Written Reverie

What I want for you.

Sometimes I think of you and a bit inside me does a little dance of excitement, a dance of joy. In that joyous little dance of excitement, I want for you all the weird things that make you happy. Tattoos of flowers, a neck to snuggle up to, a girl who makes love to your ears, linen pants and newspapers. With the news of today and cuttings too. Made into collages of the interesting shapes you’ll see and colours that complement each other. All symmetrical and making your spine tingle with ocd pleasure. I want the smell of coffee for you every morning. Black but like your brown skin because you won’t touch milk. But you touch me. And I love how you touch me. I love your hands. Nimble but rough. Firm. Hard-working hands. I want bright cotton sheets and sunshine falling on your face every morning making sharp shadows of your upper lip. Maybe there’s a notebook next to you, stopped at a page with a pen that’s open. You fell asleep while writing down some crazy idea last night. An idea that you will make happen because you can and you have the energy to. Wake up, I’ve eaten half the pineapple and there’s a pot of coffee on the fire. Maybe I want me for you too.

Written Reverie


In my most recent posts I’ve tried to be correct, sane, logical. I am trying to be all that now but it isn’t helping the heaviness in my heart. So this is me spilling my feelings out on virtual paper, tapping at my keyboard with the fervour of a woman trying not to break down because that would be what a girl would do. And I am no girl.

I have felt like a woman with you. You always said that. That I was a woman. I have never felt that way with anyone else. But guess what. I was a woman still hiding in girl’s clothing. I was lost and broken and confused. Now I am just a woman and I am heartbroken. Heartbroken that you could not wait. I know I may have asked you to wait too long but love isn’t timed. Love doesn’t know years or days. Love knows only itself. Maybe this is a girl speaking but I don’t care to discriminate. I am me.

You didn’t have the time to let me find myself. To let me grow into the woman that you always thought I was. I don’t need to prove it to you because you already know. I suppose that is what makes this so frustrating. You don’t want to take a risk at a forever with me, but you would take a risk at a less than awesome forever with her just because you believe that with her its forever. I don’t offer forevers. I don’t deny them. I just don’t promise them either. If you chose her over me because she tugs at your heart strings and is the music to your step then in that truth I cannot stand disappointed. But you are choosing security. You are choosing “a life”. A life is not life. A life is not living. A life is just a life. It doesn’t cause you to sing or write or shudder in ecstasy. I am not making this up. Its in your words that I have found this conflict. You say that something’s missing. Why is something missing? I miss you, I wish you were here because like you already know, its undeniable. I am missing you, but nothing in my life is missing. I would rather be missing you with passion and writing as I am now than feeling a sense of incompleteness or inadequacy. I choose this. I hope you know what you are choosing. I hope you convince me. Even if you don’t, life will.. That is just me becoming sane again. I hope you are too.

Written Reverie


I wake up at 2 am after having tossed and turned for a good 3 hours dreaming that I was in a boardroom meeting trying to explain the intangible concept of stress and how what we were doing was stressful. I woke at the moment in my dream when I realised I wasn’t being understood.

Maybe I didn’t understand it either.

Sleep is something we all need. In large healthy dollops. The way we live has cut down sleep into worthless chunks. When our lives haven’t eaten into our sleep, we have let our minds do it. We have let our minds do it because our minds have been put in an environment, both internal and external, in which it has no choice but to.

To clarify, when I say mind, I mean our internal processor. The one that receives requests, analyses, organises, prioritises, works out logical answers and decides on a response.

Our way of life bombards the mind with a million requests. Not everything that the mind needs to pay attention to, but nonetheless the senses are transmitting to it a million stimuli that it needs to sort through. Social media is bombarding us with information that is constantly distracting us from the tasks at hand, let alone distracting us from our divine purpose. Maybe that divine purpose is to live human lives. Our lives are so fast paced that we don’t have the time to be human: from fundamental physical requirements like eating, pooping or exercising to the fundamental mental requirements, the intangible aspects of our be-ing which I am trying to touch in this piece of writing.

What the mind receives, the mind interprets and the mind responds to. The mind quite often responds as an emotion. An emotion is a beautiful concoction of chemicals and energy, both physical and mental in nature. An emotional response seems to have little logic in it but I am not certain of this. Emotions can become further input to the mind especially if the emotion is received as being negative. One never questions when one smiles or laughs in response to something. But if one were to get angry or hurt, this emotion itself becomes fodder for the mind as it tries to process it and respond to that which is its own creation. Thereby creating a situation in which it is getting into a loop and creating a conflict with itself.

Our lives have very little time for emotions. Our speaking very clearly demonstrates this. “Stop being so emotional about it”
We live the lives of machines, expected to work at a certain pace every day and meet a certain output demand. We are expected to be functional every day at the same time be it sun or rain. We are expected to function as always whether our hearts are broken or not. Our heartbreak is not even seen.

But lets take a step back from there. What is heart? I write not of the 4 chambered organ that beats in our chest, but of the part of us that dances. Not the salsa or the waltz, but the dance of our nature. The part that shakes our bodies in laughter; makes us crawl into a ball in sorrow; makes us walk away determinately in anger; makes us pace in worry and makes us run or cower in fear. Whether this dance is necessary at all is another question altogether, but while our mind (albeit unwillingly) is creating and playing the music of emotion to which we dance, it is time we start to listen.


The expectations imposed on us are societal but more importantly they are self imposed too. The mind has been programmed to believe that it must function in a certain way and that it is the sovereign. Emotions have been so far removed from it that it doesn’t even recognise them as its own creation anymore. Its connection to the heart is severed. Whenever emotions rise, especially those that are not pleasurable, they are pushed into the background for processing at a later time along with all the seemingly less important things that are calling for the mind’s attention. Over time there is only an accumulation of things on hold. Some are forgotten and seem to get erased from memory, but some leave a trace and others remain in memory, popping up every now and then to ask the mind for attention. This accumulation causes the mind to become less sharp, dull, confused. Its process of reception, interpretation and response starts to become warped. It starts to block its senses because it is being overloaded, it starts to interpret that which it receives in a corrupt manner, its responses start to become incongruous and disproportionate and this becomes further fodder for the mind to digest, for in its be-ing it knows that it is dysfunctional.

So many of us are functioning in this dysfunctional state that even our reference points are inaccurate. The heart feels it, the mind knows it deep down, but its insanity is still questioned. We are all mad. We live mad lives that are not human, the mind and heart don’t speak and we are dysfunctional human beings that don’t know how to dance. Our music isn’t being heard and when we do dance it is ugly and violent. We have stopped receiving beauty or receive it only partially, for our mind’s don’t have the time to process it. With such a warped view on life, we are becoming violent beings that kill each other with no remorse. Some of us lay in bed at night tossing and turning unable to sleep because the mind is like an overworked maid trying to clean up a home that is being used a garbage dump and a factory.

