The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else other stops. The same is true of the laugh.
- Samuel Beckett
Their bodies colored my car, so I covered their bodies.
Hummingbirds, Bees and Butterflies
I’m not waiting for pollinators. I’m simply spreading love.
The crime only happened in mutual imaginations. NOT Guilty.
The Soul Bath
The burning water ran through my vein. The imaginations washed my brain. The fire that I breathed in, and the mubble-fubbles that I let out.
Allured by the sound, but puzzled by the tone. We all know the map but we forget how to walk. Tick, tick, tick, The rhythm of the time echos every steps that we take. What brought us closer, set us apart. The deep call travels through the invisible wall. The destiny lies in the soft spot.
After all there’s a bright side of all kinds of the physical pain, so we know that at least all the cells in us are working so hard to stay alive. Or it’s just the sadistic relationship between our will and body. The more we abuse our muscle, the more adrenaline we get.
I know they are watching. They know I know they are watching. I know they know I know they are watching. I die under their watch, million times.
The longer I ponder, the more juicy thoughts bubble up.
The Idea of Me
The idea of me that people liked. The mind that they fed on. The feelings that they feel related. It was never the me in the mid-night crisis. I’m an idea, a thought, a flashback of the memory, and a glimpse of what it could be but never will.
Thanks for waking me up from all my silly fantasies to know the world doesn’t revolve around me. Thanks for making me wait forever, now I know it’s not wise to seek answers from people full of questions. Thanks for leave me alone so that I’m not afraid of long walk ahead of me, not anymore. Thanks for being cowards, or else I will try to save you. Thanks to you, now I know, I should probably save myself. My dear heartbreakers, I survived all of you.
I wonder what it feels like to walk into a room that made of shattered glasses. It’s so fragile that one touch from the fingertip all walls collapses. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger they said. Nah, nothing can kill you twice I'd put it this way.
Behind the Scene
If we can't rewrite the story, can we overwrite it?
The Letter from Home
The delivery arrived at a stormy night. Words dripping from the envelope and blurred my vision. The handwriting started to dance hysterically. A symptom caused by physical absence. I can read but I can't comprehend. Till lightning strikes, I realize there was no letter, no rain, no delivery. It was just me, reading my foggy mind.
Blood, Sweat and Tears
That's how a railroad is built, and all the paths we take that people rarely set foot on.
It’s hard to say no. When the illusions seems so real. It’s hard to say no. When life never gives us a break. It’s hard to say no. When an escape is presented. It’s hard to say no. When no is the only answer. Although a no prove a point, It’s such a long way to the full points.
At what price?
At what price we sell our favorite toy? At what price we let go our pride? At what price we give up our freedom? If only we got a statement in the afterlife, then the next generation don’t have to pay our debts. If only we got a statement in the afterlife. Then the next generation don’t have to pay our debts.
The end of the beginning starts again. Over and over we begin at the same dead end.
I always wanted to write a script that starts with a love scene with a horrible plot. With the assassin trapped in a thought, finally we get to make physics sexual. The climax will be the tragic deaths of all the living thing. The narrator has come from non-life objects. It's viral in a religious way in the meanwhile anti-social. Anyway it should be cut before the season ends so that everyone wants more.
The script, the rules, the pray, the chant. It’s quite a system, with versions and diversions. While atheists improvise their own beliefs based on common sense. But does it matter? We can all do a terrible job to follow what we set mind to. Bad decisions, terrible acts, we took our lessons but never learnt. Do we seek forgiveness from gods simply because it can be so hard to get it from each other?
In Front of the Gate of the Heaven
I realize that art is the privilege for both the rich and the poor.
A dot forms a line. A line creates a shape. A shape reaches for the next dimension. An object was born. Now the dots divided into groups, they pull the objects apart. Or the object erased all the dots to make it strictly a cellblock. But what if, the line should not be formed in the beginning? Is that the universal equal?
We are the alien to the entire universe.
We are the fog that lost on our way. We are the cloud that blocking our own light. We are the rain, pouring from high above. Collide and merge. Drop and break. The unstoppable fate of the nature. Is it nature then, to do the impossible?
Burn Baby Burn
They like the color. They enjoy the dance. They are scared of the heat, then run away from the burn. The same fire that warmed us, we put it down.
Maybe we were already broken when we were born. We put on all the glamorous armors to look well-around. Only our souls are craving for something to make us once again whole.
The water in California is cold. I sometimes wonder if it will freeze one day. All the fishes will be hung in the middle. Jellyfishes will be the street lights. We will start the hike from the top of the mountain. Till we reach the pitch dark valley where the mermaids lie. Sneezing so loud in the ocean bed. It sounds exactly like the waves that come at us everyday,
When the wind does the pole dance, we named it tornado. When the mountain spit out gastric acid, we decided it will be a volcano. When the ocean had a quarrel with the earth, tsunami is what we called it. I wonder, what all the names we were given based on all the casualties caused by us?
It’s the urgent care for the broken soul. It’s the first aid for the bruised mind. A blanket for the lone wolf. A toast for the sole survivor. A private temple, where we let out the kids inside us. That kid allowed to remove all the masks and free from all the social norms. That kid can laugh, cry, be scared and say whatever in the mind. That kid always so sure that someone will find the right door to open, and pull them out of the darkness.
When the Color of all Color meets the Color of no Color
“Welcome to the Hotel California. you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.”
Love as Fabric
I was weaved in a spinning machine. You were made in a loom. Stitch by stitch we are getting closer. Foot by foot we are knitted together. I can feel the tension between us. It was too strong to break yet too gentle to tangle. How many knots can we tie I wonder? So that our fate will be forever intertwined.
Not everyone has the luxury to die, just imagine the faces of people that we’d let down. But it wouldn’t hurt to just kill a small portion. Make a present with devoted heart, wrap it, then tossed it to the trash the next day. If they were seeds that I was planting, I will have a forest by now. It they were bodies that I was burying, I will be a serial killer wanted by cops. But it’s just a tiny bit of me that believed the same tricks. Now it became my X'mas ritual. I call it, a chibi-suicide.
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