Friday, December 23, 2011

Two Years Later

Somehow, it feels like a lifetime ago, a different home, a different life, a different me. Two years ago, give or take a couple of days, take, ten to be exact, Life Unplugged breathed its very first words. Come to think of it, a lot has changed since then, but in a way, in a very good way, a lot has remained the same. True, circumstances change, people grow, they move away, maybe motivated by this sudden urge to make a life of their own, or maybe because they had to get out of the shiny bubble they had been living in all along. But whatever it is, whatever the situation, deep down, our hopes and dreams remain pretty constant, independent of the distance ripping you away from reality.

But "pretty" is not necessarily "entirely", and as fascinating as it is to me, our dreams seem to change every year. Or at least mine do. Actually, you could be living one right now but you wouldn't even know it because you're too busy being busy, chasing one after the other, faster and faster, again and again, until eventually you'd have to stop. Stop. Think. Breathe.

If I learned anything this year, it's that happiness doesn't have to be chased, especially if happiness has been sitting right next to you this whole time, holding your hand, giving you every reason to just be. Happiness is a broken umbrella in the rain, the chance encounter in the library, the last page of a sad but beautiful book, the little girl on the train waving you goodbye, the purchase of mini Christmas decorations, the thought of a memory, the wait for the snow that never falls. Happiness is. It just is. You don't have to chase it. If it's not there, it will come to you, and if it's there, don't chase it, but then again, don't forget to look for it.

Oh, and if the predictions are true, if the world really is going to end on December 21 2012, if Life Unplugged doesn't get to celebrate its third year anniversary, then so be it. But you have to promise me one thing, you have to promise me that, starting today, you're going to look for it. It's there..

Just Look For It.

(Happy New Year)

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Through The Clouds, Part Two

They asked me questions, questions I knew most of the answers to, like an invigilated exam I didn't know I was supposed to take. They wanted to know what I'm doing with my life (humour not being their strongest suit), if I met someone special, if I'm happy. Yes. That much, I knew.

As requested, I completed (and passed) the first round of multiple choice questions. I then drifted on to the second and last section, the essay, the million dollar question, the question I knew I was never going to get right. Are you ever coming back?

I heard words coming out of my mouth. For all I know, they could have been short bouts of silence. Yes. Wrong. No. Wrong. Try, try again. Maybe?

Yes, they asked me questions. And now, looking out through the foggy window (goodbye beautiful sunshine), half asleep, already missing the three people who mean everything to me, now, as the plane lands in London, I find myself thinking about what I said, what I should have said, and what I would have said had I known the answer to the question.

Through The Clouds, Part One

There are a lot of things I have never done on a plane. Going into the specifics of what I have in mind is probably not such a great idea. For instance, because I know the curious bunch, will be, well, curious, I have never written a blog post. And so, today, on this three hour flight from London Gatwick to Malta, instigated by the lack of better ideas, I find myself writing.

The truth is, there is something comfortably thrilling about being airborne, eleven thousand two hundred and seventy seven metres above ground to be exact. Piercing through the white, soft, cushiony clouds is rather extraordinary if you ask me. It makes you want to embrace the emergency exit signs, all the while having the very intelligent very strategic "I have to go. Peter Pan is waiting." excuse ready up your sleeve.

But no, being interrupted by a bald headed steward giving you an undecipherable lunch that almost resembles prison food, is good too, especially when accompanied by the loud thoughts of a local middle aged woman who seems to be overenthusiastic about the fact that she can digest processed food even at this altitude. Unfortunately, Peter Pan is going to have to wait.

Yes, going back home, whether it's planned, or whether it's unexpected, like today, is always emotional. A difference as big as the Mediterranean Sea, separates the act of doing something because you want to as opposed to doing something because you feel the need to. Sometimes, there's a fine line. In this case, there isn't.

But now, as the plane approaches it's final destination, as the mixed emotions start to escalate (maybe accelerated by this sudden urge to use the loo), and just as the first track off the third consecutive album plays through the newly purchased headphones, reality sets in. Breathe.

This time, it's not about you. This time, it's about them.

(written on Thursday, December 01, 2011)

Monday, November 21, 2011

Right Here

She waits, and as soon as the stillness suffocates the noise, she sits and she wonders. Then, she opens up on why she does the things she does, or why she doesn't. There has never been a better time to be alive, never a better minute, a better hour. It's all right here, exactly where they said it would be, dispersed amongst the personalised letters in the letterbox, the still sobbing socks in the washing machine, and the fast but long queue at the grocery store.

