A coin and a clock

jr-korpa-G508WdtXbr8-unsplash.jpg
Image courtesy of: JR Korpa

It’s opposite day,
and I hate those piercing eyes –
all sharpened storm clouds
soaking up soft lighting rods
as if rules did not matter here,
only you and I. Roofed under
rewinding time, spooling moments
tangle but do not tame our desire to
pull a little more breath out of each
other, we, are the disobedient children
of the night. Forgetting what was yours
and what will be mine, listen, as water
breaks outside. We are safe here,
I assure you, before I look to the skies,
send my silent prayer for this phantom
pain in chest to subside.

Continue reading “A coin and a clock”

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10994

Octopus
Image courtesy of: Dark-Indigo

The Challenger Deep in the Mariana Trench is the deepest known point in Earth’s oceans – 10,994 meters below sea level with an estimated vertical accuracy of ± 40 meters.


I want to be a maelstrom
because it’s difficult
to turn away from a disaster.
Look me in the eye
as I drag you to the murky depths
of somewhere in between
drowning and being free,
tainted flesh and salt water wounds
are easier to touch in the dark,
breathe me in,
before the sunlight slips out of reach.

Can we only find love on the sea floor
because that’s where shadows of desperation
overwhelms sanity?
Watch the rubies spill,
as rock bleeds into rock,
proving that I am broken,
just so you would want me.

As the octopus
wraps itself around my sea-foam heart,
it whispers its melancholy warning –
I am twisted, little one, run away or surrender
and I know I shouldn’t be happy
to give up my autonomy but
in that moment,
I could almost see anglerfish
dancing at the end of the tunnel
in the wake of my supposed destiny.
Neptune,
he did not save me.

Undoubtedly,
humanity
thrives in
maladjustments and oddities
because we are the abandoned children
of the deep sea.

That’s why we soak up pain
and wish upon 
washed up starfish
that we can avoid the same inevitability
and for our agony –
to be special.

brave the world

[trigger warning for self harm]

There have been many times in my life where I have felt negative emotions intensely.

This is one of those times. Instead of me trying to paint you a picture of the people and events that led to this point, let’s talk about these crappy feelings in general terms.

Usually, my anger results from dissatisfaction with myself or something so silly and trivial blown way out of proportion. That is the ultimate price I pay for being ‘sensitive’,  ‘an idealist’ and forever ‘romanticising life’. These labels all hint at, but not quite explain, the intensity I put into merely existing.

You understand me, right? In fact, you’re a little bit like me, I’m sure. After all, there’s a little bit of crazy within the best of us. We are not spectators of life – we are life and life consists of more than new beginnings and happy endings.

The critics (which are oftentimes from within) will tell us that we’re being overdramatic, illogical and crazy – this isn’t a situation where I’d tell you to ignore them, instead, I wonder if maybe they’re right.

Just like how horror movies aren’t scary if you don’t imagine yourself in the characters’ shoes, maybe life will be easier if we took a more objective standpoint every so often…if we just paused for a moment and breathed out, pushed away.

When I was a lot younger, I just cried and cried when I felt negative emotions. Then as I grew up, I resorted to punching walls; I liked that sting that blossoms on your knuckles upon impact that fades out into a low hum of pain. Eventually, due to morbid curiosity – it was inevitable really – I experimented with a more stereotypical version of self harm.

p.s. this is when you click away if you don’t want to see imagery of self harm or romanticisation of the practise.

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infinite monkey theorem

What is the infinite monkey theorem?

It states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite number of times will almost surely be able to type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare.

Taking an extremely literal interpretation (which it is not intended for), the concept is rather sobering for anyone who considers themselves a writer – anything you think of can be created out of random chance

In light of this, I am left to question: why do I write?

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