Oblivion!

The evening resembles a plight of ecstasy, too surreal, too benevolent, and the way my dear profusely dresses in the cardigan of torn Denim feels subtle. Are you entirely ready? With your  brush strokes so hefty, so cruel as it draws humanity  onto servitude, what is your art, my dear? A way of  establishing peace or fear?  Too scornful, resentful, relentless, and the words of  sheer agony that smells from your paints, a woe of a widow, and an awe of an oppression, and under that cardigan of yours, the red gown you wear to glorify the pretense, to demean subjectivity, and to derail love, all so prettily sworn upon, too prosperous and too preposterous  as you praise the color of blood. Is that hate my dear? Hate to a life so crude and raw. Should I call you 'a human', or ' a-human '?  You see this turmoil of vindication you seamlessly throw upon me, with your wise words of liberty and peace,  a sense of disbelief for the swords and weapons in the h...

  Somewhere in my life – be it buses or streets, or homes and museums – somebody has always told me about how it has always been with them. Moments of understanding, and moments of faith, all so truly astonishing about how life has played out so differently for them. I have listened to their stories, mused in their favorite music, admired their art, loved their presence, been lost in their happiness, and felt closer to the idea of connections. In those moments of lively conversations, those moments of immense gratitude and sometimes those moments of helplessness towards the world or the self, I am reminded that nothing has been constant in this life for anyone. Has it?  I see new phones, new covers. I have shouted dayyumnnn to the Tesla's speed somewhere in Kathmandu. I have adored the hazelnut lattes of Himalayan Java and paid excessively high for peach tea. I have been on bike rides with friends only to see the Christmas decorations, and I have been around people I barely kn...

There is a plight of ambience  so serene, so somber, and an apathy of faith in the canvas the pigeons are brewing their nonchalant views in.  A hollow siren of broken cages all discrete and echoing of chambers-- of cups broken and coffee spilled.  What would the barbaric man think of you master? A puppet disguised as a puppeteer, or a silent whimperer too cruel, too wondrous, too white  to be a connoisseur  of a life well lived, in a city of capes and mystic drapes?  The buildings decorated in blue Christmas lights showering meaning to existence-- so surreal it is, and so cautious, so provocative.  How lifeless the mannequins  disguised as humans,  crowd the cities and streets, with roles of aversion giving a life lesson  of empathy.  Can you see the violence that exists in the empty halls of the room filled with the void of malevolent peace,  where a circuit of archived destinies and epiphanies create a filthy love for systems...

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 complicat...

I came home the other night,  my shoe rack filled with muddy wear,  the balloon from my November birthday still hanging on rather blatantly. Looking like a stain is my window-- a little bit open at the top to let me see the words of affirmation among the stars.  Pretty, she is. The silhouette of the perfect girl  I have drawn on the canvas in my purple room, often bewildered, often bejeweled,  and often in awe of the reminiscent world.  I came home the other night,  to the smell of the burnt oak tree which was lying around near the backyard  reminding me of how dear it felt to exist once in a while.  A lovely serendipity prying its way onto the screen so very near,  as if I am in a movie where I stay like a stray cat on the warm lap of a woman piercing my paws of hesitation with looks of idyllic smile.  Problematic she is. The enchantment of a lively soul that eludes in the rainbow, and I wish. I wish to see the sequoia once again....

  As my grandma slowly poured the sesame seeds onto the hot pan and the oil sizzled with the eternal taste of pretense, I laid obediently on the newly earned canvas of righteous freedom because it was noted that this time belonged to us alone.  I could do anything.  I could play the piano I had been dying to play for so long and play Russian songs over it. I could finally feel the little bottle of magnetic sand I got from the beach in my hands and see that they weren’t ashes this time. And how cool is it that we all dared to paint with the color red after all these daunting war-feared years? It’s a captivating red sunset sheltering the anonymity of the groovy moves of the floating clouds. It’s framing the remaining houses as if it’s a modern Starry “Dusk” . Has it always been this beautiful? The flying birds and swaying fields, buildings so layered and afar, young girls playing so safely on the streets, and a group of kids discussing philosophy—I wish I could eavesdrop on...

The heavy blow of ambience so captivating seeks shelter in your window  filled with resilience and words of thriving scars alike.  Situated amidst your tapestry of life, and within the heathers some time I wished to be burnt, within the pages of notebooks better torn, and within the sheets of overly craved ransom  somewhere mystically befalling the unknown.  I stand with you, darling.  Amidst the roses of no colors, the emptiness in you sulking the life of mine too,  and with the gaze of the eyes sheltered in the anonymity of lifeless paradise. Hunger is there,  and there is the warp of time fueled with trepidation, standing along with you feels like a crime.  A crime so subtle, it takes away the essence of criminality, you seek the prison like your home,  and make me a guard. I recklessly, accept.  You make me humanly sublime, take my words for the bereavement of the hefty presence  you wished was never there.  You walk to me,...

  I heard the slither of her jewels as they caressed her hands in beauty,  the expression of her nails as they were painted to mystify  the scar she had on her fingers, I heard the smile of the red ballgown, and I heard the music of the  stockings she wore as her skin constantly reminded her,  “It’s December, honey!” She smelled like lavender, spoke like an angel; and the way her cat snuck closer to her on the winter evening,  she looked like a fairy mother.  Oh how dearly she wishes to dance it all out,  the words of liberation, and the tunes of freedom,  how dearly she wishes to let go of the hair bun to finally  let them sway their own way.  The delicacy of loose hair, and the nude lips, the laughter that hides beneath the sweet smile.  She wants to laugh it all out.  The little peek at the campfire she cherishes,  the fiery illusion of loving things from afar,  as the garden lushes with tomatoes and olives,...