It's about the mysterious reappearance of happiness strengthened by an inner sense of peace, the sun after the rain without the sun and without the rain, the locked diary of the teenage girl who writes about fulfilling dreams she never even thought she had. It's about the mind blowing parallel dimension of freedom rationalised by the "this is where you're supposed to be" kind of loneliness.

Mostly, it's about wanting what you never thought you did, the pull and the push, and the justified force in between.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

The Missing Sock

The over fifteen pairs of socks, all colourful, all spotted and striped, are in the washing machine, floating around in a frenzy of perfumed bubbles. This social gathering of cheap feet warmers happens once every week, and you could tell by their inbuilt excitement, that they look forward to it. If they had a mouth, they would probably thank you. If they had hands, they would probably give you the finger. Not that finger, the thumb finger, of course.

Over thirty minutes and a tumble dry later, everybody's happy and everybody's clean. There were no unannounced neighbours calling the police because it was too noisy, no strange remarks from the boring pale underwear who happened to be jogging nearby. Most importantly, there were no unnecessary casualties cutting the party short. It was truly a heart warming sight to witness.

But the story doesn't stop here. Because happiness, too tired of sticking around, decided to go its own way. The now folded socks stopped smiling. The drawer, saddened by the night's turn of events, starts sobbing. It's a pity really, because what was once a loving atmosphere, is now nothing but a heartbroken scene.

Then days go by and you start to forget about it. But sometimes, somewhere deep in the corners of your mind, corners so detached from reality nobody ever dared go there, you find yourself wondering.

Will he ever find you? Will you ever find him?

Oh shit I'm sorry. It. I mean "it".

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

The Underground Rush

For a hopeful hopeless romantic, emotions shouldn't be much of a problem. For someone whose idea of fun includes sitting in the park watching people and squirrels walk idly by, emotions shouldn't be rare or random. Instead, one would expect them to always be there, an added bonus awarded during the valid life choice annual ceremony, while the silent skeptics, thinking they're far better off, mock the dream out of you. But, truth be told, whether it's because skepticism gets the best of you too, or whether it's because it starts to get old, emotions disappear, just like the rabbit who once lived in a hat and now doesn't.

But then, in an almost magical moment, hundred feet below the surface, the rabbit is pulled out of the hat, emotions reappear, dreams are unmocked, and hope, to every other skeptic's surprise, is renewed.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Sporadic Seconds

The unknown familiarity accompanying these countless moments may very well define a person. The crude definitions, alphabetically categorised, are very often based on the clothes worn, the people befriended, and the vocabulary spoken. Because shallowness makes it easier to look, judge, dismiss, and move on. It's easier to ignore and pretend than it is to care. But shallowness is for shallow people, cowards who are afraid to swim in the deep, especially if the water is cold, and the territory is uncharted.

Not that it justifies anything, but the independent life, if you lean too much into it, has the ability to change you. It disguises itself like a little boy on Halloween sniping from behind a tree. Somehow, you start losing sight of who you are and where you came from. But then, sometimes, somewhere in between the accidental overdoses on freedom, you catch a hazy glimpse in the mirror. Because even though distanced from the beautiful smile on the temporary wall, you still find yourself carpeted by warmth, and against all odds, that's the only thing that keeps you going.

That, and the sporadic seconds of tingly happiness.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Strangers With Faces

Moving on isn't always easy. Vacuuming a lifetime of memories into two unequally sized bags, sleeping through an early morning flight, and settling into an apartment you now call home, isn't always as casual as movies make it out to be. There is no soundtrack playing in the background, no slow motion effect to emphasise the drama of it all, no last minute delays prompted by the knight in shining armour asking you to stay (not that you would anyway). It is what it is. And what it really is is a short abstract describing how ends justify the means.

Because then, you start meeting people. Beautiful, beautiful people. The black baby in the stroller, the blonde boy sleeping on his father's chest, the ginger haired man wearing a suit reading the daily newspaper. They come in all colours, forms, and sizes. And there are so many of them. Yet they all share one thing in common. They are strangers with faces. They don't know you. You don't know them. They smile and you smile back. They get on and you get off. And that's pretty much the end of the relationship.

