mystical speaking

she spoke of realms that exceeded the world and overflowed your mind, sprinkling evanescent glitter on the top of your head with the tips of her fingers. Open your mouth, she’ll place a pill behind your tongue; and it spreads like acid as she speaks of these unknown worlds, mouth shaping sound after sound oh so majestically. now you’re in a state of bliss questioning whether space even exists or does it only appear between each blink of her incandescent blue lashes. she speaks in elision and you also wonder if she’s got human blood flowing in her veins or does she come from mercury or some other elegant planet? one moment or another you’d expect her to turn taciturn, lean over, slice your tongue in half, pocket the pill and replace it with sugar.

you want her to teach you how to see sunlight under leaves or count how many arteries a tree has compared to a wave because you feel like she controls it all, controls how strongly the wind blows or how many clouds there will be today and what shapes they will form. but you know she’s most enchanting under an eclipse’s moonlight or early dawn, barefoot on your terrace. jaw slightly slack, eyelids too, and of course, speaking. you’ll make her soft fur accent into a pillow and fall asleep, dreaming of all those faraway realms she says one day she’ll visit.

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wrong train thoughts

Overhead clouds and the girl sitting opposite me seems slightly unamused with it all. With how her reality is painted or with how the foldable table juts out into her thigh unlike a beautiful thorn but more like a polished rounded nuzzle of a plane. To her, I think, the world is made out of aluminium and tectonic plates, never close enough to clash. Grey and incandescent blue striped of a hoodie might just be her comfort zone- more than the trees sprouting out of the ground (maybe a bit too violently for her taste). She seems like a person that would would have coffee without sugar because extending her hand across the table would be more of a nuisance. She doesn’t seem very excited about her end destination, or maybe her mind’s too haywire to allow herself to figure out which emotion to splay out (so she settles with none). On a second thought, she’s ruminating. There’s hurt, and fear of broken piano keys, scared of hitting a C minor. Maybe she’s left a love behind. Definitely not on the wrong train.

infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.

the job of a writer

As a writer, I must observe the earth as if everything unfolding before me were a delicate petal slipping through the ring of my right thumb. I’m grasping it, I’m nearly there at having it all figured out but I’ll have to take another look- that’s my attitude on everything I discover. I’ll look at you, but not only in the eyes, and I won’t just read you like a book. I f you let me, I’ll submerge myself completely into water colored by the ink of your most terrible impulses. I’ll learn to memorise the way your knees click, how many times a day you tiptoe, what fingers you use to tap surfaces. I’ll notice how the wind creates fluctuations in our lives and I’ll learn that though I cannot grasp, I can try to imitate nature’s way of dancing with me and waltz across paper to explain it all. I’ll never be able to explain it all, and the size of the shard you’re given is either too big or too small- we’ll never know. What I can know is, what I’ll search to listen for at 4am (crickets), what emotions allow me to sink into a leather chair and what environment spills like hot lava over my nerves. I can learn how to sink languidly with how being this “me”, this “human”, feels like. I haven’t been given an instruction booklet so sometimes I still can’t fathom reactions this body will muster up; but I have figured out that this lead digging into paper or what my mind is able to string together and expel into the outer world will always be my task and my mother’s embrace. Not like a net or an anchor, but more like an overhead cloud or the gravel under my feet.

I think the biggest gift is being able to find beauty in the smallest of occurrences. And constantly being shocked by it, like a child.