On pendulus

These are the moments before something happens. This right now is your future, camouflaged in present. The minutes bleed into each other as the seconds dance and swirl between past and future; they are way too minute to withstand now. 

Time is effervescent in your current predicament. It doesn’t flow, it breathes; not in exhalations and inhalations but in hurricane-like movements. Out of control, seemingly.

Nothing is out of our control.

Nothing is outside of us. 

The world around us is our own construction to the extent that our subconscious impales us with thoughts of disarmament against an unwanted reality. One we cannot escape. That is what we keep repeating over and over and over, until we believe and instil in our fingerprints every lie we’ve ever told. 

The now you’re wasting away is the future you’re unbuilding. One tiny little wrecking ball has replaced the pendulum of thought inside our heads. It destroys as it oscillates. It demolishes hopes instead of walls. It uncreates what it should enlighten. 

We don’t believe in pendulums, and yet they function because of the same force that we do: gravity. We gravitate towards everything that consumes us, controls us, leaves us pendulus (hanging). We gravitate towards the elements we have erroneously believed (in the alarming absence of thought) will elevate us, only to watch ourselves fall inside the same pit. 

Yes, we are allowed to fall. Fall into infinity, until our knees bleed. But never inside the same one twice. 

We’re not supposed to revere it. We’re supposed to learn from it. 

It can’t break free.

You can. 

On reliance

I’ve learned not to rely on you. You’ve taught me that well. I’ve learned that things are almost always what they seem. I’ve learned not to believe what I hear and always listen for the silences. The things people do not say speak volumes. I’ve learned you must endure what you never had and learn to live without what you thought was yours. 

I’ve learned a lot and taught a little. I’ve learned that lessons are only valid when you teach them to another, never to yourself. I’ve learned that what we fear the most always finds its way back to us, to teach us once again. I’ve learned that what you give will not come back to you; you should not expect it to. You should not have offered in the first place. You should only give when you don’t expect.

I’ve learned not to depend on you, for you will always let me down; sometimes, even before you’ve picked me up. Sure, we all use each other. We all inhale with greed. We all feed off the crumbs that were never even intended for consumption. We’ve learned that quotes sum up our existence better. For we are weak, unaware, and compulsively ignorant. We are socially illiterate. 

We are animals pretending to belong to another species; one we invented to amuse ourselves. One we’ve been using to elevate our false assumptions of what it is to be noble, righteous, dignified, and logical. We rationalise bullshit and call it human.

I’ve learned to build a cage, and then I taught myself to breathe inside it. I haven’t locked myself in, I’ve simply kept everyone else out. I’ve kept myself safe, sane, alone, almost unscathed. They see me as a prisoner, I see them as enslaved. I’ve learned how to almost be normal. I’ve learned how to keep the Wolf inside. I’ve learned that when he comes out they don’t even dare to look. All they see is teeth. 

I’ve learned not to rely on you, something you’ve always been proud of. A pat on the back and a grin. A kind word for tokenism. A small amount of logic to sugar-coat the rest. As the coffee drips into the jug, so your words fall and are consumed; as if they mean something, as if I won’t be needing more, as if they made some kind of difference. Both were as good as their taste endured in my mouth, on my tongue, and in between these sharp, hostile teeth. 

I don’t have a pack, I go alone, for I’ve learned not to rely on you. Not to rely on anyone. 

On blindness

Imagine a thought that actually makes sense. Imagine a coherence in the things that people do. Imagine a cohesive argument and a logical pattern of behavior. You’re obviously on another planet, maybe even a different universe. Because here common sense has been replaced with an elaborate and sadly viable stupidity. 

Non-sense has become the trademark of my generation. It has defined it in ways not even writers could have imagined. Automatons that feel the burden of their mundane existence and revolt against each other while damaging themselves in the process. 

When did common sense and decency go out the window? When did it become a luxury item? Why try when you can just wing it, right? Why bother when you can simply exist without thought? Without purpose. Without a sense of identity either toward yourself or others. 

What have we become in our effort to be nothing? We’re crawling back into the womb as we become morose. We suffer alone and whine about the loss of connection, when we were the architects of this new technique. We have become animals licking the wounds we inflicted on ourselves as we tried to clumsily dance around thorny predicaments. 

