4

Many of the shades of the departed busy themselves entirely with lapping at the waters of the Acheron, because it comes from us and still carries the salt tang of our seas. This causes the river to coil with revulsion, and even to reverse its course, and so to wash the dead back to life. They are perfectly happy, and sing chorus of gratitude, and caress the indignant river.

When I first wrote Almost Heaven, I didn't quite know what I was trying to achieve (and I don't think I have achieved it). However, the above quote has, in a sense, expressed the core principle and motivation behind the conception of my (unoriginal) text.

As we seem perfectly happy, singing and caressing that imaginary river(s), what we fail to see is a Dante image that is entirely fabricated by a supposed cosmology too embedded in us (or them) to see its fabrication. This image is a poetic creation. A world created by logos.

Every production washes the dead back to life. Every reproduction brings back the smiles and memories of yester-eras. But does every reproduction return us to the garden?
It is a pure carnival; an obsession to live the moment of salvation again and again. It is to experience that moment of fall and rise again and again. It is to be exalted again and again,
Each repetition and flux of the moving engine/waterwheel is to re-create the circus of fools where repentance is simulated again and again. But each time, it negates. Each time it goes nowhere except its own destruction. Every creative reproduction is really a destructive negation.
For a while, we think the dead are back, materialised by the physical presence of performers.
For a while, the Garden of Eden is revisited, materialised by the steel and plywood of our contemporary machines.

Yes, rivers bring life. But a river of recycled pollution will commit a vicious cycle of repetition, threatens the finished work and increases the viscosity of our accumulated debt.

I thank that the finished work is once and always sufficient in that one moment in eternity.

Every narrative is a repetition of a previous in grotesque proportions.
But if you are happy, who cares?

He cares.

3

There are two cardinal human vices, from which all the others derive their being: impatience and carelessness. Impatience got people evicted from Paradise; carelessness kept them from making their way back there. Or perhaps there is only one cardinal vice: impatience.



a later sentence was striked off.

I had never felt more impatient till now.
and that is all I can say for that matter.

--

this is a dangerous terrain to thread. At least I'm not ready to publicly talk about it.
But how apt #3 should appear today. how very appropriate.
it's not getting easier.
everything has this muddled sense of half-assed frivolity that I cannot name them.
ah yes, so what if this is this and that and that?
there's always another death in the process to undermine the living.
I can't remember when I started to have bad eyesight.
I can't remember why and when I started to speak so softly.
I can't remember when my hearing deteriorated.
shoo! lest the flies come to you too.

do not read existentialism.

she , are.
do not read.

2

All human errors stem from impatience, a premature breaking off of a methodical approach, an ostensible pinning of an ostensible object.


allow me to go as far as to say that it (I) threatens to be hypocrisy.
unfortunately, I cannot judge myself.
the period of dissipation occurs slightly after (can only be after) a grim manifestation of my incompetence.
what else?
must I always be right?
and yet I pretend to be so.
there is a period of remorse.
just a period, then complacency, then forgery, and then just that breaking.
till I pretend all over again.

reverie,
there must be more ways to get to the underground.
I don't quite like mornings,
they don't come too quickly, see.
so why see? I should just write notes in hiding.
only too soon, will I feel that I am writing for myself.

Writing is,
the nasty desire to repay with spite the offence that my flesh has purely and simply inflicted me with;
too simple and pure an act that to repay with contempt would be to unsettle my former principles.
Values,
these are the former (and later) lies that shut the doors tight on the first awakening.
I should give up on the props.
(pen, keyboard...etc?)
They are a sort of fatal machines, perfumes and made from all the best of engineering diagrams.
Only to fail for simply being methodical.
I doubtlessly fail to surprise myself.
when all things run so smoothly, somewhere lurks the demon.
Therefore, I don't really believe myself.

there is a double naivety -
I can't deal with the external,
so I escape to the inside.
Only that the outside is the inside, or vice versa.
Or is it?
I can't quite make up my mind, hence my ignorance.
Then too often, I believe in a crystalline edifice, an atom and an eternal entity.
That way, I don't have to deal with the inside/outside.
It's just a belief.