So what can one do about this?

If we have seen in it for what it really is; if we have really seen the problem, the answer lies within it. But are we really capable of seeing it? Do we have the energy to?

Written Reverie

Cluttered Comfort

I don’t know where to start. I want to write because every thought is adding to the last and it isn’t all bad, but it is all crowded and cluttered. Maybe that is why I feel so comfortable in this room. This room has a wardrobe, 2 cupboards, 2 desks, a chest of drawers, a single sofa and two chairs. There are also boxes of books and baskets of clothes. A mattress on the floor takes up the only bit of floor left. I had my lunch today sitting in a corner between a desk, a shelf and a wall. In a single moment that seemed to last for all eternity, it was absolute bliss: the gentle humming of the fan, the sunlight coming in filtered through the mosaic pattern of the glass on my windows, and the way my fingers felt as I mixed up my rice and curry in a perfect blend of flavours and texture. In that moment, huddled in a corner on the floor amidst all my belongings stuffed into a tiny room, I was perfectly content.

It might have had something to do with how tasty my lunch was; or how absolutely comfortable I was in this body that through the years of yoga has become flexible enough to not feel discomfort in seemingly uncomfortable positions. Maybe it has something to do with being in a cramped little space. As a child, I had often slept under the  bed or curled into a ball under the desk. Maybe the way I like to be held by the man I sleep next to has something to do with that too; being enveloped, cocooned, protected. Maybe it is none of those things. Maybe in this clutter I had found a comforting mirror to my mind.

There are more questions than there are answers and there are more things than I need. When in my imagination, I dream of the house I will some day live in, it has large open spaces and very few things in it. So different from this temporarily cluttered room in which I find so much comfort. Maybe it has something to do with wanting many things and having many interests. Maybe it has something to do with loving many men.

I am attracted to polar opposites. A part of me wanting one thing, the other part another. To deny each extreme and strive to go along a middle path seems boring to the say the least. Is there no single path, one truth one reality amidst the illusions of this apparent chaos that is my existence? Maybe this cluttered room is an expression of that truth. To see in a single moment, every thing that belongs to me. Maybe to see in a single moment, every thought, memory and ideal is the end to confusion?

Philosophical questions follow musings on clutter and the men who’ve held me in their arms. And in this clutter of questions, books and memories I will sleep in the last little bit of space in this room of my life. And sleep well I shall.

Written Reverie

That last bit of tea..

The tin of green tea is over. The tin has something else in it now..
I feel the annoyance and anger rising when I find out that my favourite green tea has been drunk.. At the same time the critical perfectionist in me is saying “Are you this petty?  Angry and despairing about some green tea?”

I walk away.

I pick up my phone and ask her about my dilemma. Does this annoyance over the green tea make me a horrible human being? She is my mirror. She is me.

I am a lot like my father I tell her, I realise. I am with my green tea, how he is with his whiskey. Particular. Peculiar. Human.

I share my green tea with the people I deem suitable.. They must love it and savour it as much as I do. To have me share my green tea with you, you must be worthy. I must consider you worthy. You are few and far between. You know who you are.

In the conversation with her, I speak of one person with whom I would share that last little bit of tea. My thoughts travel to the others, the worthy ones.

The conversation; as much with myself as it with her; progresses to the person who walked into my life and started drinking the last bit of my tea. I opened the door to him and his presence wasn’t silent or slight. He took up space. He didn’t sit in a corner waiting for me to offer him some tea. He walked through my open door and started to drink the last bit of my tea. I was a wreck. I had opened the door to my house and invited him in. My invitation had conditions. My heart had compartments. The cupboard had green tea. He wouldn’t accept any conditions.

So I asked him to leave..

I take up space. I walked into his life and home and made myself a cup of tea. I made more than one cup of tea. We shared many cups of tea. I am just like he is. I take up space. But his open door was unconditional and his invitation all inclusive. Mine just wasn’t.

He was more than worthy of that last bit of tea..

Written Reverie


I can’t quite describe this feeling in my chest..
It is a little bit like sadness, it is a little bit like I miss you. But really it is just that this photograph of us is so beautiful. There is a certain grace in the way I’ve wrapped my arms around your neck and in the way your head is resting on my chest. It is a grace that very often I didn’t feel with you. It is a photograph of a love that I have only just discovered I felt for you. I feel for you. But you are not mine and I am not yours. I am only just starting to learn that that is ok. I am only just starting to learn that to love and let go is something we will do again and again. That is how it is and how it will be. I love you for everything you are. I forgive you for being angry. I forgive myself for making you angry. I wish you love and I wish you grace. Sometimes captured in a photograph like this one, but more often than not, felt.

Written Reverie

Black Block Crack

I cannot write. I am cracked. My thoughts are two ways, but there are no two ways. No ways to go about it at all. No words form sentences, form thoughts, form ideas, form anything but a jumble that is so disjointed, dismembered like the cracked plate that lies on the floor, its pieces laid in a pattern of a memory of what it once was.

I am no longer a whole. I am not defined, I have no direction. I am lost. I close my eyes waiting for letters to form words. There is none. There is emptiness. There is silence. In a mind that was once too loud, there is nothing.

I am afraid of the emptiness. I am afraid of being not I. But if I am not I then what am I? What is I? What are I?

I am afraid. Am I afraid? Is this emptiness a block? Is it a wall? Is it a capsule I am trapped in. A dead weight denial. I am black.

I cannot write.


Written Reverie


Like a glass vase thats been dropped too many times and pasted back together, I am broken. In the right light and with just a glance you wouldn’t notice the cracks that run down my sides right down to my very base. From these cracks I leak the water you pour into me to keep the flowers you’ve filled me with alive. I am of no use to you. I serve no purpose but my own broken existence. The time has come to leap off this place that I call home, ripping apart the pathetic glue thats been holding me in shape, and shatter into a million shards before I can decay into the earth and be what nature intended me to be. You no longer bring me flowers, and this shelf is no longer home..

Written Reverie


I have stumbled through life, tripping over my mind, falling into and over you; stepped on people and charged ahead to get where I am today. I have held onto handrails, had training wheels and supports and been led by many to be here. I have lived a second hand existence, driven by the ideas of the ones that helped me along and by the distorted ideas and thoughts I created for myself about life and love and existence.

