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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.

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writing, poetry, music, literature and photography

Beyond The Boundaries

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There’s philosophy and intellectual discourses. But none of it compares to the treasures hidden in our minds. If we could see the entire universe, the celestial bodies we see now would be reduced to a mere light at one corner of the sky and it would be a light that’d hide the earth. This is the reality most of us don’t even know. And yet, we go on rambling about the multiplicity of our complexly spun lives. The stories of our births have tiny feet and now they’ve set foot on the moon. But that’s as far as you and I can go. It is our dreams that play the songs we like to hear. In them, we fly away to the galaxies unknown and taste our feelings. Ever-glowing everything. Let’s never yield to the illusions of our realities, for the real world can best be seen when we close our eyes and drift away into the realms of outer space. Fantasies, let’s dare not to desert them. Breathe in the worlds you create for their death may be inevitable but their span depends on how much life we feed into them. I don’t care if our dreams and realities collide someday because there’s no way that the aftermath would be ordinary. Far from it. As far as the space between the two worlds themselves.

I can’t think of another word for ‘Insanity’

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Words like condensed crystals in the hidden crevices of glaciers waiting for yet another avalanche. There’s caramel coating and space dust in our mouths and yet, all that comes out of it is bullshit. Smelling the daisies at night time, my blurry self regains the lost throne of a drunken majesty even as I sip the flavor of flowers that others can only inhale. Music in my ears, I waltz around with a vibe that can only belong to the 1970’s. And that’s the dream. I imagine puny people smoking on boulevards with a wild dog howling in the backdrop. Talk about a non-classical muse. They were never supposed to be the scum of the Earth but such is my tantrum throwing frozen skull carving bloodshot wounds on my visual imagery. I suppose that’s the price you pay for losing your sanity. Makes me wonder if I ever had it, even in the beginning. Devouring doughnuts at odd hours and watching the television on mute, a soft spell of rain falls outside, which I suppose is Nature’s way of coaxing me, seducing me, begging me to pay attention to her. I wonder if she knows I had married her way back when I was in the womb, blissfully unaware of the devious charms of a world that had awaited me.

Words and Rain

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This sombre rain and the absence of you. Sacrilege and a Godless universe. How sleep visits slowly, like baby steps. Today is a paper plane, heading elsewhere. Each day caresses like a lover and then dies in my arms, once and for all. The battle that I’m waging to protect myself makes me the wounded warrior. Words that lie bare, like antiseptics in olive coloured refugee camps. How will they heal if they’re not applied? I’m dying to hear the symphonies of all these souls and yet, all I receive is a loudness unheard of. Deafening silence too. It’s the eyes I seek thereafter. To be friends with your shadow. The rain makes a sound without having a voice of her own, then why can’t we? Fall. That’s all I ask. Hit my senses like raindrops hit the asphalt. Touch my soul like the rain touches the dried up leaves of the dying trees. Hold me like the rain holds herself in the crevices of the Earth. My words will be washed away in the floods one day and oblivion will be the name of my song. Noah’s Ark. Home. Life. I seek none. I am willing to drown myself in you if you let me. But not without your song. Sing me to sleep. For once, let it visit and take me slowly, then all at once.

Dementia

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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.

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.

 

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.

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.

Humble

 Circa, 2016. 

It’s so easy to fall in love with fragility.

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