I believe I lie.



therefore,
the end
won't come soon.
It has already begun.
and no method
no amount of patience
no form of performance
can capture that lonely sense I embody daily.

1

The true path is along a rope, not a rope suspended way up in the air, but rather only just over the ground. It seems more like a tripwire than a tightrope.

reproduced without permission


There is always a sense that the Nietzschean tightrope is too high a height to closely mock the authority standing at the bottom. Perhaps, a moderation of this is found in this first aphorism. It makes me wonder what or who holds the ends of the rope. It also makes me wonder why we trip on it even though it is right in front of us. Perhaps our heads always look up far too often?
Sometimes the dichotomies are too far apart. Moderation is good in so far as it is able to be neither nor but immediately real to our experience. Not too high, and not too grounded; just enough to immediately affect me. just enough to trip the all too boastful prophet.

I lost count of the number of times I tripped vis-a-vis truth.

and, you don't quite want or are able to cross over.


--

this is the beginning of 109 commentaries as I reflect on Kafka's apohorisms.
I have often difficulties in reading works by Nietzsche and Kierkegaard because of a portrayed ease in their existential movements. Are we really such talented performers? They weren't.
Kafka offers me a very piercing exposition of our human condition.
It is the inability to be, that calls to question our fate.

Blessed is the man that trusteth in the LORD, and whose hope the LORD is.

For he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit.

Jeremiah 17:7-8

it is.

when I have the time,
I'll tell them they're out of time.
when I have the chance,
I'll tell them they have lost the chance.
I have neither time nor chance.
I am just breathing.

they have nothing else to say.
repeating the words in variants of the same theme.

but these are the words that haunt me tonight:

"It cannot be claimed that we are lacking in belief.
The mere fact of our being alive is an inexhaustible font of belief."
"The fact of our being alive a font of belief? But what else can we do but live?"
"It's in that 'what else' that the immense force of belief resides:
it is the exclusion that gives it its form"

______

It isn't necessary that you leave home. Sit at your desk and listen. Don't even listen, just wait. Don't wait, be still and alone. The whole world will offer itself to you to be unmasked, it can do no other, it will writhe before you in ecstasy.

Kafka, 109, The ZUERAU APHORISMS

I feel excluded from this world by excluding the rest as 'what else'.
I am not even waiting.

It doesn't make sense initially. Until I thought about my travels.
It fascinates me that I should discover immobility by moving around so frequently.
When I desire to be somewhere else, I am inevitably manifesting my insecurity. It is as though I am both alienated by the unfamiliarity of the familiar and drawn to the comfort of my passage of play and escape. To escape, really, is to be trapped.
The momentary emotion of triumph can only be shortlived once I realise how infinitely lonely I am as a physical presence - merely a tourist, a paying subject, an object for the foreign gaze, or simply ignored as just another number
To discover really, is to discover my own projections and others.
hence, I uncovered this basic understanding of 'what else' means. In all passivity and activity, the world summons me and demands me to react. I am always overwhelmed, forced into some action that is both mine and not. I move, so to speak.

But really, without the 'what else',

I am so alive.
Every day and night I face this truth. This profound and simple truth.
With it I feel the vessels pressing against the underside of my skin. I feel my bones. I sense the wind and the temperature of the floor. It is as if everything I experience is that mirror to tell me I am so alive. But the curse/blessing is that I cannot be conscious of myself like an outsider can. I cannot look at myself and be myself within my body simultaneously. Beyond this phenomonology of embodied perception, I encounter what is a 'what else' that haunts me.

'what else' do people believe in?
what else do people tell?
what else do people do?
what else is there besides life and death?

every movement is that movement to take form of 'what else'.
This movement cannot escape us. We live to be overwhelmed by the alarming presence of form and images. It is almost as if we cannot live without it. It is almost as if we live to create and destroy.

And for Kafka to tell me to do absolutely nothing (which is impossible), I sense that profound experience that awaits me. It is as though I must ready myself to starve in the desert and be tempted by the riches of this world. And do absolutely nothing. How crazy is that!

