fishing in your subconscious waters

I’m itching to write, as if I were presented with a scab that has remained forever unpickable. I crave to write and write and have this pencil glide from page to page to scroll to keyboard, from material to technological, my words shall keep speaking. Kingdoms of two meter waves, rosie autumns, misty minds, suffering, hoping for catharsis. I crave to write about this whole existence, the earth and all the systems within it, and of course, the systems within and of course, the unknown, when we turn the lights off. In this little controversial mind of mine, I shall clear some space for a little writing laboratory. Test tubes and microscopes, sieves, gloves and the whole lot. You see it’s a science. One must first dip themselves into the waters of imagination, with gloves, carefully extract samples from different kingdoms: darkness, despair, adrenalin, jealousy (and we usually go for the nastier ones, harder to grab, more likely to bite your finger). And once you’re back from that expedition, you examine them under a microscope, these little twitching encapsulated potentials. With some wit and pincers, you tie them together to form a little world of yours, where gravity might be slightly different. Another warning: you can’t really control when these urges to dive into these creative, inviting, dangerous waters will come. Whether your head rests on a pillow, hair relaxed, body decompressing for sleep, or whether you’re at a coffeeshop, or on a rollercoaster, this urge simply does not care. You’re thrown into your diving suit and pushed into your subconscious synovial fluid. Down under there, the sky varies often, blanketed by the indigo wine and occasional lighting strikes. You might find some familiar structures, bits of picked up memories. You might find grieving faces- suppressed pain never nurtured. Now… I don’t want to spoil your exploration nor uncover too much of myself in this. All I can say is, remember to take your backpack.

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donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, gaudy empty,

slippery buttery

donuts.

 

I climb through donut holes,

small mole in woe

indented into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

boiling

tackling

flour, sugar and coil.

The final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: it fits.

Tender and appealing

Slender, full of splendour

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make

it sickeningly sweeter?

and maybe if I ingest all that syrup,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious

delightful?

 

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

it’s just one whole,

nothing.

Maybe the hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will take flight?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

a hole.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid delight,

give me a bite,

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

Munch this donut up, and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am,

down to the last damn gram.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough has

a purpose,

a hero’s journey,

a place in the circus.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that I will too?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, is an intruder,

a tumour,

but I’m lost at the riddle of escape.

And if my hole were to cave in with all this dough

would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

All this dough can’t hide.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

So I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

three,

two,

one

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

adolescent idealism is a hoax

my mind’s racing,

they say it’s normal,

not abnormal,

adolescents are like this, don’t mind them,

crazy minded, mindless,

bezelled by the universe

chatters and impulses, smoke, lights,

cries, they say it’s all just

because we

romanticise life,

with our hormones

but is that so?

maybe you adults just

downgrade life, cut it with a knife

forget its beauty

and newness, freshness born

into every moment,

you lament,

but we, with new eyes,

untainted still see life for what

it is,

beyond your

clouded mind.

 

night times, we stay awake,

head in a racing car game,

throwing thoughts like elastic shotguns

sons of euphoria followed by

hands tumbling over keyboards,

fumbling pencils,

crumbling cameras, strumming strings,

creating some things

to let out the excitement

of living in a body, on a floating rock,

gawk at how the heck did we get here?

we do it not for the future, not because

it could amount to anything, but the

moment

 

we strip clothes off,

teeth fall off,

eat bitter earth,

scorch our fingertips,

plunge into crisp waters,

why?

why because we don’t know

who we are, (the greatest gift)

 

curiosity, ferocity

this stubbornness to keep

standing, discovering

unstopping stomping

unapologetically launching ourselves

into this world.

but i say it’s because we know

this world is nothing but

a cardboard box stage,

not a cage,

and we’re here so infinitesimally

so, to

cry over, suffer over, joy over,

get over,

unpreel, then refresh and start over

every time

the sun shines again.

 

And we,

get to be someone new,

someone bigger.

reach out further

away from where we started,

we know we can be anything we ever

wanted,

as long as that flame burns

 

not related to age spurts,

 

to just, be alive,

feel alive.

