These friends that call you at the most random hours and tell you to go have a warm drink and pop some panadol because your voice is akin to that of a dying horse.
These kinda friends, hold on tight to them. They are priceless.

7:31 pm

I believe the most powerful force capable of transforming the human nature is the seizure of utter rage following a slam of indignation.

Rage, knows no limits to what it is capable of pushing us into. And knows no friends.

All the fears one could conquer, all the mountains one could jeer at, all the principles one could trash with a sneer, all the lengths one could cross seem too short in the conquest of proving a point that
They have an equal right to dignity
Just as well.


7:35 pm

Easy, life. One shot at my poetic belief in a perfect Utopia at a time.



7:40

Perhaps it would all get better if I go inside for a while.



7:48

Perhaps it's Lev Nikolaevich's affectation that woke me up from my vivid dreams to an inescapable nightmare. It wasn't a donkey's bray that did, though, it was a car's anti-theft alarm going off at 2:00 am in a tremulous winter night when the moon covered its face in shame

For humanity.

Paralysis by Analysis

Definition : "Where the need for additional information is used as an excuse 
To avoid or postpone the adoption of a decision." 
[HSE Regulations in Nuclear Power Plants, IEEE]

Sometimes a single scientific term can describe your
State of mind better than a thousand meek metaphors
I stumble upon the weirdest realizations while I'm
Supposed to be doing something else, entirely
This white noise in my head
Is an infinity of frequencies, colliding and merging,
Squeezing their way through the filters of my stoic state of mind

I knew that being thoughtful was my prime quality,
Until it became my vice

Long roads at dusk, where the sun goes home and the lights are still asleep
They scare me outta my wits
And yet I never slow down
You know it's a straight path, you know how to reach home,
You still remember where you came from,
You know that it's only a 1000 leagues where you could only see ahead
And nothing else
And you've been across this labyrinth of nothingness
More than you could keep counts,

But it still terrifies you. Every single time

Because you don't have the option of stopping midway and curl like an infant
Until the world blossoms from the darkness again. 

Note II

Nothing and no one matters when you wake up alone in your dark, tight grave only to be put to the question on how you spent this life you've been granted; seemingly too short at that point. And vain.
I wouldn't know though, I'm still breathing, and I can bathe in the sun light, luckily.
But I keep wondering whether this is all devoid of meaning, when we know very well we will lay alone beneath layers of dust and regret. And solitude.
No family. No friends. No lovers. No children. No diplomas. No bonds. No pennies. No civil identity. No flowers or books for consolation. You won't be able to look at the night dome garnished with stars for your amusement.

Truth is,
The human life is so fragile. Yet we indulge like immortals.

Perhaps the very essence of life is believing in its lack of essence.

Peut être, l'essence de la vie es de realiser : qu'il est inutile.

Nocturne Op.55 No.1 in F Minor

A Graceful Song Of Reproach

15.02.16   -   5:26 pm

You never broke me,
You broke a conviction of mine that was once rooted so deep
A mere idea, and these are no flesh and bones. Rakishly expendable, as you well know
Or so I believe
That's probably the case; since I'm not certain that I was affected at all
I examined many a broken hearts in my time I could tell one apart, and this, my good sir; is beyond the limits of my dexterity
It doesn't hurt
It doesn't keep me awake at night
You seldom cross my mind, recently
And when you do, you don't come dressed in loathsomeness 
That's one thing of which I'm certain, and which is incidentally a source of great confusion to me
I don't hate you
See, in such situations, the one walked away from is always left with the greater chunk of bitterness, feelings of profound loss; things left unsaid, much like a thriller novelette with the last page
Ripped off
Replacing devastation with resentfulness makes bearing with it so much easier. Because throwing the heaviness of it on someone else's shoulder
Is more convenient, and far less painful, than growing bolder
In my case I certainly hope that the only damage you've done is clogging my well of poetic exclamations; though the impairment is severe as it is
Nothing
I write
Sounds as sincere, so full of life and rupture, ecstasy and innocent hopes of a bright future, as before
I lost my taste
My prowess to align words like a medley of Tulip on a plain field, grazed and bashful, hazed and graceful
And I'm pretty sure it is your fault though I'd very much like to believe that it was time I grew out of being lulled and rocked by warm embraces of bent letters and swayed metaphors; the time I learnt that the world is bigger than a love story
Gone awry
I just can't put my finger on what you broke exactly; everything seems so fragile and yet nothing seems to yield
I think I'm fine; for I'm not bleeding
I was just shot back, so ruthlessly
Right in the heart from the dreadful depths of punitive rejection 
It's the same way you'd feel while chasing the cape of a dream you don't dare to catch, you know you want to take hold of its wrists, but the thought of unveiling its face is way
Beyond
The horror
You know
So you stop in tracks and let it go
And go it did
Right through the pine forest and a curtain of a fog so thick
Leaving trails of poignant dread on the pavements of your ribs
You could find the answer to your pine if you flick in haste; but the droplets of vigor seeping through your skin
Seem to evaporate and fade so readily
Mix with the stifling air, gravid with bitter sighs, and the morbid regrets
Of the bereft, and those left behind

Somehow,
It's so peaceful as I stride now. law and order seem to have prevailed within
I still wonder how I never shed a tear. And I
Still shudder at the thought that you might have killed me
From the inside.

--------------

15.02.16   -   11:16 pm

There is no consolation in knowing that you are still holding unto that dangling thread of hope; Though I'm glad it all meant something to at least one of us at some point.
"Too Bad" sums up everything I wanted to say as I read these 3 letters you sent on the same day
At the same hour of Feb 15th, 2015.
Before I remembered that it's really all so meaningless
Just the same.

