Whisper

I’ve read in books of God that keeping silent is the way one can become actualized, but to be quite honest, the sub-vocalization can be deafening in itself.  The irony lies in how my thoughts aren’t allowing me to hear myself think, sometimes because there simply is too much. I could use a server that reroutes them, lowering the volume to a whisper.

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Songs- Little Jewels

My disappointment with pop music as of late has been nothing short of abysmal but a glimmer of hope remains. Here are some of the songs I’ve been listening to, latest or not…

  • Cecilia and the Satellite by Andrew McMahon in the Wildnerness
  • Let it Go by James Bay
  • Say by John Mayer
  • Catch and Release (Deepend Remix) by Matt Simons
  • Re:re by Asian Kung Fu Generation
  • Sound of Your Heart by Shawn Hook
  • Don’t be so Hard on Yourself by Jess Glynne
  • HandClap by Fitz and the Tantrums

Watering can

I feel like I have lost my words, an infallible dulling of the mind. And so I have begun to study them in all their multiplicity, colloquial lilt and marvel at the havoc they wreak when a poet or fire starter dare use them as an aberrant risk, forsaking semantics for depth. It reminds me of why I need fragments of language, so that I can, in all my capacity, describe these feelings pouring out, as if from the spout of a watering can. They  do not flood but pour and drizzle, so many all at once…pristine or murky with sand and soil. I need them, if not my sentience and experiences shall all but melt inside of me, succumbing to forgetfulness. I have to remember, for I am alive and I am here, filling that bottomless watering can and growing lilies, chrysanthemums and African violets to the best of my ability.

Good feelings

At times, I reminisce about those ineffable mixtures of happiness and languor. I want to feel like water colours dripping down a page, free, light and best of all, dissolved in warm memories. A bright yellow, the colour of the Post-its lining my father’s desk, or the plum of my favourite shirt. Perhaps the meringue orange of my mother’s warm sweater that I used to sneak for myself. Maybe the green hues of the potted plants breathing in my old home and the grass I rolled around in. I imagine slowly seeping into the page…

Now, that’s a good feeling.

Broken Blinkers

The sun flickered between the blinds of the window, the cheap sheers dancing lightly. Marred by cracked walls and peeling paint, the room looked like the inside of a monochromatic kaleidoscope…blinding yet bereft. Much like us, the broken blinkers. We too have suffered the way this room has from time and detriment. We are starved of love and it is eating away at us from within. Do you wonder…can you stitch flesh that has long since fructified, threading the slow corrosion to work a semblance of unity? Or shall we remain febrile enthusiasts, bits and pieces flying but too manic to notice how close they clatter? Like tottering tea cups. So close to the edge. So close to fracture and fission. After all…everything we loved became everything we lost.

W

Your toes are tapping with the thrum of of the undiscovered, alive to the tune of the unprecedented. Walk.

Streams split ahead much like thoughts in your mind, whispering and clear. Wade in.

The world is whipping by, as smoking rooms, dingy classes and cinema halls whirl into one another, like a dream, translucent and wispy. Wander.

Most of all, be fascinated with the mosaics before you, filtering sunlight into shards for you to catch. Wonder.

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