Some, however, engage in small talk, which is perfect for someone who is not so keen on having very long conversations. But it's not enough. It never is. That sparkle in her eyes, that naive cuteness in his smile, the way in which she sits, he stands, or reads, they're not enough to define a person. They might be a good indication, but they're not enough. Because in the end, words are the ultimate key to the soul.

Indeed, when you do get around to having a decent sized conversation with one, or two, of them, the stranger with the face becomes an individual, a person, a man or a woman with a family, a history, a life. The stranger becomes your classmate, your flatmate, and eventually, maybe even your friend.

The stranger could very well become your knight in shining armour with an expensive hand watch accurately set to the Big Ben.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Clean Slates

The concept behind a clean slate is rather simple. For instance, the metamorphic rock doesn't necessarily have to be shiny and sparkling to start with. Some stains are permanent, and it doesn't really matter how many hours you spend on your knees, with a bucket of water by your side and a scrub brush in your hand, because in the end, even though you manage to visibly hide them, deep down you know they're still there. You know you're not fooling anybody, except maybe yourself. And that, truth be told, is not such a bad thing. It keeps you grounded. Maybe even hopeful.

When you're born, when you're still curious to the colourful halo singing lullabies that's surrounding your head, decisions are made for you. You are given a name, regardless of whether you like it or not. You are forced to suckle this white liquid, which you later learn is called milk, out of this weirdly shaped balloon, even though, if it were up to you, you would refuse to have anything to do with it. Simply put, you are imprisoned in a cute little body and you have no say in what happens to it whatsoever. The slate is tainted by people other than yourself.

But then, as you grow older, you assume full responsibility. The downfalls, the mistakes, the victories, they're all up to you. Every experience you have ever lived through, good or bad, has made you who you are. And yes, you can clean the slate and start fresh (or almost), but the stains are still going to be there, as a reminder of who you were and where you came from. So what you can do, instead of cleaning your old slate Cinderella style, is get a new one. The purchase is expensive and non-refundable, and it cannot be exchanged under any circumstances.

The newly purchased slate, however, is also pure and unstained.

Not to mention fake.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Organs In Constant Conflict

When the ventricle of a conflicted heart is misaligned and unsynchronised to the atrium, it's chaotic. It's a blood carnival without the war costume, a minor catastrophe of mixed emotions, a four storey building after a happy hurricane. But when the two most vital organs, inhabiting the body of a relatively serene organism, disagree, then you're screwed all over, and you have no other option but to listen very carefully to what they both have to say.

Because the brain and the heart, they have a mind of their own. They never agree on anything, and when they do, it's almost ridiculous. When one says "yes", the other says "no". When one whispers "do it", the other screams "please don't". It's an unrepeated case of it's not you, it's me. Like hell it isn't. It's a bloodbath battle of opposites. Black, White. Dark, Light. Edward, Jacob. Fear, Courage. Stay, Go. Shut up. Do yourself both a favour and just shut up. Please.

Because ultimately, what it all comes down to, is the almost compromise, a pair of red boxing gloves, and a final fight to settle the score. The winner is the last organ standing. And if it's a tie, then you should just forget it and go with your gut. Some decisions are already clear cut anyway. Or at least, they used to be.

Life is full of unknown uncertainties, but its immensity is constant. It's always there. Just like the conflicts between the brain and the heart, and the disagreements between the little angel and the little devil on your left and right shoulder. Truth be told, a lot of things in life are constant - the colour of your eyes, gravity, the speed of light, love. Yes, love is the ultimate constant. When everything else around it changes, it doesn't, it refuses to. It just stays still.

So it's decided, while my brain and my heart continue to beat the crap out of each other, love will be my go-to constant. Because no matter where I am or what I'm doing, I know I will love you forever.

Because you are my constant.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Closer, Further Apart

Two syllables. One word. Good-bye. You can say it, prolong it, or even foreplay it, but what you absolutely cannot do, is avoid it. But let's say you do, let's say that in an attempt to be brave (or otherwise), you do try to avoid it, eventually, it's bound to come bite you in places you don't want to be bitten. Because the ironic truth is, there is nothing so good about the inevitable goodbye. Nothing. But then again, nothing is a strong indefinite pronoun. There must be something, anything, or else you wouldn't feel the need to say it, prolong it, or even foreplay it, in the first place.

