(no subject)

I've not had any inspiration in a while, but I've written a few things down while on the train.

For some reason though, I can't bring myself to edit them, or to even write them up as they are now. It's as if a part of me can't take the closure that doing this would bring. Like maybe I would have to face the fact that I don't have anything that I'm "working on" at the moment.

I graduated today.

I don't feel any different for having graduated, but something inside me tells me that I won't be writing as much. I've done the most writing while I was at uni, and until now, I put it down to coincidence. But after having been away from university and the constant feeding of my creativity, I can safely say that I just don't write as much. I've written next to nothing.

I guess deep down, I'm afraid.
  • Current Music
    Portishead - Wandering Star

(no subject)

"I imagine you're confused and don't know what to do."

I nod. "Exactly."

"You don't know if she shares the same strong, pure feelings you have for her," Oshima says.

I shake my head. "It hurts to think about it."

Oshima's silent for a time as he gazes at the forest, eyes narrowed. Birds are flitting from one branch to the next. His hands are clasped behind his head. "I know how you feel," he finally says. "But this is something you have to work out on your own. Nobody can help you. That's what love's all about, Kafka. You're the one having those wonderful feelings, but you have to go it alone as you wander through the dark. Your mind and body have to bear it all. All by yourself."

-- Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami.

untitled 051

I don’t know where my shadow slept last night,
across whose floor it crept,
upon whose chest it laid its head to rest.

All I know is it never spoke again,
lost all its dreams once it awoke,
forgot all it was taught once it was caught.

The Lighthouse

The lighthouse sits so that from afar,
it appears to float into the sea,
where the ominous callings of ships
seem to melt into the salt spray.

And I sit,
close enough to hear the secret sounds,
but with distance growing behind my eyes.

Upon my rocking chair,
I can feel the surge of waves
and taste the night waning beneath the clock's hands,
as the low golden light
flickers before settling
upon your sleeping form.


The lamb that the monster raised have all grown
to show that their fangs are much longer, much sharper
than those of the wolves that infiltrated their ranks.
They gnash and bite and bleed, tearing at their own flesh
and forgetting those silly and outdated decrees
that were passed down from generation to generation,
in symbols and thick magazines with funny names;
forgetting those words that they wear proudly branded
upon their wrists and upon the scruffs of their necks;
forgetting those promises made to all of the nameless shepherds
who have all gone now anyway...
... and yet the monster remains silent.

... and close.

He swims across the river everyday,
diving in headfirst
and letting the cold rush over him,
awakening his senses and making him alive.

He swims hand over hand,
past jagged rocks and around the other boys,
and he is only disappointed
when he reaches the other side.

He swims in the river everyday,
cautiously wondering
just how deep it really is,
aware that the cold is numbing him,
numbing his senses,
killing him slowly.

He swims, looking for the best spots,
so that he won’t hit any more rocks,
secretly jealous of the others
who have claimed the best spots,
wishing silently for the river to end.

He swims in the river no more;
he knows what the waters hide,
the secret dangers he learned firsthand.
The river would just chill him to his frail bones
and carry him off against his will;
and he’s not quite ready to go yet.

He walks along the river bank,
wistfully watching the sun skip across the water,
he knows better;
every now and then,
he’ll dip his toes into the river,
wishing it was still the same,
dying to regret it all,
all over again.

untitled 050

Your heart and mine share a common ache,
accelerating together with no brakes.
The windows are down so we can see how the rain feels,
my head’s spinning, round and round with the wheels.
Your hand in mine, we share a common touch,
interlocking together with not so much
as a second thought, a second chance
to do this right with one last dance.


I met a papier-mâché Mephistopheles
one cold night last year.
He had two cloven hooves made useless
by a book of matches;
I had smoke rings circling my head,
like the satellite halo around this planet.

I could never break free from you,
cause my hands refuse to let go of yours.
I could never break free from you,
cause my hands are nailed to yours.

But I’m just a cloud of moths --
taught of the burning light each and every night.
I’m just the horizon --
no longer able to lift the sun solely with my might.

And I have never loved like this before,
with my soul dripping from my gifts.
I have never loved like this before,
swimming through lies and fire.

And I could never break free from you,
cause my hands refuse to let go of yours.
I could never break free from you,
cause my hands are nailed to yours.
I could never break free from you,
I could never break free from you
no matter how hard I try.