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

The Final Destination

Sometimes the spaces between what we feel and think and what we say are too large to span any amount of quantifiable distance. Sometimes, we look for words for things that never even required them in the first place. Sometimes, quite often, we look for acceptance and love in the people that brush aside platitudes with dust and embers. We look for the things that will someday find us. We look for abstractness in microcosmic representations of reality. We look for inklings of life and hope in rootless trees and empty ponds. We spend days and weeks and our whole entire lives in a frantic search for something that will eventually lie at our doorsteps. We spend our moments capturing instead of feeling. We are always racing with life, trying to get past the days of ordinary existence, only to lie in the shadows. Life is not competing with us to reach a final destination. That final destination exists around us every single day. Go and experience it. Live it.

 Anna Pan

Anna Pan

Work in Progress

I am a work in progress.
My sentences don’t form in my head, just yet.
Instead, they form in mid-air while I’m trying too
Hard to find the right words to say, while time’s
Running up and I can’t quite articulate the way life makes me feel.

I am a work in progress.
I haven’t learnt the art of forgetfulness, just yet.
My arms and legs are covered in letters and digits,
Full of phone-numbers and names and obscure places that
I’m dead worried that I will forget.

I am a work in progress.
I am not entirely complete, just yet.
I am trying to find myself in places and people and
Song lyrics, and I am slowly beginning to realise that
Some works of art never really reach a defined end.



Maybe you aren’t living in the city you always thought you were living in. The trees you see outside your bay window aren’t made of leaves and branches and wood and sap, but instead, of all the times you asked your parents to build you a treehouse while you sat in your room, fantasising. Maybe all those questions and thoughts combined, over the years, and shifted from the realms of intangibility to tactile objects.

Maybe you aren’t living in the city you always thought you were living in. The buildings you see, while you walk down the streets, are measured not in feet or metres, but in hours and minutes and days of frustration, hard work, and panic. These buildings are not just buildings: they never were and they never will be.

Maybe you aren’t living in the city you always thought you were living in. Maybe its always hiding something from you. Maybe it shapes itself as you shape yourself. Maybe you will find your memories hanging like ornaments from the Christmas tree in the park, someday. Maybe you will find your deepest fears in the graffiti in an abandoned subway station. Maybe you live in your own world, and the city is just pure fabrication.tumblr_m7ljtyVoEj1r3ln1bo1_500


There’s a reason why we
Forget things so often, and
It’s because there’s some
Incidents and memories that
We can only imagine and
Recreate in our minds, either to
Shun away the pain, or
Magnify the joys, and sometimes,
Forgetting that woman’s name, (the
One whose house smelt of
Honeysuckle and vanilla), or
Misplacing parts of your mind can
Urge us to break the monotony of
Verbatim thought and precision, and
Can help make this rigid life just a
Little bit more fluid.


Kieran Brent

The Fall

I saw a photograph of a young man,

Jumping from the
Burning floors of the tower.

He was within the air’s reach, within the
Soft comfort of nothingness and
Artless ignorance, suspended between
Fire and the cold arms of death.

I saw a photograph of a young man,

Mourning in grief and breathing in the smoke of sadness.

And as I looked at severed families,

Infused with the anguish of brokenness and

Shaken with unadulterated fear, I realised that

The memories of terror don’t
Die with embers and ashes and
The remains of the fire.
The memories of a tragedy don’t

Dissolve in whimpers and tears

And hoarse cries for justice.

These memories live in the
Darkest corners of human consciousness, in
Manifestations of trepidation and apprehension.
They live in incomplete family photos on the
Mantlepiece and in wilting flowers on stone-cold graves.

These memories live in the minds of parents, who keep their
Children close until the wee hours of the night, until
The sky changes from pitch black to the
Eerie colours of twilight.

I saw a photograph of a young man,

Jumping from the
Burning floors of the tower.

And in that moment, it was as if life existed only in
The echoes of a severely ravaged past.

falling man

In memory of 9/11


Her name was the only word that
Rang in your head, repeating itself until even
Eternity gave up and stopped progressing, and
Her name sounded like all the times the
Rain fell on your fingertips and drenched your
Oversized trench-coat, and it was like all the
Orchestras in the world had synchronised their
Trombones and trumpets, only to produce a few
Syllables of symphony, and it sounded like all the
Times the snow fell softly on your yard, slowly,
Until the green was covered completely in ivory.