There has been very little grace in my existence, driven forward only by a constant need to fill one void after the next with someone or something external to myself.

Today I decide that I don’t want to stumble through this existence, drunk on dreams, high on ideas and blind with a conditioning so deep that I can’t even begin to fathom where it starts and ends. I sincerely thank the crutches and handrails that got me here. Maybe I would have benefitted more from having being left in a broken heap on the floor. Left to get up and walk on my own. Perhaps you loved me too much, but now you have to let me go.

I am breaking up with you. With the support that you have given me, with your love that made me feel beautiful and wanted, with the security that you offered me, with the can’t-be-broken attitude you always took when you chose to love the me that you knew was broken, the me that you knew would hurt you. I am breaking up with the balance you provide and the pillar that you’ve been. I am breaking up with you so that maybe today I can start to be to myself something that, however much I searched for it in you and no matter how hard you tried, no one else could ever be to me.

Let the screaming child in me scream. The tantrum will end, I will wipe my tears and I will be something that I haven’t been before. With one shaky step after the next I will learn to walk, and the grace that is nature may finally flow through this existence that just is.



Written Reverie

What love is not.

All my life I’ve been told in direct and indirect ways; ambiguous and unambiguous ways what love is. From the songs that played on the radio every night as I fell asleep, to movies that showed heartache, longing and fairy tale endings showed me what love was supposed to be. I grew and I learned that love could hurt. My parents told me that they loved me but harsh words hurt. At times their love seemed guaranteed, then at times their love seemed to be “more” when I got good grades or won medals. If love could be more, could it also be less? Boyfriends said that they loved me but wanted more and more from me each day.

Expectations, sacrifice, right and wrong were all tied up with love. An image of love was created in my mind. Something that I did not have, something that I would have to find. An image so grand that I have spent a large part of my 26 years looking for a person who fit this image, knowing all the while that I myself did not. I acted with love. I spoke with love. I did with love. I did love. And for a very long time I did it right. I did it like it was supposed to be done. And then one day I stopped doing it. I fucked it all up and I did what love didn’t do, but this too I did in the name of love. Love was a nightmare. A roller coaster of laughter and tears, anger and hugs, hate and forgiveness. Love was played as everything that maybe love was not.

We want to be special. We want to feel beautiful and have a special place in someone’s heart. We want to be sure that this person will always feel this way about us and will never feel the same way about anyone else. We want to own their love. Their love must be ours. Whether its our parents, friends or partners. At the smallest sign of this changing, we become insecure, jealous, demanding, emotional, angry and we demand that we get what we want.  Is this love? I see myself do this and see many others play this game. But I also see that this isn’t love. I see it justified in so many ways. As self respect that doesn’t “settle” for anything less than what we deserve. As searching for our “soul mates” and our “twin flames”.

And what is it that we so rightly deserve? To fill a gaping hole in our being that society helped us carve out and that we made sure was never filled? A gaping hole that we refuse to see, and that we keep covering up with layers of clothing, sex, drugs and “love”. The worst justification that I have seen given, and that I have given myself is that “we are only human”. Only? As though it is the right of being human to be so flawed, so wrong, so self centred and evil in our being. Every one of these things that isn’t love is rewarded. The boys in my teens loved it when I was jealous, jealousy after all showed that I loved.

In jealousy and anger I have said things that are not love. And in anger and pride I have got replies.

“What am I, if she is doing everything that I used to do for you?”

“I have feelings for her. I didn’t tell you before but I do”..

… “I said feelings, I didn’t say romantic feelings”

“Do you really have feelings for her or is that something you just said to make me feel hurt?”

“Why should I answer your questions when you refuse to give me any clear answers to the questions I ask”

“I hate you for doing this to me”.

“I knew it from the beginning that I would hit a wall with you and still I gave us a chance”

“You did to me what I did to her”

“Knowing everything I sacrificed for you, everything I gave up, you did this to me”

“You are a fucking bitch”

“You are the first girl that I have changed myself for”

“I was stressed and you are the person closest to me that’s why I took it out on you”

“You are just like me”

I am sick to my being of playing this horrendous game that we call love. It is a game of satisfying our own egos and filling the holes in our beings that have been carved out to fill with what we hope to find in the search for an image we have created in our minds.

Love is a game I do not wish to play anymore.

Sometimes I feel terribly alone. Knowing that 99.9% of the people I meet, the people I love are playing this game. Sometimes a part of me wants to deceive myself into thinking that this game is right so that I can play along and not be alone. Sometimes I think I still do play the game, but its getting harder and harder to.

The alternative? I think it starts with me consciously being always in a relationship with myself. Always in union with myself, being with everything that I am in totality, with no judgement and without deceiving myself. Therefore I suppose this isn’t a search but an elimination of everything that love is not.

Love is not anger, love is not hate, love is not wanting, longing or missing, love is not jealousy, love is not desire, love is not commanding, demanding or reprimanding.

Love is what remains when everything that is not love, is not.



Written Reverie

Some mornings.

When it feels like the only thing you can do when you wake up in the morning is form a capsule with you body around your leaden heart and fall back into haunted nothingness; the only thing you must do, if only for the sake of your very existence, is hold your heart in the palms of your hands, and will one rattling breathe after the next into its cold cavity and let it warm to life as you slowly open your eyes to existence.

Written Reverie

The Universe

I am the Universe
Neither man nor woman
But both in equal measure
Though breasts adorn my chest
And between my legs, bliss
These do not define me, woman
I am the Universe, one gender
Acting in the female container
I am the Universe, boundless
Moving and writhing,
Moaning beneath your thrusts
In no way inferior to you
Than the Earth’s up or down
I am the Universe, undefined
Perfectly coordinated moments
Over many millennia
From the first inception
The first possibility of thought
Brought me here
And I am here. With you.
See that, revere that
I am a temple
And the worshipped
I am the Universe
When gravity and life
Chips away my body
To endless bounty I will return
Perhaps, I will meet you
In molecule to vibration
And light between
But while I am still here
I am still, the Universe.

Written Reverie

Words & Vortex

There are some nights when I feel something and describe this something using words you’ve spoken in what may have been the same context. And in those moments I feel that maybe I have understood what you said, in a memory, what you meant. Like when you said it’s the quirks that make people special. Or when you found that the fine hairs  along the side of my body form a vortex, a whirl. A mark you discovered and now it’s yours. My spots you kissed and now own. Someone else might kiss these too and I will always be beautiful. But tonight, when the words are the same and the reflections show me what you saw, what you may have seen.. From a deep well in the very centre of my chest, call it my heart if you must, there is an endless flowing to you. 

