Where Dreams Are Woven

2011-04-23T17:03:00.001+08:00

if i could say words
the way i meant them
i would have no need to speak

but if my words meant nothing
you would not be here listening

come to me

2009-07-31T12:32:00.000+08:00

on nights when
the glass yawns empty-mouthed
and life batters you with weary fists

on nights when
you feel trapped
without purpose, without meaning,
an insignificant twinkle

before the streets rush up at you
come to me at once
let me share your silence

on nights when
none of this happens
curled up between a book and a drink

before the rooster shrieks
come to me again
let me share your pleasure

Cat things!

2009-04-02T22:24:00.003+08:00

So, I created a new blog with random strips featuring the two cat things, updated whenever I feel like drawing a new one. It looks like this idea won't go away very soon, and I may as well stop filling this blog with dozens of pictures.

Link here: http://cat-things-lalala.blogspot.com/

Song Lyrics?

2009-03-19T04:42:00.000+08:00

I wander through the city's heat
past lazy trams and cliffs of glass
I wonder why you left these streets
left me here to live in the past

Come back to me, and let me
paint your fingers red and gold
They're Chinese colours of luck
They're wordless colours of love

The cold Hong Kong rain turns to mud
all the memories we thought were art
The ugly red cabs are its blood
I stand at the docks, at its heart

Come back to me, and let me
paint your fingers red and gold
They're Chinese colours of luck
They're wordless colours of love

The sea wind brings me Hong Kong
dust and salt and fish and oil
It blows on your face too right now
It's a fine day for your ship to sail.

Suggest song name plis.

Can one merely observe, and not react?

2009-03-05T00:44:00.001+08:00

Riders on the Storm

2009-02-15T04:17:00.002+08:00

An image that's been floating around in my head for a while now. I wish I could have done it justice, but there's only so much I could do on a combination of a photo editor and powerpoint. I must get hold of Photoshop or something soon.

A passage from American Gods by Neil Gaiman

2009-01-07T22:59:00.004+08:00

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her, wrote Mr. Ibis in his perfect copperplate handwriting.
That is the tale; the rest is detail.

There are accounts that, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply. Look - here is a good man, good by his own lights and the lights of his friends: he is faithful and true to his wife, he adores and lavishes attention on his little children, he cares about his country, he does his job punctiliously, as best as he can. So, efficiently and good-naturedly, he exterminates Jews: he appreciates the music that plays in the background to pacify them; he advises the Jews not to forget their identification numbers as they go into the showers - many people, he tells them, forget their numbers, and take the wrong clothes when they come out of the showers. This calms the Jews. There will be life, they assure themselves, after the showers. Our man supervises the detail taking the bodies to the ovens; and if there is anything he feels bad about, it is that he still allows the gassing of vermin to affect him. Were he a truly good man, he knows, he would feel nothing but joy as the earth is cleansed of its pests.

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other’s tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or another, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes—forming patterns we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There’s not a chance you’d mistake one for another, after a minute’s close inspection), but still unique.
Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people — but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child’s swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies’ own myriad squirming children?
We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearllike, from our souls without real pain.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.
A life that is, like any other, unlike any other.

And the simple truth is this: There was a girl and her uncle sold her.

Yes this is intended to make people go pick up the book. Or anything else Gaiman, actually. And think.

Sonata

2008-11-26T02:06:00.007+08:00

http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=84wiSBP42Fw

I came across a short film by Ryan McDougal on youtube, and I could not resist setting words to it.

i walk the streets under the moon
to let the darkness conceal
my confusion. i stop by
your window again, and i
gaze in at your pure beauty
and your warmth. you torment
my soul in the agony of
the meek who never inherit
even the dust in my palm. you're
a golden bird on a silver branch
inches away from my fingertips
i'm afraid to stretch out and
hold you in my hand i'm afraid
you'll fly away and i'll never
see you again. footsteps crunch
past beyond my vision and i wonder
what it would feel like with
you by my side. i wish
i had something more to offer
than this timid little rose but
its red is the red in my veins
calling out my love my pains
all the things i should say
but cannot. time trickles by
shadows melt beneath streetlamps
and yet i wait. should i take
this chance should i leap
can i fly... i turn to walk away
but i cannot run from you.
now it's my hand on your doorknob
and your song on my lips.

2008-11-21T02:00:00.000+08:00

back again on the streets
hair plastered to our scalps
it's a rainy evening this time
with you it's always easy
easy laughs an easy silence
as we splash through the puddles
hand in hand
like we've been doing this forever
in fact maybe we have
drenched in lovesongs and mud
you can splatter me now with the
fragrance of newly-washed earth
because I tickled your ribs but then
you're laughing anyway
we stop for hot chai somewhere
and rag the vendor under his umbrella
then the neon lights up the lanes
the stormclouds look sullen now
tired now quieter softer perhaps
the madcap dash in the rain is done
we move on through the crowd
looking for some trees some dark
letting the drizzle wash away
all the spaces that fell between us

Keepsakes

2008-11-14T00:29:00.002+08:00

I met her on the corner of the parking lot.
She looked like a beautiful bellydancer with
one of those exotic foreign names like
Entiesca or Meraille or Serane or Betsy,
you know what I mean.
Trippy high heels and long red dress
high collar and long hem
with a flash of riding boot peeking through.
She had a cigar in her lips
a sneer in her body
a bruise on the thigh I never saw.
When she saw me, she laughed
then she threw her ring to me.
I'm going to die someday, she said
and baby you'll never see me again
so I want you to have a keepsake.
I turned the ring over in my palm
a cheap gaudy bauble a dime a dozen;
what am I to do with this, I demanded.
She laughed again louder boreder
kid, toss it to another passerby
continue the spiral
flush it down the drain
wear it on your finger
all the same to me.
Seems like there ain't much in life
that's not the same as that ring.
She left me staring at her butt
swinging down the cracked old sidewalk
heels tapping out the years sadly.
She was right; I never did see her again
maybe she died maybe she cried
maybe she found another ring
for the old one's buried beneath a rosebush
guess she was right about that one too.

Finding Peace

2008-09-18T17:45:00.006+08:00

I’ve found peace many a time;

peace on cold lonely mountains,
peace within ancient monasteries,
peace in green-shrouded backwaters,
peace by my window at midnight,
peace always alone and serene.

But I found peace most intense
while sitting on a black stone bench
with white graffiti scrawled over it
by the harbor, above the docks.
It was not the calm of silence,
but of delicate sounds
of cars in the distance,
of wind on sails and water,
and of the stars tiptoeing out;
the calm of no one speaking.
The skyline fell away on either side
as far as my eyes could follow.
Magnificent spires framed the bay,
bright lights sparkling in the distance as
the sky bled orange blurry clouds to
drip into the bowl of the ocean’s horizon.
The peace sifted through the humid air
to settle as golden dust on my shoulders.
I breathed out, and snuggled into the arms
and the smile of the one next to me.

Mirror Inversions

2008-09-04T23:45:00.003+08:00

She came back from the shops and the sunshine, and stared into her silvered mirror at the expression on her face. What she saw must have startled her, for the glass slipped from her hands and broke, and she fell through the cracks herself. Things look the same on the other side, only inverted, she reassured herself. But what she found was a twisted likeness of her world, a Picasso painting. This was a strange and fascinating realm where the things that she used to mock as feverish hallucinations had fled to seek refuge, and thrived in their new homeland. Fairies sprinkled pixie dust on young men yearning to fly. Dwarfs lurked in the shadows beneath garden toadstools. Men in capes leaped off dizzy skyscrapers to do battle with warped, larger-than-life arch-villains. A leprechaun rushed past beneath a painted sky seeking his pot of gold. The air was crisp, the ocean clear, the butterflies free of fear. Magic, having been sacrificed to science in her own world, hummed and throbbed in the veins of the mirror-world. She stood in the midst of it all, and sensed magic tugging at her soul, compelling her to heed its decree and stay to obey. She felt her resolve weakening, her self dissolving until she would become a joyous wraith in this sacred land, leaving a mere reflection beyond the glass on the other side. She dragged herself away with a heroic effort, forcing herself to be reborn in her own land. Smoke fumes wafted through the windows, and her unshaven neighbour slouched past on the sidewalk below. Magic must be brought back, she mused. Then she noticed the shattered shards at her feet, and the duality of magic and science struck her – two empires enthroned in their separate worlds of wonder, perfect inversions of the choices mankind has to make. Images of one in the other would never come closer than the thickness of the broken mirror.