 

 

i say it’s not,

adolescence.

i say it’s our true nature,

as humans,

before we comply and forget

not take a bet on

this miracle of a human life

before we strive to stick the feeling of freedom

under a desk like gum,

before we construct the cage of

what is and what isn’t

 

and think about it,

those times where you thought

nothing would stop you-

that’s when your invincibility existed

truly.

meditations

On the rare occasion where I settle down and stop my wheels of blood from rolling, I sit down to watch the burning trail I’ve made- the friction between the soles of feet and unnerving city cement. I cremate the moment and look at its ashes. All that exists are the flames, the heat, the black dots dancing across vision. I empty my vessel, picking and scrubbing at all corners of this machine. I unhinge the engine and I’m left with splutterless silence. Suddenly, I realise how obsolete certain things in life are, yet at the same time, the intentionality behind everything. Immortalising this moment, I immortalise myself. I, who thought I could conquer and bellow tyrannically over soul and mind, control life like a maniac. Now I dress in titter tatters, sit with simplicity, hold rocks in the palm of my hands and happiness comes in with mischief. Caught red-handed, I surrender my fortress, my megacity of plan-thoughts and let the moment pierce my skin like a subliminal vaccine. Protecting and giving asylum. The future in my head is now past-tense overgrown weeds, that only belongs to night terrors. I realise its opacity, and in turn, my solidity as I breathe. Thick, unkempt hair and rosy cheeks. Elbows propped against knees. It’s all at ease and I exist, slightly hovering above this body.

a conversation with my alter-ego

I’m sitting in this room, having tea and scones with myself. It’s rather a very fancy space. Painted white bricks, a nice table, red velvet chairs. The tea is earl gray, and the scone comes with a little pot of cream. Of course, this whole set up has been stolen from one of my memories- how else is imagination made? I am indeed quite rusty at this process, for fear has been nagging it’s tail in my face. But today, emotion has prevailed and I can’t find myself doing anything else but writing- for it is all I can really make myself do. You got to always give something back in this energy exchange.  You take in the form of breath and space and time. You have to give back. It can be in the form of creativity, happiness, awareness… Anything pure. So, everything else has been crossed out on the  “giving” list, and writing sits there like an awkward child, waiting for me to claim him finally.
My alter ego sits opposite me, across the table. She’s been served the same as me: tea and scones. I want to say hello, but I’m scared and disgusted. She has my face, and it is really the only time I can fully see myself directly in real life. I have this narcassistic need to crawl up to her, look at her from every angle, but then I remind myself that she is not me. Right? Her name tag says Anthea.

“Speak,” The voice that comes out of her lips is of a higher tone, but of course it is, why am I taken aback? The only voice of mine that I’ve heard is but an echo in my defective human eardrums.

She crosses her legs, and I don’t. Before speaking, I really take a good look at Anthea. Her hair’s flying everywhere, as if no one had touched it in a year: mouldy, hay-like, half-black, half-yellow. But in contrast, mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick has been applied perfectly to her face. Two little ghostly shadows rest on her cheekbones: she is thinner than me. Her skin glows like a halo, her fingers are like a pianist’s, but a real pianist. Maybe she plays piano? She wears a huge white shirt with a blue circle- I recognise it. It fits her like a huge bag, it’s obvious how tiny her body is beneath that cloth, and it looks good. Not the way it looks on me. As she waits for my reply, she brings her hands up to the table, and graciously lifts the teacup to her mouth. Her arm is covered in porcelain ink tattoos, drawings of flowers and some other amorphous slightly dark shapes. The skin is pulsing and red and raw.

“Those new?” I ask.

She stops midway, and places the cup back down. The ding between the ceramic and glass table seems like it is made in heaven.

“Yes.” She speaks with confidence. “Who are you?” she adds on.

“I am me.” I look down at my hands. I’m wearing something I think seems familiar. “And you, are my alter-ego.”

“Oh no, no. You, my dear, are my alter-ego. I am original. A unique creation.” She replies, with that voice that just seems too abnormally high in pitch.

We both lean forward at the same time: I guess we do have the same brain with the same reflex-impulses. I stare into my own eyes.

“What do you do?” The words barely come out of my dry lips. I’m sweating and she’s stone cold.

“I’m an artist, a writer. I’m intense. I like adrenaline, and caffeine and rushes- I like extremes.” As she says this, she lights a thin cigarette that she allows to balance precariously before her food. She cuts the scone into a million tiny slices.

“I like my body to extremes- these bones, seeing them, remind me of my mortality. It’s what drives me to live my life. And the feeling of this smoke? It makes me lightheaded, and the fact that it’s slowly destroying me just puts me in the best mood for creation.” She says this, as she keeps the smoke lurking in her lungs. Her small, pinpoint breasts roll outward, then inward.

“You are destroying yourself to make art?” I say. I don’t know what to feel. This all sounds too familiar of an idea.

“I don’t know, really. This is all just so temporary. I’m just playing around like an alchemist, with these limbs, this face, this living breathing machine. I like to be in control. I’ve written books about my  emotions- killed my way to get up top. I have a girlfriend – I think she hates me, but also maybe secretly loves me. You see, I’m just oh so paranoid she’s going to run off, so I like to interrogate her, tie her up. In my free time, when I’m not networking, of course. That’s me, that’s what I do. There you have it.” She says all at once.

