Five hundred leagues under the sun, and you’ll feel the pressure on your skull. A weightless mass so heavy and coarse, the friability of human flesh eventually gives into its density. All the winds of change, of daily cares, of violent sounds within the murmuring. All the deafening silence and the clattering of teeth against nails. All this electrostatic tension that pulls the heart in multiple directions. Somehow, we all seem to walk happily wounded. I wonder if it is that we are truly feigning pain, or are truly blissfully unaware. Do meridians flow through us, or are we flowing on the forces of nature that shear – that burn, or that freeze?

I walked through a world so strangely foreign, but apparently mundane. A walk through a familiar creek, on a familiar path, and yet I still felt so detached and misplaced. I couldn’t help but feel so inhuman and removed from my surroundings, like a bishop in a game of checkers. Buds awakening from hibernation within both herculean trees and thin and dilapidated branches and the subtle flow and bubbling of water behind me. Streams that flow like calm fingers through a bed of marshmallow, slowly but surely gripping firm ground. People pass by me – or do they? I can’t tell if these pedestrians are truly random or simply a mirage. I don’t appear to exist to them, and I don’t feel alive when around them. Perhaps we live on different dimensions but perceive the same puzzle of life.

Tired, but invigorated. I’m in a world that is slowly fading away from my senses. A world that I barely feel. A world I don’t quite belong.


Ambivalence is the greatest blindness. In the humbling presence of luscious greens of trees and the sweet harmonious melodies of otherwise visceral tendencies, often the beauty ordained by nature becomes muted. A nihilistic shroud cannot help but desaturate the voracity of life as it exists, or as it presents.

Or, perhaps, is it the garish that steals the light from our eyes, or the cacophony that expires the last air from our ears? Perhaps it is this blindness, this deafness, from where phantasmagoria is birthed – is nurtured, is sated.

Then, the letters fall out of place, in a symphony of pitter-patter and fractals.

Boy of silence

“It’s not a boy!”

The stale smell of vinegar, isopropanol and blood ‘twixt the cataplexy of angry voices and sinister adulation could force blood out of any rational being’s mouth. Instead, there is chatter like a field of a thousand chicadas calling for predators.

“Why the hell would I lie about something like this?”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been conniving. You’re the one trying to break our family apart!”

Your family? As far as I’m concerned he’s my husband!”

“It doesn’t matter. You are never to taint our name with a heir!”

Being judged on a pedestal of a single layered mattress, legs agape, lucid from an epidural is truly a position any woman would like to be in. Or would one?

With a semi-violent jerk, a pair of wrinkled and work-torn hands pulled the duvet cocoon, welcoming decibels that’d accompany rattling of teeth from a whole room.

Soon, a deafening silence, drooped smiles like melting arsenic on magma, and a row of lemmings single file out the door into their little grotto.

I have since been the boy of silence.


Wake up.

A room filled with cedar spirits and the ominous creaking of the walls. Nothing but a bed in the middle of this claustrophobic capsule that contains all your dreams. Even these thin walls can reflect your desires right back to your mind.

Open the door, and find an endless, dark drop. In front of you are weightless yet firm cobblestones of plank leading to nowhere in particular. A hop, skip and a jump and you could almost see a horizon. Or a drop to oblivion.

Invisible cities and lush rivernes littered in an endless sky. They too encapsulate everyone else’s dreams, and it seems only you decided to awaken so far.

Turn around, and your wooden prison dematerializes. A quick snap and a violent rain of lumber collapses into the abyss like misplaced dominoes.

There are all these islands of the mind, and still you stand there fixated on a drifting and barely visible vase on a distant riverne. Or that’s all you can perceive now. Somehow, you still smell the scent of carnations envelope your soul into a passionate tango. Or at least you think it does. At least you think that’s what carnations smell like. At least you think you see crumbling rocks chipping away at the riverne – any click of boulders or deforestation seems to pique your attention. Or at least you think it does.