Wednesday, June 29, 2011

I did not know you, but I wish I had taken the time to do so.
But then I fear I would not be able to bear the grief of your absence.
Knowing you would have been a gift, for thinkers like you only come along once in a century, so young for their age, but too old for this generation.

I admired you for your brilliance and what you could have been.

Wherever you are, I hope you're happy.

A flame died last night, and you caused the world a loss it cannot repair.

Love and respect.

Rest In Peace.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Hole. Part 1

"You'll never make it that far."

I heard those words again. I'd been saving my thoughts for my evening walk home, like I did every day. Today was no different. I stopped at the skybridge that stretched across one of the many highways of this immensely large city. I love cities. Cities spoke to me of life, of vigour, of energy only the human spirit could imbibe into otherwise dead cement. As I leaned over the railings and closed my eyes, I imagined viewing the city from a bird's eye. Its geometrical structure, divided into boxes and rows delineated by gold lights that seemed to flicker when I wasn't looking. It looked like the top of a giant maze, made of walls that caged rats. Millions of them. These rats buzzed in a harmonious discord that made the entire box tremble, waiting to explode, into something, into nothing. 
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, and hung my head in a wry smile. Trails of orange lights zoomed past underneath. My head began to swim as vertigo kicked in and I jumped and took a step back.

"I told you. You'll never make it that far."

Today was different, actually. The evening was darker than yesterday's and today's sunset more solemn. I was tired. Thoughts weighed upon me like metal bricks, and the tension had left me undone, a bundle of torn nerves trying to keep it together. I relished my time in this city. Every second I spent complaining, laughing or feeling anything at all, I kept fondly as a memory. If I thought about it, giving this duration any affectation of love was quite absurd. I hated the people that surrounded me for their passion for unintelligence, their pretentious ways and in general the facetious manner with which everyone treated everything. I enjoyed it because it was normal. Here, I was excused from all decision making that was detrimental to mine and my family's existence and  was free to indulge in my petty emotions associated with day-to-day existence. But today was different. I felt the floodgates of suppressed emotions burst open and flood my mind with questions, answers, decisions and bitter resentment. All this among the sensation of drowning loneliness. The nights were especially difficult. When the lights were out and the people asleep, the demons of your fears clung almost too realistically to the foot of your bed, inviting you to join them in your hellish nightmares. There were nights when even crying wouldn't help. Expressing sorrow of the issue in quiet isolation of the dark neither relieved me, nor smoothened the creases it had left on my conscience. Issues I had never given passing thought to, suddenly raised their heads out of nothing and threatened to invalidate the entire purpose of my existence. The ethos of my duty continued to prod and poke every unattended second of my consciousness and fought me with guilt and rage. I fought back with empathy and logic, refusing to budge from my selfish stance. In this battle, my mind was in turmoil as was my soul. Every day I contemplated stopping by this bridge, and every day as I walked by, I pictured what it'd be like to jump off it, down into the roaring traffic. 
Today, I had stopped.

"Are you going to do it, or not?"

The evening had gone and the night began to unveil itself. As it did, the number of people dwindled, each hurrying home to a family, or the lack of one. Soon, there was no one left on the bridge but me. I ran my hand over the edge of the railing, it was made of cold steel. Underneath, the number of cars flashing past fell too, it was almost as if the area was slowly diffusing its inhabitants. I only saw silhouettes leave, none come in.
I took another step toward the banister and felt the still air vibrate as I cut through it. Sounds boomed through my skull, unknown vowels and consonants came together in the chambers of my brain, conjured up by the pent up soul I had refused to relieve. Letters became words and I as I stared down at the black tar road, words turned into poetry I never wrote.

"Your man is made of mind and sin,
And intertwined they are the Devil's wrote.
You feel 'nought for the hand that you take,
And feel 'nought for the fear that you stroke.

Come with us, we will set you free.
Come with us, we will tell you your tale,
Follow us down, we'll make you see,
Where judgement left you weak and frail.

Into the night!
Into the dark!
The Larks are singing down below.
Dive into our world of hellish fire,
This unanswering land to be let go.

The Larks are singing, 
They do no wait,
The Larks are singing,
For you, of late.

Into the night!
Into the dark!
For your man is made of soul and sin."

I leaned over, breathed in, and jumped.

Thursday, June 2, 2011


Child, the crackers are burning bright,
Why don't you celebrate in red and blue?
Mother, I have nothing, not a flicker of light,
Nothing to smile for, you know it too.

Hush child, 'tis not the end of the road,
Many more towns to come, much to see still.
Mother, I'm trying. But this handicap wont go,
My solidarity is shaken, and my manic is ill.

I hold your hand, see it doth not shake,
For perseverance lingers on inside your heart.
Mother, this stillness is lacking, 'tis not the make,
Of courage, but soulless in whole and in part.

What can I tell you? You will not listen,
For the glasses you wear of tinted grey.
My purpose was not to drown out the din,
But to merely  hear you smile and say;

I cannot smile, not in this yellow sun,
It beats too harshly upon my chest,
The ground is dry, the water has run,
And the shade is reserved for the blessed.

Child, I cannot reason with your kind,
That detest the present, though future be bright.
Then leave this room mother, temporary defined,
And as you do, turn off these wicked lights.

I cannot chase their shadows anymore.