spring-cleaning

2008-08-26T02:42:00.002+08:00

the religious ones say
armageddon is coming
judgement day is near
all prostrate yourselves
before the might of
the One
(or many)
for the world is surely
coming to an end

the scientists say
global warming is near
climate change is at hand
mend your ways
clean your bays
quit the race
you greedy little fatcats
else the world is surely
coming to an end

the crafty ones
(and the alarmists)
say what we all know
mankind cannot be trusted
nukular bombs will wipe out
the last squabbling remnants
and the world is surely
coming to an end

the parents the journalists
point to the rising crimes
the rising insane violence
and warn us all
how long before 8%
becomes 100% murders
at this rate?
these are statistics speaking
so it must be true
that the world is surely
coming to an end

me, I think we need to
wipe the slate and
start all over again
anyway
in fact I suspect even
everyone else agrees
that's why we're all so eager
to come up with something
anything at all
that says the world is surely
coming to an end

one more night

2008-08-25T19:08:00.002+08:00

I used to know
how to be alone
once upon a time
now there is the night
invading my ignorance

outside these stained windows
the cars rush past
the high heels clatter
the patter of the rain
falls on monochrome bylanes

inside it's just like
any other graveyard
no voices no tears only a past
empty pen refills
a burnt-out radio plug
butts in the ashtray
a ghost at the table

there are people out there
somewhere
lost in this big city
too many people
in too many rooms
with too much silence

on such nights - most nights -
all I want to do
is crawl into bed
pull the sheet over my head
close my eyes
and sleep
forever

waiting
to be born
again

because when you're young
it remains necessary
to ignore
the endings
and allow one more night
to creep past

Waiting

2008-05-17T12:18:00.008+08:00

Did you notice the jagged
song-fragments I scattered
across your lonely lawn, waiting
for you to brush the misty dew from
their soft lips and for love's first kiss
from your melancholy guitar strings?

Did you glimpse the scraps
of paper of lines of black shadows
I strung into a tribal bead necklace
and left lying on your windowsill, waiting
for you to swirl colour and for the slash
of your brush to pump blood through its veins?

Did you smell the fragrance
of the ink I smeared over pregnant
pages and taste the letters, waiting
for you to rearrange them into words
that chant themselves into a spell and for
the sandstorm you will raise on blank paper?

Did you sense the art I smuggled into your dreams, waiting
for your touch to breathe warmth into its faraway glitterglitter?

I Want

2008-04-11T22:25:00.001+08:00

I want to pluck poetry from the humid air,
from the invisible radiowaves around me
and translate it into the language of
black ink on white paper.
I want to distill the essence of dreams
and recrystallise it into poetry
so sweet it melts in my mouth.
I want to bait my line with emotions
and swing it out hoping to get a bite
and reel in poetry from the still green ponds.
I want to retrieve poetry from the soft fluff
curled up inside children's pillows,
drenched in their magic stories,
hallowed by their smiles.
I want to worship the Sun-god
in an elaborate naked pagan ceremony
and channel his warmth into soft sunlit poetry.
I want to receive messages from vast alien intellects
and take them down on a battered rusty typewriter
so I can distribute photocopies to the masses
for them to marvel at, and call poetry.

The Shippy Tag

2008-04-05T22:29:00.009+08:00

okay so something must be reallyreally wrong with me for doing a tag, but something'swrong i guess and i'm doing this tag anyway. nothankyouverymuch shippy.

Life Ten Years Ago :
life when i was seven? bloodyhell i don't even remember a single thing about being seven. except the fact that i was in class 1. and i refused to speak bengali, because i'd moved to calcutta (ohyes what a sweet name it had then) from hyderabad when i was four, and i had this sillylittlebabyidea that if i changed as little as possible, then everything would go back to the way it was. because the entire structure of my life changed. no, really. at four, i might have adapted easier to life on a spaceship. anyway so i hated bengali, and was antisocial and unfriendly and a general painintheass. oh, and i read my first adventure series book then. ohyesyes i loved my fantasy world, life was so much more fun inside my head than outside it! and they were building extensions to the buildings in my colony, and there was this huge sandheap hidden away in a corner, and ohsomany sweetafternoons spent scrabbling around looking for tinyshells (yes the sand came all the way from the sea, who would have thought it?) and the first lie i remember telling, something about homework to my teacher. and that set the example for all future lies, since i got caught at once. and punished, oh the shame! (this was WAY before it became the cool thing to do, yousee). also the hatingness of sports and dolls and roses.

Life Five Years Ago:
when i was twelve? hmph. waiting for thirteen, i guess. the best thing then was my cycle. my ohsobeautiful brown tall ladybird bicycle, with the hugeshiny wheels and the handy basket and the elegant crossbar. and the "daredevils club", with rishi and rahul. the 'stunts' - the standingon backbar, ridingwithouthandlebars, doubleteaming, speedracing (whichisuckedat, notsurprisingly) and the pretendingtobe che guevara (in a very motorcycle sense, i assure you). and the rides out of the colony flouting my parents' regulations, somanytimes (ha, take that, dear guardians!) and then someone stole my bike. ohtheagony. the special people: rahul. he taught me so much about life. about growingup. about beingmyself. and namita arrived, then. i was supposed to 'get friendly with her and set her up' for rahul. i lost a friend, made a friend, and changed the course of my life for good or bad. and rishi, myfirstcrush and next year myfirstboyfriend. what else was new about twelve? ah yes, my social flowering. or maybe i should say flourishing. i suddenly found myself popular. heady feeling, that.

Life Tomorrow:
i'm supposed to wake up early. and go to the beach with my family. bloodyhell. i don't even want to swim. i don't even want to wear a swimsuit. i suppose i'll take my calculus book to the beach (yes i know i should really getalife). and then come back and do the tonsandtons of homework for monday. i haven't even started the scrapbook i'm supposed to present on monday. ohshit whatelse did i forget?!

Five Locations I Would Like to Run Away To:
anywhere but school, actually. reallyreally?
1) sikkimsikkimsikkim. i love sikkim. the mountains the streams the rocks the sky the houses the people the language the prayerflags the momos. i'd run away there and never come back.
2) scandinavia. go stand on top of a craggy dark cliff and strum a guitar and do blackmetalshrieks at the fullmoon. and scareoff all the wolves, yes. poor things.
3) seeing as i'm in hongkong, i'd like to run away to calcutta. doesn't help that it doesn'texistanymore technically because it's kolkata. but seriously, i want my life back! (i really do a bad job of adapting don't i?) and i want my friends back. and my language back (don'tsmirkokay?). and my billboards and rubbishbins and dirtystreets back.
4) sudan. no, really. hopefully i'll get a bullet through my brain before i have the chance to moan about the desert heat or the lack of food. and i can die unnoticed, since thousands of people aredyingthere anyway.
5) the hongkong central library. the only place on this list that's realistic. hence, the only place that keeps me sane. literally and literaturely.

Five Bad Habits I Have:
1) laziness
2) procrastination
3) whiningness
4) absentmindedness
5) thickheaded-lackoftactness
and manyothers actually, but i refuse to elaborate on any of them. blogger's privilege.

Five Things I Will Never Wear:
1) pink
2) floweryshitstuff
3) pink
4) noserings. or fingerrings for that matter.
5) oh, and did i mention pink?

Five Biggest Joys at This Moment:
i don't really want to count my joys; i don't want to be reminded of how embarrassinglyfew there are. so my single biggest joy is that i'm writing this stupidtag and not some presentation on the impact of rent controls in new york. no really. that is my other option. and i'm smiling for the This Will Destroy You EP i'm listening to right now - seriously, go do yourself a favour and get hold of it. or ask me for it. reallyreally. and i'm happy about the fact that i played bass today. and the camp permission form lying on my desk, and the randomcampstuff vomited on my bed. and the new guitarpick I got today, it's this cool white skullshaped thing. maybe i should start a pick collection.
notice how three of my five joys have to do with music?

Something to Achieve By Next Year:
university. or atleast some idea of whatiwanttodo.
some reasonable level of guitarskills. i mean, whatthefuck? i'm in a band and i can barely play. so much for great musicians.
i want to really know calculus. reallyreally.
socialskills? maybe. maaaaaybe.

Something that Impacted Me Last Year:
this one's easy.
Abir.
you changed everything. every single thing. my darlingstupid fuzzball. you made me more... me. and even if things change between us, it won't ever be how it was before. because now i have a silent voice in my notsosilent head.

What I Will Miss About 2007 :
erm, physics class? yes i do miss that, i kinda wish i hadn't rushed through every physics course the school had to offer already, bleh.
shonelle. why'd you go off to australia and leave me in the lurch, you numbskull? justlikethat.
my singing. my voice has gone off to australia and left me too. byebye.

Five Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
1) wackenwackenwacken. i will, yesyesyes. i will.
2) sex. i don't want to die a virgin, nono.
3) bungee jump. i want to fly, desperately. that way even if i accidentally die before my carefullyplanned jump-off-a-cliff, i'll still get to fly. sort of.
4) slap abir so hard i leave brightred marks on your cheek. and slap the other one too, just for good measure. and maybe soakyourballsinice as well. no maybenot. that would be worse than pointless.
5) drive a lamborghini gallardo. reallyreallyfast. till i reach escape velocity...

oh, and also kill shippy for tagging me with this. that randomrant better have made you happynow, anyway. or else.
and since he's the only person that probably cares to do one, i tag my uneksia to do this sillytag.

A Haiku for Modern Times

2008-04-04T23:40:00.001+08:00

Death. Despair.
...................Darwin?

Survival of the fittest!

Good luck to you all.

50-Word Story

2008-03-29T19:09:00.004+08:00

Those Eyes

That girl in the asylum used to have such pretty eyes. Once they were a warm brown, adorned with liquid kohl and the loveliest smoky eyelashes, flashing fire and joy. Men would have killed for those eyes.

Now she has the dead gaze you know, ever since she was raped.

2008-03-18T20:52:00.001+08:00

...and this is where we must part ways, in the escherian impossibilities of my littlegirly dreams. because you cannot survive in these tangled webs of emotion and impulse, always tinged with infinite sadnesses, boundless joys and purest hopes, always swinging between moods faster than you can blink. here the little red figures shall flash their smiles and weave their way across my fields, and flawed heroes shall brandish their gleaming elven-swords and plunge blindly into disasters lurking in these surreal landscapes. you see, my darling, this is no place for you. here, where the fireflies wink in the moonshine, lies my domain. the purple-gold paint splashes do not welcome strangers, even familiar ones. here I alone am the dark queen and the noble hero and the bumbling sidekick, all within myself, and I do not leave even a minor character for your presence. yet… you are not outside my dreams, not in the least. you remain the silent spectator, the voice in my head. and always there is the awareness in the back of my mind, of you, the secret pleasure I will awake to in the sunlight slanting through the shutters...

The Bubble

2008-03-18T17:31:00.004+08:00

The slender, eager hand caressed the rainbow-coloured bubble, slowly forming itself out of shades too bewildering to comprehend.
“It is time,” suddenly rasped the shadow behind her. “Time to cast the final spell, time to let go.”
The bubble stretched and shimmered slowly on her outstretched palm, drawing her into its swirling mazes of light, away from the darkness and secrecy of the ruins around her.
“You know what you hold so tenderly, don’t you?” the black figure mocked. “A surface so thin you can’t even begin to imagine, and beneath it… nothing. Just a handful of air is all you have.”
She shuddered, and the bubble trembled in response. Swiftly she turned back to the flames, and began to chant a song over it, a strange haunting cry with no words, only a piercing voice that invested in the bubble all the pent-up emotion, all the words there will be never be time for, all the promises that will never be made to be broken. The other one watched over her shoulder expressionlessly, silently.
The diagrams on the floor, the frescoes on the walls, even the ancient moss-clad stones themselves spoke of a ritual the ruin had long lain dreaming of, and now that the moment had finally arrived, wanted to hold on to and prolong with all the anxiety of a miscalculation.
The cry rose to a sharp keening wail, and in the smoke above the fire there arose mysterious images, like the flickers of dreams half-seen in the waking hours of the dawn. The hooded figure leaned forward now, watching eagerly. The visions twisted, solidified and finally took form. The bubble seemed to be imbued with all the sacredness of the last survivor of a long-forgotten race.
“There, ‘tis almost done… now let go.”
She crossed the glowing ashes and carried the silvery, quivering bubble to a wall, and a word from the shadow threw the entire wall open, and the night sky, in all its star-strewn magnificence, rushed in to engulf them. She held her arms aloft to the sky, and gasped at a sudden sensation of gigantic wings, brushing past her and disappearing. When she opened her eyes again, the bubble had vanished.
An anguished, terrifying howl rent the night breeze, but not from her throat.
She turned amazed, as the cloaked one sank to the ground.

“And in his leaving, shall he come back to me…” emerges a whisper of content.

My Rain

2008-03-12T21:58:00.003+08:00

I cut away your raincoat and exposed you.
So I give to you my umbrella and my shivers.

Now I can walk away from your outstretched hand.

Flicker.

2008-03-02T21:44:00.003+08:00

Flicker. Glow. Flicker.
A lone lightbulb swings from the ceiling,
casting its soft light over the room.
Its bare, dingy surroundings waver.
Flicker. A table, a lone chair.
Flicker. An empty pantry, an unlit stove.
Flicker. A letter, lying by the door.
Flicker. A bed, and a man goes still.
One last flicker, and it all dies out.

Picture courtesy Katatonia - Last Fair Deal Gone Down.

Flickers.

2008-02-18T00:30:00.007+08:00

The fire casts red-lit shadows on the trees
Interspersed with the tall black silhouettes
Lurking soundlessly among the reeds with spears.
Hark! The dogs bark. The hunt begins with ease.

The pine branches’ stillness is disturbed by
The abrupt appearance of a ripple
That spreads, distorting the hills and the moon
Into wondrous shapes like clouds in the sky.

Beneath the blazing light of desert stars
At a lonely palm-shrouded oasis,
Two figures sleep among the sand dunes,
Unaware of the lion sniffing their scars.

As so much poetry starts to take form,
Somewhere in a silent unnoticed glade,
A quick lightning strike; a flower withers;
And a poem collapses in the storm.

Picture: courtesy Sayan

Escape

2008-02-05T22:04:00.000+08:00

I had intended to trap the light behind the bars, but in the end I could not resist setting it free. :)

There Are Times...

2008-02-04T18:28:00.000+08:00

There are times
between the ragged, stiff denials
of love and longing;
Times between the resolutions
not to bind, not to need;
when they lose themselves in dreams.

In juvenile dreams of landscapes,
of fingers entwined in hair;
of fights, of kisses, of silence
as the wind calls their names;
of the music of the twilight
weaved in softly fading strains.

There are times
between the dying moon and stillborn sun
when the lampless dark lies heavy:
only then they are equal.
Open. Trusting. Vulnerable.
Those times are few and far between.

The dawn breaks coldly
upon two not-quite-children
(much too old for dreams)
flicking each other away
like the specks of cigarette ash
on the pavement at their feet.

Outstretched

2007-12-22T03:06:00.001+08:00

American Summer

2007-12-06T01:49:00.000+08:00

Lazy afternoons

spent lying in a hammock

far from shrieking bombs.

The Decision

2007-11-25T15:17:00.000+08:00

I decided to leave you.

I told myself I didn’t need you. Enough is enough, I said. Goodbye, I’m off. Sure, you said. I screamed at your smirking face, and slammed the door behind me.

They came to me, eyes wide and mouths open. They asked why you had hurt me, ears wagging in anticipation of the tongue-wagging to come. I told them that I was the one who tried to hurt you, so that you never could. They did not understand and walked away.

I needed you. I was afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of being betrayed. Afraid that I would not be able to heal myself again. Children show their scars as medals. Lovers show theirs as secrets. I hide my scars and nurse them in the hope that they will heal someday. You healed mine, but you could have torn me apart like a razor blade digging into the soft skin above a vein. So I decided not to wait for my blood to drip. I decided to leave before you ripped me into shreds.

Time passed. I threw out every reminder of you from my heart, leaving it strangely empty. I attempted to fill it with yet more emptiness. I focused my brain on words and lines and pages, I read novels and lived poetry. I sweated through rugby and climbed steep hills. I kept my hands busy with guitar strings and tuned my mind to their music. I was an actor acting a role in a play. I smiled and danced and flirted with a dozen pretty faces and soft hands, liking all, wanting none. I blotted you out of my thoughts. I pushed you from my dreams into my nightmares.

Although you never asked me to explain, I justified my decision again and again in my own private court. I’m only protecting myself, aren’t I? You don’t need me anyway, do you? How much longer would I have had till you left me, anyway? Isn’t it safer that I be the one to leave? I’m happy. I’m proud. I need nothing and no one. I have a life! The words compelled me to repeat them till they lost their hollowness.

In the echoes ringing through the empty chambers of my heart, I heard your voice. I shut my ears, turned my back and took another dose of my sleeping pills. I taught myself to be strong and independent. I forced myself to find calm in solitude.

I don’t need you. Or anyone else.

Aeons later, my strength breaks and the façade cracks. I crawl back to you and call your name. Come to my cold bed tonight and make it warm. Smile for me. Fill me with your body and your love. I gasp your name between ragged breaths.

You look at me with infinite understanding - you saw it coming all along. I realize then that I am the spider you chose not to crush. My locks fall apart and the walls crash down. My fists unclench slowly in surrender. Stripped of all pride and pretense, I lie naked before your truth and beg for your mercy.

In a broken voice, I repeat endlessly, shamelessly, “I love you.”

The Last Poem Ever Written

2007-11-04T03:08:00.000+08:00

This is the last poem ever written.
Tonight, when the machines hum and lights glare,
poetry shall softly fade away; the ringtones
shall hasten to bury it in their blare.

This poem shall lie in your arms, and shall
caress and warm You through the cold twilight;
then slowly allow itself to be killed
in the smothering vacuum of the night.

This poem is a message to your heart;
a ransom note covered in cutout scraps
of letters torn from the pages of loss,
forming shapes of pain, exposing your gaps.

This poem is not a prayer for help.
This poem is not a soft fearful cry.
It is a gift; not to your cruel thoughts,
but to the wind. I promised I would fly.

If you hoped that this poem was a torch,
a brave banner, a final call to arms –
Stop. This is a song of defeat and death.
Lie still, turn numb. No need for the alarms.

And don’t pretend that this poem will live
on forever as a valiant symbol
of the resistance you always dreamed of.
Like you, all shall surrender and grow dull.

And tomorrow, during the mindlessness
and routine, you will remember this poem.
My poem. You will remember making love –
yes, to the last poem ever written.

Behind The Glass Wall

2007-10-31T22:50:00.000+08:00

Bijoya - whose?

2007-10-19T01:49:00.000+08:00

Who is Durga? The slayer of demons? Or merely the mother of four other great gods? Who does SHE want to be — nurturer or destroyer? Maybe the answer is lost in the swirling river current every Dashami...
Durga came to my neighbourhood too, many times. The idol was so beautiful, with large dark motherly eyes and long curly hair. But the shining weapons and fury in her movements told otherwise. She was like a tiger — graceful and deadly alike. Durga IS powerful. She is the goddess of the universe. She killed many demons and was untamed - until she got married. After that, she just raised her children quietly until they became famous gods themselves.
It’s all mythology, I know. But I wonder if she really wanted to get married. Maybe she was happier being like an eagle, deadly but free. Maybe that’s why she keeps coming back to Bengal, where her husband is just a tiny picture on the wall. Where people see only Durga as all-powerful. Not as wife of Shiva, mother of Ganesh. Where her identity is her own.
I went to watch the immersion. I wanted to say goodbye. They took the idol in a barge out to the middle of the Hooghly River and then lowered her beneath the current. The beautiful ornaments floated away, the vibrant red dress became wet and clingy. I stared in shock as the paint on her face too began to dissolve. Her lips smeared like red lipstick after a night out. Two dark tears rolled down from her wet eyes. Her sculpted features gave way to a misshapen brown. Was the goddess mere ‘human clay’ too? The last thing I saw was the deep brown eyes looking back at me, saying a silent goodbye.
As I watched her go, I fancied I heard a strange cry somewhere on the wind. Strange, because it was a shout of triumph. Then I understood - Mahishasura had won. The goddess was now helpless and tamed. I wondered what Dashami was really the celebration of - the death of a demon or the death of a warrior. Maybe only the river knows the answer - that is why she weeps and carries Durga away as fast as she can.

Seeking Power

2007-10-15T00:35:00.000+08:00

I got drenched to the skin yesterday night. Drenched, dripping wet. Pounded by bullet-like drops, buffeted by winds like a sail. The elements raged round me. The pure cold water seared my skin and chilled my bones. The water ran down my face and bare arms and legs, cleansing me of all civilization. And then it washed away all thought. And finally it stripped me of emotion itself, leaving nothing but a clear sharp animal instinct.

So I broke into a run. I ran and ran and ran, trying to outsprint the wind itself, as the sea splashed the quay on my left and the sharp salty tang of its smell masturbated my nostrils. And the wind roared in my ears, straining against me, and I strained against myself, pushing my muscles till they screamed in delicious agony, pushing until my body attained the beautiful ache.

And then, all of a sudden, I stopped dead and threw my head back. I raised my graceful bare arms to the heavens, in a gesture not of supplication but of triumph, of glory. I screamed deliriously at the torn-open sky. The rain continued to jab my body and then trickle down in little streams. The wind added its irresistible voice to my barbaric yawps echoing out across the storm-tossed waters of the bay.

And then I fell silent. I closed my eyes and took in the smell, sound, touch, even the taste of the tangy spray on my welcoming lips. I reveled in the power and glory of the moment.

And then I opened my eyes, let out a feral scream, and took off again in a blur of motion, arms and legs pounding against and with the insistent rhythm of the rain, oblivious to all thought. And all of a sudden, in a surge of wild uncontrolled power, like a spark let loose, I threw my arms wide open and leaped into the sky.

I was flying.

Almost.

I was happy yesterday night.

Departure

2007-10-04T02:27:00.000+08:00

I see you lying on your bed and wondering why I am not lying beside you. You curl on your side and wonder why I left a hole in your heart the callous way I did. No, not a hole – a gaping abyss forced open, stripped bare of the love we once had, and hung up to dry in the sun. Didn’t I promise to be there for you? Aren’t I still there for you? Am I?

When you look up at the stars and wish for my warmth by your side, I will be there. When you stand on a lonely cliff top and want to express that feeling of power, I will be there. When you sit on a bench silently watching the sun set over the lake, I will be there. But when you lie alone in your bed, wondering where my hand is, you remember that I am not there. And you realize with a start that I was never really there, not once in all the times I promised.

You think I lied to you. I lied to myself. That is why you never caught me red-handed.

Keep asking those questions. Light a cigarette, I know your hands get lonely without me. Pour yourself a drink. Or two. Or three. Walk over to the mirror and stare at your haggard reflection. Look at the spot above your shoulder, that empty patch of air where a laugh should have been. Yes, I know, I am sad too. But I left, as always. I leave. Again.

Suddenly you scream in rage and throw your glass at the mirror. Smash, crash. A million sparkling tiny fragments, reflecting your demented howls a million times. And the tinkle echoes a laughter never forgotten. You drown it with your feral howls. That’s when you look up and see me standing by the door, bleeding from cuts made by flying glass. You open your mouth to say something, then close it. I merely smile, and slowly turn away. With all the grace I can dredge up from my broken body.

Sleep on your side. Toss and turn tonight, the bedclothes will remain blank. Despite all your attempts to fill it with flesh, it will remain empty. You curse me and tell yourself you will never love again. Then you realize that I have won, so you promise instead to guard your love the next time. You swear that no one will touch your heart so deep again, and you painstakingly rebuild your walls and retreat behind them. There you will remain.

Selfish I may have been, but I preferred my loneliness and self-centeredness. I wanted your love, but I did not deserve it. And no one deserves me. I will grope my way along my own private path.

And you learn. You get over it. You move on. Only sometimes, you wake up screaming in the middle of the night and wonder why I left you.

Someday you will understand the truth. I never left you. I was never there.

My South Park Alter Ego

2007-09-08T18:05:00.000+08:00

This is ME!!!!

mwahahahaha!!

Elegy On The Death Of Meaning

2007-09-02T03:55:00.000+08:00

Words swirl around this emptiness
Like falsely cheery sparrows circling
A dull leaden grey sky, devoid of light
And awaiting a sun never-rising.

The water it stands stagnant –
Not silvery clear, not sharp and brisk,
No insistent urge in its liquid surge.
All safe and still, no rushing risk.

The clouds gather above the wasteland
No character, no form, no power,
No promise, only a hideous heaviness
That blots out all hope for laughter.

Death Of A World

2007-08-28T23:30:00.000+08:00

The butterflies flutter in the meadow beside the rabbits. Such sweet helpless fragile beauty, hanging by slender threads in the darkness of the swiftly onrushing midnight.

A sudden blast rips apart a restaurant. People fall, bleed, flee. Flames and shrapnel everywhere. The darkness is upon them.

A group of friends come out of the cinema hall laughing. They take a swig from the bottle they clutch and burst out giggling, holding onto each other, wishing they never need leave. The sunset colours the sky vibrant orange and shades of Ferrari crimson. The clouds slowly gather, but they goof off in blissful oblivion.

The falsely cheery electric chandelier lights up a table set for a family dinner. All around it they sit, grins plastered on their faces, making small talk, chewing delicately, there and yet not there. The storm clouds hover above the roof.

The girl looks up from her strokes at the swimming pool. The sky has burst open and sheets of rain engulf the little pool. She stands in the water and lifts up her arms, feeling the power of the drops searing her bare skin like bullets and pummelling her upturned face, revelling in the liquid glory drenching her senses.

He sits alone in his bedroom, the door shutting out the outside world. He is focused solely on his guitar, on the purity of the notes and the harmony of the chords. His music transports him away from his dull reality. It gives him wings. It is his escape.

Someone sits before her computer, headphones on and fingers flying. She finds support and friendship in the ‘virtual world’. She hides before the glare of her screen, masking her loneliness and revealing her heart to a bunch of pixels and yellow smileys.

The boy buries himself in his textbooks. The arcane concepts and ideas draw him in. He turns his back to the window and bends eagerly over electrophilic aromatic substitution. The owls' hoots rent the dark night outside in vain.

And they lie on their beds at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering why they feel so empty. What went wrong? What have they lost? What must they find? The questions whirl in their heads like puppies chasing their own tails, round and round. The disdainful cat sits on the windowsill and licks its paws, occasionally smiling its all-knowing Cheshire grin.

They are all zombies in their world. Dead. Devoid of feeling and emotion. The walking, talking dead.

I live in this world too.
I am dead to these things.
I am dead to the world.

I come alive only for you.

Who Is To Blame?

2007-08-26T17:52:00.000+08:00

“FORTY-TWO KILLED, FIFTY INJURED IN TWIN BLASTS,” screamed the headline on the TOI website. It shocked me beyond words. Sure, Hyderabad has always had some religious tension, hardly surprising given its Muslim population. But it was always the safest, calmest place I knew. And those bastards ripped apart Lumbini gardens and Gokul Chat – they didn’t even care who got killed! What an utter disregard for the sanctity of life… it would make anyone sick to the core.
The bombers used RDX – a simple explosive millions of high-school students across the country know how to make, at least in theory. That’s a chilling thought – life is so frighteningly cheap. A bunch of chemicals, a single twisted thought, a fuse in my hand – and I could send a dozen lives spiraling out of control. What’s there to stop me?
What, indeed? People blame the government: they say there should have been more security, that Hyderabad was a simmering stew of religious resentment waiting to boil over. That’s pointless. Is the government supposed to post guards at the door of every eatery all over the country and check that people aren’t bringing in bombs? Even if they check arms and explosives dealing (which they haven’t really done either), RDX is relatively simple to prepare even on one’s own. No, you can’t directly blame the government in this manner.
The keyword here is directly. The government set up the tension and unrest which indirectly led to this. It’s no coincidence that the rising blasts and terrorism is simultaneous with an increasing recognition of religious and caste differences, minority support and playing off different factions against each other. The government’s casteist and fundamentalist policies only serve to continually remind people of their differences rather than their unity. We’ve all heard the arguments over the OBC/ST/SC policies a million times, hopefully I don’t need to repeat them. Let me just state my stand: I don’t believe that any sort of ‘difference’ should even be recognized in the constitution besides economic ones, except of course where we’re actually celebrating our freedom and diversity to be whoever we want to be, with no discrimination whatsoever. The government continues to waste time worrying about how many Muslim leaders we have, how many minority caste leaders, cries bloody murder for the smallest ‘politically incorrect’ sentiment expressed and accuses its opponents of being fundamentalist and oppressors. Small wonder then, that such intolerance and discrimination is uppermost in the people’s minds. I’m reminded of the lyrics of ‘Across The Lines’ by Tracy Chapman: “Little black girl gets assaulted, ain’t no reason why/Newspaper prints the story and racist tempers fly/ Next day it starts a riot, knives and guns are drawn/ Two black boys get killed, one white boy goes blind… Choose sides, or run for your life. Tonight the riots begin.” And so it goes. Fundamentalist tensions and casteist policies = quick easy blasts = potential devastating massacre on the streets of Hyderabad. Can you hear the terrorists laughing in glee at how easily we fall into the trap? And can you see the politicians mouthing useless words of meaningless sympathy?
There was a time when politicians truly believed in their duty, and that the troubles of the country were their responsibility. As a child, I heard about Lal Bahadur Shastri resigning as Railways Minister following the train derailment at Ariyalur, and I simply couldn’t believe that a politician would do such a thing. The present apathy is so deeply ingrained! Today can you even conceive of any minister doing more than ‘expressing condolences for the bereaved’, let alone resigning? A friend of mine noticed my agitation and remarked ‘u still get shocked it happens so often’. All too true… we have seen so much tragedy and intolerance and utter senselessness that we have become numb. Yes, comfortably numb – what can we do except warm our asses anyway?
So I decided to move on and find out what was happening in other cities. In Mumbai, action has not yet been taken against the Shiv Sena leaders indicted for the famous 1992-93 riots. All they can do is talk about it. Here’s a clear example of politicians being responsible for this mess, and yet they are beyond justice! In Bangalore, a woman committed suicide after workplace harassment. And yes, she had approached the State Women’s Commission for help earlier. In Kolkata, some parents demanded that a primary school should expel the HIV+ kids there to keep their own children ‘safe’. And in Delhi, there is a heated government debate on whether to lower the drinking age from 25 to 21. Isn’t that farcical? A person can drive, vote, even raise a family at 18, but is too young to drink! As if anyone even takes that law seriously! Hm, perhaps the parliament had nothing better to do with their time and resources? The government is wasting its capabilities on non-issues, or worse still the wrong issues entirely, instead of focusing on things that matter. How can we worry about the drinking age when such a large percentage of the population lives below the poverty line, in constant hunger? What is the point of even discussing this on here when so many millions can’t even write their own names, and are consumed by deadly ignorance and superstitions?
Obviously such people vote for whoever can solve these issues for them, short-term. Who can blame them for being more interested in their bread and butter than a nuclear deal? The parties exploit these feelings and come up with promises which will garner them votes. The downtrodden simply feel grateful that someone is even paying attention to their voice. This power is a heady feeling. How often have you felt that parties these days are more interested in merely forming a government and holding on to it, as opposed to actually solving the problems of our country? And you and I are average apathetic middle-class citizens, already having given up on the government, content to let them have their way as long as they don’t affect our lives directly.
Well, let these blasts rock you back to the reality of our situation! That could have been you or your loved ones sitting at that restaurant that day, a victim of all the chain reactions resulting in the death of democracy. Don’t let this end like all the others: “Little black girl gets assaulted/ Don’t no one know her name/ Lots of people hurt and angry/ She’s the one to blame…” Don’t let this sink back into obscurity, wipe off the blame onto someone else, preferably someone obscure, and sit back with a clear conscience. The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines democracy as ‘government by the people’. Yes, I would point the finger at the government, and of course sadistic fundamentalists everywhere, but we’re also part of the reason. It’s not separate from us – it’s our country, our responsibility too. We can write and express our views, join protest groups, get into government, start NGOs, work within our individual capabilities to eliminate the root of these problems – ignorance, intolerance and fear. I believe in the potential of India. No country is perfect. It has to become perfect.

Ruminations Beside A Ticking Clock

2007-08-13T22:40:00.000+08:00

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The clock ticks you ever closer to death.
A moment spent doing nothing is a moment forever wasted.

You’re reading this? Good for you. You will hear things you should know before you die.

Come on, sit by me. Have a drink. Tell me about yourself.
No, dammit! I do NOT want to know your job or salary or how many cars you own or how many women you’ve fucked. Don’t you know anything about yourself?

Tell me, what do you fear?

Cockroaches? Ha! They’re just little brown creatures on wings. Are you afraid of flying, then? Or are you just afraid of everything that’s different from you?

Do you fear lies? Mistakes? Do you hate being wrong? Hey, who decides what’s right or wrong anyway? Who decides what truth or reality is? It’s all in your head. You’ve invented your own fears. Even Satan and Hell are all in your head. You can choose to live without them anytime you want – IF you’re brave enough.

Are you a coward when it comes to pain and suffering? Then you’re becoming wise, my child. That is indeed a powerful fear. But what about the others who suffer every minute, every day? Do you ever think about helping them? Oh yeah, I see – you can’t face your fears, even when they’re happening to someone else.

Do you fear the ultimate, then? Death? But if you don’t want to die, then why do you pray to go to heaven? Being alive is a state of mind. You can breathe and still be dead. Poets ‘live on in their work’. Fearing death is the first step towards it. Bon voyage, mon ami.

Are you afraid of me? (maniacal laughter) Because I told you things you didn’t want to hear? Here’s one more – I pity you.

Go on, run away. Hide your head under the pillow. The monster in the closet will come to get you tonight. Just wait until the clock strikes twelve.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Portrait of a Flight

2007-08-06T14:31:00.000+08:00

ssssssssssssssssssssssssss Peak.
ssssssssssssssssssstip of the
sssssssssssss top, to the
sssssssssssto the
sssssssssup
sssssssright
You climb

You stand at the edge, the ledge
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssteetering sss a ssss bit.
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss just s little

You laugh and let out a WHOOP, a barbaric yawp.

You take a leap and Fly,
ssssssssssssssssssssssfalling…
sssssssssssssssssssssssssfalling…
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssfalling…
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssfalling into the a
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss b
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss y
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss s
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss s

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss splat

Longing for Cursed Treasure

2007-08-05T22:22:00.000+08:00

His tall silhouette against the sun
Draws me irresistibly closer.
He turns, and speaks to me.
My heart flutters strangely (shut up!)

Dark hair, dark arms, dark eyes.
Eyes that bore a hole into my soul
And see me for who I am, and what I'm not.
His sardonic smile flickers in and out.

I steady myself (stop it!) and listen
To strange ideas, piercing insights,
And incredible tales beyond imagination.
My intellect thrives on his.

The force of his personality
Is a vibrant inescapable magnet.
He lives dangerously, on the edge.
Someday he'll drag me over with him.

Oh! but I hate him, I hate him!
He stands for so much that I'm not.
(Damn him! I passionately wish he was in hell!)
He also stands far, far away...

Then he turns, and walks away.
I long to call out, reach out, anything!
Instead I stop and ask myself
"What is wrong with you, you fool?!"

My Experiments With Haiku

2007-07-26T23:34:00.000+08:00

My latest attempts at haiku:

The fighter planes flew
Low over despairing homes
And dropped gifts of death.

The student bends low
Over his pile of books, his
Back to the window.

The once-mighty hawk
Now lies still with broken wings
Beside the black stream.

She picked up a book.
A Bible, welcoming her.
She threw it away.

At The Station

2007-07-26T23:30:00.000+08:00

I was waiting for the subway train.
A crowd of young people rushed in
On their way to and from busy work;
And even younger people, too,
With far more urgent destinations.
I stood, and they buzzed around me,
Waiting impatiently for
The slow train to dash in there.
I heard sighs of relief when it arrived.
They embarked, and it sped off like a bullet
Shooting them nowhere at all.
I turned, and hobbled away with my cane
Back upstairs to wait at the tram station.

Drowning

2007-07-17T18:28:00.000+08:00

You cannot breathe:
Suffocation.
Water around you, water inside you,
Hair streaking wildly behind you.
One shaft of sunlight
Pierces the murky depths;
Swim towards the rays,
Cling to a fading hope.
Kick, kick.
Stroke, push.
Kick, kick.
Muscles on fire.
Break the surface in a glittering shower,
Gasp for air – take in a mouthful of water,
Thrash around in desperation – will you live?
Water around you, water inside you,
Hair streaking wildly behind you.
Arms and legs too heavy to move.
All said, all done.
You sink back down...

Hack To Pieces And Tear Asunder The Bodies Of Mine Enemies

2007-07-02T03:25:00.000+08:00

My axe is wielded high over you
Poised to rip your intestines apart;
For I am the beautiful arrogant Cybele
Orgasmically pleased to savour your heart.
My crimson knife sculpts your chest,
Exposing a fear-pale airless lung.
I demand proof of your devotion:
Emasculate yourself and your young.
Offer your magnificent corpse in my service
- Grandiose funeral prostitution behold -
Your luscious skin perforated in place,
Ornamented with barbed wire of gold;
Sacrifice your ruby teardrops;
In royal thorns, enrobe yourself;
For you are my demonic priest
Sworn to suffer, pledged to myself...

Paean to a Putrid Piscean

2007-05-31T01:45:00.000+08:00

Vegetarian-flavoured haiku...

A dish of sushi -
Long limp noodles and raw fish;
And a wasted life.

The Illusion Is My Truth

2007-05-26T22:25:00.000+08:00

I stare at the passengers, but see
None of the myriad people before me.
I see a land locked away in my memories
And a sudden smile – in my dreams I see.
But the fantasy is so real, so vivid.
Why should I ever let go?

I know the absurdity of life,
That I am happy… SO HAPPY!
And the hurt tears my insides,
The pain rips apart my body.
Like the survivor of a shipwreck
I still cling to what I know.

I have so much to give, so much
Love to offer my beloved.
My helplessness mocks me
“What have you received?”
I still give my shadow smile
My phantom hand touches the same.

And they kiss and then they laugh
Those pairs on the train never part.
I alone shut my eyes, I lean back
And a tiny flicker grows in my heart.
No wind can blow out its glow.

But no wind will fan it into flame.

The Function of MY Mind

2007-05-25T00:06:00.000+08:00

I finished my maths test early and got bored. Thought I'd post this on here to show you just how idiotic I can be.

Honour to thee, O flawless functions!
Thy straight and squiggly lines like hairs
Wind like a snake around my neck
And haunt my worst nightmares.

O functions! All thy domains, each
With its unique range, hath combined
To create doodles so dastardly
That all peace is driven from my mind.

I. Hate. Myself.

2007-05-03T20:43:00.000+08:00

I can't remember the last time I felt so unwanted and worthless.
Possibly I deserve to be cast away.
Possibly it's time someone made me feel this way.
They say, pride comes before a fall.
I've told myself ten thousand times that I will never trust again.
Yet I do so, ten thousand times over, through the pain.
Why should I?
Remind me not to. It is safer.
It is a well-known fact that anaesthesia is a drug which causes no pleasurable sensations.
But anaesthetized people cannot feel pain.
That is all that matters.

...and the rays of darkness chill my fevered soul and protect me from your harsh light...

The Lone Wolf... And Me

2007-04-26T17:36:00.000+08:00

The midnight breeze blows around me,
Trying to chill me to the bone.
It does not know I am already ice.
My pale fingers chill the wind itself.

I sit still on my lonely log.
A lone wolf howls at the moon.
His haunting cry seems to echo my thoughts.
“Why have we been driven to seek this place?”

Far from voices, far from humanity,
Far from the cage of civilization.
Here where I am the queen, where
I control none and none controls me.

