Saturday, July 21, 2012


“The perfect words never crossed my mind, ‘cause there was nothing in there but you.”

I don’t remember the first time I spoke to her, saw her or was even introduced to her. It feels like she’s always been a part of my life, even though I’ve only known her 4 (not sure about that either) years. I find it strange, how people in love keep saying “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, you were wearing a really cute green t-shirt and jeans and had your hair tied up in a ponytail and…” while I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck it was that made us look at, let alone speak to each other.

Maybe it was a common friend who introduced us to each other. Or maybe we were standing in line at the college canteen and we had both smelled (tasted?) the fart from the fat guy in front of us. Or maybe we met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. I don’t remember.

I don’t remember when we started falling for each other; whether it was slow realization after endless conversations about (other) things we love that went way too late into the night, or if there was an instant spark that turned our whole world upside down with feelings for each other that we just couldn’t ignore.

I don’t remember the beginning.

“No, I won’t wait forever.”

I don’t’ remember the fights, the name-calling, and the deafening silence. I don’t remember if it was jealousy or just mistrust. I don’t remember if we tried enough to make it work.

I don’t remember if we promised to be in touch and for how long we let that fa├žade drag on between us.

I don’t remember when we stopped talking each other, and when those endless conversations of ours ceased.

I don’t (want to?) remember the end.

“All I wanted just sped right past me, while I was rooted fast to the Earth.
I could be stuck here for a thousand years, without your arms to drag me out.”

All I remember is the way she held my hand when I felt alone and had no one on my side, and needed nothing but a hug, some company, and peace and quiet.

All I remember is the feeling I’d get when I met her after a long day at work and needed someone listen to things that just plain pissed me off.

All I remember is how she’d always take my side no matter who or what I was upset with, and how she’d manage to turn my mood around.

All I remember is the way she’d listen when I was ranting about music and writing and the things I wanted to do with my life.

All I remember is how whenever we kissed nothing else in the world mattered to me as much as she did (does?).

All I remember is us.

“In the confusion and the aftermath, you are my signal fire.”

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

So. I'm a writer.

So I can write.

Big deal.

Does that mean I need to make a career out of it? Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life sitting behind a computer or with a pen in hand struggling to find words that describe perfectly the exact emotion I feel, or my character feels, while trying (in vain) to look like I don’t give a shit about the rest of the world, that’s slowly starting to spiral down into madness and chaos?

(Like I care. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life begging the world for solitude and quiet and peace and go all emo to “just leave me the fuck alone, will you!”  while secretly lusting for the world’s approval of what I so desperately try to get the world to notice?

(I don’t need you. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to drown myself in hard liquor and slowly burn the insides of my lungs with that pack of cigarettes a day I just CANNOT do without, sitting outside a coffee shop with three empty cups of cappuccino (Grandes, naturally) staring into space giving off a mysterious aura of *wait for it, and I’m only using this word to be on par with what what I mentioned in the first paragraph about always having to find the right word, NOT because I’m out of words, which I am SO not. (Hmph!)* mystery?

(*sip, puff, aura* Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to live “alone” in a studio apartment the rest of my life, going out only to be inspired by the people walking past me into the coffee shop and by the night sky or the rain or the rainbow or the sunset or the lyric of my (current) favorite song, and only bringing home people when I’m horny, and need that post-coital smoke to inspire me too?

(Sex? Hmph.)

Does it? DOES IT?!?

Oh it does?

*emo, sip, puff, aura, post-coital puff*

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


He tried to move. But he couldn't.

His hands weren't bound. Neither were his legs. No iron chains or rope binding him to a wall or tying him down in a chair. No visible injuries on him, except for a long-forgotten, but clearly visible scar on his arm from an accident he'd gotten into on his first motorcycle. In all physical senses, he could've just as easily carried his wife and walked out of the room, as he could've batted his eye lids.

But no, this didn't have anything to do with his current physical state. Neither did it have to do with the hospital room he was in. He was not alone (well, technically alone NOW), but the room still felt empty to him. The air around him was ice cold, a tell-tale sign of the proficiency with which the air conditioning repairmen had worked just the previous day. It made him cold, but he didn't care. The cold air wasn't even the last thing on his mind.

He stood, holding in his arms an hour-old baby. His baby. His own child, who he wasn't even looking at let alone bother to notice that it was crying it's eyes out, bawling like, well, a little baby. Only an hour before, it was his wife in his arms, and he was holding her, comforting her, willing her to push, to give birth to that beautiful baby girl that now had taken her place in his arms.

One would say at the time, the girl had no idea what had happened. But the girl knew. Just like her father knew.

He tried to move. But he couldn' he stared into his dead wife's empty eyes.

Friday, July 6, 2012


I've been a slave too long.

That constant feeling you're being watched. Or maybe you're just lonely.

So it arrived this morning.

I woke up with a start, trying not to think about how many times I’d snoozed the alarm, wishing I could shove my foot up my ass for being such a lazy fuck.

And then I saw it.

I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic. For some strange reason, I was almost expecting it to be there.  It looked at me in the eye, sitting calm and still in the corner of the room, not moving, not saying a word. It just stared.

It followed me out of my room, and I wondered whether it would follow me into the bathroom. I wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’d spent a good five minutes in bed trying to get used to it, but I still wasn’t comfortable with it watching me undress and bathe. However, it was polite enough to wait outside while I bathed.

It didn’t do anything while I got dressed for work. It didn’t do anything as I found the bread that was supposed to be my breakfast covered in mould. It didn’t do anything as I double checked my pockets for my phone and keys and locked my room.

Its weight as it rode behind me on my bike seemed to be making my journey longer than the ten minutes it usually takes me to get to work. Turning and manoeuvring around the traffic felt like an hour’s workout. Almost lost my balance a couple of times. When I finally reached, I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t late. It really did take me just ten minutes.

It sat next to me at my desk, still staring, as I worked through the day, giving me company during the lunch break too. It never left my side.

As I got used to its constant presence being around me, I found myself starting to get used to it. Found myself being glad it was around. Glad for the company it gave, I guess. Maybe it felt the same way too. I certainly didn’t see why it wouldn’t like to be around me all the time. I like to think I’m that nice a guy.

I brought it back home with me, along with a chicken shawarma I planned to have for my dinner. (The shawarma was good. A little dry, and would’ve tasted better if the Persian guy down the road that made it had used pita bread instead of a roti, but all in all a good shawarma.) It didn’t complain or ask for a shawarma for itself. It just watched me eat. It didn’t seem too hungry anyway.

I got into bed and tucked myself in. I turned around to say goodnight to it, but I couldn’t see it. It was gone.

I figured it just needed to be around someone for the day to make itself feel better about, well, itself.

I rolled back into a comfortable sleeping position, one that was just close enough to the wall touching my bed so that I wouldn’t fall off (as I used to frequently when I was a kid, therefore leaving me with a life-long fear of “falling off the edge”, something that still torments me with sleepless nights through nightmares) but far enough give me room to stretch and roll and kick in my sleep in the night (as a friend of mine very rudely found out last Saturday when I kicked him in the face several times in the night), said quietly, “Goodnight, you piece of shit,” and dozed off almost immediately after.