Written Reverie

Papier mache & egg shells.

When I was a child, my mum never took me out to buy a birthday card or a gift for dad. He never did either. They would always say “Why don’t u make something for him/her” And so I did. We didn’t have a letter box, so I made a letter box out of cardboard first. Then I made cards and the envelopes in which to put them. Dad taught me how to make papier mache. With each birthday that passed, I devised ways to make it into thinner paper . Everything around me was material for my creations, from flour to glue to egg shells. All of my creations took time. I would make the papier mache days ahead,to make the cardboard that would be the base for my card. I would start up to two weeks ahead of their birthday.

The clock kept ticking and the years kept passing.

I found myself a boyfriend and with him my creativity grew. With my parents I knew there was unconditional acceptance. With him, I wasn’t so sure. And so my creations became more time consuming and with each birthday and valentine’s day my cards became more beautiful. Then one day, a few years later, he was at my gate with a bag full of my creations. We had broken up. I kept them for a couple of days and then I had them burned. What use was my creations to me?

The clock kept ticking. I still made my parent’s birthday cards. Most of the time.

The time came when I would start making valentine’s cards again. With this boy, my creativity grew. In size. The cards became bigger and the words became smaller as I started to write. Word after word after word. I would fill each card from edge to end with thoughts and he loved it. I made cards he would have to keep rotating to read. I made cards that opened up and hung on string. And the best part? He made ones for me. He sketched and he etched and he sculpted. This love had no conditions and neither did my cards.

The clock kept ticking. I still made my parent’s birthday cards. Sometimes.

I have a box in my cupboard full of cards he made for me. He has a box stashed away somewhere too. He hasn’t returned them to me yet and I hope he never does. But I can’t remember the last time I made a card for anyone and I haven’t felt papier mache squelching between my fingers in over a decade. The egg shells are taken away by the garbage man every tuesday and I find myself sitting here scrolling down looking for something they would like, something I can afford. It certainly seems that I can’t afford my time or my creativity anymore. But why can’t I?

Written Reverie


I want to tell stories. Happy stories. I want to talk about the view. The view from the top of that mountain, that rock, this building and his room. I want to speak of the men I fell in love with and how they laughed. How their hands were different and how those hands had a story of their own. I want to speak of how differently each one laughed. I want to talk of walks on the beach and kisses, stolen, given and taken but most of all remembered. I want to tell stories of jumping into the ocean fully clothed and jumping into the ocean with no clothes at all. I want to talk of drunken laughter, hysterical can’t-catch-your-breath kind of laughter, cosmic laughter. I want to talk about the food. The warm food, the raw crisp food and the fruits just plucked from a tree. I want to talk about king coconuts drunk on a hot day and wine drunk straight out of the bottle. I want to talk about eating hot roti with dynamite lunu miris at the top of Adam’s peak and washed down with a hot steaming sweet cup of tea. I want to talk of the tents I slept in, the rivers I bathed in, the castles I built out of sticks and stones and sand. I want to talk of friends. And how each of them brought with them sometimes a word, sometimes a sentence and sometimes a whole chapter to this story.

I want to be the grandmother or grandaunt that the kids want to sit around and the cats want to cuddle up to at night. I don’t want to in my aged confusion only have opinions about how something should be done, how someone should behave or how someone somewhere is doing something wrong. I don’t want to be a bitter old woman that doesn’t like the kids making too much noise or bringing dirt in from the garden. I do want a garden, one that grows wild. I want a messy house with worn out cushions and a sofa thats been sat on, slept on and summersaulted on. I want to be an old woman with grey hair that was never dyed and I want lines. I want lines around my eyes from the many years of laughing. I want to reach back into eternity and touch his skin and smile. I want to speak of the people that I spent my life with and how they went on their journey. And if I can’t be any of these things because life will take a turn, and I will miss a step or not see the car that will knock me down; I want to be caught in the middle of writing this story. I want to be caught in the middle of being the writer, the artist and the main actress of my story. I want to be caught living.

Written Reverie


As I folded the sleeves of a worn out grey T-shirt, I wondered with every crease that caught my eye whether maybe it had been worn. With no thought to the action, my hands moved the cloth up to my nose and as I inhaled, it melted to skin and as fresh as blood drawn from a new cut, my world disappeared and there was one reality. My love for you and the infinite care that would always be yours, given, never to be taken back. Like one continuous connected stroke of my hand over your hair and soul, complete and lost in a cloth. A fragment of a whole that will never be torn.

Written Reverie

Observations of the ignorant.

Ignorance they say is bliss. Ignorance is also wise. You’ve probably never heard that before. But think about it. Some of the wisest thoughts and observations come from children. Their minds are pure. When they are untainted by the beliefs of their parents or those around them, they are intuitive. They seem to know when something isn’t right and they either like you or they don’t. And most often their reasons are simple and sound and cannot be argued against. 
I do not pride myself at my lack of knowledge of current affairs or politics. But I do pride myself on my ability to observe the things around me. And most often my best observations are those of feelings, emotions, and an intuitive understanding of when something isn’t quite right. I also believe in a complete picture and that we only ever see individual parts. I am no child. My mind is not pure and I am angry. But I have chosen not to read about what has been happening in the last few days. But I am watching the reactions. Because I have started on the assumption that the Master puppeteer is far more intelligent than most of us. Because we are all puppets. The ones who set fire to those homes, the men who pose as monks and the ones who are taking a stand. We are all reacting as it was planned that we should. And we are proudly claiming that social media is keeping us informed when mainstream media isn’t. Every idiot in this day and age knows the existence of social media. Some member of parliament dug his ear and ate his ear wax and that went viral pretty soon. Everyone knows that events cannot be hidden. So lets then assume that these events were not meant to be hidden. If it was given to you in the mainstream media you would not believe it. Because media is corrupt. Well guess what, I think status updates and groups taking a stand, and those writing petitions to the president have an equal chance of being corrupt. We are a generation that hits the like button on a photo of a starving child in Africa in the hopes that he will be fed. We are the ones that questioned and researched and discussed MH370 way more than our parents did. What’s happened to that plane now? Did the men who pose as monks have something to do with that too. And another story I hear being repeated is, the president is trying to pull wool over our eyes. That story I’ve heard so many times. Surely he must have too. Surely he could think of a better way to do this. I have no political favourite. Why? Because I was a pampered child that never had to worry about the affairs of my country or any other. I was cushioned from all the happenings around me. So some of you will probably call me an ignorant dreamer. Yes that might very well be true. But everyone is reacting as everyone should. Most of the Sinhala community, at least the intelligent ones are taking a stand agains the evil acts against the Muslims. The Muslims are afraid and becoming a closer knit group. The Tamils are being reminded of the fact that they are a minority too. And the president and the current government is getting a shit load of blame. Well. That is going as planned too. But who is laughing. Is the president laughing? Somehow I don’t think he is. Who is laughing? The master puppeteer is? Who is he or she? I don’t have the vaguest idea. 

