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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.

Category

prose

Phantom Phrases

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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.

LIMBO

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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.

Adrift

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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.

Dog Days

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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.

We are the Conscienceless Gods

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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.

Temptress

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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.

Color

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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.

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.

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