We treat everyone the same, oblivious to the uniqueness of every individual. We speak the same words, do the same absurd things to anyone who comes our way and attempts to even slightly come within. We never filter. We never wonder whether a different approach can bring alternative results. That is not our concern. But what is?

Animals inside a cage we call civilization. Wanderers in a maze we have built out of all our wrong choices. Creatures of bad habit and unintelligent escapades. We destroy opportunities we created and then left to rot, slowly, bunglingly, with a staggering loss of grace. 

How will we ever face our reflection when the background is strewn with all the ‘almosts’ we ever conceived but never had the guts, the wit, and conviction to realize? Either with shame, or with our eyes closed. 

On karma

What goes around comes around. I’ve been feeling just that lately. A reversal of emotions so overwhelming it has brought me to my knees. A year and a half ago I was standing on the opposite shore, impervious to the voices around me. Now I find myself drowning on land. It’s always more terrifying when the fear stems from inside of you. It cripples you in ways you never thought possible. You begin to conduct a retrospective investigation of all that you’ve done and all you’ve made others feel. How when you were the one being neglectful, distant, and unyielding, others stood in front of you longing for something you were either unable or unwilling to give them. 

And now? How does it feel now? Hostile? Vengeful? Punitive? No, it’s none of those things. Just as I was not acting on those back then. It is life; a role switch of humane proportions. I’m wallowing inside a black pool of tears and call it heroism, when it is nothing more than self pity. So shut the fuck up, grow a pair, get out of that pit, and move the fuck on. This has been my prayer these past few months. These have been the words I’ve been trying to convince myself of while splashing around in my own self-imposed gloom. 

These past few days, though, I managed to at least stand up. My hands are dry now, my hair still dripping, chilling my shoulders, running down my feeble spine. I stand naked, waist-deep in salty waters. I cannot let my hands down; I’ve raised them above my head, and I am walking. I’m walking as if someone’s holding a gun to the back of my head, urging me to move towards an unknown direction. But then again, in here, everything is unknown. Everything is dark. No exit visible, no path either. I don’t want to look around any longer. I’ve had enough. 

The gun holder pushes the weapon against my skin, between my second and third cervical vertebrae. She is silent, but I can faintly feel her breath reach me when she exhales heavily. The particles feel familiar. We walk for what feels like days, and my surroundings remain the same, but I can feel that she knows where she’s going. I trust her. She’s led me before; just never with a bullet. 

My hair is dry, I’ve tied it in a tight samurai bun. I am dehydrated, but I do not feel thirst, or hunger. I am empty, but ready to be filled again. Open somehow. Willing. She taps the gun on my right shoulder. I understand that she’s motioning me to stop. And then she disappears. 

I turn around. I know where I am. I’ve been here before. I walk up the ladder, and reappear. 

On my event horizon

In the past few months the cogs and wheels within have been turning in strange directions. Warning lights that I never even knew existed have turned on. They were red for a second. Now they’re white. Dead. Energy signifying entropy. In the past few days they’ve gone silent. The humming has stopped. The lights simply indicate that I’m alive, nothing more. Everything else is on auto-pilot; everything else just is. And I am tired of simply being. 

I’ve tried being what others want, and I’ve attempted to deviate from the desirable to different extents. I’ve also tried being myself. I’ve got nowhere. It’s been two and a half years since that day. It feels like at least three lifetimes have elapsed since then. I’m grateful for so much, but at the same time I’m bitter, envious, enraged, disappointed, and utterly jaded. Like there’s nothing left. Like the only two choices I’m being left with are two fears: one slightly worse than the other, one less free than the other, one less lonely than the other. One less me than the other.

I’ve already made my choice, and I haven’t done so lightly, but it’s still a heavy burden. Its weight begotten by an infinite amount of words and things I have to offer but never will. They’re too hard to bear I’ve come to see. I always start with a smile, you see. Happy, excited, hopeful. A naïve kind of hope, one seen in children. Where does it always fall, however? Inside a bottomless pit of all I had to give, and all they never really wanted. 

