Wednesday, December 5, 2012


You must read more before you choose to strike me down. Otherwise, I will exist, in corners of your mind, and in rooms of mine. It is the only weapon you have against me, to absorb whole length sentences like walls of the ocean bed, indescribably muted. The floor of the ocean is where I learnt to walk, a place where many seas met, merging amniotic fluids with memory, gene upon gene. That is the violence that bought me to you. The violence of birth and the greater violence of living it. I never wanted to live, to breathe, as insignificance does but I was born and hence, I must endure it.

Endurance is a complex word, it does not betray emotion, the only thing the word tells us that it exists to bring strength and despair together, I can endure life, perhaps even death, though I know not much of it; but you must remember me. Always, unfailingly, you must remember me and believe with all that you are, mind, body and soul, that I am there.

He looked up in the sky and saw her face in the white clouds above. She smiled and disappeared behind nothingness.And then it rained.

I look at the red lilacs strewn across the garden. They look oddly familiar. I pick one up and open its petals, revealing dark blue pollen stalks that taste like long lost honey bees. I toss it back and pick up a stalk of grass, crushing it with my forefinger. It allows me crush itself, giving up its sovereignty in the face of brute strength. We are all stalks of grass, our destinies limped by hands of  time. I crush some more of them.

I am awake for no particular reason. Our lives are fragile, we must end them in the arms of the one we love, before cracks invade everything we touch, including each other. Time takes away what never was overs, but was promised to us by genes and fables.

I think of her with my eyes closed. She comes to me instantly. I think of her smile and take in the silence that surrounds me. A brief painful terror holds me close. I open  my eyes and the world is new again.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Last Days

It would take me several days to write
A tangible account of my deadened life.

But it would be too late by then
Some days would bring a change of heart.

Is it provocative to write about death
More than to write about life?

What do you gain by reading this
In the anonymity of your room?

Are you closer to me now or
Do you now know nothing?

I will tell you a secret, regrettably so
Our lives are a mess.

End them in the arms of the one you love.