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Reviving dented dreams.

The words are brimming onto the train tracks.
Let's make merry in the mess.
Grab a thought. Catch a train. Ride with me.

“Let yourself rage like the tempest that you are.
Because you are hurricane.
And I am the home caught in your wind.
Come back to me.
When the storm had passed.
In your eye.
In your center.
Come back to me.”


You are a love letter I’ve yet to open.

You are the bible pressed upon my chest so that my pulse could beat something holy. 

You are holiday.

You are breakfast in bed.

A “Good morning” in an age of one night stands.

You are dreamer.

You are box cutters with a blunted edge.

You’re the safety in my gun.

You are danger with a caring stare.

You are — nostalgia box.

You are promise.

You are open ended, tight rope string.

Dangling like a question mark.

You are possibility.

Can you now see why I haven’t opened you yet?


Your scent-

is the hickey on my neck.

It lingers like cigarette ash stains on calloused fingers.

Like carpet burn.

Like love-making.

And it leaves me just as abruptly.

Interlaced Rooms, Crumbling. (An excerpt)

  • Mary: You’ve been with a woman again, haven’t you? She said with a concerned, heavy sigh)
  • Will: You want to know a secret?
  • Mary: What?
  • Will: I’ve never been with anyone.
  • Mary: What?! You lie!
  • Will: I can’t. I can’t bring myself to. It’s just the thrill, you know? The thrill of the chase, the thrill of the yes. The powerful yes. But it’s a false power. A fleeting ego boost. I thought I could find myself there…
  • Mary: There?
  • Will: In the dangers of feeling. In the thrill of love.
  • Mary: (Laughs subtly, inappropriately but helplessly)
  • Will: I know, I know. It’s uncharacteristic of us night beings to hold on to a tinge of romanticism. But I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there in the spaces that was so characteristically human…
  • Mary: There’s no love there, Will. Only a lust that tries to dress itself as something holy. That is, I guess characteristically human still… the follies of being human… looking in all the wrong places… seeing things in a particularly biased hue that’s practically tantamount to blindness. You’re not there, Will. I don’t think anyone is…
  • Will: Then where am I?

Haphazard rantings.

Sometimes, I want to cry with the sheer beauty of it all. The beauty that lies in destruction and creation. The beauty of bloody revolutions and dangerous idealisms. If my tears ducts weren’t incapacitated, because for some reason they are, I would have cried. My heart would have stopped beating a long time ago- drained by simply beating too much. It would’ve exploded- because beauty is just as dangerous as dynamite. Because idealisms explode and consume and affect much more than hydrogen bombs. Because it is so deterministically human to believe in things- sometimes naively, sometimes dangerously, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes painfully. And I’ve longed to regain the characteristically human elements of my being. I’ve longed to feel again, to believe again, to love and hurt and hope again. The things I’ve lost to my darkness. The thing’s I’ve lost in my cold, defensive reason. The things I’ve lost to my fear and my indolence. It is tiring after all to hope and believe. It is consuming. And it takes all of me. It burns all of me. But I’ve always arrogantly fancied myself as a phoenix, a masochistic phoenix who wouldn’t mind the burn simply because it’s a lovely burning. Kalopsia they claim is the state wherein one believes things are even more beautiful than they are. Perhaps, this word explains the dangers of my love for ideologies, the reasons for my belief in idealisms that make people perceive me as a flickering naiveté. This very delusion that drives me, will probably result in my slow withering away. Much like smoke. Much like cigarettes. Maybe in this way, with my destructive, slow consuming beliefs…  I could finally make dying beautiful. Like the phoenix that I arrogantly claim myself to be, like the cigarette I know I am… let me just burn, baby. Let me burn. I need a little char in my bone. 

Take me to Woodstock baby…

It’s about time we got high on a feeling. I’m in the mood for a little bit of peace. Let’s be this sober, sublime silence in the middle of the music. 

Everything had always gotten in the way of writing.

But the thing is, everything stops when I write. I forget to eat, to sleep. I get so consumed by it, you’d say i was in love- in love with the very craft, sustained by the very act. It is all of me. And that can get very frightening. To be so devoured by something that you lose yourself and you find yourself, paradoxically in the losing. It feels right. It feels good but a rightness and a goodness that comes with a slow withering away- much like smoking, much like vices- a right and good slow decay you willingly put on yourself. You travel into your depths, you slowly carve away your insides, you slowly destroy yourself. And you smirk devilishly at the thought that this is the most sublime feeling in the world. And then a melancholic realization comes over you- the tragedy of your dream, of your embarrassing fling with the pen : how you must postpone life, deny everything else- in order to truly live. I’ve buried the pen too many times and yet here it is again staring me in the face. God, how I hate it. And yet it is the only thing I can adamantly love. 

