Do you recall the dreams of overgrowth, with vines of fushia embracing the cold stone pillar of a dilapidated temple, beneath your bare and pale toes?

Do you recall the nights dreaming of days atop a cliff, staring at an unending horizon of grey and yellow and purple watercolours splashed against the canvas of the sky, peering over a cliff of canopies and lush arbor?

Do you fathom the fading dreams of expressionless motions of walking through what was once a corridor into a courtyard of creeping foliage and overgrown roses, with the scent of decaying leaves and a earthly, metallic soil? The soft trickle from a quintessentially formed petrified trough from the early calm monsoons?

Do you ever long for that soft feeling of dissipation as you set yourself upon a marbled, crack-laden, unstable ground with legs like constricting twigs blocking an overpass, while you breathe slower, and slower, and slower?

Does it ever bother you that you forgot your dreams of walking through a spirit room in an abandoned chapel in the countryside with nothing more than a lexicon and a candle in your hands? The haunting, sinking feeling that there is something much greater than you that you will face alone, but you never found it and never fought anything to begin with?


When the mere illusion of you disembowels everything I could possibly have – viscera, soul, thoughts, persona.

A simple carnation in a vase, harmless and quintessential. And absolutely unintrusive and indescript. Somehow its fragrance – its allure – is as enlighteningly modest as it is toxic. Addictive.

There is no antidote. There is no cure. There is no humane way of fitting between the cage. All there is left is to emasciate in a prison within a meadow, and watch longingly for just one dose. One little fucking dram. But there so much you know you cannot have. Forbidden. Sacriligious. Especially if this carnation is tended gingerly and meticulously.

You could open your mouth or flair your nostrils and there would be no way to avoid its charm. A stationary mesmer. An unproductive task with no perceivable reward.

All that you could never have.


A burst of blinding light like imprisoned fireflies in a tiny box, then a dither into nothing. A blankness. A bleakness. An obscurity.

Jackhammer to a steel beam, a cacophony of sounds, and a screech that rattles the prefrontal cortex and nanomizes thoughts. A migraine.

What it’s worth is not worth what it is. Heaving, gasping for air in a place with the cleanest, most pristine wind. Dehydration in the freshest of water. Distortions. Incapacitate.

Dreams become feathers. Material, but light and weightless. In another world, perhaps, we can feel the weight of dreams. But I’m here in a world I don’t belong. An anomaly. An alien. A juxtaposition between a human and a person. An unspectacularly ephemeral being.

Trees. Finding the upper limit of the sky, but will never make it before something burns them down. Deforested. Sheared by the human intervention.

Unfettering. Undying. Untying.

Undesirable. Unfinished. Unforgiving.

None of these words adequately describe the turmoils of an isolated heart.

Pitiful. Ridiculous. Cretinous. Arduous.

Words that describe a burden to vivacious minds.

Indecent. Inopportune. Inconvenient.

Diction that describes the role of a longing soul in a progressive society.

Tattered. Vivisected. Indolated.

Vocabulary for a damaged spirit.

Should. Would. Could.

All for a disgustedly melancholic being.

Like being me.