But I am reminded that He has done that before.

The moments when I feel closest to Him are when I do nothing.
I face a black (not quite) monolith, voices galore, chanting and enticing but I try my best to ignore them.
and absolute silence (if possible) begins.
I don't have words of laws, variants of the same theme, doctrines, beliefs, lies, and etc to listen to.
I don't have gibberish and foreign languages to decode.
I don't have performances and simulacra to entertain and to be distracted from.

what I have is this feeling of home, in the belly of the void world, where nothing is everything.
And then suddenly, I sense the entire world pounding on me, completely unmasked. When I first read 109, it eluded me. But suddenly , 109 makes so much sense.

In the face of constant repetitions of the same theme, I find instead a perculiar way out of my current predicament.

I am sure I will continue to stumble and lament. I am positive I will cry and despise my failures.
I can be a black hole that unwillingly suck in everything outside me.
But I shall labour to keep my peace. I shall remember the seven steps of your way.

That perculiar way of doing nothing, is so profoundly real to me.

I thrive in the passive synthesis of contradictions not because they bring me somewhere. Instead, it points to me the futility of discourse.

I cannot hear any words. I do not want to. I cannot understand anything. I don't need to.
I shall hear neither myself nor others.
Instead, the Word shall live in me like the Word that people despise.
Such high words, but that is the height that I must face.
No words of flattery, convenience, pleasures and present desires.
Neither some far away land or conceived ideas of eternity.

\Instead, all I ask is home.
\where I can rest, no, not rest,
\be, no, not be.
\be still and alone,
someday...more will join me.
when we stop moving,
but are all translated,

it won't be 'what else'. It will be 'it is'.

someday, I'll visit Zuerau too.
thank you,
for those tearless moments,
gasps and pants of inspirations.

i shall now write alone.

the face of the other is the trembling of the self.

"for the truth of this momentary happening is but the semblance of an image.
there is nothing, in effect, true about this image.
perhaps, I find myself a belief, a structure in which my entire existence and post-existence can depend on.
the weight of this liberty immediately falls on me and I carry with me the statue of hope.
therefore,
there is nothing to contradict with.
nothing to argue against.
it is a belief,
so respect it.
from a momentary happening I then project it to an eternal entity
free from the chains of the temporal, I suspend time and space
and re-construct my own time and space in an image of perfection.
my thoughts are able. Indeed.
there is nothing against this belief.
it is mine.
but this egoistical movement must lend its power through numbers.
I thereby call out to others to follow me.
there is strength in numbers.
even the false can be true.
I find then a community, a willing one, to lead and to be led.
belief is such a vague thing.
but promises aren't.
images aren't.
therefore my plan to fool my followers has finally taken shape.
it is mine because there are others to align with.
o splendid!
as long as I'm not alone, I can win my trophy.
my religion, my faith."

"the underground is no longer a dark place.
it is illuminated by the devices of my imagination.
I fill the underground with mirrors of desires.
there are unlimited wants and desires to satisfy our boredom.
what are infidelities if we have somehow factor them into this stable superstructure?
let us create Edinburghs in every city link."

the underground is no longer a place of meditation.

aufhebung is a myth.

there is only one way out.
plunge and let die.

All faces are His; this is why He has no face
Edmond Jabes

I can't go. I must go on.
as long as there are those who understand the above quote,
I can still go on.
after all, there will come a day when I forget everything.
I'll leave the remembering to someone else.

sinnlos.
thy truth is far.
they mock me with a feverish fervour
i depart amid the chaos.
you won't find me,
alas,
you won't find me.

nick: I have a letter for you.

joy: after so long?

nick: yes, but I've decided not to send it to you.

joy: why?

nick: I'm afraid I would send it to the wrong person.

joy: but I haven't changed my address.

nick: yes, I know. But the addressee has changed.

joy: (silent) are you disappointed?

nick: no. it almost seems inevitable that I should misplace your address.

joy: you did? I thought you meant...

nick: ...the address to your heart.

joy: oh.

nick: finally it all makes sense.

joy: what makes sense?

nick: perhaps...actually...i don't quite know what to say.

