Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Labour

The pizza box isn't empty. Three slices, gone cold and heavy still lie untouched. They'll probably do for breakfast.
One sprawled out in the next cabin, the other beside me. The sound from their stuffy nostrils pronounced, in the silence of the neon. Something stops me from shaking them awake. Maybe because they look angelic, men gone back to being babies, curled up in a protective shell. I let them be.
Dribbling a crazy love-hate affair, trying not to get burnt, yet keeping it within reach. Some excitement. Do I keep it or does it keep me? He almost believed that I love him. Ha! Well, maybe I do. Or maybe, it's the devil demanding attention again. Another thing I shall let alone for the moment.
The iris touched 30,000 words today, the mind drank them and generated understanding, and so I judged, judged whether they should be read by thousands of people or not. Can I really decide that? Wow!
Sheets of parchment with more dancing words call out to me. They're interesting these words, but somehow, they never end, making them tiresome company.
A semi-stranger. My first personal contact. Brief. No comments. Nothing to comment on yet.
Flashes of the old house, with the mustard sunshine and the silence of a life less modernised. For absurd reasons, childhood always seems quiet. Perhaps the noise in the head grows with age. If so, I wish I go deaf by senility.
The yellow-orange pencil still sits unstolen on the flat wood, staring at me, happy. I like pencils. They're just so.....happy.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

The myth of permanence

Who are you? Your face seemed familiar till a minute ago. Did I pass you in the street? Or were you on the train next to me? Did a whiff of your perfume touch my nose? Or your words reverberate in my memory? Did you touch me to let me know that you are? Had we made plans? Plans to sit and watch the sunset or to disappear together? Why do you feel like I know you, yet I don’t? Perhaps you were someone I once knew but no longer. Maybe you’ve become orange and I remember you to be blue. What happened? Did they bully you? Or did your own monsters get to you?
I’m scared. Scared to get caught between orange and blue because the mixture is ugly. A dirty colour. Almost unpleasant. I fondle the memory whose living counterpart is now dead. I mourn. But I shall not stand at my door to welcome
the new you.

Go away! Don’t touch me with that dirty shade. I’ll never be yours.