These Hands

These hands, that are very
Much like your hands are
Folded like neat sheets of
That paisley wallpaper that
Reminds you of your
Grandparent’s house and
They are kept tucked in
Beneath teak and moss to
Cover their woody veins and
These hands, that are very
Much like your hands are
Terrified that someday, soon, you
Will know that they are calling and
These hands shrug off their
Doubt and try to erase their
Lines because they are
Afraid that they already know a little
Too much.


Storied Lives

Stories grow up faster than
People, sometimes, and its not
Uncommon that the fairy-tale you
Read when you were seven will
Someday become a commentary on
Loss and longing, and this can be
Frightening and cruel in equal
Portions, because who knew that
The confines of a book could store
Enough life to evolve through
Epochs and eras foretold?


The Sorrows of Alchemy

My father was an alchemist.

My father was an alchemist and I
Spent my childhood on the
Cornerstones of creation and
Combination, and I learnt that
The far can be as near as I
Want it to be.

My father was an alchemist and I
Spent my teenage years with a
Locket made of silver and
Platinum and half-formed
Dreams that were too impure to
Turn into diadems.

My father was an alchemist and I
Spent my adulthood looking for
The elixir of life and longevity, only to
Lose my mind in an endless pool of
Metal and tarnished regret.

Paper Planes

Let the houses turn smaller and
Smaller, as you sit back in your seat and
Watch the roads and streets and narrow
Winding paths evolve into tangible
Motifs that look like emblems of a
Past blurred with the makings of a
Future, and let the sparse air welcome
You into the home of clouds and
Lightning, where mellow blues dance in
Short-lived trances of rain and thunder, and
As you watch the world in fleeting moments, let
Your eyes swim with the infinite parallax of
Movement, let your mind glide with instances
Waiting to happen, and let your journey
Transcend way past your ideas of home.

The Lies Life Tells You

All existence is not simply
Matter in motion, but instead,
A subtle cacophony of
Consonance and congruence,
Intersecting the lines of
Life and love and lament in
Repetitive patterns that make
Sense the minute they vanish, and
All existence is not simply
Matter in motion, but instead,
An everlasting cry into empty
Space, a cry that resonates in
Innocuous glances and quietude, and
All existence is not simply
Matter in motion, but instead,
It is the energy that ties us down and
Liberates us, seemingly all at once.

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The Lightness

(Part 3 of the Single Sentence Series)

When you leave your desk and bed unkempt and all your textbooks and receipts and post-its on the floor and walk out of your room and out of your house and through the gate to the sidewalk you will feel a lightness that cannot be described in similes or aphorisms or metaphors but simply a lightness that will take your thoughts and waft away with them through the cool evening breeze and as you walk around your house and the garden that you used to spend the sunny days of your childhood in you will look at the sky above the geometric abstractions of your existence and as the hues change from pale yellow to orange to dark crimson the people and houses and gardens around you will slowly illuminate in soft rhythms of consonance until the places and spaces around you will almost urge you to radiate in their presence but at this precise moment that you will check your watch and realise that you have errands to run and work to do and the lightness that inhabited you will sink under the boulders of your being.

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The House

(Part 2 of the Single Sentence Series)

You’ve been spending a lot more time in your room, lately, but for some strange reason it feels like your mind has been everywhere because each time you look at your orange walls you’re suddenly transported to arid deserts suffused with mysticism and desolation and each time your eyes wander to the polaroid pictures and postcards hung behind your bed you can visualise the scenes that took place like the day you went to the woods with your best friend and the day you finally learnt that its okay to outgrow people the same way you outgrow woollen jumpers and denim shorts and the time you spend in the confines of your four walls is in fact time spent in the endless corridors, balconies, and attics of your mind because no matter how much furniture or memorabilia you collect your consciousness is a house that has no limitations or boundaries.


The Mirror

(Part 1 of the Single Sentence Series)

When you stare at your face in the mirror long enough to forget the way your eyes gleam in the warm winter sun or the stories behind the scars on your left cheek you realise how much pain is a reminder of who you are that your survival in this world all depends on your conscious or unconscious attempts to avoid this pain that you embrace yet hold distant from you as if it were a filthy creature begging you to take it home with you and as you keep staring at your face you start seeing a different person in the mirror and let out a scream so loud that the windows in your room start vibrating in fear but surely and steadily you start getting used to the new person who greets you every morning through the looking glass and this new person looks at you like a long-lost friend who sat with you at lunch everyday in school like a friend who always knew what you were going to say next but there is something off-putting about this new person’s face that makes you want to shatter the mirror and never look into the glass again but at the same time it draws you in and soon you start memorising the creases of the new face that greets you every morning and night and you almost feel like you’re recreating yourself and losing your sanity in fragments of silver glass and when you stare at your face in the mirror long enough you never know what you might see staring back. 


Seawater and Salt

That instant when you’re walking on the
Sand, the sand that contains seashells and
Stones and sandcastles built by children with
Hearts and minds soaked in seawater and salt is

The same instant that you look at the horizon
In glances of fleeting amusement and worry, the
Horizon that keeps moving onward and onward into
Spirals of creation and ruthless destruction is

That instant when you feel the tide rising in the
Beats of your braggart heart, when you realise that
There are seven oceans worth of turbulence in your
Mind, and that the horizon keeps trying to
Meet you halfway, at sunset.


The Seven Seas

There is a strange and
Eerie line that divides the
Oceans, running deep into
Tides of stubbornness and
Soft waves of quiet longing, and
Instead of living on the bubbles of
The ebb and the flow, this line
Cuts through the water in a
Harsh furrow of light, leaving the
Seas incomplete in their own
Right, irking for parts of their
Own to fill up the imagined