Archive | January 2014


It wasn’t easy deciphering her.
She was
Every book she had read.
Every song she had listened to.
Every stranger she had met.
Every landscape she had fallen in love with.
Every wound she couldn’t heal.
Every laughter she skipped her breaths for.
Every tear she couldn’t hide.
Every smile she strived to show.
Every wish she longed to happen.
Every ocean she had once sailed.
Every dream she had waken up from.
Every character she had related to.
Every artist she had understood.
Every painting she had framed.
Every place she had homed.
Every open-road she couldn’t take alone.
She’s not easy to decipher, because she’s a complexity of all the beautiful things that she packed along with her.


I’ve Talked to People About You (2)

I’ve talked to people about you,
Ask them what they know.

I’ve talked to people about you,
About the things I could not show.

I’ve talked to people about you,
Because I was scared and now I know.
That I’ve talked to people about you,
Because I miss you ever so.


I feel wasted. Not drunk-wasted. But functionally wasted. What I could do is being wasted. My dreams are being wasted. Everything I could’ve become has been wasted.
I feel wasted. And I have nothing left in me to carry on. I have nothing left in me to get me back on my two feet. Nothing to fill the gaps. Nothing to put off the burning flames.
I feel wasted. Wasted to the extent that I can almost feel myself vaguely decolourise. I can feel myself and not see myself. Wasted to the extent that I have blended within, when all my life I’ve been existing without.
I feel wasted. The tired kind of wasted. The poignant kind of wasted. The kind of wasted that no one can fix, not even yourself. The one that’s similar to waking up to an absolutely magnificent dream. The dreams that never come true. The dreams that only manipulate you and undermine you. I feel wasted.


Angry and unbelonged, I felt the need to somehow contain myself to wherever I’ve been dumped into. A community full of strangers, dull scary strangers. Strangers strayed into the nothingness of an existential delusion. Racing time out of habit, a mere habitual act blinded that there might be something, at the end of the marathon, they all wanted to earn. Herds of people dressing the same, talking the same, laughing the same, dancing the same. Even their smiles were coherent together, hiding away their irrelevance. Pretty teeth and ugly souls.
Gradually, I began to learn what it’s like to exist amid a crowd yet not within it. A sober among the drunks. I must admit, the loneliness was aching and seemingly poisonous. Forever longing a cup of coffee (cup of coffee here used metaphorically) with a person who might magically understand; a person who shows up in the most random of ways; a savior who was as sober as I was and as weary as a traveller inquest of a home.
But there was a point of realisation I always failed to run away from. No one will ever show up. Because there’s nothing gripping in this country, in this culture, in this society, and it is merely silly to expect its offsprings to be anything different, to be anything intriguing, to be any more immersing. It’s silly. And stupid. And ridiculous. But with such thirst, one might as well die without a hoping spirit. And I’d rather be silly, stupid and ridiculous, than murdered by a scornful crowd.

Who Am I?

Don’t you ever stop there and just ask yourself: ‘who am I?’. It’s a millisecond pause in life that takes you years back and years forth in your head. A millisecond of numbness and aching stagnation. We all usually overlook it all and move forward. We pretend the thought never occurred, or, worse, we pretend we’ve found a convincing answer. We engage into activities that keep us distracted, stuffing our brains with -as Bukowski perfectly said- cotton. We get drifted by life’s daily demands that we shamelessly forget our quest to find an answer. A curse in disguise. But what exactly happens to the few of us who put a halt to everything and appreciate the voices and questions in our head?