Flesh and Blood

Only a thin veil of flesh
divides this earth from the evil within
wrapped by a thin plastic film of rationality
and perhaps good even

But it's there

The blood coursing through these veins
animate
manifest
my murderous malignant intent
Can you feel my evil when I smile and shake your hand?

it's there
it's there
it's there

The Journey

I have journeyed much. Much to realise that my journey is not as much a movement from a place to another as it is a struggle to change from one form to another; a shift from one position to another; a climb of one step to a step higher and a constant fight between one force against another. Now in this state of non-physicality, I know that I was created from the lowest element existing under my feet; the soil, the lowest element. After I have been shaped into physicality, into me was blown the highest form in Your creation, and beyond; Your spirit. I am therefore a mixture of the lowest and the highest; darkness and light; bad and good; evil and Godliness. Although it is obvious that I start from the lowest; the darkness; the badness and the evil. The journey is therefore the struggle to shift from the lowest element; the darkness, badness and the evil to the highest element; Your spirit. And only when I reach the highest form will I unite with Your spirit, giving me a glimpse of You and Your Greatness. And that would be my victory.

Death

 

I am here. I do not know whether I am lying down, standing up or sitting down. I can just feel my existence although I cannot feel the usual rush of blood through my veins nor do I inhale and exhale. I feel like I am constantly floating, from a place to another, without boundary. I am sure I am in a room although I could not feel the constraints of 4 walls, a floor and a roof. If I look in front, I could see far and yonder although not before long I would be at the place I was looking at a moment ago. I seem to move, and move fast at that, although I feel I am stationary all the while.

If I proceed to touch the walls, I would know of their existence. But they lack stature as walls and as physical boundaries. The room is lighted. White, blue, bright and dark, shades of gray and black, dawn and twilight, constantly interchanging as my mind wanders and my emotions  vary. Speaking of which, the only tangible matter being present was my mind, and probably my emotions. The others are intangibles. It is as if I had lost all physical and biological matters. It is as if I am defying all laws of physic. It is as if there is no physicality to anything anymore.

After some time, I realise that I am free. I am free from all physical constraints. I am soaring. I am wandering in this huge matter of nothingness although at the same time I am aware of its fullness. I feel I am alone although I don't feel lonely. And although it is quiet I am not moved to seeking companionship. It is like I already have whatever and everything that I need. It is as if I am deeply satisfied. All my hopes, my expectations, my aspirations, dreams and fantasies are fulfilled just as I think of them.

And just as I am aware of my existence, I could feel Your presence. But I am not moved to seek to see You. Nor do I feel the need to touch You. Nor do I speak with or to You.

I finally understand You just as much as You finally embrace me. 

Something out of Nothing

Expectations. They cost nothing to conjure. It can be meaningful. It's usually whimsical. and plentiful. They are more easily felt than grasped, like gravity. Though it has no corporeal form, it has a great deal of force. The amount of force or weight of an expectation depends on the quality and/or quantity of persons. The more significant a person or the greater the number of persons, the heavier the expectation. The weight of an expectation can rival the weight of Atlas. Once an expectation is brought into existence it takes a life of its own. Sometimes it merges or fuses with the expectee's personality and lifestyle to the point that when the expectation begins and his life ends cannot be detected. It is possible to live entirely in an expectation, but it is not encouraged because there is no air in an expectation. Suffocation or asphyxiation is common within the expectation atmosphere if the weight does not first grind one's knee into the ground. An expectation is often misunderstood as a right. This is incorrect. An expectation is a wrong thought right. It can be about something impossible or possibly unnecessary. It is nothing but we make it something. We are good at making something out of nothing. We are not so good at making something into nothing. There is more litter in our attempts at annihiliation than the fruits of our creation.

The Space in Between

Thank you
for being
the space in between
the relentless drive for perfection
and my not caring a damn
for being
that pause in between
the deafening din of dreariness
and the sensual allure of flattery
for being
that long deep breath
that inhales you into me
and feel you as I would my second skin
for being
that fine line between
What it means to live
and what it means to be alive
Thank you
for being

In Silence

I feel like a dam full of emotions which you ignited, pregnant until bursting. I want to explode into you. Passionately, violently as you ripped me from the fabric of life's drudgery, its weariness, its cynicism. It was complete acceptance or eternal banishment. There was no compromise. Compromising meant being untruthful. Everything that came before was forgiven and everything thereafter accounted for. That you filled me. Reshaped me. Breathed me life anew. You make me invincible.

Sometimes I wish I could say these things to you.

But I'm just not good with words. Just not good at them.

They just don't come out right.