Written Reverie

For you.

This is for the animals.

The ones for whom rivers flow down my cheeks. The souls that taught me that we are all the same and that your lives were no different from mine. This is for Lola. And Kelly. And Chippy. This is for the many names we gave them, the names on their little books and the names we called them when we petted them and they rubbed against our feet. This is for the conversations that we had and for the warmth that will always be here. The warmth you brought and for the love only you knew how to give. This is for the acceptance you taught me of death. Of watching you run and play and then stop. Still. This is for teaching me that I am a mother and that earth is our mother. That her soil isn’t dirty or cold or lifeless and that you are warm in her womb when you were laid in the little pit. This is for teaching me that I will miss you. That I will miss all of you and that you were all friends to me as much as any two legged human could be. This is for being you. The wonderful souls, the babies, the companions. This is for teaching me that death is just another journey and I will watch so many of you take it before I do. This is for making me ready.

Written Reverie

Cold hard truths

Cold hard truths are like cold showers. Each water drop piercing your skin like a sting. It takes determination to take your clothes off layer by layer as goosebumps rise on your flesh, every hair saying “Stop!”. Keep the layers on. Keep up the pretence that it is warm here, that you are clean. It takes determination to step naked and bare into that cubicle and turn that tap. It takes an almost reckless abandon to continue with what starts off as torture and if you are brave enough becomes nothing but an endless stream of water. Flowing over you and away to wherever water chooses to go, taking with it the grime of yesterday. Slowly, as you become truly warmer, you stop shaking and fighting and instead heal in the waters of cold hard truths till they are no longer cold or hard or even truths. They become like water, flowing, purifying and undeniably refreshing. 

Written Reverie

Wet Kisses

There is something wonderfully warm about hot tears pouring down your cheeks. The tears that come unchecked, uncontrolled, welling up like a dam released. Full, wet and warm and so unlike the emotions that cause them. In those tears you can find comfort, a certain sensuality of letting go. A comfort in not frantically rubbing your eyes trying to erase all traces and streaks that are proof you are a living, feeling being. There is a comfort in just letting yourself cry. Instead of crawling into a ball, a foetus, a regression into helplessness, open your body, lie exposed, arms spread, heart open and cry. Let the sobs rack through your body because life isn’t always easy and crying gives the downs the recognition they deserve. The sobs are all the complications you’ve held inside, the thoughts that make your voice tight and your replies curt. Your cries are shaking you awake from this stupor you’ve been walking around in. So let yourself cry, and as you do, maybe you will find that the warmth of your tears are just wet kisses on your cheek. Wet kisses from that part of you that refuses to be hardened, dried and dead, wet kisses from life. 


Written Reverie


I am on the brink of a precipice, beautiful green above and below. You are the forest, the earth and the tree whose roots hold me in balance and in limbo between these two worlds. You are the air, the foundation and I dread to cut the roots that hold my legs, hold me from falling falling falling into the beautiful unknown green depths below. I realise now that your roots don’t hold me, my legs are wrapped around you while I peer into the unknown, reaching out and touching but never ever letting go and falling. I have to let you go. I have to let you go if I want to fall and dive head first tumbling into the mysteries of a possibility without my roots holding me. Yes. My roots because I no longer know where my limbs end and you begin. But then if we are one and in one continuum, there is nothing to let go. Its like trying to let go of the air, or like trying to hold onto air. Maybe I have already let you go, and I am balanced here on this precipice held by nothing but my own thoughts. 

Written Reverie

Olives and cheese

I can see everything I imagine
I might imagine everything I see
A jar of stuffed green olives
A spoon licked almost clean
A heaviness, I am sad,
Don’t you love me?
Light and shadows and
a shutter opens and shuts
I gave to this boy
a toy with a red flash
and even a green one
I never wrote it down
the words I wept and meant
He could turn anything into art
An alchemy of light into dark
And I am in love
Music, wine and smoke
and bodies that pulse.
A stain of red on a lip
and nipples against cloth
soon to be undone.
It is not sadness that I feel,
but wonder and then some.

Written Reverie

Wild and Free

You were friends before you fell in love. You didn’t call him obsessively every morning and he didn’t ask you who you were with. You loved him because he was fun, kind and got childishly excited over a cricket match . He loved you because you were like one of the boys, you’d tell him when he was being a jerk and with you he could discuss broken hearts over coffee. You were friends. She wasn’t the first thought on your mind when you woke up and he wasn’t  the last thing you thought about before you went to bed.

But then you fell in love. Your heart skipped a beat when she flicked her hair off her face and you melted inside when he laughed his crooked smile. You fell in love and it was euphoric from racing pulses to rapid breath and passionate sex at every given opportunity.

Now you want to know who she’s with when she says she’s out with friends, you want to know why he’s out with the guys so much. You wonder why there are no flowers or romantic dinners when just a month ago instant noodles over a bad movie were enough. You want to know why he was so absorbed in the match that he didn’t even notice the pretty dress you were wearing. Small things hurt and everything is over analysed, scrutinized and questioned.

When did love become hard? When did love become difficult? Your brow wrinkles into a frown when you’ve called once, twice and she hasn’t picked up. Why is he looking at that girl when you are standing right next to him? But you were standing right next to him the last time he looked at another girl, a girl you pointed out to him. What changed? You fell in love. And being in love is now difficult. But he is still the same. He is fun, irresponsible and makes you laugh. She is caring, moody and strokes your hair. But now he’s in love with you so he must be responsible and she must not be moody and its all just too difficult.

So be friends. Just be friends. But how can I be friends with her? I am in love with her!!  How can you be friends after you have been in a relationship? After you’ve lain in bed your body wrapped around her. How can you be friends when he has explored every inch and fold of your skin. How can you be friends once you’ve been lovers? So is this all that remains after you’ve been in love? Sex and all these binds? Why can’t you be friends and love her like you did when she was ‘just’ your friend.

