I hate this city.
I feel drowned by
my own silence.
I hate this city.
I feel drowned by
my own silence.
Sometimes, Freedom chooses to show herself in mischievous foreplay; as quickly as she started the game, she ends it then starts it again. It’s strange because at such moments Freedom seems sad – sure there’s that smirk on her face that says you-can’t-win but at the same time it’s as though she wishes so bad that this game would end; that she would finally be found. I realize now that the game is part hide-and-seek and part mystery, because we never really know if Freedom is keen on ending it.
But the truth is, Freedom will forever be a roamer. And the mystery game persists.
I dreamt of running away from someone/something last night, in three different scenarios.
I quote a friend:
“maybe the things you’re running from are the anthropomorphisations of your problems”
This is probably true.
I can never understand–
Thoughts of lying still-stagnantly still in one place. To breathe only ocean salty air.
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Moment’s are fleeting; just like every car ride anyone has ever had. I like car rides. Thoughts flow when you’re in the car.
For instance, just now when we passed by this mall and the strangest feeling swept over me because for once, I found the lights pretty. The building was covered in blinking lights, like those on Christmas trees except without the varying colors; they were white. Artificial lights to emulate the stars, maybe? Tragic; in a sense that the stars aren’t allowed to shine because the loud, flippant man doesn’t allow them too. However, when I looked outside and saw the rush of cars and the brightness and the flashiness–I think one part of me could finally appreciate it a little, just a little bit.
Artificial lights are the best the city’s got.
What I’ve got now is the best I’ve gotten.
Freedom still hasn’t been found in the city. But I’m too lazy. She’s playing a mystery game with me; toying, and most probably smirking behind the glowing luminescent palms of the city. The city’s fingernails are still sharp; still very much the same from when I came. But for once, I’d rather Freedom roam missing. For once, I am content.
Midday — tap tap
smoke furls towards sky
Birds fly away.
The four walls of my bedroom are painted in this atrocious shade of pink, a shade that perpetrates irony with its color. Pink—a (supposedly) happy color with added connotations of a land filled with rainbows, unicorns, fairies and magical pixie dust. In my case, the pink I see is of horror. Am I allowed to say that this pink traps me? I’m starting to increasingly loathe this color. A color which reminds me of the bedroom where I’m bound for the next three years in a city which I do not love.
There’s just too much about this life here that makes me feel out of place with everything. The city with no trees, no ocean, no rainbows, no stars and when it rains, it rains acid. And acid just about kills everything. Acid burns, acid is toxic, acid is not good for my heart. I walk on the acid-drenched ground after the rain and each step burns away the rubber soles of my shoes. These walks remind me so much of the distance and the separation, it reminds me about how the things I hold dear are near yet far. If my shoes are no more, how am I to run back to the land before this? Thus, loathe extends outside the pink of my bedroom. It sleeps inside me like a growing giant.
Progress? What is progress? The progress of the city is the progress of a loud, flippant and disgruntled man. Progress that is supposed to be raw, unsharpened for the masses; progress that we all can be a part of—I see none of that. Rather, there is a growing dissatisfaction inside this disgruntled man. He craves for so-called-needs, always moving, unstoppable needs. The man craves and so he murders. He murders what is left of a bygone era. What and who he murders? Well, these are the things I should ask myself because his needs—they are sometimes mine. I do not know how to love this disgruntled man and his activities; and hence, this loathe is directed to me as well.
Most of all, I see concrete. I see concrete everywhere. I wake up to four walls with no windows and no sunshine, no birds chirping, there is the drone of the air conditioner which I hate because it reminds me of how there is no wind. So, I dream of my old room with the blue walls, in which I sleep with the windows open every night. The city is built upon concrete and it breathes air that is spilling dust and its palms are lined with roads that have no end. The city also has scarily long fingers and sharpened fingernails.
To end on a brighter note—in the pink bedroom, there is a door. This door leads me directly into the palms of the city with no trees, no ocean, no rainbows and no stars. But most importantly, the door also reminds me of escape; of how fleeting this time will come to past, and for that I am grateful.
If I could, I would
Chain link fences and
The mind meditates
leaves a deep echo;
Come crash down on me
Lingering scents, hushed whispers
Dwell within —
You died when
go back to sleep.
You left me on the other side.
Sitting, staring –
Sounds wavering, voices distant;
It stands still.
It starts again.
Beckoning, beckoning –
She looks up.
He looks down.
Someone wise once said,
“Life is a probability dysfunction.”