Tuesday, 26 June 2007

new picture

changed my profile picture.

feeling a lot freer already.

didnt realise the effect a picture could have on my writing. stops me somewhat, from saying things in a particular way.
stops me, mostly, from saying some things at all.

so anyway, its changed.

Let's see if the blog changes along with it...

Monday, 18 June 2007

Scary Dream

The eerie dream I had.

They came to me
In rows of twos
With freshly printed
They came for my soul
Is what they said-
“Its not mine to give
I’m not yet dead,”
I explained to them
In a quiet voice.
The leader looked up-
“You have no choice
Your life is half led,
The race already lost
You started it badly
And this is cost
We want your soul
Which you are bound to give
We own your soul
Though you may live”

“But my life is half led
is what you said
and though I’m ignorant
I know I’ve read
That half a life
Does not amount to a whole
There’s no way you can have my soul”

The leader, his grey beard
Twitching with rage
Said in a controlled voice
“Boy you have come of age
to know the life you live is not yours
your destiny is settled by dozens and scores
of people who come before you and after
now give us your soul
and lets close this chapter.
For we journey long and weary are we
From dispensing the wages of iniquity
And we have no respite, no place to come home
For sent forth are we, banished we roam
The dark side streets of hate and fear
The odor of which has brought us here
So give us your soul
And when you get to hell
Saluté our master
Whom we have served well".

I felt weak then
Crushed from within
The room around me tightened
And began to spin
And then I felt naked,
Empty and cold
And I started falling
I had to take hold
Of something…
But I fell to the floor
And watched silently as they walked
Away through the door.

They left as they came
Two by two
I saw my mother
And I saw you.

Tuesday, 12 June 2007

2nd Love Poem

I want to write a simple love poem
But I don't know how to
I want to tell
The reason I fell
So madly in love with you

But my thoughts all pale
Behind a veil
Of words which cannot convey
The feeling I feel
Inexplicably real
But destined Unexpressed to stay.

Tuesday, 5 June 2007


Excerpt from something I wrote:

At the Bus Stop

The humming wakes her up. It didn’t just start, it has been part of the background noise since she went to sleep. It doesn’t stop except for the minutes when she is taking a shower. Then she pumps up the volume of the radio, listening in muted wonder to the base pound through the powerful speakers. It becomes a hum again after her shower, when she puts on her ear phones, the ones she had on while she slept, throughout the night, throughout her life.

She wakes everyday at the same time, in her dinghy flat in the vast metropolis. Her flatmate, an insipid character with bad breath and of dubious sexuality, would be up already cutting up pieces of carrot, or some specie of flora for a vegetable breakfast.

Chop chop chop

She leaves the apartment before the sun is up, joining the daily rush for transport. Stands in the queue feeling like she’s been on one for every moment of her life, waiting, waiting.
She’s half listening to the sounds coming from her ipod. She watches the crowd with detached interest, highlighting the contrasts:

A well dressed bank worker
Eyes crimson from lack of sleep,
The beggar child and shadow
Playing in the rubbish heap

She thinks in words, large rhyming words. They occupy her head, squeeze all other thoughts out. She is often occupied with constructing her thoughts. Do you construct thoughts like you do buildings? With deliberation and concrete? Or do they float down like butterflies when we least expect?

She has been told, numerous times, by teachers, colleagues, pseudo-friends to stop being whimsical. They remind her of where she’s from. Dissuade her from aspiration. She barely hears them. In school she was asked to write a story about herself –

She came from the downtown area
The worst city strips
With Ambition
And lycra pants
Clinging to her hips

She sees him finally. He is in front of her on the queue, a scowl on his face. She enjoys regarding the contours of his face, the cut of his suit, evidence of his grace. He’s here everyday, just like her. She always sits two rows behind him so she can observe his profile the entire journey. He whistles and she lowers the volume on her ipod to catch the tunes. They are strange and lonesome. She goes through much of the day in anticipation of this time in the morning when she’d shuffle along, with a number of other feet, and they would both climb, one unaware but together nonetheless, into the breathing vehicle. Headed to one destination.

My red romance
When we’re there
There’s just us
And no one else
In the plastic seats
He hums a tune
My heart skips beats.