Find love, find what it is to you. Forget what they told you it was. Forget what they told you it wasn’t. Tear away the boxes, the labels and the warning signs. For heaven’s sake go and love someone and find security in yourself. She is not here to fulfil your needs and he is not here to fill the void within you. Go and love more than one. Love them because they are friends. Love them because they are wonderful. Kiss them. Kiss all of them because you want to and they like kissing you back. Hug the ones you want to hug, wrap your arms around them, mould into them, rest your ear against their chest and listen to their life, their heartbeat.  Live with the ones who’ll laugh with you, cook with you clean with you and maybe look after you when you are sick. No, look after them when they are sick. Love because loving someone or loving all of them is wonderful. It is not a burden. Go to sleep every night your mind empty, free and light.  Love is not a responsibility or an oath or restraint.

Find love, given free without terms or conditions, rules or regulations. Love because it is universal and unique. I love you my way. I will show you my love  and it will be different from how you show me yours. You may never show me that you love me. I may never know. It doesn’t matter. I love you. Unconditionally. Guide love to find pleasure in another’s  smile whether they are smiling at you or someone else. Fly with love in careless abandon don’t weigh it down with the weight you don’t even know you are carrying. Let love grow, wild and free.

Written Reverie

Esteemed lies!

The Lie:

“You are an animal
And you must be tamed.
You do not know how to sit
Or how to eat.
Born only today
Years of evolution
speak nothing for you.
You have to work
and strive and work some more
To be someone
and build the most penultimate of lies.
Esteem please. More SELF esteem”

If you consider yourself fortunate
to have been born into a family
that fit all the bills
Owned the right house
and drove the right car,
then cheers to you dear friend
your lie is probably deeply instilled.

If you went to the right school,
spoke the right words
with the right accent
and even had the right friends
you deserve a drink on us
Your life must have been hard.

So maybe we shouldn’t speak
of the illegitimate children,
the fostered, the adopted
the abandoned ones.
Something was wrong with them,
they were born into sin.
Sympathy was called for
To veil the smiles within
“Oh how fortunate we are.”
Lets take two coins from the pig.

I wonder how they were made,
the legitimate ones?
Did your father not fuck your mother?
Did he not come?
Have you had your paternity tested?
Are you sure he’s the one?

No I am not angry,
there is nothing wrong with love.
A child born into wedlock
and true smiles for their son.
But there’s nothing wrong with us,
the ones that didn’t fit.
The ones from broken families
Who had to do more.
and become someone esteemed,
become someone at all.

Enough of this nonsense,
illegitimate and sin.
Lets speak of better things,
like race, religion and skin.
There’s nothing more to be said?
Why not of sex then,
between men and other men?
Sinners all of us.
The ones that don’t fit.
The path is only miles longer
to the light at the end
In a tunnel made of square bricks
Each one, only so much cement
In an array of square tins.

Written Reverie


In every drawing book, were lines
that were never to be crossed.
And dots to be joined
No two ways, only one.

Green for the leaves
You dare not paint them red. 
All within the dots and lines
autumn all but forgotten. 

No part of the paper
must be left unpainted. 
A complete picture was needed,
no spots left uncovered. 

But life came and life went
And tasks were left undone.
Dots unjoined and lines crossed
Oh! Some colours had run

What of the water colours
The ones made to run?
They were free and uncontrolled
And therefore only for some

From drawing books
to rulers, and accepted ink
And lines..lots of lines. 
I was taught “discipline”

Contemplation, Love, Written Reverie


To resist the need to be affirmed
and not see here what you might 
To know that I need not what I did
the company of a breeze shall suffice
To watch as figures of light and dark
make haste, stroll by and never turn.
To see that which they call you, me
warm and heavy, still and alive
To where you might fly, its never away
when this here was not the starting site
To see in it beauty that is and will be
From work to rest and play we might
See us here for a moment, what’s time?
Of an eternal flow of day as there is night.  

Contemplation, Written Reverie


I can’t ever make you love me or make me love you, but I can love you. I do love you. I have it all. I am all of it. I change my focus to this thing in front of me and everything solid behind it becomes a blur. That is how real everything is.

A thought of guilt creeps into this drama. A cloaked figure that I can see. I was not meant to have all of this. That was the lie. The cloaked figure moves around silently, reminding me of what I have been told. Not meant to have it all. This drama is too beautiful. The cloaked figure leaves. For a moment I think of running after him and bringing him back to this stage. But what difference would that make? It would still be this. This drama. I could run off this stage and never return and it would still be this. This drama.

I like the act that you play and I like my part when you stay. But just like the cloaked figure did, you leave and I can’t make you stay. I can’t run behind you because I know you won’t come back. At least till its your part again. If it is ever your part again. But this play has become so real and everything so solid, I fall to the floor in a heap. The cloaked figure returns and embraces me as I weep. The lights are dim and the stage is everything. I am lost, you have gone. You were not supposed to leave. I can’t remember my lines. Now everyone is watching me and I don’t know what comes next!

I slowly look up and he’s smiling at me. The cloaked figure prances around agitated, as we walk towards each other. I look up at his eyes, the dark figure blurs and slowly retreats  from the stage. I think I know this new role, if it is new at all. This drama is beautiful and I have it all.

Written Reverie


I screamed real loud when I entered this atmosphere of air lighter than the fluid in that amniotic sac. Air static with life of a newborn’s cry and the tension of secrets to be held and kept and wept at for years to come. I grew up in this air, and I cried. A lot. I knew nothing but I knew that this nothingness was everything. So I read and I tuned and I felt what went on. I felt when the air shook with the sighs of one and quivered with the anger of another. I felt and I learned that screams said much less than the tiniest movement of air with the gasp of a hidden cry or the flicker of an eye. And yet I cried. But I never screamed. I don’t know how to. But from that first I never stopped screaming. From gasps to sighs to glances that last too long, I am still screaming. But no one can hear me. No one can hear me. No one can hear me. And I can’t speak because I have screamed for so long that my voice has become a tightly held cold expression of emotions relentlessly at play. And yet I wish you would scream at me. But you don’t either. You don’t scream or shout and you don’t hear me scream. So I write. And I write. And I write. Till the screaming stops. Someone has heard me. Someone has read me. Someone has read my words. Till the next time the flicker of an eye lash disturbs the air and a streak forms down one cheek, the writing can stop. The screaming can too.

Written Reverie

Hierarchy of insanity

Among a hierarchy of insanity.
Where the loudest voice decides
What is right, what is wrong
Where the nits and the gnats
Must bend to the supreme
will of the loudest voice
In the hierarchy of insanity.
Closed holes in the wall
Locks that refuse to lock
Doors that must creak
And dear god forbid
Dogs that choose to bark.
The right foot hates the left
The left detests the right
And the loudest voice decides
In the hierarchy of insanity.