The moon bathes me in her cold flame.
The shadows are the dark dagger in my hand.
I will not face the false cheer of the sun.
Take me, O dark night, don’t let me fall…

The wind is still mercilessly cold.
The Sol is gone, Luna returns to find
A lone silhouette still sits on the log.
And a wolf howls its funeral keening.

The Legend Of The Forest Queen

2007-04-14T22:27:00.000+08:00

This lonely landscape holds a story
Of love and longing, despair and defiling.
The ancient oaks guard their secret sorrows
And the wind still whispers its poetry.

He came through the forest, sword in hand,
Stalking a deer with feline grace
He was made to conquer, his savage cry
Reigned supreme in that isolated land.

Then the boughs parted to reveal a glade,
The throne of the woodland princess.
Her limbs were slender twigs in moonlight,
Her smile was the silver stream in the shade.
The hunter gazed in rapt wonder
At the ethereal beauty before him.
She, too, was caught by human passion.
There they bound themselves together.

He could not bear to let her fire pass into smoke.
He stayed; he built them a house, a wooden lodge,
His great axe hewed the ancient ebony, while she
Wept over the stump of the once-mighty oak.

Ah, but their love was great and deep!
Arms entwined, souls embraced, passion
Permeating every fibre of their beings…
The nymph had never such joys reaped.

She neglected her age-old kingdom’s call.
Like her wards, she too had found her mate.
But the love she found was not in her fate.
Her pristine realm showed signs of pall.

Blood besmeared the mourning willow,
Remnants of the kills for his appetite.
The corpses of mutilated trees lay around,
Foul flecks defiled the clear stream’s flow.
The untouched landscape cried in pain,
What blasphemy, what sacrilege at his hands!
Ancient nature writhed under man’s fleeting touch.
She knew that man, too, must pass like the rain.

She watched him fall.
His graceful body taut in a plunge
From the cliff to the abyss below.
She watched him fall.

Then the spiritess returned to her oaken throne,
But her smile is forevermore broken.
Pearls of infinite sadness wind their way
From her hollow eyes down her cheekbone.
Around her, the woods revived, paid the cost.
But the lonely moon even now stands watch
Over the desolate stumps, the still-black waters
And the dirge of a thousand sunrises she lost.

Helpless against Fate

2007-04-10T20:32:00.000+08:00

The love songs lied. They say, “I would walk a thousand miles, I would swim across the ocean, all for you.” Here is the terrible truth: it is not so simple. Love stories don’t always have happy endings. What do the boy bands and pop princesses know? What do their dumb inane ‘omg lol’ fans know? Nothing. Nothing that matters, anyway.

The ocean seethes in turmoil, reflecting my emotions in its grey-green waters. Overhead the sky darkens, the scarlet sun swathed in shrouds of silent grey. The gulls wheel and dive, emitting their cries which pierce my heart. I stand solitary, still as a statue, as the wind wraps itself around me and whispers a tale of loneliness and sorrow. Suddenly a shaft of crimson light pierces the clouds and turns the water bloody. I am afraid.

I know where you are, across that vast expanse of waves which separates us. My heart aches for you, longing to see your smile, hear your music, touch your hands, feel your warmth pressed against mine. And the bitter knowledge that it is not to be is like a poisoned dart. I need you, but I am helpless. I can neither get you nor let you go. I hang in the void with only the wind.

As I watch, a black oil slick slowly spreads across the pristine waves, polluting them with its foul aura. The inky stain blots out the ripples and sparkles of the water below, deadening and stilling it. So, too, my heart is like the waves.

The tears threaten to wash away my fragile defenses. I know how you feel about me; you have already given me more than I dared hope, and for that I am fiercely happy. But I still feel empty, incomplete. I do not want to own you, nor do I want to belong to you. But I do want us to be part of each other, a symbiosis. Am I being selfish? Am I asking too much of fate? The answer lies hidden in the wind’s murmuring…

The pale ghost of the full moon peeks out above the horizon. Time rolls on like the ocean… will it someday break these barriers? Will you wait till then? Will I wait till then? I know not which way to choose, nor what lies ahead. I can only hope…

Life - Beginning To Perk Up

2007-04-03T21:40:00.000+08:00

At last! Life's interesting.

Rugby matches are better than I expected. Or rather, just being in a stadium and yelling my lungs out is better than I expected. The rugby... nah, didn't understand much, and I don't really care. The Hong Kong Sevens Tournament was a good place to be, though. However, my attitude towards the 'sport' of rugby is pretty much summed up by this wisecrack "Rugby is played by men with odd-shaped balls".

After the match was even better. I finally got my chance to be 'evil'. I wasn't too evil by anyone's standards, but I took my first steps. It's important to break out of that cocoon, isn't it? A first time is always a first time. And yes, it makes other first times a lot less scarier. Stepping from the known into the unknown is incredibly satisfying after you've actually done it. The only disadvantage is that the unknown loses it mystery and romance... in essence, its 'unknown-ness'. Getting back home at nearly 11 for the first time adds to the heady feeling. Yes, I'm a teenager, and enjoying it!

Home's boring. Especially if you have guests coming over for dinner. Especially especially if you are expected to entertain their kids. Here's where I was proved wrong. The son of my mum's colleague turned out to be a metalhead, the first one I'm meeting IN Hong Kong. I was almost ecstatic. Time flies far too fast when you're discussing metal in a state of near-euphoria and relief. I'm heading for a gig someday with him, for sure. And yes, I owe him bigtime for introducing me to South Park!

Oh, and I'm heading for China proper - Shenzhen - in a couple of days to do the 'tourist thing'. I'm in no mood to actually live there, but travelling is good. After all, there's a lot of places to see, I might as well start just across the border. And hey, you get cheap pirated DVDs there! So... China, here I come! (oh, and Metalhead's coming with me - atleast I don't have to worry about being bored out of my wits!)

Yep, Hong Kong's not too bad after all. I'm living life in the moment at last. It's no use resisting the winds of change, is it? In fact, flowing with the current can be pretty exciting at times. Now all I need is for a typhoon to blow me away...

What else do you expect?

2007-03-25T02:36:00.000+08:00

Yes, hide under the bed at night;
The men with guns will get you too.
Cry and wonder what you have done
To deserve the death around you.
Among the empty shells of houses,
Watch the black fighter planes overhead.
Hear the bombs crashing around you
Seeking more company for the dead.

Be woken up by a soldier at dawn.
Hold your child close in pure fear;
And have her brains blown out anyway
In your arms – this you must bear.

Let your clothes be stripped from you.
Let your things be burnt in unholy fire.
Let the men use you as they wish.
Let your own spirit be a stretched wire.
A wire which can’t hold the tension,
A wire which longs to snap and break.
You cannot escape. You cannot flee.
Any hope of safety is all a fake.

A magazine flutters on the ground –
Happy people, smiling at some party.
They don’t care. They don’t want to care.
Wait for the fighter planes silently.

And The Clock Never Stops

2007-03-19T21:03:00.000+08:00

I sit alone in a crowded classroom, watching the clock hands move ever closer to eternity, ever so slowly… It’s eerily silent, only the scratching of pen on paper and soft sighs. No one speaks – they are all absorbed in their work, the way a stalking lioness concentrates only on the deer before her. I alone sit with my mind wandering, flitting restlessly as a butterfly does. I can focus on nothing; nothing seems to be important; nothing else matters.

Little memories flit through my head – sharing phuchkas on the pavement in the middle of a rainy day, laughing over a punishment for some particularly diabolical prank, guitar jamming sessions instead of doing classes, an encouraging smile during a scathing lecture, a shoulder for my warm tears to bury themselves in… Now the tears roll unheard, unseen, unchecked. Those days are all in the past now, and there they will remain. The sooner I realize that, the better.

The clock continues its slow march on. Damn, will the bell never strike? At least it doesn’t stop… just as life never stops. Life moves on inexorably, like the tides. And people must move on, too, unless they want to risk being picked up by the relentless waves and dashed against the rocks. The past is every moment other than the one you’re in right now. I remind myself not to stay stuck in it forever, I can’t live my life on rewind.

