Thursday, March 29, 2007


I'm trying to concentrate on my essay, but my ear keeps gravitating to the birds chirping deliriously outside my window.

I can't bring myself to close the window.

So beautiful yet so irritating....actually, more pretty than beautiful.

wonder what it'd be like if things didn't exist within the cracks of contradiction.

I can't seem to prioritze right now. To close the window or listen till the chirping fades? this is silly. I'll just leave the damn window open and attempt to slightly ignore.

But it's stopped now...

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Self-Portrait - A rough sketch

Today I feel like eking myself out in words. Not that I need elaboration. On the contrary, my silence would be more fitting. Ironic, that I intend to use words to describe my silence, which is myself. But that is what we are: ironic.

At times images of solitude pervade my mind: a swan gliding on a rippling lake, an empty field under the cotton sky, a leaf floating gently down to earth. I don't know what these photographic snapshots serve. I am not always so placid. Perhaps I metaphorically define myself in landscapes. In any case, the blatant romanticism of it all sometimes bothers me. Sometimes my own words make me sick. But often for me, eloquence exists in emotions more so than the intellect. Sensitivity is my weakness, yet this vulnerability leads me to the beautiful.

And suddenly the words evade me....I think I am being coherent only to myself. Maybe honest self-definition is more impossible at my age...

Sunday, March 18, 2007


I spent the week inebriated by books. Books mandated by my college professors. I am constantly submerged in the articulations of others. I live more in their realities than my own. At times it seems it has made my life fiction. Images of war and paradise merge in the terrain of my mind...more blood-stained earth than abodes of loveliness. If these geniuses of the pen write of happiness, it is always tinged with the shadow of a fated tomorrow, or that of vanished yesterdays. As they write I imagine their creased brows, and the difficulty of confronting themselves reflected on the page. The brutality of honesty is always there. If they lie, they know that they are writing lies. Ink is the blood of conscience.

There are writers who frolic in the worlds they create. Writers of my past. They became gods in creating their own utopias. Their only agenda: to create a nest of dreams and prose (a word beautiful in iteself) like pillow-soft lullabies: the world of children. Those were the books I savored like hard candy.

Now I am almost victimized by words of knowledge. The world of the adult, of responsibility, of crimson rivers which the socially responsible wordsmith dips his pen into.

Saturday, March 17, 2007


I stretch with feline languidity beneath the thin white sheet, the vestiges of sleep are still heavy in my limbs. He is standing by the open window, half-covered in shadows, looking out at the enroaching dusk. Outside the sea is noiseless, calm, no longer breaking violently against the rocks. Hearing the sheets rustle behind him, he turns. His silhouette is outlined by the dying light behind him. He hasn't bothered to dress. The glow of a cigarette hovers between his fingers and the scent of tobacco reaches me with the salted breeze.

My dark angel.

I stretch my arm out lazily towards him, and he takes a step forwards. I see him clearly now. He stubs out his cigarette. The curtians billow gently behind him. He looks at me again with a serious expression. "Delilah", he utters, his voice deep and low, seeming to escape from a crack in his soul. The single syllable leaks into me, caresses me like the warm froth of the sea, what Camus called "the saliva of the gods" (such carnal poeticism). Then he takes another step forward and pulls the sheet off my body, letting it drop to the floor beside him. I look up at him expectantly, and his eyes, almost blue, meet mine. They peruse my body as he walks slowly, deliberately, around the bed. He looks at my exposed body intently, calmly. It is so still and silent I can hear his breathing. I am the object of his intention as he circles the bed almost contemplatively. Or is it with an inner, vulture-like viciousness I am not privy to that he does so?

Finally he looks into my eyes again, and I frown slightly, because I am stranger to his thoughts. My frown is returned with a smile that falls deliciously upon his lips, bringing a gleam into his eyes. "Delilah", he says again, strongly, as if convinced of something. He has many ways of calling me to him. Then leans down towards me, his warmth touching mine and seals my name with a kiss.