A little black hole I was born with but always managed to control has now almost swallowed me whole. All it’s ever wanted was all of me; all I’ve ever given it was hope, that we would escape this universe that doesn’t seem to fit us. It took my word for it every time. It did so one too many times. Now it’s in control. Now I’m the passenger inside a cosmic genesis of pure dark matter. I either find another universe or I’m annihilated. It’s kind, though, my little black hole. It doesn’t sneer while it’s killing me. It doesn’t smile. It’s not relieved. It simply serves its purpose. It does what it’s supposed to do. What it was born to do. 

Maybe I’ll finally find peace in its event horizon. Maybe I’ll get to see what I really am. And then I may be able to live in peace through its frosted glass of comfortable numbness of the soul.

On bubbles

It’s already the middle of September, and I’m still waiting for it to start. It always does so slowly, with an effort that seems forced and dispassionate. September in my country is an addled month. It is hated by most, as it heralds the end of summer, and appears unable to defend itself in its lack of expressiveness. No multicoloured falling leaves here. No chill in the air, no change. Just a misguided, stumbling expiry of a season that’s laden with way too many foolhardy hopes. It only serves to accommodate the needs of those who imprudently prolong the order that the next season supposedly dictates.


It is all in the mind. We are the heralds of doom, believing we only live in the summer and then press replay in the fall, only to press pause, and live again. And yet we find comfort in repetition, reiteration and rhythm. We echo the familiar to the point where we don’t recognise our own voice anymore. Then we can wander aimlessly in peace. Somehow we are convinced that this is the worst universe we could end up in. That we have been cheated out of a superior one, one in which we are better off in so many ways we can’t even name or imagine them. There lies the problem: our complete lack of imagination. We enclose ourselves within bubbles we keep narrowing, and then believe that is all the space we’ve been given. 

So go on, please, burst your bubbles. 

On a story (Part II)

‘And yet, here I am. I’ve been here for years, right in front of you. What have you done? How have you made the impossible happen? You’ve done nothing. The fact that you see everything makes it even worse, because you’re in a position to attempt to conquer what you claim cannot exist. Instead you have become a magician, performing one disappearing act after another, as if to show that you’re impervious to my Medusa-like idiosyncrasy. 

How are you not a coward, a hypocrite, a child? You refuse to even let yourself be hurt by something you self-proclaim as worthwhile. Even in that regard you opt for the cheap version of pain and loss and passion. A watered-down albeit safe entropy that are human relationships. 

If you consider the fact that out of all the people you meet, interact with, and fuck in your life, only one (if that) will be your companion. Every single other you will eventually have abandoned, hurt, regretted, loved, screwed and made happy, in vain. 

That’s what we believe failed relationships to be, don’t we? A waste of time, effort and bodily fluids. We falsely believe happiness to be a continuous process with a beginning and an end. We consider it to be linear, consistent, attached to a person, a place, a condition that we will one day find, immediately recognise, and hold on to forever. 

We are fools. Happiness only belongs in moments, seconds and minutes; maybe hours if we’re blessed. It is fragmented, chaotic and unpredictable. It comes in surges and leaves with the tide, slowly, calmly, unalarmingly, smoothly, as if to leave you with a remembrance by which to recognize it when it reappears. Nothing is in vain, not the way we have defined it in order to pardon ourselves for the things we did not dare to do. How did you then not deprive yourself of even a single moment of happiness I could have given you, one that you would have in fact given yourself?

I demand too much of both myself and others you said. My question is why don’t you? Why do you put up with irrational bullshit of people who feed off the perversion of total possession and enslavement of individuality and render you eunuchs enthralled, but refuse to go a single step forward towards something that could potentially amaze you? If only for a moment. 

Because you also perversely feed off the fervour to be consumed, absorbed and possessed. You give yourselves away and then claim to be empty. You drain yourselves to the point where there’s nothing of you left. And so in every relationship you are simply a mirror, a reflection and a desire of what your idol claims they want, until the desire fades, as it always does, and all you are then is someone’s discarded cupidity. 

Instead, what I want is you. But you have nothing to show me. 

A door is ajar. A window is cracked. The room you used to inhabit is dusty, mouldy, dark, and depleted. You’ve lost yourself. You’ve disappeared into the souls that only ever wanted you for what they could make of you. A fistful of clay; never a complete work of art.’