Of course things aren’t the same – what did I expect? That I could be caught in that same snapshot of me laughing by the lake, in a freeze-frame for all eternity? The film keeps moving, the actors mouth their lines, and the script plays itself out. I need to break away from the script, I must create my own space. But I know that if I do, I must stand alone. Do I dare losing even the pale shadows who keep me company through the lonely nights?

No one ever won a lottery without buying a ticket first. And all lottery winners live on hope – the hope that someday, someway, things will work out. Things must work out. I can live on faith, until things seem right again. I’ll wait for it until… RING! There goes the clock, at last. The faces look up wearily from the sheets of paper, and a sigh of relief passes through the room like a breeze. It’s time… to move on.

Still Searching...

2007-03-19T02:51:00.000+08:00

I sigh as I settle down to write again. I wonder why my life feels so empty. Wait – let me check over my shoulder again. No, not there. Not yet. Not now. Then where? What is it I’m searching for?

I wander the streets with my hands in my pockets. The cold wind whips my face, stinging me and making me gasp with the joy of pain, with the joy of being alive. But the hollow wind reminds me of my own gaping emptiness, howling like a lone wolf before the moon. I don’t want the constant loneliness. But what am I searching for?

I wander past the two-storey wood houses. People laughing, talking at dinner tables and mowing lawns. Are their lives really as neat as those square patches of lush green grass? A kid runs out and tramples a freshly tidied flower bed, kicking up clumps of earth. He laughs and waves at me. I laugh back, then immediately feel achingly sad for him. For I know that he, too, will walk my path someday.

Now I head past the office blocks. Great ugly lumps of concrete, snarling at the grey sky like a bulldog without its lunch. The only building I like is the steel and glass skyscraper, rearing up into the sky like the jagged claw of a prehistoric dinosaur and ripping the sky apart ruthlessly. But the people inside do not notice the birds swooping past their windowsill. They exchanged the thrill of the wind on their wings for the golden cages long ago. The most pathetic thing is, they think they’re happier than the birds. I walk on, I know that I’ll feel even lonelier in a crowd.

Finally I reach the lake. I sit on a mossy boulder at the glassy edge, and trace every needle on the reflection of the pine tree. I’m slipping away into a quiet solitude, when it’s suddenly broken by a harsh sound. I hear a silly feminine giggle behind me, as the female is embarrassed at being caught with the male wrapped around her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here,” she says and flees for a more private spot. Then again, who ever knows I’m here? For a moment, I intensely wish to be that female. At least she knows what she wants. At least she doesn’t come to the lake all alone.

The loneliness grips me again. Desperately, I ‘sound my barbaric yawp’, again and again. But every echo makes me feel smaller than ever. I’m still waiting… I still don’t know why. Is it for a what? Is it for a who? Is it for you? I think I see you calling to me from the depths of the lake. Yes, I know you are calling. You will give me the peace I need, won’t you? I’ll join you in the lake – right now. Take me away… far away…

The Scarlet Sail

2007-03-12T14:45:00.000+08:00

See the scarlet sail on the horizon,
The blood-red waves surround it,
Dancing before the crimson fireball
At the world’s last known limit.

Onboard, amidst the slender rigging,
The tall, billowy sails up high,
There, on the time-worn planks,
The Forsaken Crew walk by.

The men belong to a bygone era –
Last of an ancient dying race,
Their kind vanished centuries since –
They alone transcend time and space.

The wind whips their long locks,
Their faces are as cold as the sea,
Their sabers are as scarlet as their sails,
And their eyes hold unsolved mystery.

They roam the ocean’s expanse alone,
Bowing to none but the zephyr’s will.
The ghostly galleon will never be seen;
For those who do, it spells great peril.

The scarlet sails still embrace the gale,
Still attract the bull like flags of red,
The carved figurehead still stands tall,
Pointing to newer adventures ahead.

Now you may think you know everything
In this age of internet and KFCs:
But someday yet you will realize
The scarlet sail still stirs the seas…

Across The Lines

2007-02-23T22:25:00.000+08:00

I’m breaking my prison walls tonight:
My destination’s across the lines
To the places no one dared to go.
No patience, no taking things slow.
I’ll no longer ignore these signs;
I will rise to reclaim my right.

Now is my time – I’ll wander free
Across the lines, where none have gone
See the eagle overhead – that’s me
Being everything that I can be
Out there somewhere all alone
Scripting my dreams into destiny

I won’t fade into the background
Nor live in my own fantasies
Across the lines my kingdom waits
For me to take control of my Fates
To wrest my demons into peace
And banish my fears underground.

In that place, all is MY power
Across the lines only I exist
Nothing can haunt my cares there save
Hopes resurrected from the grave
Then I’ll breathe life into the mist
Of desires with renewed vigour.

So close, still trying to reach
Across the lines, where I belong
To escape from the glimm’ring shadows
Away into the darkest night’s glow
Until tonight, I’ll chant my song
An anthem to the lines I’ll breach.

Reclaiming Eden

2007-02-23T02:40:00.000+08:00

Sunshine pours through the leaves,
Rippling and filtering to where I stand
The graceful green grass greets it
And I laugh and reach for your hand.
Do you see the butterflies today?
They flit past as a living rainbow
And I rush to seek their pot of gold
Come join me – you will, I know!
The flowers bloom in their delight
The willow branch bends for me
The lake beckons me impatiently
We part its surface in ecstasy.
So we go, leaping like does,
Back to the fields once forgotten
There in our own secret haven
Rediscover our seventh heaven.

Being Different? Or just being Me?

2007-02-23T01:32:00.000+08:00

In honour of my first post, I'll describe MYSELF for the unwary (yes, yes, I know there ARE better things to describe; forgive me this once)

I am a melting pot of contradictions. I am like no one you’ve ever met before. Never imagine for a moment that you can predict me, the quicksand just might shift under your feet. There, I have shown you the warning sign.
I pride myself on not being “ordinary”. I am driven by a desire to be different. I’m the round peg in a square hole. I’m the misfit, the rebel. I cannot be restrained by your rusted chains. I’m the one who will break out of a stereotype the second you try to fit me into it.
I am the kind of person who would jump off a cliff without a parachute just to see what it feels like. I want to experience all that this world has to offer and more – I will drink life to the lees. I have no fear of death, except that it would cut short a life full of golden chances. I’ll live when I’m alive, and sleep when I’m dead.
I am not a flashing diamond, gloating in its own glory. I am not an emerald, clear and still as pond water. I am not a ruby, bleeding drops of red for reasons left unsaid. Instead I am the sapphire, the colour of the blue sky high above.
I’m not fond of rules. I have no respect for the status quo. I live my life the way I want to live it. No matter what they may say, life isn’t a game. There are no second chances or turns. So don’t waste your breath telling me how to play. I do not stay in my place simply because I don’t know what that is. And I don’t care to know either.
The one and only reason I ever do anything is because I want to. If someone else said I should do it – well, that was purely coincidental. You cannot tame a rearing stallion.
Do not seek to hide me in a shroud of harsh light. I am illuminated by rays of darkness. The blazing candle that I bear leaps up in tongues of shadows, engulfing you in its ice-cold flames.
You can like me, disagree with me, quote me, argue with me, trust me, disbelieve me, praise me or detest me. The one thing you can’t do is ignore me.
I am not one of your self-proclaimed messiahs. I am not the devil’s advocate. Nor am I the innocent fallen victim. I am simply the silent scarlet snapdragon in the Garden of Eden, observing and waiting for my turn.
I do not stop to think before I speak. Civilization demands that we impose layers of distortion to hide the heart’s truth. I reveal the thoughts chasing themselves around in the maze of my brain in the naked light of day, because I would rather be a savage than be civilized in today’s age. If you prefer to hear the words slanted, I suggest you continue your search elsewhere.
I realize that I am the only one like me. That does not imply that I am the misfit. It merely means that I am the trailblazer.
I may be happy in my own private world, but I know that something is very wrong in the world I share with you. I may not be able to put my finger on a single cause, but I still seek the answer. For I am Prometheus, bringing you the divine fire.
I notice events around me that shouldn’t be happening. The worst of them is that nobody cries out to protest. I strain my voice, but I find myself strangely silent too. I promise that someday, I will make the difference. Even if I have to swim against the current to rescue the human race from drowning.
I am crazy enough to believe that I can change the world. But then, the crazy persons are the ones who do.