joy: just say. (pause) I'm ready.

nick: you wanted me to write.

joy: yes.

nick: I was reluctant. eventually I did. but it didn't make sense. because soon after, I felt compelled to stop writing. which I did. but sometimes I wrote and became who you wanted me to be. but now...after all this while...i feel like i don't know you.

joy:...yes, I did. I feel like I no longer know you too.

nick: yes. We both changed.

joy: you're very cruel you know.

nick: I am? (pause) you are too.

joy: why am I?

nick: please don't be angry.

joy: I admit I was whenever you stopped writing.

nick: it seemed the only thing to do.

joy: did you talk to him?

nick: yes...

joy: and?

nick: nothing. the voice i hear though, is a soft murmur from you. and it's fading. your voice...it's changing.

joy: (pause) I don't know to cry or laugh.

nick: be who you must be.

joy: so I won't get to read your letter?

nick: it's for someone else.

joy: stop this!

nick: no...wait...really...be who you will be. I'm really happy for you. it's really about me. at some point, I have to stop writing.

joy: I don't think I will ever understand. but I respect your decision.

nick: I don't too. you see...it hurts me when... sometimes you appear all strong and sure. but sometimes, you're weak and vulnerable. sometimes you're careless with your words. sometimes you're so frank i admire you. sometimes you see the beautiful small things around you. but sometimes your eyes look so tired and small. sometimes you are so random. sometimes you got everything all planned out. i can't find you. i can't.

joy: this is making me...

nick: you shouldn't hear this. but I've said it. you know...I miss last time. when our words did not weigh as heavy as they are now.

joy: it's your fault.

nick: yes. it is. I shouldn't have written the first letter.

joy: why must it be like this.

nick: more than often...people hardly have proper dialogues. it's usually monologues after monologues. I'm glad we could have real dialogues before. but now...I guess...

joy: you don't have to say.

nick: when this all ends, whatever happens, this memory holds a special place. you hold a special place. (pause) I know you couldn't fulfil my earlier wish. but can you promise me one last wish?

joy: what?

nick: raise your fingers like thisgood. look through it. yes. now turn away your fingers. what do you see?

joy: (pause) more things.

nick: no. more distractions. my last wish for you is to promise me not to be careless anymore. when you say something to someone, mean it to the end. people won't know what you actually want if you are not clear from the beginning to the end...for them to suddenly know your final intention, it can be quite a shock. but more importantly, if you have decided on something, do it to the end. if not...you'll end up hurting both the other party as well as yourself.

joy:....I...

nick: no...wait...you don't have to reply. after all...this was just my imagination. you were...my imagination. (pause)
my earlier wish to spend my entire day with...was for someone else. I wanted to meet her. But now she's gone. I can't write to her. I can't.

gentle breeze,
full moon.
i can sleep, I can't sleep.

gently the cradle,
harshly the shine.
i can go on, I can't go on.

if u smile,
i can.
i can, I can't.

i am becoming talkative.
these self dialogues are ever so frequent.
"where do I meet you?"
why should I meet you.
these are strange days.
waking has that impure pathos of ruining my sleeping.
seven years from now.
there are reasons for tremors to subside
after the disaster,
writing has a potency of meaning nothing.
why don't keep quiet for a second?
I could if I have no audience.
early tomorrow morning,
the fire burns at a lukewarm temperature.
monologues are like earthquakes.
you don't know when to speak back.
creepy selfishness,
unattended pots of bonsai.
the rain will fall.
but don't flood the poor kids.
happy days,
the return of the tree beckons.
I won't be there for the carnival.
windy days,
some plants die while the tree remains.
some parasites live while the tree dies.
will you stay alittle longer?
I promise I'll not take long.
there is a strange murmur accompanying the wind.
it says, "when do I meet you?"
I won't know.
you are such an enigma.
be careful what you wish for.
the yesterdays are coming.
I can't react. I am reacting.
I can't run, I am running.
each day, I grow like a stubborn tree.
let's wait for the wind, haze and sun.
I had enough of waiting, though.
being free is such a lie.
verse by verse I recall,
there are no words to express.
I want to meet you.
I can't meet.
I don't have the answers.
these are verses of questions.
writing is such a chore.

me: no, weird, as it may sound, today I greeted a singing bird

yoshie: no, you, i greeted. you.

