Dream girl, you stay on the surface of my heart, somewhere
unable to penetrate through thick layers
but who says that you have to dig in?
I go to such wild places out here, with you
It exists, this reality
of riding on the back of a motorbike
with someone intangible
weaved of fabricated thoughts
existing in the realm of dandelion puffs
a belief that this is eternity
that the purpose of life itself
has been catered around simply holding you
in my arms
and that life is now complete
there’s only happiness
amid distant crackling sounds
and mellow colors that ripple and dissipate in air
in this zenith of all realities
where I’m half dreaming
and you half exist
In moments of conflict,
we revert back to our roots for solace
with our roots assumed to be our cultures
but our true root is that we’re all
An ocean of hope
incense looming through time
wrapped in dear memories
At times like these, I wonder what they went through
believe it or not, in World War Two. It reminds me of a book by a Russian-American author who writes about a girl having regular girl conflicts amid warn torn Russia.
I never finished it; not much of a reader. It was suggested by a friend who has… had major issues.
What does one do when the world is in a lock down? She had everyday problems too; trying to get food, dreaming about a boy whom she liked who may/may not have liked her back, sister problems, parent quarrels, etc.
Then things got dire suddenly. But you don’t get desperate in one step, it happens in phases. At the peak of it, everyday nightmare was the norm. So much so that the nightmare wasn’t even nightmare anymore. It was numbing.
Is that what the pigs went through when they were partially burned and then buried alive in a large pit? That video has been engraved in my mind. Their screams, just like that of a human’s.
Where am I getting at.
Desperation. Isn’t it all the same?
When we get out of it, who will truly understand? Not those future humans who will read about it, only those who experience it.
Just like I’ll never understand what they went through in World War Two, no matter how much I read about it.
Maybe our lives exist to experience trauma too, in some form or another. Everything’s all rainbows and balloons one minute, and then it pops.
At least, in hindsight.
Wouldn’t have happened if people just stopped caging up and eating free wild animals
What is yearning
I’ve loved you from the first time that I noticed you
I’ve even blocked my mind from the line of chicks
that are after you
if this delusion’s alright
then why’d we want it any other way
if you wouldn’t mind
then I’d see you just from faraway
and if you catch me
I wouldn’t look away
if you talk to me
I wouldn’t say
if you wrap me
the universe would sway
I’m walking around in my room…
maybe I’ve been in a cage, since the early 90s
maybe it’s stayed quiet since that night in March when I first discovered quietness
it wasn’t smothering at first; it was curious indeed
that’s what happens to someone who comes from the hustle and bustle of the east, then somehow, gets embedded in North America.
Maybe I’ll always be a visitor here
with that curious mind
maybe if I think like this, I’ll never feel like I don’t have a home,
that in fact, I’m just a permanent visitor here
and that my true home is still in the east
I want a little house on the prairie kind of life
where I carry a pail of water for washing clothes
and day dream about a boy down the hill
Illustrations from a 1919 photoplay edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass (source).
When you look 21, are turning 36, and feel 80
in “Her,” one of his best
The taste of death feels close to the tongue; you sort of don’t care about anything anymore. You visualize your worst nightmare; the thought of being an old single lady who’s lonely as hell, and it doesn’t even feel that nightmarish anymore. What’s worse? Someone asks. Losing your pride or to die lonely? But if you die inside while you lose your pride, then you’re dead anyway
when you stay in that situation.
Any long term relationship grows on you like deep roots on a tree. Anytime that root gets cut, you feel the tingle of the end; like, why does it matter anymore? That life doesn’t matter anymore. You lose interest in things, you grow numb. All the people you’ve admired, whom you’d be with and love in a heartbeat had you had the chance
turn into the scattered realities that they truly are;
Still, you wonder where your life would go. You get reminded of your childhood when you didn’t predict that anything like that could ever happen to you. Back to the memory of that goat whose death is long gone, but the taste of his dying remains imminent. His lazy eyes and the way he ate the banana peel. Walking with him around the neighborhood on a leash like he was a dear pet. I wonder how strange he felt, being the only goat in the entire neighborhood. I wonder if he had no choice but to go where I took him, eat what I fed him. I can feel the taste of his death, when we looked at each other eye to eye on the last day before his slaughter. I cried deeply because I missed my friend while they decapitated him. I had no idea that that’s why they had bought him in the first place; to eat him. It may be be TMI but he baaaa-ed and tried to escape before his head rolled on the floor and his cries became silent.