I’ve had some time to thing recently… to retreat into myself and think… this is all i could take back with me.


I’ve been staying in my Van Gogh crevice for sometime. Lounging in a sober darkness. Comforted by it. And here, in my playhouse, where my inner child slumbers peacefully, where I can let lose the underworld within me, where I can play with my demons and converse with my angels… I suddenly realized… there is no escaping the oblivion inside me. There is and will always and forever be a spec inside my soul- the void beyond madness and dream, desire and despair and joy. Beyond all things determinately human- the emptiness. Placid. Sweetly placid emptiness. Here, the part of me that clings to a personhood shatters. It is beyond my madness space, my Van Gogh crevice, the liminal spaces between Johari’s windows. There, it is deeper, colder, darker. There, there is no pang, no gnawing sensitivity that validates a beating penchant, no indescribable feeling of the heart that likens itself to a toothache- a cavity being drilled empty in order to be filled- there’s none of that. Only a be stilling lack of sensation. A suspended nothingness. A destructive lightness. There is no me. No soul. Only a hollow- beckoning. Beyond madness, beyond destruction, before death- there is this space. Where nothing of yourself is yours simply because nothing of yourself is left. I’ve yet to go there. But I’m aware of the place simply because I’ve seen the creaking door that smiles crookedly when you glance secretly at it. The door to your nothing. Waiting, hailing. Lying like a deep well in the farthest crevice of your madness metropolis. That sewer vent. That silent, wet rock. Creaking. Locked. It is not death that takes you there, but a losing… a losing of yourself, a losing of your heart brought upon by your own deep rest, your own self retreat. The Dorian conundrum. The narcissus dilemma: losing yourself in your holy unstoppable attempt to find yourself- your soul scent, your being sense and understanding that it is simply a multiplied nothingness- The secret of all things infinite, you see, is that it rests in a sacred nothing. That is the god-truth, the universal secret. The selfhood. The inevitable oblivion in us all: we lie in a stable nothing. 

The Trailings of Loneliness.

I know there is a poem that you have written with your sorrows.

With a soft ink,

A welcoming darkness.

A feather with a blunt tip that dares to rip like a sword with black blood on parchment

                        A willing soul.

I know there is a truth that you conceal.

The lingering grip of an irresolvable melancholy.

It stays like cigarette smoke scents on your hair.

Like nicotine patches on your yellowed fingers.

The whiskey breath eternal.

The kiss of vice tracing your neck.

The vampire hickey of flesh hunger.

These things have marked you- daughter of the underworld. Creature of the night. Sister shadow of Hades. Lost soul. The Persephone playmate of one who had died too soon.

These things have marked you- envious being. Audacious dreamer. Creepers that hope to touch the light, to be consumed by it. To fade in sun ethereal.

I know of the hollow whisper that you blow into the blankets of strangers. The ancient dream of honest love.



Into the tight fleece of a one night stand

Into the tight cling of tangled sheets

And nails embedded passionately on skin

Carving the echo of a lust bind- empty promise.

[Tonight you are mine. Tonight you are mine. Tonight we are lovers that met for the first time]

            [Tomorrow we are but a hangover.]

            [Tomorrow we’ll mean no. body.]

Abandoned into alcohol intimacy

Into unknown advances from blurry fingers and etched out lips.

From a misleading trailing of body heat.

From glittering false warmth.

The end as a silent creeping, a loud clicking of a door closing.

The embrace of a nameless man with a faceless appendage. Dissipating into cold.

Dissipating into cold.

The other half dissolved.

I know there is a secret in your hallow.

The ticking of an empty womb.

The denied lipstick stain on a memory’s collar.

The scraping of youth’s perpetual regret

By growing up too haphazardly.

I know the secret in your closet of a carved out chest

And a bag of tricks.

The story behind the painted lie.

The gracious denial of a pained smile.

You’re not as clever as you think.

I see your melancholy.

I see (y)our melancholy.

You cannot hide yourself from yourself.