That door is bolted shut now. You locked it yourself,
And slid the keys from beneath
Went away exploring and came back presenting a whip with 
A bowed head
Begging for absolution
And I
Contained in my tower, sipping tea with my indignant revulsion 
Having lost interest in seeing the light
Am flirting with the thought of lashing you 
For the fun of it.

Note I

They should make up a word for the infinite solitude that takes over your soul during long drives in the still of the night; drives longer than your playlist; in roads where the lights go off for a kilometer or so to save on their vigor for when more souls pass by.
This poet stood on stage all dejected, his shoulders falling, and spoke of such solitude with great sincerity; and I knew exactly what he was talking about.
The quietness, the grave-like stillness, the immense feeling of being alone in this world; and the alarming closeness to the border.
And the rush of Adrenaline in your veins when you know in your bones that you could drive ahead without turning back once and somehow everything would still be the same behind, and everyone would still get on with their lives like nothing ever happened..

For You In Full Blossom IX

Strange..
We never talk about mutual sentiments; being strong ,self-made individuals that met upon the cross line and thought we would make a power duo.
It's also strange how we silently shook hands on that agreement without having to disclose its clauses.
But you have me on speed dial and it makes my heart warm to know that my company calms you, even if it's just to keep the dark thoughts away.
It kinda makes me ...happy.... that my presence in your life is the same as a paper weight. Though light myself. Guess we keep each others aground with the weight of shared compassion.
I try not to be reliant but...as funny as that sounds, i'm growing old, and i'm growing wan with age, it seems.
I'm 24, and I think I entered my Fall.
Yes indeed. But your existence makes that entrance more... elegant..and worth the while.
See, I think there is still much to life; I'm not a cynic; and all seasons are equally graceful so this is not at all an implication that I have an old spirit.
It's just a metaphor. You know how much I like these.

Do I wish i stumbled upon you earlier ?

Yeah. I regret not being in the funny stories you tell me over a Mac & Cheese.
Or when I take you some where nice and you remember who else used to go to such places with you. And it makes me a bit jealous that I couldn't..
Do you think that's a bit desperate ? I wouldn't mind your thinking so.

That all doesn't matter; I say I like dabbing your sore wounds with feathers of care; as you bare yourself in front of me. It's not that I like your being weak because it makes the phoenix of my ego flourish in flare. I only like that you think you could trust me; because you aren't wrong. Souls in their mid autumn don't have the energy to roll in circles of deceit and betrayal.

Though it seems you think this arrangement works if I ventured to empty my bottomless sack of thoughts..and sins..broken tooth-picks of trust when bent.
One by one.

I don't have these.
Not quite; I have nothing to conceal that I'd be afraid to tell you back; I just don't think it all matters; being in the past. Exchanged secrets are not empty signed checks you could use when the need arises.

Perhaps you wonder why I'm never on the passenger side, don't you?

Even when I am, I'm not.

I never tell you what you really want to hear. And it seems after 3 years you've grown too tired of trying to coax me into opening up my heart; of telling me that you are all ears if I wanted to vent.
Do I think that I'm too good at fixing everyone's wreckage that no one else could fix mine if I failed ? Perhaps I do.

When I'm broken, I write.
And it puts the shattered pieces back, momentarily.
When I'm dejected I take an un-sharpened pencil and try not to make that face as gloomy as mine.

When I feel deceived by life I turn around and walk back the way I came from.
When the day is too long I'd sink to oblivion, and the sun rays of the next day would melt it all..
And when that sun rises, I turn to God; and it makes me feel whole. Once again.

I don't need you to fix me; I'm not broken.
Not the same way as you are.

I'm never on the passenger side, even when I am,
Because my sorrows aren't the type that go away with my breath as I utter them in a shivering hiss.
And you started to notice my proud repulsion in my moments of dire weakness, yet it never seems that you will ever get used to this.

It's nothing personal;
But I guess
When it comes to that it's always personal

Are you going to leave as well because I won't let you in ?

So I don't remember when exactly did my writing shift from rhythmic poetry to spoken word to narrations in prose; it's kinda interesting to observe the gradual lift in my style. I've been updating this blog for 3 years now, and i've been growing as a person ;body and personality, interacting with different folks, and foreign interference it was inevitable that I changed the way i portray myself and my mind.
Recently I realized that regardless of the style, I don't really feel the need to write anymore. That is, I don't know what to write about (lol). That is, without losing my integrity. And I'm certainly not the type that sits down and decides to write about a random concept just to gratify a craving. That craving is fading away anyhow, and I'm only left with a pulsing seed of fear buried in the depths of my heart foreboding the desertion of this cyber lodging i created for myself..
In a month or two; in a year; I might forget how to write.
I might very well forget that I used to write.
And it scares me. That's why I don't want to stop. But my pride is poking my side with a thorn dipped in revulsion.
I don't understand people that write about imaginary scenarios, feels, lovers, memories, just for the sake of making an appearance at a spoken word event.
This is not competitive; this is a private business, your gathering the guts to vent your inner frets and fears with such honest tears
And i find it extremely exhibitionist (and intrusive of beholders) to recite your heart before a crowd of strangers that busy themselves recording snaps while they snap their fingers in proportion with your use of advanced vocabulary. I can't fake it fam. Not my style. When I'm feeling it alright, my words will flow like the great Nile.
Meanwhile, i think i'm taking a break from this until
I get the feels again.
Because if i die tonight I don't want the last bits of me to be dead as well.

PS: I hope it rains. My brain unfreezes a bit when it does.