Sent at 6:14 PM on Friday

me: yes, she sings, as it is, today I met an angel with wings

Sent at 6:16 PM on Friday

yoshie: yes, she floats but a metre away from me, with wings. unmoving.

me: you. I. unmoving, both greeted.

Verner amnesia,
disequilibrium.
anxiety.
[I lost my voice].

who!

i don't speak of words word that fades with the light during sunset that happens ever so frequently that words alone may rob me of my quiet moment so so it may be this quietude that obliges the soul to think of some excuse to be known as a soul and just pretend that the sun is setting for me, at that precise moment.

perhaps, the mishap of that precise moment is that there is no wind to blow away the clouds but I appreciate the mishap of not being that physically comfortable with my camera, click, the fading moment could somehow be of little words and capturing instead my fading tension of sunlight magnitude.

then,, no name,,. could it be that it is my name that makes me feel lonely because there is always another out there being remembered but I prefer how it is that the wind can later pick up again and blow the tidings of the day and anticipate a night of dark presence that is really a slight pause from the rushing tides of everyday that washes away my name, those names, and instead I participate in that moment without a name but with a presence that is ultimately and wholly mine.

that alone, lonely as it may sound, is standing apart from me and I am not alone but we are alone, as he say, no, said, or should it be 'say', and reading too much into the sunset, I cannot escape the event of such a horizon of expectation, so much so that it leaves me, breath-less, hanging on a tightrope and suspended till gravity decides that her constant pull is but the necessary force to jerk me to a speech or confession that I have to deliver with my present anatomy.

This moment will be called grace.

fear is but the first call that drives me to bend my knees and cry an utterance unimaginable and unintelligent but it is never a fruitless endeavour when the climbing of any mountain, up or down, is always done in a relentless panting, after the climb, before the climb, when the joy of reaching is not achieved through the labour, but the delight of being placed in such an uneven situation.

in every sense, there is no one there with me except my immediate surroundings but they speak no language.

sick, I cannot cry alone. to cry is to cry for someone.
help, is the belief of a salvation.

then the day or the hour, or even the second, is the moment of grace where birth is the most occupied moment witnessed by the living in a crowded moment, receiving the divine responsibility that is to be obliged to a communion with the infant, in blood and with the first caress, with a Cry that announces the birth and death of a human being, not quite there, not yet, one that is whole or will ever be before death.

there can then be no peace;; peace is such a beautiful hope much maligned and too much faith upon that the wait becomes a gruelling test of surviving the dawn of the day where crying is the alarm that greets you, o sleepy me, the yawn to meet the cry that I cannot sleep, yes, I cannot sleep.

then there is no sequel to these words, where the conclusions are in a web of silence and cries and I feel the vibrations of the moving sun, which only patience can be the answer to the insomnia that plagues the growing me, rising words alone, but not resented since they are all I have, You, rising, where the falling is the meeting of the rise; and all the breaks, in between, are motions of a selfish love that denies me of a more profound unconditional passion:

the passion of crying, covered in blood.

we are alone, with You.

happy death-day to us.

Rondo

where do I begin?
out of nothing?
there can be no nothing.
I must have already begun from somewhere.
Let's just say now it is the third movement of my life.
where did I begin?
out of the sea; out of the blood that covers me.
Let's just move on from there,
where the light somehow shines on me.
not quite, an early morning in a cold operating room.
my father named me.
but he forgot to un-name me.
so I shall,
with His grace,
un-name myself.
and start from another beginning.

where do I begin?
a seed planted.
a tree I desire to be.
in form and in character,
I move in the third movement,
with deadly urgency,
to spread my branches far and wide,
to begin the new season.
even a tree, though stationary,
can sway with a vengeance.
but that's not really what I want.
the leaves fall.
the seeds fall.
but he shall not.
yes, he shall not.
in due time, regeneration is the path.

where shall I end?
at the moment the sounds fades.
at the moment when the wind does not blow.
when my Father gives me a new name.

