Monday, 16 October 2017

Caught in Your Hair

I never give you my number,
I only give you my situation, 
and in the middle of investigation,
I break down... 

Does it sound familiar? No, not who wrote it! We all know it's a Beatles song. Doesn't it remind you of somebody? Don't lie to yourself now. 

While the day's accumulation of germs flowed downwards, carried by suds and lukewarm water, what bubbled in my slowly refreshing mind is the rationalization of my spontaneity. Isn't it absurd, to see the two words together? Like much of this life that can be dumb-downed to the most banal simplicity, spontaneity is but the invention of a willful ego which will not for the life of it admit that it too is a slave to necessary rationalization. All of a sudden, the liveliness and the stupidity that governs youth seem to have quiet down into a monotone buzz.

I am spontaneous because I'm scared of sudden bursts of pain. Hurt which seep through the unconscious to the conscious, having had enough time to ferment, like sweet wine would bring me to a dizzying plane of indulgence. Between instantaneous pain that would not last and the subtle hurt that gnaws away at my reserve, my masochistic tendencies cannot help but favour the latter. Thus for me, being spontaneous is both a preconditioned self-defense mechanism and the key to an endless reserve of emotional suffering. Ah, the pain! 

Intense is the high that accompanies a heart that beats twice as fast-- the burning cheeks are proof. Being hung up high and dry when the God of Rain answers not your prayers for a blessing, what else is left but to keep on hoping for that first raindrop. With growing hope, the void expands. 

Since when did I start scripting our future? But I don't even know you. As was before, I probably am only in love with the thought of you, and not you yourself. 

I want to disappoint myself too, and laugh it off, that I may move on from the daydream that exists within the forest that is your hair. 

Sunday, 3 September 2017





In the end, the tears we've shed and promises we vowed never to forget are but rainwater that vanish in the warmth of the same old Sun. Back, back, back to the sky, into the heaven of emptiness.

Wednesday, 23 August 2017


"You're like the moon on the water's surface. When the ripples are gone, you'll become the perfect reflection of the moon again."

Then you can't touch me, can you? Is anybody able to reach me, if I am but a reflection of a distant longing?

There is a breeze that stirs the surface of the water in which I sleep. For a brief moment, I feel as though connected to the outside world. Once it dies down, the calm that follows the restoration of an unresounding peace placates the tremours spread by a beating heart.

Even if you would drown yourself in this body of water, the ripples that distort my flawless reflection eventually seize to be.
Unaffected, I continue to bask in moonlight.

I am not real.

I do not exist.

Rakutarou, sail along the river bank on your lotus flower until the Eagle swoops down, under the glory of the Sun where I no longer am.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

As It Is

Because I am unable to pretend, I am unfit for society.

Why do you think honesty is held in high regards while people constantly search for what's genuine? Yet as they sieve through the grains of mistrust, what's naked and true fall through their flawed reasoning all the same, and the search for sincerity continues without end; a meaningless labour enforced by an obsessive preconception that is a result of their insatiable greed. Demanding the truth with arms outstretched, they are never willing to accept what is given. So unaccustomed to candid exchanges is the civilised being that when spoken to bluntly, their defense mechanisms malfunction, triggering hostile responses where they would accuse the perfectly honest person of being an uncivilised baboon. Then they turn on their heels and head back into society, wondering why there aren't honest souls left alive.

What is valued isn't the straightforward nature of one who refuses to tell a lie, rather, it is their ability to frame the truth. As long as the listener believes the speaker to be an honest being, lies turn into truth, like water into wine. The search for honesty ends here, because momentary satisfaction has been met, bringing to light the realisation that what they wanted all along was simply someone who would plaster their wounds with words they wanted to hear.

Cradling your head against my chest, I'd love you like a child.

Indulging in the hypocrisy of society, my tolerance ebbs away. Day to day the receding tides gives way to the airs of pride and its refusal to acknowledge the unassuming hypocrite who feigns innocence.

Ah, before I let go of you and let you be swallowed by the sea, please close your eyes and breathe into your own soul. Ask yourself: do I really want what's real?

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Apathetic Reflection

Giving when you have nothing to give-- what is the price I'd have to pay for spreading empty promises fueled only by hope? Take a bite of me, you, all of you, and tell me that the flowing blood is as sweet as you had expected. In the incessant whispers of your selfish honesty, sanity shuts itself inside a pretense of inflated courage. While the blood pours, I become a balloon.

Haa-- haa--- aa...

I would much rather die of xx frustration than to ask for relief.


Everybody needs a friend who tells them about universal empathy at 1:30AM, agreeing to the fact that human beings are primitive apes no matter the evolution we've gone through. Ah, to think that I could say and do anything without being judged by a reflection just as apathetic... Either this will one day lead to a murder, or a suicide.

I don't think I'll leave a note.