How seriously should I consider something?

Sometimes I think I possess little sense of perspective in my consideration about things. I seem to take seriously things others don't and vice versa. Or finding humour in places where others don't. And of course humour vanishes once explained. Which is why I hate explaining jokes. If you didn't get it, that's it. Sorry. Too bad. Jokes are not like freaking leftovers that you can reheat in retelling. They're like orgasms. You either get them, or you don't. You never say I think I had an orgasm. Because if you do, I got news for you. That wasn't it.

So. Back to the mains. How seriously should I consider something. For example, how much of my thoughtful effort should I apply to a rock as opposed to say a poem or a piece of music or a pen or a planet, for example. Why should I not spend 30 minutes in thoughtful consideration of a garden rock as opposed to a dead bug. I could easily spend more than 30 minutes contemplating about either one for example, where the rock is concerned: what is its' colour, its shape, its weight, its volume, its height, its distinguishing features, where it is placed, where such rock came from, how it was formed, which 'family' of rock does it belong to, how it is extracted, going even lower, its atomic composition, how I could use it in a story, etc. You get the trajectory (if not, please re-read)? An ancillary question would be how deeply should one think about things too. Should we consider some common rock in great depth? 

Interest, needs and inevitability would dictate relevance. A natural sense of curiousity and inclinations would have some influence in expanding that area of relevance. 

But even then how deeply enough do we know of what is required of and of interest to us?

We can only exist within a plane of middleness.  

Conversation

You had wanted to speak with me, I gathered. And so we met again. Your pale whitish face almost had no emotion. You were almost a pale shadow of the self that I had known. But beneath those eyes I knew you were almost drowned in melancholy. You looked down when I was looking into your eyes. As if you could not bear the thought of being observed. As if you were afraid that your iris might tell me all of your secrets.

You came nearer to me. And you pulled my shoulder. You rested your head on it. And you began sobbing. I could feel the warmth of your tears slowly flowing down my neck. Your hands pulled my body towards you ever closer. Almost clutching me. Like you would never want to let me go. I put my hand around you. And I ran my fingers through your hair at the back of your head. We were like lovers. Long lost lovers who had suddenly met again. I could feel you. Felt all of your anxieties. Your pains. I thought I could see all your hopes, your wishes, your dreams. I walked through the valleys of your emotions, swam in the rivers of your fears, crawled on the sands of your desires. I knew you. I had known you for hundreds of years. And I realised I had lost you for quite a while.

You were trembling. Your hands gripped my back and I felt a sharp pain on my back. I felt something wet running down my spine. It was my blood!  Suddenly you shook me hard. You pushed me and  I saw your face. Your eyes were filled with thousands of bloodshot veins. Your hair had become unkempt. Flowing down your neck and shoulders. I looked at your hands. Your nails have become long and black.

With a voice that sounded like a growl of thousands of hungry wolves, you screamed, "I am going to take over.....I am going to take you over....."

Dream

Last night I saw you, in all your naked glory. You were standing there, in the corner, under the dim lamp. You looked content. Almost peaceful. But you were still. And you were silent.

It was when I was about to touch you that you turned and walked away. You stopped by the window and you turned around towards me. You looked intense. Almost angry. Your eyes looked deeply into mine, piercing through all my thoughts, deciphering them, translating them. Suddenly you had a knife in your hand.

You ran towards me. Pushed me to the floor. Sat on me and slashed me. I was bleeding all over. Numbed from all the pains. You dragged me up by my hair. Sat me down on the chair. With your knife at my throat, you forced me. To write this...

The Beast

He's a right bastard, I tell you. Sometimes he can be logical, calm, cool and so between the two of us, the more reasonable and level headed, the firm restraining hand holding me back from rushing into where even angels fear to tread. And yet sometimes, he can be the worse of the two, scheming twisted and dangerous thoughts and wicked suggestions, tantalizing me with their possibilities. It's during those times that I feel he harbours murderous intent for me, though I am certain it shall not be his hands that carries out the deed. Though we hardly speak to each other, for the most part we both know each other only too well; save for that bit of darkness in our soul of which no one will ever know of save for ourselves. He calls that 'The Beast' and tells me that we all have our own Beasts. He is smiling as he tells me this, as if in relief. Don't let it consume you, he cautioned cheerily.

I asked him once, How is it we know each other so well and communicate almost telepathically, and yet are so different in thought?
That is not the question, he replied.
What is then? I asked back.
It is, How do we deal with situations given our predicament? he asked.
But I wanted to ask the question, I replied. Upset.
If you don't know the question, you cannot ask, he answered.