Nineteen

I am afloat. 

On a sea of little lies,

I am reading books of dystopia, and women, and love

as if I stand to correct them all,

live them all

and savor them all. 

I type my epiphanies

and write my strangest, wildest, melancholic thoughts

under the impression of communicating with 

the additional dimension I so patiently 

and consistently studied last night. 

With nachos dipped in mustard sauce, 

and a chocolate cappuccino by my side,

staying late night to comprehend

The Republic, 

and staying late night to understand the quantum.

I sleep along the chapters of the anime

I wish never ended. 

I wear the perfume before bed

because my dreams have to smell like mine.

I put on the best pair of socks I have; 

a barefooted dream feels like a crime. 

Why did I be so precise? 

The necessity for words of delicate length, 

I aspire for elegance while playing the darts, 

and I hope for vengeance during the ballet. 

Am I too complicated? 

The turquoise bowl 

filled with tomato soup and a chamber of secrets

that my library is. 

A little collection from where

the wonder of every dirt,

every art

and every love-filled narrative of a scholar

too detailed and too exposed

stares at me as if I am admiring the nudity of their scars

painted in the bricked walls. 

They draw the lines of nuances and chances alike. 

I admire everything

with a glass of wine and a scented cigar. 

Is this what it is to see the movement of time go by?

As still as it seemed

and as overpowered as the empowerment ever was. 

I wake up as a feminist

urging myself to be alive

as I befriend Bronte and Freud in my self-taught class. 

I see Hegel and Orwell, 

too refined and too much of a saint.

So deliberative, so different

that everything feels a little of kafkaesque every evening. 

The butterflies and moths hanging onto the tent lights; 

the widowed windows searching for droplets of rain

in their hindsight. 

My snow boots are always waiting for the snow, 

and as soon as fall arrives, 

my wardrobe of loosely fitted sweaters and shawls,

and nails painted of nude

give me a call of awakening

as if I should finally be able to make sense of it all. 

Is this what it is to be nineteen?

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Submerged

It saw. In the platonic save, rose a rose, embedded with thorns,  shaking the road, breaking the roar, the pigeon screamed of peace, with white feathers— daunting, revealing, veiled with misery, and in the dead liberty. It screamed of peace, and it was shaken, given the nude clothing, cut through the scars, mutilated through the wars and bereaved  like an uncanny grief. Silent it stood, with the obscure of black obstinating  through the core.  And then in the abyss it stayed empty awake, peace was never an option. Yessing, guessing and dressing, sins of hopes, and dreams of hypocrisy, surprisingly wise, sublimely unwise, and when the trigger clicks, the rainfall, colors of transgression, a rainbow of just unjust, disrupts the ever scared sacred breath, just to tell it, the color white always gets the dirt quick! Like the monotonously pierce riot tearing the canvas, a humble silence breaking the crowd, cheers of life, applause of a beginning, the show began. The cage ...
Read more

Whiskey

  Back, holding back, holding myself from the anonymity I dare not overlap with my melancholy. You see, my moment is a lack of it, and my grief, a blissful happiness: I cannot imagine my life without them. Without predicament and a ruthless sense of being, without momentary smile shed under infinite sadness, without the real grotesque horror of the void, the abyss, I am nothing, because I cannot fathom the entirety of the cosmos which would exist only to make me believe it is okay to be alive. I need to feel, and if feeling is sadness, and if feeling is living that sadness while knowing I would rather not be in it, while knowing I would perhaps be gone without the stain of it in my bruised lips with tainted eyes looking for a hope on a gray sky, I would rather be gone. I would rather be gone.  Imagining the sidewalks with a wide red coat as I elude the harmony of reminiscence in the stuck train stations all so white and all so blue, so empty on the afternoon, the synchronous e...
Read more

I hate sunrise

I remember nothingness as it seized my being into this voodoo doll of cascade of mourning smiles and loud silences. Walking to the mountains, clipping the fingernails with my teeth beside the campfire, the hollow stare at the white snow, the breeze of allegory of the stained flakes that pierced the sunshine the same way the abyss does to me. You see, I have always liked mountains for this scene. You see a sunrise; I see a murder. Who said sunrise was a beginning was perhaps a coward looking for hope. But the reality of existence is one of non-existence: one cannot fathom a sin of not living, and yet he lives a dead life every day. He is rotten with every sunrise. The depth of loneliness he feels in those bright black walls – all shining through his epiphanies and lifelessness – the closed eyes that see life more than the open ones, I am disgusted by everyone who calls darkness horrible. They don’t feel his honesty, they don’t feel his breathing beats and they don’t feel the rusty smile...
Read more

Snow

Image
How beautiful is the world outside me! The blue of the morning and the foggy afternoons I crave as I stare at the leafless trees drenched in vast nothingness, holding onto naked branches as they try their best to let go. Nature always has a say in the chaos, in the entropy of life and lifelessness, but it missed the human soul. In those shimmering lights from cars and buses, I see a foreshadowing of my own, with trembling fears and a scarred red, waiting silently for the lights to go green. It snowed, and I could sense that wet feeling of coldness on my skin. For once, I knew what cold feels like when it does not come from within. For once, I knew that there was something colder than me. For once, I wasn’t alone in this coldness, and for once, I felt happy. In the nights without jackets as I walked in the streets waiting for the coldness of the wind, I was reminded that there was lifelessness waiting for me. It was cold, it was what I needed. In those sweet shivers I felt with every br...
Read more

White

Hey dear life,  I hope you are still here. As I write this plea to you, I hope you are here silently listening to me and cheering me on from inside these walls which I constantly find myself staring at. These white walls, the white curtains, the white rhetoric, I can only assume this whiteness to be a witness to my melancholy. I know I know melancholy is supposed to be blue, but hey, for once, let me define the ghost in my mind with arbitrary feelings. For once, let me see the darkness in this white that deliberately amuses the core of my being because it sucks up the entirety of me in its existence.  There was once a friend I knew. A happy friend. I remember smiling at her before parting ways with her that Saturday as I rode the bicycle, and she left off in this myriad of diabolical void. She rushed off into it, and was smiling, waving at me. I couldn’t wave back because I was too stunned to see the reality of that mirage slowly coming into place. The waves crashing at the se...
Read more