Wednesday, February 27, 2013


There was chaos in the city.
There is chaos in my head.
It's three in the morning.
Shouldn't there be some sort of comfort in this bed?

There was chaos in the city.
There is chaos in my head.
I looked it up on the internet;
you're either 'mad' or 'dead'.

There are people squirming at the current circus freak,
like a bird, singing, without its beak.
And there are wolves wearing wool that would make Vuitton jealous,
somehow mistaking fulfillment for acting overzealous.

And then there are the construction workers,
building a mountain out of a mole-hill,
singing "I hate this, I do, but I can't",
so instead they just pop another pill.

Because they live in a world where gossip is knowledge,
and knowledge is a bargaining chip,
on which they chew, digest, excrete,
and then slip.

Yes, there was chaos in the city.
But there was never chaos in my head.
It's four in the morning.
I think I'll just go to bed.

Life Unplugged | Chaos by Leanne Grech

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

This is for You

Yes, I'm writing this for you and only you, because today I don't care about anyone else but you. You might not realise that it is you at first, but you will, eventually. And when you do, you're going to smile that oh,-here-we-go-again smile that I despise so much, and you're also probably going to want to stop reading this. But you won't, because you and I both know that me writing this, today, means something. And while I know that words don't mean anything to you, they mean everything to me. So please excuse me while I continue writing.

Actually, I think I'd rather start again. Because if I do, and apparently I'm going to, I would tell you that I get it. I get it. You think that I don't, but I do. Of course I do. How could I not? You're not the only one who's scared of breaking down a six-foot concrete wall by yourself. Believe me, you're not. What makes this different than most of the other walls out there, however, is that you've got someone who's willing to help you break it. Or at least, if not break it, turn it into edible jelly, one that could (and would) also be consumed by queen bees throughout most of their lives. So there's that.

I would also tell you that it's going to be all right. That this, whatever this turns out to be in the long run, is only temporary. I would like to tell you that, but I don't think I ought to. Not because I don't believe it, because I do. It's just that holding on to hope can be extremely exhausting, especially when the line between temporary and permanent starts to fade into nothingness as time waltzes by. Still, if you wanted to, you could always try repainting over the faded line using the cheap colour palette you bought for Christmas the year before last. It may not bring you directly to the pot of gold, but it's a start. And that's what I think you need; a fresh start, a clean slate.

So go ahead, create one. Take down that six-foot eyesore. Kill every demon that has ever contributed to it coming up in the first place. And when that's done, go out there and start living. Life is hard, and it's complicated. I know that. You know that. Psychologists know that. Regardless, it's also very fulfilling if you know how to do it right.

Now, before I end this, I want you to read and understand very carefully what I am about to say next, once and for all. This is your life. Yours. Not mine. Not theirs. Yours. If you're not happy with it, change it. Not tomorrow. Not today. Now. Before the bees realise that they are getting high off of the jelly that once encompassed your wall. Before the colour palette (the one you bought for Christmas the year before last) reaches its expiration date. Because yes, contrary to what you and everyone else might think, it has one, just like pretty much everything else in life.

If you need me, I'll be here.

Thursday, February 14, 2013


This right here is the story of a star who defied the laws of astrophysics in an attempt to make her dream come true. It is a story that happened one hundred years ago, on a night so dark it seemed as if the void had swallowed every street light whole. Predictably, because that is usually the case with dark night fiction, this story starts on a sour note. Thing is, the star in question was dying, and she was sad. She wasn't sad because she was dying. Well, that too. She was sad because she realised that her dream, the one she'd had ever since those swirling clouds of dust and gas collapsed, was slowly dying too. She had been trying really hard to come to terms with the reality of the situation, but what ifs have a way of resurfacing at the most inappropriate of times, like this one.

Neighbouring stars didn't quite understand what the distress was all about. Being a star was relatively uncomplicated. You're born, you sparkle until you can sparkle no more, and then you die. Anything else in between can only complicate the journey. Still, they respected her and her wish too much not to do something about it. The only problem was that the only celestial body capable of fulfilling the dying star's wish was the moon. Now you see, the moon is a proud entity. They found him orbiting the Earth with a margarita in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other, clearly emanating the message that he wasn't too keen on striking up a conversation. Regardless, when they explained their reason for being there, which was followed by a lot of nagging and pleas, he had a change of heart (which is pretty ironic considering the moon is usually heartless). Now, what happened next is a bit of a stretch, because if it really did happen the way it did, that would mean that the Earth was moonless for a couple of minutes that day. But here goes.

So apparently, it is said that the moon set his pride aside that night; he stopped sipping on his cocktail, he stopped puffing on his cigar, and he stopped orbiting our planet. Instead, he paid a visit to the dim, dying star whom he found clinging, desperately, to that last shred of hope. "I hear you're in need of some moon magic", he said with a tone of someone who had been saying that same phrase for a really long time. "You've been an impeccable star throughout all of these years, so honestly, your wish is my command. Besides, I believe it's time to show the universe that dreams really do come true".

It was obvious, from the way he said that, that he was completely oblivious to the effect his words and close proximity had on her. But when he saw small spheres of plasma (the equivalent of human tears) streaming down her whole body, when he heard her mumble incomprehensible words under her breath because she didn't have any more strength to speak up, he understood. He understood that this is where he was supposed to be that night. He understood that something incredibly beautiful was about to happen right there and then. Most importantly though, he understood that some stars are not meant to be rooted. Some stars are not meant to be stationary. Because some stars have dreams that are bigger than all the laws of the universe combined together. And then some.

* * * * *

One hundred years later, on a moonless night...

"Look, look, mum! It's a shooting star! It's a shooting star! Quick, quick, close your eyes, make a wish!" His mum, not wanting to disappoint her four-year-old boy, closed her eyes, pretending to make a wish. And then she smiled, softly. She got down on both knees and she hugged him really tight to her chest. "Turns out the moon was right", she then whispered in his ears. "Dreams really do come true."