Johannes Brahms - Piano Concerto No.1-III Rondo

the presence of you,
makes this moment sweet.
the repetition of this moment,
makes this presence fathomable.

when I am born,
I die as well.
Nothing is Fire.
Fire is Everything.
no note, stroke, and movement
are wasted.

a tree and a windmill have something in common.
the wind.
no, I mean, the wind that blows at them.
but no again, I mean that they have to somehow stay upright for the wind to blow at them at full force.

I enjoyed that moment when the wind blew and the leaves swayed.
I marvelled at how the stationary (not quite) windmill could move with such grace.
a gush of wind is all it takes to make me notice these little strange happenings.
it is easy to reduce this phenomenon into a science.
But it is at the felt level that intrigues me. It is not how, it is why that matters to me.
and henceforth, the why compels me to feel.

what I felt then, I found no words to express them.

i will settle for a journey;
a murderous journey to devour myself.
in less hazardous tones - to un-become myself.
that is the impossibility.
for to un-become, is to first identify myself as already is.
that which is said, done, become, and dead.
If I am given the method, the time and the circumstances, I will go on this journey to become, by unbecoming.
For a journey is neither up nor down. There is no height and transcendence. There is no fall or trip.
a journey is always onwards, through time, and in space.
that is the reality of our burden. It is not to say that gravity and weight do not impress on us and keep us grounded. It is to say that a projection is always on-going.
the prejudice of horizontal and vertical aside,
movement is always a leap. the body does not leap. Our consciousness of time forces us to adjust. And every adjustment is that leap. To construct time is to ironically subject ourselves to finitude.
the passing of a journey is precisely the sum of leaps (or stationary positioning). There is no journey if there is no time and space.
To be oneself, is to (abnormally) believe in time and space, and to identify oneself to these inmeasurable entities.
to be oneself is to first recognise my living and my definite death in time to come.
to come, then, is to face.
to face, is to face the other. Even if the other is oneself.

I am on a journey to be the ideal other. Therefore I commit the sin of murder. I kill myself to be less of myself
But let us ignore this pessimism. The other leaps towards a Same, and predicates the universal and peaceful state. But the Other is always possible because of its co-relation with the Same. I am unbecoming myself in order to radically reduce myself. But I am always be - who I am, I am. Nothing can deny my existence as long as I live. The absolute truth of myself is my existence - the weight of my existence, by virtue of the fact that I am.

The absolute subjectivity is not alone. It is always about inter-subjectives and one moves from death to life to death, even if it is a monologue or a Faustian murder.
Physical life and death alone will only gratify the embodied consciousness.
I am in flux but nature has its course.

Therefore, I must go on a journey, and become one who is Same and Other.

if i had only twenty minutes, I would spend that time with you.
never mind the unspoken words and the detailed descriptions of the motifs on your sleeves.
the moment itself, suffice.
if i had only two seconds, I'd give you my full attention.
never mind the lack of a scripted dialogue but the usual seemingly trivial happenings
the usual sounds of ah, he, oi, huh, suffice.

ah. excruciating pain, I feel bad I didn't deliver a proper monologue.
but I feel, most excruciating, a relaxing sensation.
maybe it's a gladness of leaving you early.
(who determines when it's early or late?)

i'd like to be able to swim someday.

songs cannot teach me to dance.
I dance to make sense of the songs.
let us lose the conventional structure.
I could come down if I could.

I would like to run round and round a bigger than average cul-de-sac, choreographying the most personalised dance I have ever danced as I stumble. Ah. that excruciating pain, throws me off. lifts me to the cradle. I can't remember my childhood. greet my friends for me. ghosts gave up haunting long time ago. your grip is a little weaker. I forgot to drink my water. the tree is waiting for me to chop down. ah, falling couldn't come more slowly.
I'll be there. Ah. I won't be there.
there are clouds that are always there to pour rain.
I would like the time to pass quickly.
Then my begging will, suffice.

ah. the most beautiful thing in this world, is, pain.
close your eyes.