And yes, something could be anything, whether it's boredom, death, freedom, suffocation, or simply the thought of a better life, if you are willing to cut down on the constant need to sabotage your own happiness that is. And if you really think about it, so hard your brain starts dancing rhythmically on its own, goodbye could easily mean the start of something new, the start of something more fulfilling. Now that goodbye is easy to confront.

The hardest goodbye, on the other hand, is the one you don't say to the blurry familiar silhouette still standing right next to you. The hardest goodbye, if you ask me, is the one currently left unspoken.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Candles, Jazz, Wine and Truths

Four flickering candles in a dark bedroom, swaying to the smooth rhythm of jazz. Lightheaded taste buds, bathing in a light dry red sea also known as wine. One blank page and an almost alcoholic brain ready to spill the beans. Or the grapes, in this case. Synapses loose, hands clean, glass empty. Here we go again.

But. Yes, there's always a but. Again and again can be pretty exhausting. Sometimes, not always, I run out of things to say; the ideal scenario for intimidation by uncomfortable silence. But (yes), the truth is, there is always something left to say, whether you bravely utter the words out loud, or you childishly play a long lost game of hide and seek. Peek-a-boo. And the little kid inside of you giggles.

It's like living vicariously through someone else's life, even though you feel quite content with your own. It's a rare case of buy one get one free, neglecting the purchase that has already been made. It's that pinch of salt you add to make it taste better, when what you really need is a boulder. It's the romantic notion distinguishing love and independence, notwithstanding the distance setting them apart. It's the meaningful late night conversations between your heart and your brain, when one is hopeful and the other one is almost drunk.

It's a lot of things really. Mostly, it's about a fragile site under construction not yet open to the sober curious crowd.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

The Aftertaste

the aftertaste in my mouth,
fleeting happiness as it goes south,
on a six-colour rainbow in the sky,
whispering hello, i love you. goodbye.

because the wait shouldn't be this long,
deeply penetrated by a crappy love song,
mocked by the bitter sweet irony of the wall,
it's coming. yes it's coming. no, not at all.

but i still see you, in the near future.
a needle and a thread. an invisible suture.
stitching up what was never really broken,
whispering, those three little words, left unspoken.

Thursday, July 7, 2011


I was uselessly dead. Again. Like a forgotten oasis in the middle of a desert. But then, somewhere in between the screaming happiness, somewhere underneath the blue starry night, accompanied by the gentle sweetness of raw rock music, I woke up. Hello again beautiful world. Nice seeing you again.

And when the little boy in the train ran down the long corridor, away from his father, only to come walking back, I smiled. Because this right here has never been about leaving. It was always about leaving and going back again. And again. And yes, a three hour train is not really going to take me anywhere, but at least it's taking me somewhere. And the heavy backpack, like the tilted weight of the world on your shoulders, is a reminder. A post-it note telling you that the forthcoming journey may not be the easiest one yet, but then again nobody ever really got anywhere by staying in one place carrying a grocery bag.

So when this permanent shuffling of personal life and dea(d) starts scaring the shit out of you, take a breath, and make it deep. And when you don't know what day it is, just because a day becomes nothing more but a beautiful contemporary concept, take another breath, make it deep, and smile.

You're alive. Congratulations.

(Written on Monday, July 03, 2011 on the train from Rock Werchter to Amsterdam.)

Sunday, June 19, 2011

White Noise

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. So you struggle to keep your mouth shut. But the more you struggle, the faster you sink. Like quicksand, only slower. You abstain yourself from screaming your moderately screwed up thoughts out loud. Like a dead man buried alive, silently screaming to get out.

The white noise emanating from your future is anything but white. The source is known but the destination is uncertain. The mysterious buzzing sound in your ears, and the Bermuda Triangles in your brain, complement each other. They are not you. And you don't want to be them. But this back and forth flirting between reason and passion dictates otherwise. Maybe it's not about what you should do. Maybe, it's about what you have to do. The difference, as subtle as it may be, is silently life changing. You won't know unless you try it out for yourself.

And when you don't, when you go with the flow just because it's relatively easier that way, then shutting the fudge up (non-explicit version) is the only way forward. Yes, you have the right to remain silent. Because anything you say can and will be used against you in this funny little thing called life.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


the person you used to be
is long gone, and that is not me.

the stranger in the mirror staring back,
with all body parts sore, except for the neck,
has a heartache of happiness,
two Prozac-like pills,
a hat full of rabbits,
going up the hill.

that funny little feeling
of insanity  unwanted healing,
makes you want to stay,
instead you are leaving.

and the one way blindfolded fate,
well that, is called believing.

