Collage

 lay here alone,trying to clear my head when an image floats by,faded by time.
Happy at first, then bathing me in sadness cos deep down I know I can never have it back.

Another one flashes by, and I start to wonder where those days had gone, and why the memories had to zoom by so quickly. Hoping they would come a lot more slower.

The images just keep swirling by, too many to keep track of, bits and pieces collecting before my eyes, each one foggier than the last, forming some sort of pattern as they gather in my mind.

I no longer know a mental vision from reality, and as easily as they come, they start to blow away. Leaving with me a gnawing fist in my chest, wet orbs for eyes and a mind, full of beautiful memories.....far from me....... Lost to me forever....

Steely Romance

I was too spooked to glance up at Him as we walked from my place to the venue which was just down the street. He brought with him a small black umbrella which we huddled under to stay dry. In the cracked sidewalks were pools of rainwater we stepped over. My breath jerked each time my elbow brushed against his shirt and then it occurred to me, ''I'd never navigated these close inches while having feelings for the guy"

The prospect of being someone's date used to embarrass me deeply. So far as I was concerned, the word ''date" held too much meaning. I operated in a world that was hopelessly noncommittal. My sentences were punctuated with ''Like" and "whatever", the linguistic indifference that was forged, adopted and is to every subsequent age bracket just as natural as "if", "and", or "but". ''Date" was too certain a word in a world that preferred vagueness. To me, it meant a responsibility to be entertaining, bright, and opinionated. Being His date that night, felt like a terrible and terrifying burden.

It was pretty obvious that the place was outfitted to be "romantic", which was or rather still is another word that disquiets me. I haven't gotten over the feeling that there's too much pressure to feel affectionate in proximity to flowers or candlesticks, or in formal attire. It'll probably always be nearly impossible for me to feel an affinity for someone unless we're both dressed casually, unless we're both just being fun and silly. That night, even the furniture looked like they were canoodling.

One moment I was lost in thought and the next, His palm lay flat in the hollow between my shoulder blades. I felt a fluttering spark like the moment an insect collides with a bug-zapper. I took it as proof that my synapses needed re-tuning. It was an electrical surge and I knew I needed to get away from him, I needed to bolt.......Its not that I didn't like His fingertips on the back of my neck; it was just the opposite but I believed my desire for him was private. Privately, I wanted, a great deal. I wanted in heaps and dizzying doses, and I wanted many times over; I wanted overkill. But publicly, I didn't want my desire to look excessive, especially not to Him. So I moved away, I went outside to get some air and also to get a handle on my hot cheeks, my jitters, and my speechlessness. And it worked cos the next time He put an arm around me, I was as serene as the surface of a lake; I was something pretty and reflective that didn't dare ripple.

Guilty Pleasures; Freakishly So

Ok so featured on another blog, :D cecenostockings.wordpress.com. You guys should check it out, its really good.



William Sheakspeare once wrote, '' But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes."

I've always had this belief that if everyone were given a choice, an opportunity to choose between sadness and happiness. We'd all go for the latter cos let's face it, no one wants the misery sadness has to offer. I couldn't have been more off-track cos by assuming so, I had completely sidelined the fact that happiness is subjective. It means many different things to many different people. So in some twisted way, sadness can be actually be a person's form of happiness. I'm probably not making much sense..........

Some of my friends are worried about me in relation to my write-ups. Lord bless them for caring :). Some are concerned with why I write sad/deep/dark stuff, Some believe I'm sad/troubled and Some are just convinced that I've never heard of "happy" writing...lol... Some of them even gave me suggestions of "happy" stuff to write about;
1. Love: For some reason my take on it keeps changing, so I wouldn't even know what to write even if I wanted to, which I don't by the way. Basically, I don't relate well with it so its out of the question.
2. Family: Someone else's perhaps but definitely not mine. It's too personal and besides, dysfunction is best kept within the family. Good thing we've got a lot of closets for them.
3. Friendship: Ah yes.... Friendship. Now this is to be cherished buh writing about it just seems so bland to me. I have a poem about it somewhere, I should put it up one of these days.
4. Gardens/Stars/moon/ Hair: Lol..... Maybe with time... Just maybe...

Writing about those stuff would never satisfy me, I'd much rather write about darkness and madness, complexity and illusions, sickness and death, filth and nightmares.... This is one of my guilty pleasures. The first poem I ever wrote was about ''fire''; how it makes me feel and how I envy it. Yes, I admit I'm a questionable sorta happy person and I've got some freaky tendencies as well. Buh let's have it for the freakishly freaky freaks;
The serial killers: killing for pleasure
The fetishists: feet licking, eyeballs something-ing, (not entirely sure how that works) , getting peed on O_O
The necrophiles: from a corpse?? seriously?? So the billions of living people can't do it for u??
The Sadists & Masochists (S&M): *singing* ''......buh chains and whips excite me.'' need I say more??

