace the symptoms of your own delirium but being so disconnected from the self that you observe your own madness as an outsider. Finding shelter. In words. In humans. In dreams. The seemingly same sequences and how the brain refuses to be fooled into accepting them everyday. Singularities that you once breathed. Now you watch them perish. Not because they have ceased to exist. But because you have. Discourses with the body and the soul and how the world reduces it all to mere dysphoria. Disillusionment doesn’t happen when the world fails to replicate your ideals, it happens when your own reality crumbles into fragments of futility. I am no sun but pessimism doesn’t run through my veins either. All I am is a collection of my multiple lives- all lived through during the course of one single day. In life, I suffer but in my own death, I’m reborn.
The dichotomy of distance. To have but not hold, To want but to be helpless. Bones that ache for they aren’t being held. Longings at blue midnight hours that slowly melt into lonely sunrises. They all want me when I want myself the least. To desert one’s own shadows and to search for someone else’s. Someone who can bring back smiles on soft bruises, someone who can light matches to dispel the darkness within, someone who can take my sorrows far away or maybe sit by the riverside and watch me weep so that we could go home with no tears left to cry. Memory is hazy, time is money, heaven is a heart and two arms and nostalgia is an old friend that fancies long visits at strange hours. What’s one to do? Old cities, old lovers, old stories- I’ve left them all but they just can’t let go of me and so I hold onto fragments of ashes of an era so ancient; so ancient that remembrance serves as a questionable cocktail that leaves nothing but a bitter aftertaste and a smile etched by the hands of sadness herself.
I feel like my days of rabid journaling have become a thing of the past. Constant re-invention. They gulp down drinks while I swallow the skies in their entirety. How come everyone’s words feel so crass and bitter lately, like rattling trains and construction sounds. Ever so jarring. Sometimes, I think of myself as an eternal passenger which is ironical because all that surrounds me is four walls. Plush prisons masquerading as warm homes. No home for me though, none. I feel, almost behave like a vagabond now. Pink Floyd and an evening breeze. Noir movies and bitter coffee. Fighting. And sulking. And dissolving into thin air. Smokescreens everywhere. Comfort costs a little too much, misery piles on free of charge. This world, this life, it goes from fireworks to extinguished fires. All I want is to swim in blue estuaries and drown in love. Wishful thinking. Or maybe it’s just a shadow of a glorified existence that I wish I had. Shadows. Plato’s allegory. Thoughts and how they never die- just like life and how it goes on no matter how tedious it gets. To slip into intimacies, to descend into anarchy, to befriend one’s own angst- there are rewards to be savoured and battles to be won. For now, I’ll just mumble my daydreams out loud hoping for the birds to hear them and take them away to their picnic spots of migration. Correction: to their alternate “homes” that help them survive.
A sweet mouth reeking of bitter coffee. Probing questions about life. Am I killing time or is Time killing me? My bones seem to be recovering from wounds I know nothing of, for my slumbers are long drawn and deep now. The sultry sky changes colours without even wanting to. Yet, there’s neither heat on my skin nor warmth in my body. Metaphorical meanderings, sigh. I crack open a Lager in the dead of the night and watch the city lights come alive. My brain is a brazen organ, it loves to flash erotic images and poignant memories simultaneously, a little too earnestly. To be alone from your own self, can that really happen? Thoughts continue to chase me without me asking for them. Where does one desert them? I keep scraping my skin, my face, my lips- an act of defiance, I mutter. Strange acts we do to lend meaning to our ever-growing insanity, I suppose. I go back between wanting and not wanting. It’s already difficult to operate in dualities but to be a highly functioning human at the same time? Well, I’ve pretty much deserted my old productive self now and there are guilt pangs from my actions. Or the lack thereof. Days melt into nights and it all seems like a never-ending ordeal. Too bad I’m a routine lover and a change hater? Or is it my blatant disregard for almost everything in life now? It feels like I’ve lost the sight of who I am. Or who I’m supposed to be. And so I’ve decided to cling onto anything or anyone that makes me feel remotely alive. Some would call it my road to self-destruction. Like I give a shit. All I care about right now is the granola bar I’m going to devour at 1 am before surrendering to the seductive serenades of sweet ol’ sleep.
Abstractions of the most peculiar kind. The conversation of the moonlight and the midnight cloud bursts. Fragmented realities. The silk of our tongues. Words like wounds and words like painkillers. We own this entire papertown. The other ones may fade away or sink into the depths and crevices of oblivion but not us. You’re something flung out of space and in the layers I’ve not seen yet lies my transient home. Crystallized breaths and an affinity for the unknown. The hours roll by like they mean everything and nothing reducing us to the status of servants and slaves in the eyes of Time. Show me the essence of this existence and I will surrender. How fleeting these moments of magic are and how quickly they disappear into the realms of this unnatural world. It hits us too hard. The sun, the moon, the equanimity given by their light tries to reach us but we are plain and uncouth and primitive and not even in a way that evokes primal passions. And yet, I can’t help but feel it in my black veins. There’s dark matter in our wombs. It pricks us when we smell love. All the restrained movement in our limbs is born from this. The day we will let go of these inhibitions will be the day we will leave this garb of morality behind and become the sinners we know we’ve always been.
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.
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.