Friday, May 27, 2011


The pale seductive page staring back is mocking you. This is not the way it's supposed to be. It never was. It never will be. Time stands still as it moves on with its life. The wheel is spinning but the hamster is long gone. One word and an awkward space in between. It's been a long time coming. But it's not enough. It never is.

Because enough is a relative term. It's a qualitative quantity. What was enough before isn't enough now. And what is enough now will not be enough tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. It's an addictive inconvenience, one you would want to eliminate for your own good, yet one you keep falling for time and time again. Some would argue it's a healthy addiction, but the truth is, no addiction is that good.

And so you try to sober up. "Hi. My name is Me and I'm an addict." You try to make amends. You learn to appreciate the little things. You start to look at the world through nearsighted eyes wearing contact lenses. Beautiful. But then your eyes start to itch and the picture is blurred. This doesn't feel right anymore.

So you throw away your one week sobriety chip and you go back to your old ways. This is, after all, the only way you have ever really known. It's not perfect but it will do. And it may not always seem like it's enough, but that's exactly what makes it so pretty perfect.

That's exactly what being a dreamer is all about.

Not settling for good enough.

Monday, May 16, 2011

It's a bird! It's a plane!

Ten years is a long time to search for something. Dreams are forgotten, people change, rainbows wither. Then suddenly you find yourself having early morning conversations with your fourteen year old self, only to find out that some dreams stayed there all along, packed and parked in the exact same place you left them. Because sometimes, you don't have to let go of the past to move on. Sometimes, it's better to risk everything than to hold on to nothing, especially when nothing is everything and you have everything to lose.

And the truth is, you don't need to hold onto somebody if they're already in your heart. They will always be there to help you leap tall buildings in a single bound. Because when you believe in someone, it's not for a minute, or just for now. It's forever. And forever, just like ten years, is a pretty long time to search for something, especially when that something is nothing, and nothing is everything, and you have everything to lose.

Epilogue. Just like the boy who grew up in the fields of Kansas in a little town called Smallville. The same boy who turned into the Man of Steel ten years later. He put on a blue, red and yellow costume, complete with a cape, and he defied gravity. And now he's flying high up in the sky.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

No.. it's..


But it could also be you.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

The Frozen Nun

The smile she plasters on her face is almost unrecognisable. Her eyes, staring at the silly silhouette, frozen. Not brain dead frozen. Frozen standing still with potential thawing as the only sane alternative. Because doing nothing and expecting a different result, or any result at all for that matter, is pretty moronic, not to mention naive. Ignoring all the blinding neon signs is one thing, but choosing not to act on them is another.

And the truth is, everybody lies, but you, lying to yourself, is as big a sin as a nun french kissing a priest. Risky and thrilling at first, followed by annoying awkwardness, confusion, and a recurring feeling of apathy and numbness. And oh, God forbid, loneliness, disguised in black and white, escaping a sacred comfortable convent just because it's not fulfilling anymore.

Because the sky is not always the limit and roses are not always red. The expected can become the unexpected, the known the unknown. And in the middle of all this shuffling, in a playlist of forgotten emotions, you might find yourself remembering.

Vaguely. Remembering what it would feel like not to be frozen anymore.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


one year ago in a faraway land,
i watched you go, squeezing my hand.
my heart was crying, so were my eyes,
as time was turning, anti-clock-wise.

rolling back you forced a smile,
making life changes all the more worthwhile.

-three hundred and sixty five days later-

the sound of my voice you honestly heard.
the squeak. the whisper. the little tiny bird.
a whole new world simulating a newborn.
a past so cruel. gone. vanished. torn.

that adorable smile as your eyes sparkle,
makes me want to believe. instead i marvel.
that bionic bravery of yours inspires my mind.
you're the muse i was desperately trying to find.

the five different types of laughter amuse me.
you're the long lost light of my life, my lovely.
somewhere along the way you became my best friend,
the only real beginning to my long lost loose end.

and as i try to scribble this raw rhyming verse,
staying true to myself, without making it worse,
i think of all the things we've been through together,
survival of the fittest in good and bad weather.

so before words stop rhyming as i reminisce,
and before this is over, i want you to know this..
you mean the world to me, sis.

oh, and one last thing, how about that kiss?

