Waking up today,
the view from this small window
repeats the same tale.
With another day,
Another piece of the woods
Is lost forever.
Walking home alone
pink blossoms beneath my feet
cry under dusk’s light.
The ceiling fan turns
the still summer air slowly ,
under the dim light.
In this dark a night,
the moon is too insolent,
to shine fast and bright.
Its easier if you have that added java or the sluggishness from the lack of java, because otherwise, you’re you. Now, isn’t that a sight.
The wonder of all that energy is that you just have to work, you have to do something– you can do anything. Yes, anything. One minute you’re finishing a history project, the next you’re integrating trigonometric functions with your right hand while your left snakes up your back, your uncut nails collecting grime on your skin. You’re acutely aware that you haven’t had a bath in a week. You probably can now-
And just like that you crave the cold beating of water thumping on your face and the raw roughness of soap.
No, you must finish the sum, the exercise, the portion and you can, because right now, even time cant stop you.
You still smell of last week’s fever in the thick wool you’ve been wearing all along, changed periodically during the day to a uniform for the real world.
You’re inking ‘x’s and roots and logs while Arpita’s face grows red from excitement at knowing she’s the new secretary and your head pounds as you remember the way she ignored your congratulations, just like literally everything you’ve ever said to her. Its only time before the others realise. No, Nash isn’t like that, is she? Nah. Oh, but wait- remember today afternoon when you three were sat together? Oh christ, fuck. And the way she moved away from you and to another room every time you sat next to her? The way she turned her back to you so fully to talk to her?
Ohhhhh fuck, Christ.
No, not now. Never now.
Never mind, you’ve got until this high wares off for that kind of indulgence.
The energy is precious, you claim every second because you can only bear to acknowledge your legitimacy between the third last sip and the first sting of tired eyes.
You don’t know if tomorrow will be skipping meals or desperately pressing your thumbs into your thighs because tomorrow is thirteen pages away, so you should let the 210 bucks a jar of existence do its job.
The songs of stars under your skin and galaxies in your mind have ended.
Their sharp cheekbones holding in place the pale canvas stretched over them and their brown eyes that light up when the clockwork turns will forever be alive with the smell of fresh bread from the bakery the both of you passed in the crossing next to the temple.
Memories only survive when they are suspended in cold, thick fog, like the times for which they had their sweater on, green wool draped over shoulders and collar bones, thin wrists circled by the two yellow bands on the sleeves, akin the emerald stripes on white socks girdling their curved ankles.
You are the remembrance of your memories, so you need to be careful of what you remember because when the rain at dawn awakens you to the fog outside your window, memories come from fevered night and fevered day and remembrance can’t tell truth from disease.
Whatever you are tries to make sense of it, but sense never was for you. It only springs to your hands when you need to find the second derivative of the function, because maths can either be truth or lie, right or wrong and nothing in between. Life cannot be right or wrong, it cannot be truth or lie, because it is everything in between. You cannot trust life because you must be either right or wrong, truth or lie, and so you are nothing but a solved function, tested, marked and awarded as it is the only thing that is either true or false, the only thing you will allow yourself to be.
Memories only survive in the cold, thick fog, like the times you were certain that they had said they you were good and that you counted, so it couldn’t possibly be untrue even when their eyes moved past you in the crowd and they didn’t see you waving and mouthing their name desperately as you were pulled faster and faster away in the swarms of the incompetent, desperately wishing for them to pull you out.
The songs of stars and galaxies have ended with the decision to not try any harder, because it is quiet in space where memories are transient and you don’t need to matter, anyway.
I’ve come away from the land where the knell rings and into the land where life and labour sings, yet I sit here at my desk bored to the extent that my favourite pastime is just another dismissed thought. I was so happy to be free of the stillness and dampness of that faded first city and was so ready to live and lead myself into the future, but instead, I cannot keep my eyes open and a heavy lethargy sets upon me, calming me to a fault. The lullaby of shadowed tombs and fallen bones sings me softly to sleep into a poisoned slumber from which awakening is a struggle too hard to keep.
The words and tunes are loud in your ears, going straight to the brain, drowning out the world.
You watch as their lips move wordlessly, their eyes and mouths wide and curled, bodies moving, fingers and hands pointing, defending.
A smile creeps up your face when you feel the disconnect – you cannot hear so you do not know and you do not know so you need not see,
So in deafness and blindness lies the happiness in the world you wish to flee.
There are thoughts in my head.There are real thoughts in my head. I think these thoughts that are in my head. Now, the problem is that they’re in my head and every time I think up thoughts, my head wants to take what is in my head out of my head.Out of my head and into another person’s. Out of my head and into yours.
When you look at it, it’s narcissistic.
Why on earth should I want to put what is in my head into your head- through your nerves, eyes and computer screens?
What room of illusions and mirrors am I caged in, which, when I have a thought, throws it back at me?
How dare you.
How petty, how shallow.
Why does the world need your words?
What fake sense of entitlement has led you to believe that there is a need for the world to hear your words?
How banal and kitsch of you.
Why do you believe you must make another hear you?
How pitiful, that you believe the world must see your amateur work, another printed face in a tide of common ink.
How sorry it is that you consider your being is worth cheering.
And as I think, I blink and decide, that the fact that I’m the worst should not hide.
I shall write because I can.
I shall write not to make art, I shall write not to be relevant, I shall not write to produce work which will be quantified to measure my worth.
I shall write without fear of my mind drilling it down into me that ‘you have a freedom which others do not – so be wary.’
I shall write without meaning or relevance.
I shall write because in my fingers I have the gift of syllables, language and words to bend, shape and mould at my will, to caress the entire magnitude of human thought and twist mere ink into form.
I shall write as I am free to simply do so.
I shall write to defy the pressure of profit-driven society which has taught me to work only to make my energies useful.
I shall write because I do not owe my will and thoughts to a market.
I shall write because I do not need to make sense all the time, because I have the freedom of saying what I want when I want without other-regarding harm, even if thousands of others do not.
I shall write because those thousands would not want me to deny the liberty that to them is a luxury they cannot afford.
I shall write, because they would not want me to feel sorry or guilty as for them it is a luxury they cannot afford.
I shall write for the heck of it.
I shall write as nothing but my minds stops me from doing so.
I shall write.