I can go back in time and taste his death, the exact moment when we stared at each other’s eyes.
He’s telling me this is what death feels like; when you feel like you’ve lost control of fate and of situations in your life.
The world’s a dreadful place, she thinks. Everybody’s dying so might as well be dying while looking cool. She draws her cigarette in deeply as she looks at herself in the mirror in a state of daze. She puts on heavy dark lipstick and smacks her matte lips together. She slathers her eyes with heavy eye liner and brings out a few of her blonde hair strands forward. Looking outside the window, she squints her eyes. What a dreadful day, she makes herself believe.
She closes the curtains and lays down on the sofa. In social media sites, she “likes” a series of couture handbags and dresses on starlets who are on keto diet. She watches a video on how to count for calories then proceeds to watch a cooking show about making home-made popcorn chicken. She then drives down to KFC and buys herself popcorn chicken, ice cream, and Pepsi.
She goes back home and eats it all fast. A few hours later, she pays her bills; all her income gets reduced to payments on her brand-new car, her two-bedroom high rise apartment where she solely lives, and useless shopping spree expenses. She looks at some items on the rack next to her wide screen TV and doesn’t even remember when she bought them. She looks back at her phone and “likes” a few more photos of skinny girls in trendy vacation spots. Then, before it was time to go to sleep and before a hearty meal of bacon the next morning, she goes to the bathroom and throws up all her popcorn chicken, ice cream, and Pepsi. She looks at the mirror and sucks in her stomach. She’s still skinny, she thinks, then goes to bed. In her sleep, she has nightmares about screaming pigs on their way to a slaughterhouse. She wakes up early with a headache, but there’s Colombian coffee to make it alllll worth it, she thinks to herself. A dabble of highlighter makeup, a cake full of foundation over her skin, a thick wool coat, high waisted skinny pants, leather high heel boots, and she was ready to head to work.
On her way to work, she swerves through the roads and gets frustrated with traffic. At work, her day is full of meaningless meetings and she’s tired, so she fills up more coffee. She makes fast decisions and pretends to have the answers to everything. She sends some nasty emails, gossips about a weird employee because she’s insecure about her own self, and overworks until late evening because she wants to be seen as hard working. Then she cheers goodbye to a few people left at the office who themselves are trying to appear hard working, and then hastily drives off home.
At home, she orders a box full of pepperoni pizza, drinks a bottle of beer, and binge watches crime TV shows. That night, she forgets to throw up before bed, so she throws up the next morning instead. She rinses her mouth with potent mouthwash and whitens her teeth with an unknown substance before blow drying her thin hair. She smokes her cigarette with coffee at the same time as she rushes to beat traffic again. On the way to work, she stops by Tim Hortons and orders a bacon sandwich. She chews it down with one hand while driving with the other. She starts getting a headache after having a sleepless night filled with crime scene nightmares. Before getting out of the car and heading to her office building, she pops open a bottle of pain killers and anxiety medications and gulps it down with her coffee.
It was just another day for her and others around her in the city that they lived in. Gray shirts and black coats, blow dried hair, leather shoes and designer handbags. She was a success story. A living breathing hot chick who earns her own money and has a brand-new car. She was the American Dream. She applauded herself, as she opened the building door and walked into her corporate world.
Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes First, her tippet made of tulle, easily lifted off her shoulders and laid on the back of a wooden chair. And her bonnet, the bow undone with a light forward pull. Then the long white dress, a more complicated matter with mother-of-pearl buttons down the back, so tiny and numerous […]