Thursday, April 14, 2011

The Thing Is

I asked, you didn't reply,
so I left without a goodbye.
I do that sometimes,
in my head, to straighten the lines,
to clear the grey in my blue blue skies,
but with you, I'm through being nice.
I see you, napping on a bad bed of lies.
Mock me and I'll mock you twice.
Listen and I'll whisper in your ear,
out of respect, not out of fear,
I want you gone, but I want you near,
and the truth is, you're a coward, my dear.
Because the thing is..
I asked and you still didn't reply. (I'm leaving.)
And this is my goodbye.

Monday, April 11, 2011


The sewing needle that is teasing, but barely touching, the self inflated balloon of doubt is nothing but a tempting temptation, one we can all do without. Once the balloon bursts, there's no turning back. And the loud piercing sound that comes out resonates a wake up call, a trickling hourglass about to be broken. Because in the end a decision is relatively permanent. It's unavoidable, undeniable, and without a doubt, dodgingly doubtful.

Looking for answers where there are none is like looking for a rainbow on a dry, sunny, spring day. Beautiful at first, tiring as the night comes. Finding yourself stuck asking the already answered questions is like finding a stranded water bottle right beside a desert oasis. Useful at first, and then it's just insane.

Insanity depicted by restricted freedom. The middle metal ball in a Newton's cradle. A seesaw of equally heavy luggages. A tug of war of doubts. Followed by an uneven flow of oxygenated blood through the left ventricle of your heart.

Waiting for the flow to even out.

But what if it doesn't?
And what if it does?

Saturday, March 26, 2011

The Silent Scream

a heart doesn't have to be broken to be fixed.
feelings don't have to be shuffled to be mixed.
sometimes you just have to let go of what you never really had,
even when tears start to ooze out and you want it really bad.

but the sweetness in his emerald eyes overthrew you,
and you talked all night long like he already knew you,
but that was now and this is then, a sad surreal omen.
because in the end, a dream is just a dream.

just like that heavy hopeful heart and its ridiculous silent scream.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


Those yellow wings, rapidly flapping to the violin strings of freedom, teased me. My days were numbered and I think he knew. He didn't ask, I said nothing, but he knew. And as his body brushed against the fast moving window, judging me because he had to, I smiled. And for the first time in a very long time, I meant it.

Because definitions are overrated. A carefully constructed sentence written in such a way so as to sound perfectly beautiful ends up being very unemotional. I know because I have been failing time and time again. Because words, powerful as they may be, pale in comparison to what you feel on the inside. Finding the heartfelt poetic phrases to describe that funny little feeling of lightheaded happiness remains understandably unreal. Much like the happily ever after of a prince and a princess after he clumsily climbs her generous golden hair. Because as much as I want to, sometimes you just can't.

Sometimes, and simply because it was meant to be this way, that rapidly flapping feeling inside your heart is the only definition worth embracing. The butterfly in your barefoot body asking you to live a little is hanging by a thread. Ignore it and it breaks.

Because the truth is, the consequence may be permanent, but the damage, well, that's only temporary.

If you ever get tired of the weak wingless butterfly inside of you,
remember the yellow wings of freedom you never really knew.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Foreign Emotions

this side of me you didn't know,
we waited too long for the flower to grow,
and now it's dead, and i'm still here,
soothing the empty with each tear.

the days we had were many,
the love we never really shared, uncanny,
i sometimes wish we had a tomorrow,
or a time machine we could steal or borrow.

but life's unpredictable, i know that now.
the trick is in living without knowing how.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The Smile

Two lips alienated from each other. One Cupid's bow perpendicularly aligned to perfect taintless teeth. He smiles, and her heart, dancing to the sound of a slightly skipped beat, smiles with him. The room, darker than the night surrounding them, lights up. The six candles flicker. The world as she knew it, gone.

Oblivious to the spinning scenery around them, the back-and-forth smiling ritual continues. He slowly approaches. Her feet glued to the earthquake beneath her. Words do not even matter at this point. In this case, and only because this is an exception, words are merely an accessory. One we can all do without.

What happens next is open to the imagination, biased and prone to the typical fairytale disaster. The smiling prince is dead, and the smiling princess is, well, screwed. The end.

And if you were looking for an alternative ending, one without any pathetic pitfalls, too bad. That indestructible ship sailed and sunk a long time ago. And unlike popular belief, people did not survive.