Contemplation, Written Reverie

The Wind

The wind on a sunny day will warmly caress your face and lift your hair gently off your face. At night it will make you shiver, make the goosebumps rise on your flesh and make your nipples erect. On another day you will find yourself on top of a cliff bracing the wonder of its very existence, joyous and dangerous, both mother and child of the ocean. Sometimes the wind will carry you and you will soar to the highest heights and see for yourself what it only takes for granted. The very next minute the wind will just stop blowing and you will find yourself plummeting to the ground if you haven’t learned to use your wings. The wind will move across your every curve and engulf you leaving you feeling naked and bare. But don’t forget you are just another beautiful thing in its path. It will move around you and continue unchanged to wherever it may want to go. Or maybe it doesn’t really want to go anywhere but it will go anyway. Don’t cry if it does not remember how it wrapped you in its embrace and left you vulnerable, even after it has carried your scent with it for a while longer. Wind is fickle and shallow. It only exists in its movement and flow. If you’ve ever tried to hold your breath you would know, it cannot be held, it cannot be trapped. You say you love the breeze but can you also love the raging storm? They are one and the same changing thing. Some people are like the wind. They are fickle, shallow and will cause you to fall to your knees in their storm, desperate. They will caress your face the next day, but will you understand and will you love them, because that is just what they are?

Contemplation, Written Reverie

Tics and Tocks

Why are there tics? And tocks? In a world of sunrises and sunsets and warm lips against pulsing carotids? Why don’t you just touch her? And feel her skin and her warmth and her curves, simply because touching her is nice. Why don’t you just hug him. And hold him for that extra second and breathe in when he breathes in so for that moment of maximum inhalation you are one. Why don’t you breathe when things get tough and stop holding in all that pain in the pit of your stomach. Why do you forget to breathe out with every inhalation of shock and stabbing reality that dawned on you today. Why are you not breathing and touching and sipping water like the rain that washes down the mountains through rocks and roots and silt and still collects in the clearest of all pools. Why are you holding on to the smoke around you and letting it clog your mind and your senses and fall heavy within those crevices only you know exist. Why are you holding the storms of the universe in a single muscle, trapping the energy of a thousand thunderstorms in a heart made for warm flowing blood and pulsing heat.

Why are you having these tics? Jerking. All false sense of  control lost. Freedom, lost from the constraints and the barbed wire you have wrapped around yourself. Your wings are clipped. Tic. Energy bound, held and in protest. Like a moth trapped under a cup. Beating wings and a fight for freedom till one last desperate attempt to break free from walls it cannot break. Tic. A muscle moves on its own. Tic. Life uncontrolled. Trapped within the cells of a person that cannot breathe. That cannot touch the man or the woman they love and just feel warmth, blood, breath, a bolt of lightening and death.

Wanderlust, Written Reverie


I’ve built these dreams of train rides, hikes and the mist rolling in from the mountains. I’ve dreamt of steaming cups of soup and chilled juice while overlooking the ocean. But in these dreams there is a faceless person next to me. An arm around my shoulder and a shadow beside my shadow. A silhouette of two people sitting on a rock watching the sun set. I seem to keep trying to fit a face to this faceless person and over the years this face has kept changing. The shadow has varied in height and width. My shadow has remained the same. In every dream I am there though I don’t know who you are. 

Every morning the mist rolls in on those mountains just a train ride away. Every evening the sun sets, the tide rises and the moon is reflected on an endless ocean. Constant and changing, eternal and inevitable. Maybe its time that I make the journey and live the dream, because this ever changing shadow is nothing but my own creation, a creature of these dreams. Dreams that are reality just a train ride away. 

Love, Written Reverie

Sentence of three.

Love that doesn’t fit into a sentence of three.
Love that loves for no one’s sake.
Love of holding you because I am me
And we are one as we choose to be
One, young, wild and free
No fences or walls, none we create
An attempt to stay afloat when drowning is key
Drown in your eyes as you delve deep into me
Searching and finding and just letting me be
To hold and to touch for these hands did seek
For wanting and getting
A moment when I am you and you are me
We are in one heated pulsing love
That doesn’t fit into a sentence of three.

Contemplation, Written Reverie


Breathe in and hold your breath.
Fill every pore, Fill every cell
Hold your pain, frown
Let the creases form on your forehead
Let your fists clench
The nails dig deep into your skin.
Let your toes curl and heart ache.
Hold. Your. Breath.
Hold this pain.
Heavy and condensed.
Hold it, feel it and live it.
You cannot hold it forever
You certainly must not try.
Breathe. Out.
The necessary opposite.
Let it free.
You cannot hold your breath.
It is not yours to hold.
Breath is free, it is  air
And pain and happiness.
Breathe out.
Feel the knots slips
The ties come undone.
Feel the frown soften
Unclench your fists.
Breathe out. Release. Let it free.

Contemplation, Written Reverie


I like to skim the surface. I stand on the edge of the pond as Narcissus did and gaze at my reflection. Sometimes when I am completely alone I reach out but then I stop myself. I am reluctant to let my fingers penetrate the surface because to do this would mean that I would cause a disturbance to the surface. So I stay on the shore and gaze at myself. And I believe that I know myself. Not only do I know myself, I know the water too. Water is reflective. Did you know that?

Yesterday when I was seated on the rock and studying myself and the water, a child came running through the forest and leaped into the water. He was naked and I heard him scream that the water was cold. He splashed around and I saw the water turn muddy around him. When I looked back at myself, I saw that the ripples of his misbehaviour had reached my reflection. My face was now strangely distorted, ugly. I was angry at this child. How dare he disturb my ritual. My ritual of self discovery and study of water. I sit on this bank every day. I have been doing so for many years now. This boy, in his nakedness and mischief has ruined my ritual. What demon could have possessed him? What demon could make a child want to get into perfectly calm water and make it muddy? In addition to this insult he was claiming that the water was cold.

Water is not cold. Water is reflective.

I almost lost my patience and left, when I saw him walking out of the water. His nose was red and his eyes were sparkling with excitement. I saw him run up to someone whom I recognised and I made a mental note of this. I would have to speak to her and tell her that he must not be allowed to engage in such unacceptable behaviour. A few minutes after they left, I turned back to my reflection. The ripples were gone. The mud had settled.

But something is not quite right.

Something is bothering me.

Its that child you see. And his unacceptable behaviour.


A person of substance.

“No no I can’t go out tonight. I will end up getting wasted, drunk off my face and doing something I will regret. I’m staying home tonight, I have to be up tomorrow for an exam.”

