‘Most people…are like a falling leaf that drifts and turns in the air, flutters, and falls to the ground. But a few others are like stars which travel one defined path: no wind reaches them, they have within themselves their guide and path.’

It is clear to me that man has freedom to live fully only when he ceases to follow blindly the mould set by his conditioning. …

‘God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables, slaves with white collars, advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of the history man, no purpose or place, we have no Great war, no Great depression, our great war is a spiritual war.’ — Tyler Durden.

You awaken out of a dream that you have no memory of. As the light seeps in, your bedroom floor is illuminated. And with it, a strange and subtle seeping of emotions that seem to merge together…

‘One never reaches home, but wherever friendly paths intersect the whole world looks like home for a time.’ — Hermann Hesse.

The beginning of July, 2017.

I find myself standing, silently gazing ahead, beads of sweat weaving down my face; the sweltering heat outside is starkly contrasted by the cool breeze that circulates through these ancient stone corridors.

Myself on Koh Tao, Thailand — on my first SE Asian backpacking adventure.

It’s a warm and mystical morning; the red sunlight filters through my window shutters and blankets my bamboo floorboards with a welcoming embrace. The day is mine. I sit on a small cushion on the floor and soak in the velvet light of the morning; my senses are alive, my heart is filled with vivid bliss and undertones of calm violet excitement for the day ahead. The birds chirp softly between palm trees; they dance gently in the breeze. No thoughts cross my mind, I open my soul to the world… I listen.

The day pulls me towards the door…

‘To write stuff about what it feels like to live. Instead of being a relief from what it feels like to live.’ — David Foster Wallace.

Sometimes I look in the windows of offices late at night. I get right up close and stare down into these strange little capsules of coffee mugs and varnished desks and monitors, notepads and pens.

Ominous patches of deep black that indifferentially envelop the walls and floors and the solemn patches of light that illuminate a little fragment of someone’s lonely, solemn life; filing tax reports and ruminating over files and deadlines and other…

In July of 2017, a few hours before I set-off on a month-long motorbike journey across the length of the country, I walked the aisles of Saigon’s war museum; and before me, in one particularly memorable room, were the photographs of British Photojournalist Larry Burrows.

Knowing what was ahead of me, I was entranced by these vivid depictions of the war that took place upon the very grit and soil on which I stood; my heart raged with empathy, sorrow, passion.

I had never known such touching photographs, such incredible life in imagery, able to rivet me into emotional turmoil…

‘Kings and philosophers shit — and so do ladies.’

-Michel de Montaigne.

I should like to use this opportunity to present an issue that perhaps does not surface enough in current artistic and academic discourse in the broader context in which I should wish to present it; and I will therefore mostly revert to the words of various philosophers, poets, and intellectuals in order to bring context and rationale to my proposal.

The above quote extracted from the ‘Essays’ of French philosopher Montaigne sum up most humorously the satirical subject matter I have in mind. Namely, I wish to speak…

‘But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called — called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.’ — Call of the Wild, Jack London.

It is said that, after the longest and most treacherous of journeys, we may return to that place which we before called our home; and come to know it for the first time.

After a few intense months…

I reach across

too long for solemn roots to take hold

who passes upon such ethereal gaiety?

a witch

possessed by an amalgamation of dark corners

the aspect devours her

arranged like jaunted heretical spheres

a spectacle of deductive convention


forever in suspension

holding hands with archangels

descending into a circular adjournment

the words transcend

the words absorb him through the abyss of unknowing

until he sees all that can be seen

and all that cannot

his gentle faults laid before him as handles upon time

reaching forwards into the shrouded dusk

his hands

falling upon soft edges beyond the aspect

hedging in little spaces in eternity

a macroscopic perspective

between good and evil



a humble smile twinkling across his being.

knowingly drifting in nothingness.

where else?


For all that I seem to experience as rejection and failure offers me but two paths; a fork on the trail.

My mind pulls me down the path of self-doubt, of my own demons; it is the shadow path, and it lays its seed on the soil of fear.

The other path, uphill; my mind attempts to avoid. And though it is surely a storm to enter, within that storm I sense a deep sea of love; beyond those ominous showers. …

Axle Winterson

Young maverick; poet, traveller.

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