good morning

Rays of sunlight crept through the tall curtains,

casting a warm brown light into the room.

The light crawled along the mahogany floor,

transforming the room into a sepia-toned picture of peace.

Specks of dust floated about lazily,

basking in the glorious warmth of the light.

The ruffle of the blanket momentarily disturbed the quaint silence

as he turned to escape the sun in his eyes.

It was a fiery red beneath the eyelids,

signaling the dawn of a new day.

life happens

the forest of efil sat in a quivering silence,

leaves lay strewn on the floor, pondering the days when they were green and full of life.

an army of ants marched on by the little trickling stream, frighteningly close to the water's edge but never falling in.

all of a sudden the forest of efil was ablaze

the fire crackled through the air,

but the trees didn't burn.

the ground was scorched,

but it didn't blacken.

a terrifying wind screamed through the air,

but the leaves didn't rustle.

and then all was silent again.

nobody quite understood what had just happened,

but the forest of efil still remained.

tick tock

He slumped in against the cold leather interior, mumbled his destination and returned to his thoughts. 

Trusting that the driver knew the way, he allowed the sights and sounds to meld into the blackness of his skull and all at once, it was dark and silent.

Consciousness slipped through his coarse fingers as his hands slumped to the side in utter exhaustion. 

He slept for an eternity, but as vision returned for a fleeting second he saw that he remained at the same traffic light. 

The drone of the engine, the drearily monotonous sound of engineered steel bore holes through his skull, once again allowing consciousness to seep away.

Sleep stroked it's silky fingers through his shadowy hair, gently raking it's nails over his cold scalp. 

He dreamt dreams he would never recall, thought thoughts which he could never retell.

Yet when he awoke with a jerk to the blare of a horn, though mountains he'd scoured and dragons he'd slain, it was only mere meters he'd travelled that day.

the person in the glass

He trudged up the eternity of steps and let his bag slip from his shoulder as he passed the doorway.

The coldness of the wood felt good beneath his aching feet as he stood a moment in the darkness.

Flicking on the lights, he walked in step with his thudding heartbeat toward the washroom,

carefully picking his way over the messy floor.

The room listened as his heartbeat slowed to a steady beat,

the slow thudding echoed off the walls like the distant beating of war drums.

The lights burned to life, illuminating the dark corners in the stuffy bathroom.

He hung his head over the porcelain white basin and splashed cool water onto his tired face,

closing his eyes as he felt the droplets roll off his skin.

As the last drop slipped off his cheek he looked up into the mirror.

Melancholy only stops short in the face of surprise.

He stared long and hard into the eyes which looked back at him. 

It wasn't him.

Well it was, but it wasn't.

It was the perfect reflection like the laws of physics imply,

and yet, he did not recognize the eyes which bore right back into his soul.

Mad Mraz

It's been a while since I've heard music that penetrates straight to your soul.

Standing twenty feet away, eyes closed and swaying to the beat.

Feeling every vibration with every fiber.

Truly amazing stuff.

continues.

I find that life has gotten to a point where I’ve come to realise that I know nothing.

All the years and years of growing and learning and imagining the wisdom level increasing has amounted to a huge sense of loss. I find that the more you learn, the more you realise you do not know. Now that school life is over and life has hit what i would call a flash of abeyance in which my worldy-life-o-meter hits a standstill while i wait for the next rush of life to smash me in my noggin, these past two months have become mediums for many many hours of thinking and retrospect. About the day, past week, months, years. And perhaps the greatest irony that life offers each and every one of us is that instead of reaching that much closer to which we sorely desire, as the time goes by, the question which plagued me at the beginning, appears farther out of reach; who am I ?

Occasionally while having chats of some depth with friends late into the night, or perhaps while I am writing, I say or write something which catches me off guard. As if i were reading or hearing another person speak. It’s a funny thing to try to explain.. it’s like learning from myself, yet i have no idea where these very very brief flashes of wisdom or other arrive from. Which leads me to question, just how well do I know myself? It feels like I have a wealth of knowledge stored up somewhere in the darkest recesses of my mind which I simply am unable to tap.

Girls. I once believed I had nearly figured them out. But now I realise that it is impossible to truly understand anybody gender regardless if we do not first truly understand ourselves. In one of my moments, I came out with a phrase which went something along the lines of “We can never truly love anyone entirely until we truly understand our own entirety.” But now perhaps I realise that we might never begin to truly understand anybody until we understand ourselves simply because every point, must have a reference point. If we, the reference point, do not know wherein which we lie, we will never discover the subsequent or any other point.

I digress.

I lie here in bed feeling utterly confused, and yet I think this state of confusion provides much more clarity than many people achieve. Simply because most people do not realise the state of their confusion. I find that it has to be stumbled upon rather than found. It is only stumbled upon perhaps after an ever so intricately weaved series of events perhaps over a week, month, years even that finally makes you wake up in the middle of the night and say to yourself “who the fuck am i?”

and yet perhaps the most troubling thing ever is the fear that i might never truly discover who i am. the fear that i might wake up tomorrow and forget this state of confusion or worse yet, brush it off as tired ramblings, and entirely deviate from disentangling what could be life’s greatest mysteries. Pardon the thick cliche of the statements but perhaps the very foundations of social life and mankind as we know it may tremble when people begin to ponder if OURSELVES may be life’s greatest mysteries, and not LOVE.

It’s all about context and reference points. Without the context, without a reference point. How do we know anything. What do we know? If we change the context of our lives or shift a reference point, everything as we know it will crumble to nothing. Forget money and power and cars and private jets. WE will crumble to nothing.

This could very well be the ramblings of a very lonely 18 year old hoping that somebody would read this and notice him, or maybe I could be on to something.

Perhaps it is only in these moments of abeyance where the hustle and bustle and business of life glitters in the edges of our memories that we begin to question our very existence. Who decided that life should be in which we wake up, work, earn money, make valiant attempt after attempt at relationships, sleep and repeat. And even those of us who try to cut our own path, or CHOOSE TO BE DIFFERENT, differ in very similar fashion. It is perhaps as if we are truly confined in a box and even when we try to be different, we create new boxes for ourselves..

Who decides who’s “intelligent” and who’s “stupid” There are 7 forms of known intelligence (and that’s according to THEM) but education systems only base results on ONE. Obviously if i was the guy who wrote the IQ test i’d fit it nicely so I felt good about myself. Why do we take them so seriously anyway? Maybe the answer is simple and elementary, the answer is perhaps seen in kindergarten schoolyards across the world daily: nobody wants to be picked last in gym class. nobody REALLY wants to be the weird kid, the different kid, the OTHER type…

Which again forces the question; who first decided the stereotype?

Who am I? I would not nearly dare to pose the question, who are you?

Start of a New Chapter

The carefully written words reached the end of the papyrus paper and the author let out a soft sigh.
He had written many words, he had written tears, laughter, hurt, scars, growth, treacherous pitfalls and love.
It had been a good chapter, as a chapter should be.
A long, hard, painful and learning chapter.

He gathered them tenderly in his smooth hands and propped them up onto the mahogany table to align them.
It was a large stack of paper, each flimsy sheet carefully bound within the leather casing, adding to the historic 17 earlier chapters.
Then he reached for the new pieces of paper, untainted and waiting for the ink.
Perhaps these would hold a better story.