Tumor

I know you. I know you well, almost as well as I know the back of my hand, or how my tongue knows the edges of my teeth.

You are the lone tear that rolls down my cheek without warning. You are the characters I create to escape my bleary present. In fact, you are all my characters fused into a grey nebulous mass at the back of my mind. You are their voice, their story, their tragedy, their laughter, their strength. I know you; I created you. I know your purpose. I know your beginning. I know your reason to exist.

I wanted no part in your creation. But I had no say in it. And now look, you are no longer a wisp of thought, a broken consciousness. You are a tumor, little grey one.

Now I know. Finally I understand. I will be the first to go. I will go first, so that you survive, so that you outlive me. Not because I want a part of me to stay behind, but because you shall have meaning. Because when you end me, you shall break free.

Advertisements

Smiles

I was sitting in my usual corner in the café, when I noticed something interesting. A woman was sitting at the table opposite mine, quite unnoticed by me until the person she was waiting for showed up. The door opened, he walked in and she flashed him a brilliant smile that shone in the semi-darkness – pearly white teeth, dimpled cheeks and wrinkles around her welcoming eyes.

I cannot remember the last time I smiled that way, or was even smiled at with such delight. I realize I greet people with curt nods and save my smiles for the moments that are truly deserving. And now those moments have simply passed me by, waiting, hoping and finally surrendering. I have amassed my own smiles, my own unabashed laughter, affection and naiveté. I realize I’ve been trading silly for sullen and smiles for scowls.

I do not remember leaving a trail back to my store of smiles. Maybe I can trade my frowns again. Maybe I shall dance in the rain again. Maybe someday I will smile for no reason and make that my moment to treasure.

*Preach mode off*

Now, bear with me for an instant as I pore over the dictionary meanings of these words.

Wisdom: the quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgement; the quality of being wise.

Knowledge: facts, information, and skills acquired through experience or education; the theoretical or practical understanding of a subject.

Judgment: the ability to make considered decisions or come to sensible conclusions.

Sensible: done or chosen in accordance with wisdom or prudence; likely to be of benefit.

Common sense: good sense and sound judgement in practical matters.

Do you see how we’re back to where we started? Are we chasing our own tails?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but to me, it seems like experience is the key to wisdom.

Wait, that’s it? We call people wise simply because they have experienced something we haven’t? Isn’t ‘wise’ supposed to mean someone very knowledgeable and saint-like, with perhaps a faint yet distinguishable aura around their head?

In the past two days, I’ve stumbled upon a happy insight. I realize, more and more people around me have taken to pondering the questions ‘who am I?’ and ‘what do I want?’. I don’t know if this happens around a certain age or whether it’s because the world may soon end, but I am glad we’re getting there.

And then I realized, right in the middle of rattling off my own truth to an existential question posed by someone else, that I had no right to answer that question. I was trying to sound wise, simply because I have had more time to struggle with these questions, I simply had more experience. We all have what I like to call a ‘preach mode’, where we think we know all the answers and want to tell it to the poor baffled soul who hasn’t reached there yet. We think we’re better than others because of our own lived reality.

We’re not. You’re not.

O

It’s a long, lonely afternoon. The sun beats down with all its might and the people wither and wilt. I manage to fold my legs in the swiveling office chair and stare at the heads bent over their laptops.

This is not where I belong.

I begin at the no. It’s a nice, round ‘o’ sound that carries into the silence. I begin here, not at nothing, but at something less than nothing.

Each no I utter shoves me deeper into a stone cold pit. It’s not bad, I quite like it down here. But then those voices begin shouting my name. Then come the search parties, stumbling with flashlights through the dark undergrowth. Worried, concerned voices, searching for me in the wrong places. I remain silent. I let them yell and they get louder each night. The voices, they comfort me. I want to be sought, yet I want to remain lost to the world.

I am lost, even now, to the world that represses, the world that sits in judgment and the world that drowns out perfect harmonies.

And so I run. Wind-whipped hair and a gasp of air, hear the beat, feel the heat, run fast, lose the past, hit the wall, break the fall, take a plunge, fill your lungs, forget what you know and just let go.

Glow

Inch by fucking inch, ants crawl over the burnt flesh of my fingers. They take their time; it’s not like I can move my fingers or even flex them. Left with a throbbing hand and not much to do, I thrust my other hand down my pants and masturbate. Using my left hand feels unfamiliar and amateur, but I get myself off fantasizing about a stranger groping a shy young girl on the subway. Sick. Twisted. I know. There’s more where that came from. Perhaps it means I was abused as a child and have daddy issues. But no point dwelling on these things. The sky glows orange, then pink and my eyes fade out onto a portion of wall which reflects the changing colours. Words come to me then, words that dance before my eyes, shapeless words forming, burning, rearranging, searching for something worth fighting for. Words that fight sleep, words that scream at the walls of my mind, words that whisper to the voices inside my head, words that coax my fears to come out and play and words that are too shy to be tasted by my tongue.

Unicorn shadow

Our shadows tangle
into an obscene dance
thousand caresses take flight
in half a second’s glance

I’d mistaken midnight nudity
as penchant for the perverse
but your soul sucked out
the poison in my verse

and my silhouette
bathes in the moonlight
it stands tall and pure,
yet eclipsed by the night

Is this how you see me –
just a unicorn shadow,
a darkened face in
a distant window?

But I’d rather be a silhouette
than a mere reflection
I’d rather be words
than a lilting temptation

Pearls

In the crudest sense of the word, I’m a bucket.

Born as an empty shell, I’ve been collecting pearls all my life. Pearls of wisdom. Dripping ink and blood-stained words. Screaming orgasms and the charred remains of dark, gruesome, incestuous fantasies. Moss-covered memories dipped in snow, sore joints and ashes strewn on mountain slopes. But the bucket is not nearly close to full. I could fit the universe in there. I could hold a galaxy suspended in the cold dregs of coffee swirling at the bottom of the bucket.

There was a second that blew past the slow pace of a fast life – a second in which wants vanished, love faded, wounds healed and space folded unto itself as a smooth, unending expanse of all existence. In that second, the bucket tipped over and emptied itself, to be reborn as an empty shell again. I’m in my infancy, there is no meaning to purpose, existence; even meaning has no meaning. I’m empty and open wide, blown with the wind, moved by a silent whisper and infused with a melody that threatens to fill me to the brim and overflow my entire being.