When you start something, you don’t know how it will end
Sometimes you don’t even know when it begins
Sometimes you only notice partway in
Like entering a labyrinth
Like a beautiful paintingOnly to look at, not to touchFull of illusion and falsehoodThe appearance of permanence — — Of tactility — — Of softnessLike a massive cotton ball — — A giant, fluffy beanbag — — A comforter that swallows you wholeBut they’re notThey’re wet — — and cold — — and darkMuch…
The hinges on an old door.
The legs of a runner after waking up from a coma.
The hands of a pianist after healing a broken finger.
The edge of an abandoned kitchen knife.
They gave me a circular bone saw, the type with a blade perpendicular to the handle. It felt heavy in my hand, though somehow light as a feather. I was told to “give myself a haircut,” with it, though I had no idea what that meant. I assumed they meant a literal haircut, so I said, “I can’t without a mirror.”
Look at us
Following a trail laid out
Panicking when an obstacle blocks it
Only to find a different route
And with each obstacle we wonder why
A man walking blindfolded
A tourist looking for an address but nobody speaks their language
A child being separated from their mother at the mall
A transfer student on the first day of school
There were 6 people on the parking garage. Perhaps there could have been more, but this was during the time of the Corona Virus, with most people staying in doors, and the few who didn’t were either smart enough to stay apart or stupid enough not to care.
I’ve been here before, on the edge, so close that my toes are hanging off. I strain myself, my eyes wide and beholding, my neck arched to let me peer over without losing my balance. I take care not to fall, not to lose my footing and slip into the abyss.
He was dying. An enemy soldier had somehow crossed no man’s land dropped over the edge of the trench behind him. He’d reacted quickly, shooting the guy in the neck but not before getting shot in the stomach himself. They were both bleeding out, and they knew it. Neither felt the need to finish the job for the job was…
An Azure RibbonPeeking over the rooftopsEmbroidered with white
The Day
Ascending the horizon
I face the new day
I ignored someone
Why I don’t exactly know
Kind of regret it
I had a dream, a while ago. I only remembered it today. I was on a crane, with somebody else, I don’t remember who. I think it was a girl, but I can’t be sure. It didn’t really matter.
We were high up, way above the ground, and though there was wind, buffeting the crane and…
Who am I?
Who are you?
Am I me?
Are you you?
Is the me I think is me, really me?
Is the you you think are you, really you?
It was the fifth time in as many weeks he had gone to that field. It was also the fifth time in as many weeks he wondered why. It wasn’t an extraordinary field. Wasn’t one whose beauty demanded the showing of children and friends. Though that’s not to say the field was ugly, it was still very pretty, just not…
It was a Tuesday.
Just a Tuesday.
Not a special Tuesday.
But it still happened.
On a Tuesday.
Of course it happened on a Tuesday.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How fragile a life is? How much the slightest difference can change somebody’s life forever? Think about it. What would be different if you had been born a year earlier? Would you still have your friends? Would you still have your memories? What if you had been born a few miles away? Would you…
A story as old as time. Of man consumed by an emotion. Be it anger, hate, desire, love, they all lead down the same path, they all lead to desperation. It becomes a flame. A spark. And they become obsessed with it, protecting it, cherishing it, feeding it whatever they can to make it bigger and stronger…
My head feels heavy, padded, like somebody took a fifty kilo weight and wrapped it in cotton before cramming it in my skull. Some part of me realizes I’m asleep, as though it’s a matter of life. The other part ignores that fact. Not so much avoiding it as simply being indifferent to it. Thinking about it about…
Feels Like a Friday
But it’s only a Thursday
So tired of Thursdays
Those two words.
Uttered so many times they’ve lost all meaning.
Those two syllables, six letters, on repeat, like a record with a scratch, yet nobody to fix it.
He always did like the rain. The calming sound of it hitting against the thin roof of his childhood house, the strange music it plays when it hits the puddles. The dancing of the raindrops striking the earth. When everyone else would grumble and sigh about how bad the weather’s been, he would simply smile and…
It’s like a treadmill.
One which speeds up with each breath and each step.
Each smile and each laugh.
Each sentence spoke and each thought thought.
I saw you
Through the bamboo