Anyway, we've all got our own demons, tucked safely within. Some people haven't even realised it yet, Some are in denial, Some are filled with shame and Some wear it proudly *thumbs up* (sarcasm) ....... So people, give-in to your inner freak ;) (just kidding pls)

For A Sphinx

This is for a Sphinx,

For the harmless enigma made terrible by mad attempts to interpret her as though she has an underlying truth.
For the mask disguising her face.
For the charade she wraps herself up in. For the perplexity shrouded in the puzzle she is.
For the relationship between the negative bedrock of her strength and that strength itself.


She sits groggily; tired and drained,
Exhausted from holding all the answers,
From keeping it all within.

She sits there close-mouthed,
Never letting out a whisper,
Not allowing anything slip.


Dedicated to a Sphinx,

To her deliverance from the judgement of cagey eyes.
To her escape from the torture of fidgety hands.
To her liberation from traps sprung by running mouths.
To her outbreak from the labs of idle minds.
To her withdrawal from the black-hole within shrewd hearts.

Gloom & Doom

This piece is featured on somtindey!: somtindey.blogspot.com and I must say that being asked to do so was such an honour to me. Thank you Somtinde.


I've learnt that if any of us, girls and women want true strength born of stability, we need to find a more productive outlet. Self- destruction isn't a valid art form because it allows the world rejoice in our weakness, the inferiority that it has always expected of us. As a gender, we are far more likely to turn our personal failures inward, to wage private wars against ourselves, to attempt suicide.

Its just plain sad how the world tries to create a generation of women who are emotionally dependent and then demonize us for our lack of feminine control. I think its time we allow ourselves experience real anger and I don't mean that passive aggressive dance we've employed for too many years. Eating disorders, drug addictions, alcohol abuse, promiscuity, self-injury aren't exhibitions of real anger. If it takes the form of whispering, cold shoulders or silent treatment then it isn't real anger. Real anger is what popular belief would have us be afraid of, just cos its not elegant, courteous or feminine.

Rather than turning our dissatisfaction inward, allowing ourselves be thwarted by gender stereotypes, the holier-than thou's and the burdens to achieve feeble feminine goals such as thinness, rather than allowing our frustrations to be wasted and waste away inside us, I think we should use them as ammunition against the world they were borne of. I believe we can shed them in our projects. In our music, our art, on our canvasses, we can be wildly immodest ;)

Nightmare

 Trapped inside my own head. Running, running but never reaching wat I cannot see, not knowing where ''here'' is. Carrying with me a burning heart, that which yearns for serenity yet not understanding what exactly was wrong, not even sure what I'm running from. I've crawled and pushed my way through the unknown, my fingernails are gone, my bones are worn down and I don't know what to do. All I know is fear.

Fear. That which engulfs my very existence. A raw sensation deep within my gut, one I know I won't forget. Sneaking in my bed, living life over in my head, standing on reality's throne, stripping me of sanity then leaving hope behind as an awesome illusion.

Hope. My minds secret distress, a mind of the sinister kind. My hearts divine strength, a heart filled with pain. My life's daring experiences, a life gone cold. My souls glowing triumph, a soul turned to dust. It quivers inside, and suddenly.......

I awake in a fury of expectation, gone as soon as felt, the world closed about. I awaken from my dream in the deadened still of the night looking around the room, suddenly aware that this dream is still in sight, a bit beyond my body but still within my bones.

Infirmity

  
   She stood there, in front of the full-sized mirror and stared at her naked self. It was almost as if she were staring at a complete stranger. She touched herself, trying to feel, she felt skin, felt hair, softness of flesh and hardness of bone. Undeniably it was her, she was here, pinched, she felt pain. Stroked, she was at ease . A dizzy spell forced her to sit at the edge of her bed. Her body had taken command of all her actions. Her will was blunted as she thought back on all her symptoms...........

   She'd sleep long drugged hours and awaken aching with weariness. She found food sickening, all that stuff going into her mouth......just the thought of it made her nauseous which happened to be just another symptom. She'd had attacks of diarrhoea followed by spells of constipation. It was all beyond her control.

   She'd ignored it all for long enough. She looked down at herself and in doing so, it occurred to her that this fleshy envelope containing her was falling apart, deteriorating for no apparent reason. She accepted that something was happening to her, something slow, gradual and final. She knew it was too late, too painful to change it.