I am in my own little world
With as fewer as many words
Paint a scene with opaque colours
Cut frames from each second
A passing thought drops a line
Hello there!
Are you fine?
But in this little world
A vast array of works
By many before and little contemporary
Inspired choices are postponed
For life’s illustration
Illusory and elusive
A fugue fume of fading ferocity
Knock twice
Come in sanity
Nothing but ocean and sky as far as the [mind’s] eye can imagine, on a makeshift raft, splinters everywhere and slowly flooding at eternity’s pace.
No sense of direction, the sail made with unachieved desires, a flimsy material, unreliable and coarse.
Swirling above my head, vultures, made of dark thoughts, waiting for me to slip, into unconsciousness, or into sin.
The air smells of sulfur, the water is a darker shade of blue, shimmering with sliver streaks, I look to see my reflection, an unrecognizable silhouette is refracted back, it smiles, genuinely, something I find laborious under “normal” circumstances.
No end to this journey it would seem, but the final resting place, a point beyond the horizon, the end of wit.
You want to talk about hypocrisy
Well I am versed in this wholeheartedly
I am to myself a connoisseur of lies
To others eyes imbued truthfully
Intertwined both paradigms to form a twisted reality
Of which I am fictitious and facetiously
Wandering towards the inevitably
I am to myself a silver tongue tied monstrosity
For the lack of truth I speak silently
For each lie I spew indiscriminately
A victim of the self which I enabled tumultuously
I am to myself an abominable deficiency
I am the lie spoken truthfully
I am the lie that lie in believability
So many ideas
So much so
That they bifurcate
Diverging in alternative states
On the verge
Yet to capitulate
Rest weary synapses rest
No consuming task
Can habituate
The ever desire
To procrastinate
Rest assured feable mind
All your thoughts
Are but a rehash
Sleep easy and do not contemplate
That which is out of your control
Oh yeah but you’re lazy
A heavy heart, pounds loudly, increasing in rhythm, a linguistic crisis of words, to console with, to comfort by, to ease through, the words exist, and have been used before, in many different ways, to varying degrees of concern, but at this moment, tongue tied, head twisted, nothing seems to make any sense.
A few words start to form
“I am sor…ry” you think quietly in your mind, only it evokes more deeply buried memories, memories you have not thought about in a long while, that you never thought you would revisit, due to the pain it paint your empty canvas of heart with, a peculiar shade of the bluest blue, it is mesmerising to look at, but it hurts to/too.
“Why?”, “why me?” you think, as if you have been wronged by everyone, but the truth is that, it is you whom adjusted yourself to spring into action with these words, that now feel like fire on your tongue, and an explosion in your mind.
“I can not do this” you whisper, not again, not the same way, not like this, this of all things, this situation in particular, how fated it all seems, but it is just that, a mere coincidence, your mind wanders, and gets lost in between other banal memories that fill you up with more dread.
Can not escape the inevitable, the moment is here:
“It is with a heavy heart, and sorrow that I must speak these words to you”
…
“I am sorry…”, “… for eating your food”
“If it is any consolation, it was delicious”
…
A blue sky
Not a cloud in sight
The bluest blue
The wind whizzes by
Flying high are the birds
A clump of dust
And a single, shredded plastic bag
Flying above the birds whom seem intrigued
What could that be? Above us and flying with such maneuverability
Astonished left the birds not knowing
The bag is stuck in a vortex
The wind it catches between the high and low pressures seem to be causing the already ruptured bag more tear
The bag is flying nonetheless
Higher than the birds
Catching waves of the wind
A child looks up from the ground and laughs
Mom! Look, look! That’s a bag, like a kite flying above the birds
The mother looks up smiles
Honey! That’s just a garbage bag
The child snickers, but mom, it is above us all and it looks like it is dancing
The wind whisks away the bag to a far off place
Where it gets caught on a barbwire fence of a maximum security prison
A wrongly convicted inmate, imprisoned unjustly seemingly lost all hope, looks outside and finds the bag being stuck, shredded and the wind grinding it onto the thorny fence and bag adapts, wiggles and catches the same wind that was forcing it to be shred, took flight again
The man chuckles and looks back down at his note, crumbles it, and lays on his bunk bed, invigorated by the sight of the fighting bag
いいですか？
Excuse me?
日本語を話せますか？
No
ああそうか
Sorry!
大丈夫です
Thanks
في بعض الأحيان تعلق كلمة في عقلك، ولعلك لا تدري لماذا هذه الكلمة بالأخص، ولكنها تتربص بك في كل مرصد، تأتيك من كل النواحي وفي كل موضع تجد لها معنا أعمق من سابقه.
وفي بعض الأحيان يمكن تكون على مشارف سكته دماغية والكلمة التي تتصدر كل الكلامات لا معنى لها سوى في موضعها ولكنها اخذت مكان قدرتك على توصيل ما بخاطرك.
انا من الصنف الثاني
والكلمة (أولان باتور) Ulaanbaatar بالإنجليزية
وهي عاصمة منغوليا
لا ادري ما الذي يجعل هذه الكلمة اول الكلمات التي تتربع على كرسي التواصل الفكري ولكني اكتمها، لأنني اذا لفظتها، الفظها كالمحارب الذي يدافع عن بلده بكل قواه.
Ulaanbaatar!
Listening…
I do not hear it!
It should not be hard to hear it
I am not hearing it
Wait a little then and focus
Are you telling me how to do my job?
Yes, yes I am, it is in my job description
Alright, I was just checking, should I trying listening again?
Yes!
Listening…
Something is wrong I tell you, I do not hear anything!
Wait! Maybe you are listening to the wrong thing?!
Then what should I do?
I will inform the commander
Commander there seems to be a problem, the listener is not hearing what the listener is supposed to be hearing
There I have inform the commander of the issue listener
Now what do we do interpreter?
Interpreter? Is that what you think I am? A mere interpreter?
That is what I have it saying on my bus
Which bus is that you are on again?
The last one!
You should not be on the last one
Why?
Because that is not where you are supposed to be!
Where am I suppose…
BSOD
Blue Screen Of Death
Typing an ineffable paragraph aimed at coercing an unmitigated reaction.
An Email with a particular recipient, subject unknown, no carbon copy nor a blind carbon copy to be set.
Whilst the words weave and untangled coherently and tangentially manifests incoherently, the meat and bones of the piece is not completely lost, but the one writing it seems to be.
الكَلِم الكَلِيل 