I remember how beautiful it is. I remember how beautiful you are.

patience, the little virtue that is left unpracticed.
do you laugh for being silly?
or do you want to jump off the building?
yellow bricks are unfashionable here.
so don't follow your heart. at least, not here.
you'd lose a metal.
sliding down tree branches, they ain't smooth, that's certain.
may I drop from high and fall through freezing clouds.
suspended from fear, for that little while;
yes, I can have the patience to die.
there're no sound checks in real enactments.
but who's really paying attention, in that strict sense?
I will walk here. As I like it.
but I can't, the stones are hindering me.
maybe I'll build a house for my memories.
I can't choose the material though.
I may just have to settle for ready-mades.
But (bio)degradable.
I hardly talk. but who notices these things?
maybe I don't need birthdays; excuses to indulge in being remembered.
take a little bow, the performance is never about yourself.
you're gorgeous today. as always.
remember to tidy your bed.
i forgot to make myself a cup of tea.
maybe we're all on collective high.
but I can live with it.
I'm living now right?
maybe the answer is better answered when you're walking in the rain.
but no grail can hold that amount of pour.
how widespread is the virus?
potency is not determined by the number it kills,
but by the number of laughing people.
i'll wait for hell to be a little more honest.

then maybe I'll find alternatives to horizontals and verticals.
i refuse to rise.

this whole tangible business,
flattering with pretty words,
is, perhaps, the mistake I need to reveal my incompetence.

and this incompetence, most alarmingly, fulfils the prophecy my ego has predicted but left unheard.
in an unexpected turn, modesty meets its doom, and ego confronts its sick mirror image.
Ego once again can boast, 'aha, you need me don't you?'

the ones who succeed are probably the mediocre, who ready lies to lead the modest, and the actual work is done by the less ambitious.

but really, who cares?

the most intangible is peace. It is not the tangible confidence of being safe in a shelter that blesses us with peace.
It is the knowledge of the significance of peace after the labour.

these random thoughts, are but a faction of my thoughts residing within revolting brain.

it's weird, how we like to demarcate 'spaces' to what are essentially intangible.


come near me.

Me la dijo adela...

inmeasurable peace, do come announced. i prefer to look for you.


goodbyes are troublesome. Because i hate repetition in real life.

this whole tangible business,
left with little words to express myself,
is perhaps the last thing I need.
let it go.

the wall has been torn down.
march!

peace, peace. when there is no peace.

every man has the potential to create a shape with the ends of our bodies joined to another.

wish me well, when the sunlight fades, the clouds veil and at the instant of my death.

where he mingles with the crowd,
he loses himself, and forgets his essence.
if there is a truth, it is the truth of his breath.
but he has replaced it with lies. and opens his eyes too wide to see his reflection.

tell him what to feel, or who to turn to, but tell him most of all that he can sit back and turn away from the running hamsters.
instead, if he could, and should he do so, perhaps, he would know her, she who has been standing behind him all this while.

if i had 24 hours to rewrite my story,
i would write nothing.

this state of melancholy is creeping deeper and deeper into me.

if i could reach, just a little further, if air were measurable, then I'll grab you and we could fall together;
inversely.

this is no performative. just another what if.

little by little, if strength were measurable, not the kilograms kind, I could, if I could, lift you up high.

yesterday, beats gone astray, but I thought, I saw a white girl in a blue dream.
I could never swim. And I could not really imagine a deep blue sea.
But allow me to indulge in some wilful imagination; I thought I saw her.

every sound, brought about by the bubbles, I couldn't hear her well.
but I knew, only if I could see for myself, that the sun does not reach the ocean floor.
But light finds its way there.
There are mysteries we cannot see for ourselves.

There are depths in us that we cannot manifest, reach and touch.
Only then, if I could measure my void, then I could, if I could, fill it with only one presence -
Your Presence. Your absent presence.

even if all is not right, all is not at ease, all is not smooth, all is thorny, more and more; less and less;

I, come, silent as a fleeing fox, calm as an evening tide, fierce as a tempest - only if I could.
No words, really they could not, express thoughts.