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.

Thursday, 10 August 2017








Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Three Places

Past the ripening fields of paddy, time is warped. Each day, you wake up as if you've woken up on the day before, undisturbed by the surrounding calm and the constant flutter of feathered wings. There isn't the echo of a ticking clock growing louder as your consciousness is brought back into its cell because there is no clock, and time is but the colours in the sky. Greeted by whispers of static, you've woken up in a place that lies on the border between reality and dream, a place you physically exist in but can never go back to.

Outside of this realm, hours and days seem to be as clearly defined as the creases on the many unhappy faces. Resting on a chipped children's stool, beaten by the heat of the hanging light bulbs; frowning at the dinner table and glancing at the slow-moving needle of the wall clock; driving your sister to work without brushing your teeth, not even bothered to put a bra on; forced to indulge in lavish meals that would otherwise go to waste; rubbing the warm belly of a snoozing pup; smelling the perfume that isn't yours.

Smile. And run back to the place at the waterfall of reality, drown in the essence of time and let the fish lead you down the gentle stream of consolation.

If the place beyond the paddy fields is too far away, then lean your back against the foot of the Monkey God and pray that the clouds would carry you as far as the ends of the Earth. When you cannot cry, suffocate in smoke until your eyes water.

Sunday, 6 August 2017

Guinea Pigs and Salad at 3AM

I ate from the Guinea Pigs' salad bowl.

Every night between 2-3AM, my sister prepares fresh salad in the kitchen. This household, we're amazing aren't we? If it's before 4AM, then it isn't time for bed yet. There isn't a reason why this is so, it simply is so.

Tired? You bet.

Only one motivation could possibly force me to adhere to a strict sleeping schedule, and that is the promise of a healthy complexion. At this point, it seems ridiculous that I should mention I would sacrifice my unreasonable petulance in the name of vanity, because I would have done so long ago if I really cared.

Most human beings have, you know... A heart. 

I wonder why acknowledging meaning is such a difficult task-- not that I don't SEE meaning, I simply refuse to accept its existence and the reason behind it. Here, you have an apathetic being who understands you but will not touch you, or your problems.

Baby Romaine Lettuce and mint leaves make a pleasant meal. Munch. Munch. Munch. Am I turning into a Guinea Pig? Munch. Munch. Much. At first I didn't believe sweetness could exist inside the green bodies of leaves but developing Guinea Pig taste buds has caused my tongue to be just that sensitive towards sugar. Ah, my ears twitch at the thought of the salad bowl.

Only by becoming a pet will I grow a heart. Unless it is the salad leaves that are blossoming in my chest.  

Thursday, 3 August 2017

A Walk in the Park

We never really forget the people we try to forget, because we're too preoccupied with the thought of forgetting them that they just stay in our minds, engraved into our memories by our own slavish labour.

Then you walk through a flowering field one summer, dazed by the sunlight:

Ah, what am I doing here? Did I forget to look at the flowers again, only up, up, up at the clear sky? 

But what you are searching for isn't clarity-- you're actually looking for the Sun. Can you see it? Can't you see it? Right there. Though you know, you can never catch sight of it. Just like that, the only star in your world is one you are unable to recognise.

In the heat, even past memories melt. The sweat that trickles down the nape of your neck, if you look close enough, you could see the suspended image of a time you wish you'd never experienced. While drying yourself with the pages of a novel, a passage reminds you of your own past; a shared name, a common feeling, that familiar song... Now they give words to YOUR unfading thoughts.

Ah, I'm only here because I want to keep on walking.