In the meantime, the (fake) smiling ritual contracts are renewed. Signing off on those which aren't ( ), is the new Titanic of the century.

Good luck.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Coming Soon

it's not easy, knowing what you want
dreaming of a place where you belong
a heart stuck playing the same old song
inhaling the right amount of wrong

a starry sight without a moon
a pretty princess before the clock strikes noon
a dirty doll in the middle of a devastating monsoon
a blinding neon sign advertising happiness

it's coming,
it's coming soon.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Twenty-One Questions

Have you ever wondered what life would be like if we had all the answers to its questions? If there really is a life after death, does it mean that we are dead now? Out of the 6,901,407,402 souls in the world, how do you find your other half? What is love? Do you even believe in love anymore?

Why do we lose our innocence when we grow up? If you could go back in time and tell yourself one thing, what would it be? Why is happiness a temporary feeling? What makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter? Do you believe in magic?

Is your life everything you dreamed it would be? What is the difference between dreams and reality? Why do we cry when we're sad? Do you believe in life on other planets? Do you ever think that maybe a star is a soul?

Would you live in a world without colour? If your brain mumbles, does that make you insane? Is beauty overrated? Do you think there is such a thing as a fortunate accident?

Who are you?

What happens next?

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

The Babushka Doll

sometimes, when what you feel is not enough,
when the getting there is irresponsibly tough,
and the truth being called is your own bluff,
fake, like a dead diamond in the rough,

stand still and wait for the other head to drop,
hover, linger, but don't aim for the bad cop,
reveal the lovely little doll on tippity top,
and watch her burn,
like hydrogen,
with a pop.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

The Tree Branch

when the voices in your head stop making sense,
and the only thing you have ever known becomes intense,
forcing you to question every decision you are about to make,
whether it will cure you or cause your heart to irrevocably ache,

think about the teenage boy who just lost his mother,
all alone. no hope, no love, no sister, and no brother,
think about the benign tumour that is still undeniably there,
deafened by the little girl's futile cries of "life's not fair",

think about all the words you could have said but didn't,
because you naively thought they could be overridden,
think about the happy dreams that did come true,
instead of those you persistently chose to screw,

and when you've thought enough..

take a good look in the mirror.. what do you see?
a silhouette consumed with fear, afraid of the now and here?
or do you see the person you always wanted to be?

..maybe barking up the wrong branch of the right tree?

Monday, January 24, 2011

Alternate Reality

The hammock beneath her moaned with pleasure as she rubbed her back against his woven fabric. With a hand-rolled cigarette in one hand and an erotic romance novel in the other, she reached an unexpected climax. The kind that awakens your soul, flushes your cheeks, and lubricates your emotions without expecting anything in return. The kind that leaves you breathless without the lack of oxygen.

And as the last rays of sunshine caress her lower lip, his hand gently touching hers, lustful, just like the sand between her toes, she smiles. A smile more vibrant than the eight colours of the rainbow, more carefree than the smoothest waterfall. This was her almost perfect dream, unblemished by reality. Untarnished, unlike the sand castle along the coast.

Two hours and an alternative universe later, the hypothetical separate reality sets in. The hammock has been replaced by a black office chair, the sunshine by a modern version of the incandescent light bulb.

And the only thing that makes this last scene moderately better is knowing that somewhere out there, somewhere beyond this universe, there's a replica of you, a saner imitation of you, living your life.. only better.

Much much better, I hope.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Achilles' Heel

Life is beautiful but it's complicated. So far, so good. Dissecting it into a thousand million pieces is rather useless. Much like the till late convenience store which closes at ten, or the lane changing indicators in an empty street. Living it, without a care in the world, is usually the best way to go around it. Vanquishing your Achilles' heel, the second best.

But sometimes, when you get stuck in a parallel universe, when what you feel and what you think are on a totally different wavelength, and the only sane thing left for you to do is to follow your heart, even if it means breaking others (not to mention your own), be sure to ask whether the death of the mythical creature would be worth all the trouble. In layman's terms, ask yourself if you are willing to screw Achilles and his worthless wounded heel. One thing you should probably know is that you're probably better off anyway.

If, however, his heel heals, and the wavelengths start to re-align, then that would be the beginning of a whole new story. The story of dreams fulfilled without a foursome of broken hearts.

When that happens, wake me up.