I have re-defined what it is to go out. It wasn’t long ago when I used to go out and dance without a drop of alcohol in my system. “Going out” is now re-defined. Without the alcohol it is not “as” fun. Or “as” crazy. Now when I don’t want to intoxicate my body, I have to also deprive myself one of the few things I really love to do. Dance.

Oh but don’t you worry I have a list of excuses that I can pick from.

“But everyone else is drunk! It feels awkward to be the only sober one there.”

“Someone is bound to buy me a drink, or hand me a glass so I will end up drinking anyway”

etc. etc. etc.

The list continues.

The smoker tells me, “Ah its only after my meal that I need a cigarette”

Another one tells me, “But I was standing in the circle when they passed it to me”

“I only smoke when it comes to me. I don’t look for it. I don’t buy it. If its there I have it”

What do these reasons we so proudly speak out aloud say about us? Have you stopped and thought about it?

So proud that today, I didn’t go out because if I had I would have gotten drunk.

And it dawns on me that it is quite a sad thing to be proud of.. That I can’t go out because the substance controls me. The smoker can’t stop himself if he is handed a smoke. And he can’t stop himself if everyone else around him is doing it.

And what’s sadder than all this?

The fact that we have to avoid situations to avoid substances.

And that we have to justify that we don’t go looking for these things. They come to us you see. They come to us, yes. But we gladly accept it all with a smile and we do only exactly what we want to do. Our substances control us, and we are addicts. Addicts in denial.

You think this only applies to the alcohol, the weed, the tobacco, the drugs??

It applies to everything. “I can’t go past McDonalds without buying a burger”. “I can’t say no to chocolate cake”. “How could I say no she literally threw herself at me”. “How could I say no”.

You could have said no. But YOU didn’t WANT to. And worse than that. YOU DENY to yourself that YOU WANTED TO.

We are the choices that we make, the actions that we take and only very rarely the words that we speak. We are what we choose to be. If our environment, and our friends and worse still our substance defines us, then sadly I don’t think we are very much.

Am I not going to drink next weekend? Hell yeah. I plan on getting drunk off my face. But why am I doing it?



Content confidence

A little growing plant pulled out of the soil halfway, it was growing stunted. Its straightening out now, not sharp and jagged, making the stunt seem beautiful too. Starting with the roots. Content confidence. I water it everyday. It is the awareness of something being alive, vulnerable and able to die. It is not in trying to make it live forever, just live pure for as long as it does. Roots growing deeper as it does, and slowly branching out, leaf by leaf, flowering as the seasons change and providing shelter, shade. Content confidence in every waking sun and dawning day to dusk. Like breathing, in an out. In every step taken forward and back in every clenched and unclenched fist, every blooming bud to a falling petal signing its decay. Its in knowing when a rainy day has made things mud and the days of sun it takes to dry the land. Its in knowing its cyclical, that the winds today will break the branches of yesterday and leave scars in its place. Its for change and the strength of life, the ability to mould and bend at will. Blossoms of white, pure and beautiful today dead and brown and pregnant with life tomorrow, the change from flower to fruit. The only necessity, love, acceptance and content confidence in that which is certain, life and possible death.



I look around this box I live in. This box I call my room, my home. Before it came to be called mine it belonged to another. And before that other maybe many others. But before all of them, it belonged to a tree that probably lived here. A tree that served more purpose and did this space more justice than I probably ever have. This space is now concrete. A box of concrete. Filled with things bought, things given. Things with no life, no meaning, no real beauty. There are few things of value in this box. Few things that are worth the money, the waste, the resources or the sweat that went into making them.

What is really of value in this box?

The books? Yes, most of them. Especially the ones about us that inhabit this earth, Earth’s Children by Jean M Auel. The ones about the teenage vampires? I am not so sure about those. The books I write, draw and sketch in. Yes. They are valuable to me. They are my journey.

The clothes? Hardly any of them. Made in factories in the thousands. I probably paid more money for one article of clothing than one factory worker earns in a day. There is a t-shirt I bought in India. On it are printed the words “Save the tiger”. The beautiful Bengali tiger, a magnificient beast- the main reason for my visit to India. And yet I know nothing about this creature other than what the guide had to say about it. I don’t know why we have to “Save the tiger”. What is harming it? But I wear this t-shirt that says this words and I believe that somehow I have made a contribution towards saving the tiger. How could I be so ignorant, so insolent to even claim such a thing. I have done nothing. Except buy another article of clothing.

The shoes? To number them here is to admit openly to an obsession. An obsession thankfully that is fading. Of the shoes, two. Two that serve their purpose to keep my feet safe, comfortable.. on the assumption that my feet need safety or comfort in the first place.

The accessories? The little souvenirs? Yes some of them. There is one keytag. It is beautifully made with painted beads of clay. Women, a community of single mothers in Kenya, made this and many others like it. It is their livelihood, their way to independence. This is of value. At least I am aware of a purpose, a reason for having bought it. There is a pair of earrings bought in India. In shades of turquoise black and red- handmade. Of the pair, each earring unique, not identical to the other. Beautiful in the choice of colour, the workmanship, the skill of the nimble hands that made them and the mind that created it. There are masks, a carved wooden vase, a woman in ebony seated cross legged- valued for aesthetic reasons, valued as souvenirs, reminders of places seen, visited and experienced.

Technology? Laptop, iPod, Blackberry. Value? Depends solely on what I use them for. The possibilities for their use are endless. And yet for years I have done very little. But now? I like to think I do more, but there is more I could not do too. I say they waste my time. An inanimate object taking away my time? A lie and an excuse to not do something better with the most precious thing I have in this box, this room, outside this room. Time.

Finally. Me? I am this room. Of what value am I? If instead the tree that stood here remained would it have done more. The air would have been a bit purer. I only take up the oxygen in this box. Of what value am I? As of right now. Very little. Maybe tomorrow I will take up less oxygen. Maybe if I breathe a little slower, stress a little less, meditate a little more, love a little deeper, maybe someday I might be of at least as much value as that tree that was cut down, its breathing stopped, to make space for me.

Contemplation, Tragedy


She cut herself yesterday

a long time it had been.

No, not the first,

It might be the last

Consciousness acutely drawn to her centre,

Tumbling inside, all knotted together

She was numb.

Inward, uncontrolled, in a downward spiral.

She wanted to climb out.

Needed to climb out.

Needed to find something

Something else to hold onto.


The sharpest and most real of them all.

What then was she feeling?

Worse than the worst of them all.

She had cut herself once

and you had wondered why

You thought she was crazy

she’d lost all reason and rhyme.

She could see no sense.

And maybe you were right.

Her cuts you could see

From that you might judge

But why did she do it?

What lay out of sight?