“Friends?” I inquire, almost desperately.

“Oh, so many. I get invited to parties, I’m an artist! A self-destructive manipulative artist, testing the limits- who doesn’t like that at a party? I have pictures of my friends, but I can’t really remember all their names, of course. Human memory is stunted.”

My whole body starts shaking and I stare at my veins portruding. She watches this happen but doesn’t speak a word. Goddamnit. I take the teapot sitting next to me and throw it right at her face. I want to watch her disappear, disintegrate like a projection. It hits her, and she bleeds and her head hits the wall behind. She screams. Fuck. Who made me throw that? Why did I throw that? I’ve never heard myself scream since I was 13. It’s a painful sound that cuts me to half and makes me forget everything but that.

She doesn’t disappear. She’s real and she crouches down on the floor, grasping her eyes. There’s no anger when she cries. It’s like she knew it would come.

Salty tears start building up and soon enough I’m crying, at the same rate as her, and in the same position.

“Oh, my alter-ego. Why are you so cruel?” She weeps and squacks out. Her voice is scratched now, patchy.

Those words hit me like ten blows. I want to say, Look at who you are. I thought you were who I wanted to be.

Then I look at myself.

I don’t say a word.

We spend the next thirty minutes patching up. We place the teacups, teapots, scones back to exactly where they stood. We clean the blood off the floor, we place the chairs where they were meant to be. We smell the flowers. Then, for last, we sit at our respective places and eat.

She looks more reserved now, as if scared to talk. Her cat-eyes glance at me, like a hurt creature. We both swallow the food. She takes smaller, planned-out bites.
“So what do you do?” She breaks the silence after an hour.

“Well…I’ve just finished school. I’m hopefully going to a monastery for six months. I’ve been trying to write my first book, but I’ve completely hit a block. I’ve been trying to be a good person, I guess. I have lots to do on my mind, I want to get it done. I want to help. But yeah, I wake up, have some food, try to be okay half the day, try to meditate, think of what to have for dinner. If I have to go out, I need to keep my heart in check: it races like crazy.” I reply solemnly.

It just spills out, as if someone had pressed some inner button.

“So in short, you don’t do much.” Her voice assumes one of a therapist, non-judgemental and full of hidden questions. I recognise that tone.

I nod.

“Did you attack me out of jealousy?”

I shake my head, after a moment of hesitation. Then I do it with more assertion.
As if some bell rang, we both get up in unison, with force, like little kids at the last class before break. She sticks her bony, pale hand out. I look at her once more. I only recognise myself in the eyes. I stick my hand out too, to shake her hand.

“I will never understand you, my alter-ego. How can you live this way?”

“Me neither, my alter-ego. How can you live this way?” I reply.

Before I can grasp her hand, and have some kind of closure, she disintegrates.

I, too, disintegrate a split second after her.

I can only hope to become a balance between the two.

Sudden Magnetism

Unexpected magnetisation

i realised i was iron ore

commanded like a puppet

willingly under magnet

she was inadvertently

radioactive, bathing in

pure electromagnetism

and I spun and spun,

poles switching

like blades,

positive and negative

and furiously so.

 

And somehow,

my charge

became complete opposite to

her the moment those

electric blue eyes

caused fire on me,

my whole body internally,

turned haywire and some

part of her did too

so we started the

dance of polar attraction,

forward, backward, contraction.

Souls grasping at each other

from afar.

 

She pulsated the whole

truth of the

universe on me like

a madman, yet discretely like

flashing light

came in for a carnal

embrace (it was all

but human) rather,

supernatural for in

that moment

something ancient became

aware of itself,

realised its one-ness,

born for re-uniting in

self-awareness.

Walking in the Forest

Walking in the forest,

I tore my shoes off, coat off, past off,

irises merge into aquamarine fish

swimming from eyes to chest:

now a nest of soft dew between the cracks

of tree barks,

fingers edging on backs of

beautifully bumping roots.

Hands turning,

squirming,

into fledgling pepper green moths.

Naked salt-skin opens up like

undersides of leaves.

 

And the trees

whispered me these things:

“We’re wise, and old, yet still sons of this earth,

you too have been birthed

from this mother.

This is your womb, just like any other.”

I listened to them hum, these

old folksongs delivered by wind, like drums,

each word, a mellifluous golden heart

lulled by the her petrichor sweet pitch.

My footsteps followed to the beat,

attenuated tones of riverbeds and creeks:

I listened and listened like a child.

 

Walking in the forest,

she pecks me on my cheeks with sun,

lathers me in the buttery buzzing sounds of bees,

blankets and bandages my toes with primrose.

I thank her in profusion,

she shakes her head in confusion,

poses before me, and says,

“Welcome back.”