Uncertainty

It's this millisecond where fantasy & reality meet. You try your best to mix & blend them smoothly like paint on paper joining sea & sky at the horizon.

And a flying bird.

But you fail. Maybe because you haven't been given a chance. Or maybe because you're using the wrong kind of paint.

Or maybe because you dream too big.

Sometimes it's hurtful to see things for what they are.

Outside your head.

And what hurts more than missing someone is realising that they never were but a false impression you've had of them. And so it turns out you're

missing a ghost.

It sounds quite fanciful to be in love with a ghost, I know. But sometimes, some days, when all what you thought things meant fade away, you stand there naked, vulnerable & confused, and the imaginary doesn't seem to help cover you up.

Make believe breaks down at times.

It's a rainy day today, and you don't like the rain. But I'm not allowed to care anymore.

Scenes of the Heart

Scene #1

We're sat at a cafe facing each other. There's tea fumes & cigarette smoke. We're speaking about big things; things so big it feels like we've been sat in silence with hands crossed all this time; because only silence can explain big things, for words are not concrete, and nothing of what holds the world together is. Love, hate, happiness, anger, it all exists in fluidic dimensions. And so we speak, but we're really just keeping silent. I feed on the quiet, and I grow.

Scene #2

We're sat side by side as we both stare out into the space before us. Big things are space, because only space is open ahead, and words imprison big things. We decide not to utter them this time. There's the sound of the car engine, the sound of cars passing crosswise one after another on the other lane of the road, and the sound of the wheels rolling over speed breakers every few seconds. There's silence in patterns, and there's big things. Then there is his scent filling me up. It feeds my very own inner space, and I grow.

Scene #3

It's all crystal clear now. I drink the water with eyes closed, and I feel like a red rose with thick green leaves. And as I swallow, I feel the water going down in streams into my body, flooding every single deep root of me. And so I bloom.

And I grow.

When the World Stopped Spinning

The apparition of his face amongst the restless world:

A conjuration of the feminine; an embracement to it

A Letter to Sun

I have displaced all sorts of order present in the chronological sequence of things, and transformed all conceptions into subjective ones where time & space has been far transcended. I have lightly stepped into abstraction where everything that is, was or going to be has been stripped down to its elementary form to become but a radiant purple beam. I have gone past tangible things and transient acts and fading seconds and hours and days and years and reached a twinkling where the world has ended & human history has been compressed to fit into a tiny star & sent off to sway amidst the milky way. I imagine a world as timeless as being fast asleep, shapeless as the water of the seven oceans, and trackless as the spirit air you're breathing in now. I imagine. You would say it's fiction. An inaccuracy. A mistake. A distance; the distance between us & reality. But I'm only doing it for you. I am doing it because tonight is the last night of September, and tomorrow the last morning thereof, and I wanted to capture this day, today, and grant you it in an eternal form to keep safe in your heart, and you in its heart…until September comes again next year.

Love,

Caroline

Into the Blur

So it's like a strong bass note in a song that had been playing whilst you were sleeping woke you up for a second when it hit the bottom of your spine & then you went drifting back to sleep in sync with the waves of its echo, or like having unexpectedly opened your eyes to witness that very moment when the lights went off then gradually faded back into sleep as the flashing circles faded out into black right behind your eyelids.

It's like impossible to speak about, because you woke up in the morning to find no song playing & you never sleep with the lights on to begin with, so you just don't understand when it started, when it ended, how it happened, or if it happened at all.

Hello Stranger

I want you to act like you already know me. Skip the petty conversation about name & age & current affairs & all what we speak about only because we have built shields of pretentious propriety around ourselves. Be a fisherman, cast your fishing line ahead of us both; go forward in time & get to the point where there is nothing more left to say, and start from there. Ask me about my dreams, and tell me about yours. Tell me if you like watermelons or riding bicycles. Share with me a childhood story you only remember when you're silent. Ask me what colour I am today, for maybe it matches yours. Tell me about your fears, and I'll tell you about what I try to ignore but can't because it just seems like bird sounds amidst ugly noise & I can't help but deliberately listen. Tell me about the warmth of your pillows, or the lack thereof, and I'll tell you about the warmth of a body that I call home; a body whose smell melts me down to the bone. Tell me that you feel we've already met in another world, assure me, just for this moment. And just for this moment, tell me that you love me, then walk away. And I promise I will not call out for you.

The Door

A rosewood photo frame, carefully placed on the cabinet amidst the brass figurines, lit candles, lavender oil and musk ambrette, dried rose petals, and tree leaves in red and green and brown and yellow. Smokeless tea incense, an hour glass, a cup of black coffee and a rocking chair.

I am not waiting for you, I am not waiting for anybody. I am not waiting, I just am.

The photo frame is empty, because everytime it ends where it begins, because things are not supposed to make sense, because understanding is illusive, because what we think is one wholesome long story is but a hundred little unrelated happenings; a hundred different days where we sleep, and awaken, and each previous day becomes a faint echo of a dream.

And I keep on rocking in my chair back and forth.

I will give you space to come and go, because you're ever changing, because I'm never definite, and because we're all; all things in every way.

I will never blame you for things, because everything just is. I will never ask you to explain, because I prefer my endings open. I will never ask you where you came from or where you're going next as long as you step in quietly, and step out just as quietly leaving me uninterrupted and my photo frame empty and untouched.

And I keep on rocking in my chair back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth.