I live in a mundane world
on the edge of an infinite abyss
climbing heights in chase of a clear horizon
I fell into a chasm
a deep dark void that may be my soul
Humility gave me wings
and I flew to the land of love
but I wasn’t let in
I pounded on the doors of my chest
and questioned everything I have done
tell me what ails you
I’ll mend your broken wings” hope whispers to me
a hope I cannot see
I tried to look within
for a whim, a betrayal
settling deep into my heart
was a confusion potent enough to disarm me
As of the days that fled
time being my enemy
I kept on rejuvenating
the poison in my dreams.
Many great lovers have suffered in silence and many poets have screamed in prose about the gap between realities. This gap is never much, say one centimeter at best, but it has always stood proud between destinies and dimensions. Sometimes the gap separating the realities become close, so close that one cannot even imagine two separate realities in the same circumference, but soon as in that inherent touch, the spheres of the two realities shiver as if to scream out they are one and separate, as opposed to one and together. “You may know me, but you are not familiar with the reality of me,” one lover whispers in protest, unable to capture the logic between who we are and how we are.
The grand things of the world take place in secret between the shadow and the soul. It is well to have dreamed for we rarely dream after all. We often imagine realities. But what thrill it is to immerse in a still joy of being together, and together we dream, we dream the world away.
As the mystery weaves itself
tighter and stronger with time
I come to ask
if we are but woven in the mist
who are we?
the mist, the dew, the snow?
iced cold water, or heated steam?
rise we go, in the mornings
up in the clouds shadowing
crawling on mountains and rivers
when the mighty sun
is screened by the thickness of vapour
a veil that could be snatched away
if only the sun came closer one meter
from the clouds, we descend as rain
falling on leaflets who wants us in their roots
so we may become one with them
who nevertheless squander and surrender us to the ground
which mix us in, dirt we are not, mud we are
some of us condensing on a glass
individuals we are that become inseparable
owing to the attraction of atoms
the pull of gravity
days of winter and spring
all these conforms
and we are woven in the mist.
I was staring into nothingness. At first, I was staring at the air in between spaces. Then I find myself searching for the nothingness within. The nothingness that I cannot imagine, but only hope to find. I was searching within myself for the answer; what really is nothingness? I try to imagine infinite darkness that is blank, but it is not blank, it is filled with darkness. I have never known I could have so much darkness within me. But I cannot find nothingness within myself. I let my imagination take me far away, far from the stars and galaxies, far from the space itself, to find nothingness. But I cannot reach there. I cannot become one with the denial of the question itself.
I saw my reflection. Past experiences with mirrors seem to remind me that it is me in the reflection. The plane of the glass has bends and curves and I find myself out of shape, a distorted form that seems to say it is me, but a form I cannot claim as myself. I am reminded of memories that do not resemble me. Scenarios that I cannot claim as my own. But the very fabrics of myself haunts me. I imagine there are mes who are completely different from me. Then I think there are mes who are exactly like me, but only slightly different. And some days, I do not know who I am, or rather which one I am. I find myself completely paralyzed, unable to decide, unable to get on with life. When I find myself in this situation, all I seem to do is think, or not thinking rather. I wonder if there ever will be a perfect mirror to show us who we really are.
The scenery is quiet, save except the occasional roar of motorcycles. I always stay in no matter what the weather presents. But today, in my state of thinking, association and dissociation of my thoughts, I find myself walking outdoors. Nothing much happens in this part of the city. A particularly shy creature, navigating an empty street, with slumped shoulders and bowed head may only be as good as it gets in this street. I feel the eyes on my skin. I feel my skin burning. It must be the sun. At the end of the street, there is a tree reaching for the sky, but not quite. I tried to do the same and climbed it.
I am a flame, shifting in shape, flickering. I am just a chemical reaction made possible by the supply of oxygen, carbon and heat. As long as I have my supply, I will be kept alive. Above the world that I exist, I am both a friend and an enemy, but I am neither. I am incapable of vice or virtue. I cannot choose to warm a body or burn a house down. I am used for both sinister and useful purposes. But I do not live in that world. Likewise many things have nothing to do with me. Water is mistaken to be my enemy. It is not. Where there is water, I cannot be. If water were to overwhelm the space I exist in, I would be no more.
In my familiar shape, I am constantly changing. If you were to learn to know me, measure the wind and speculate my nature, you cannot become certain of me, learn my secrets, and in your blind faith find my lips. For I would burn yours. If by some twisted logic I were found guilty, I cannot be punished. If there is to be a punishment, my only punishment will be being myself.
My words pass through a porous medium
filtering through grains of sand
to absorb and alter their meanings
the fog between us fill my lungs
my heart is heavy
wishing for a better misunderstanding
the sunny days that were gone
the abyss of not knowing
was once bridged with love
when the sunny days return
will the haven remain?