Oblivion!

Hey Sisyphus, can I be your rock?  Running, deafening,  defeating your pretense in every  lack of my sorrow to guard yours, and condemned to be so mystical –  but never a mystic. Those terrains of hatred; and the procedures  of such medieval liberty  of my own affirmations and crimes to be the blue hoarder of humanity so astonishingly wishing for a reason to behold the line.  Oh dear Sisyphus,  make me the rock that knows  success is not my path; and neither is happiness.  With architecture of an empty street, agony of time and space you  so teasingly let the soul of mine feel — to tear up the canvas of a little love  of modernity touch my feet and become a taste of the wind –  stratified, and modest,  crude and yet the oldest.  Wisest is the sin you make me do.  Falling and falling so effortlessly with nothing but desire too weary,  too paradoxical and too  monotonous for the game.  Dear Sisy...

I am caving away from the daylight. Ludicrous, summoning – somewhat the anecdotes of resemblance with agony and despair slowly making ways to assist my little wish  to paint walls  with stickers and shimmers. The bulbs red and the walls blue;  a film of sequins so deliberately crushed on  the glass in twilight;  and voluptuous is the world that exists within my soul.  How dimensionless the song slowly  shifts away! It antagonizes me,  soothes me;  and all along the woe of mirth and  the aloofness of my life I make believe.  Enchanting is the word I use,  “Thanatos” is the word I should.  Echoes of disquiet mocking my will – a life of affirmation waiting by the windowsill –  silently, strangely.   The myths and judgments passed and hoarded,  with seemingly bereaved motives of gins and sins.  The dreams, falsified –  woven in incarnations of a happy lie,  falling and falling,  with mod...

Moments. Have you ever thought about it? Sometimes the system of lies and deceit of happiness is too malleable, and too serene that you let things slowly devour the best of you and you keep waiting for the right time and right moment to embark on journeys of life and love. Too humane and prosperous, journeys often start with a smile on the faces – with backpacks packed the perfect way, screams from your fiancé so deliberately asking you to fit that one pair of her shoes in your suitcase because she doesn't have any space left; or your mom who mercilessly puts the mango pickles wrapped in old newspaper into your small briefcase; or your dad who gives you his new pants with no words but a sarcastic smile; or your sister asking you to bring her some souvenirs from the faraway land, which you will, but for the satisfaction in annoying her, you tell her no now. Moments where you try to deceive yourself from the world, and craving for that momentum in yourself, you embark on this adventu...

Words slowly drip along the lines with melancholy pitifully draped in elegance.  She looks at herself with eyes of resentment and mercifully traces dolls of symphonies and tones loud and eerie, soft and brutal, waiting for silence to heavily devour the laughter that echoes in the room.  She lives along the disk of resistance, with a bow tucked in her hair in agony; she screams  at the corset too beautifully worn, but always so stupidly carved. Is she supposed to wear it, or is it the other way round?  Wine glasses and whisky on rock, dressed for the occasion of living a mortified version of embellishment with lilies and roses and cupboards full of books,  terrorizing the maidens and mystifying the hours  of a cold dark shade  of epiphany within the oblique reposition.  She is abstract enough to justify absurdity belonging to her tools of oblivion; concrete enough to become complete amidst the misplaced sequins and broken nails.  With analog c...