She’s screaming into your face with tears streaming down her eyes but you’re not really hearing what she says. You watch her face, red and ugly from emotion, veins popping out, mascara trails that reach her jawline. The more emotional they get, the colder you get, she’s gone too far away from any reasonable place of communication. All that’s left is frenzy.

They’re all the same, really, they are. They don’t get half as emotional with a woman as they do with a man. Is it something about us? Something about natural union that brings up things that usually aren’t there? Or is it a simple deception? I don’t care.

She’s done crying now, she won’t speak anymore. She won’t leave either, she wants you to know she’s in pain, indeed, she probably thinks it’s your fault, whats more, it probably is.

You’re reckless, selfish…emotionally handicapped. No woman would want to be with a man who mistakes dopamine for love, you know this, you tell them this, they rarely take your word for it. Most of them think they can heal you, most of them are foolish and superficial. I suspect they don’t really believe me when I tell them they’ll get hurt or when I tell them I’m cold, until it’s too late. “You don’t want love, you want a love experience.” Indeed.

You have what a woman needs superficially, charm, a spontaneous heart, and a sense of humor to make up for the lack of any real empathy, making a brutal deception possible. It always ends the same way, they realize and accuse, you accept and leave. Sometimes they cry, and they look at you through their tears and you know what they’re thinking, you can see it in there: disbelief. They didn’t clock you for a world class asshole. A world class HONEST asshole, I insist.

They want to be loved, unconditionally, till they stop loving you. Sometimes they want you to love them even when they don’t anymore, the whores. They want to be loved right till the end, I would oblige if I could, but I really can’t. How long do you think it’s going to take to get to know her? A month? Six months? An year? Usually a lot less, and after that there’s nothing, no surprises, no secrets to uncover, no great feminine wisdom to behold, and yet they want to be loved. Ask them why and they’ll tell you it’s because they love you.

I don’t care, let them cry, they’re all the same, lying, skin deep, simple minded and pretentious. They’re incapable of caring for anything that’s beyond the immediate, a boon some might say, spare me, for I’d rather be consumed by the universe than be satisfied in a bubble of mental stagnancy. In their hearts, I suspect they know themselves all too well and they remain unashamed, unlike me, I have to find myself everyday and not everything I uncover sits right with me.

I don’t care about them, I don’t care about me either, goddamn us both. I’m tired of the games I’m expected to play, the tests they puts me through, all the chemicals amok. I’m done, forget it, I’ll let them be from now on, I don’t need a companion, I need some help. So much for the love of a woman.

Notes from a dying youth.

Tell me something I don’t know, she said. I looked at her and in that moment I knew I loved her. I didn’t love her as a lover would, though we were lovers by then I suppose. No, I loved her as she is, and I wouldn’t have loved her if she was even a little bit different. I loved her because she deserved my love.

Young men have no business writing about the world or even about love; they haven’t seen enough of either.But I suppose they can write about the spaces between love and the world, where anything is possible and everything is a revelation.

Young men also have no business feeling melancholy, it is unnatural. In most cases it is a simple pretension, the young long for the woes of the weathered, but every once in a while a man is born with an inherent sadness, a darkness. And they take it to their graves which come too early to these misfits. Darkness chooses wisely, and leaves too many traces behind.

Love, harshly.

They stared at each other, her on edge of the bed with eyes swollen red, him standing at the door, eyes hidden behind black shades. Cigarette smoke drifts up in fantastic shapes from around her fingers, the ash trailing long, the ashtray on the bed, full of butts, most had her lipstick at the end of them. On her other hand was a stick of plastic with two dots on it. The dots said she was pregnant, and they said it simply, just like the previous one had. The previous one was in the dust bin, with the same number of dots on it.

She asks him what he wanted to do about it. He says, get rid of it. It’s the rational thing to do. They were young, he says, she was young, they were just starting out, barely. It was the right thing to do, he says. She cringes at that. Her eyes are brown behind the film of tears, she blinks, they trickle down. She stares into his tinted sunglasses. I don’t know what I want, she tells him. He tells her it’s biology. Mothers are designed to feel protective of their offspring, even at the cost of self sacrifice, especially at the price of self sacrifice. It feels natural, like it’s the right thing to do. But it isn’t, he tells her.

He goes and sits next to her on the bed, she edges away momentarily, realizes she’s done it and moves back. He doesn’t seem to notice behind the glasses. She stares at him as he lights his own cigarette. They sit like that as the smoke rises around them in the tiny bedroom. Outside the only window of the room, the evening birds chirp and chatter, a distant child’s scream is heard, her voice giddy, and beyond that one could hear traffic. How real the world is, she thinks. She lies down on the bed, her head away from him and towards the window, and listens for more.

He turns his head to look at her, how tired she looks he thinks. But she also looked at peace, the strain around her eyes and the stress on her face disappeared. She had the look of one who was recalling memories of a distant past. He reaches out to touch her leg, she senses it and pulls it away and her face goes back to show the pain. She closes her eyes and her breathing eventually becomes a consistent rise and fall. He puts out his cigarette, goes to the window, opens it and lights one more. Golden light filters in, the kind that only shows up in summers. He suddenly thinks of the last summer of high school, some five years ago. How did things change so much in such short time he wonders. He watches the golden light slowly become orange and then red and then fade into a melancholy grey. She sleeps on behind him.



She wakes up to a dark room and the pain comes back with her, clutching at her chest like vines. The window is lit with yellow street light that does not penetrate it, the man is no where to be seen. She sits up and stares at the window before putting her feet on the cold floor and walking to it. Outside there is nothing but the street light spewing yellow, and the darkness surrounding it. A tear trickles out of her eye, down her pale cheeks, her jaw, before falling down on the window sill, reflecting back the faint light.
They sit next to each other on the bus, her head resting against the window, eyes staring out into the fields that are zipping by without actually looking at them, him next to her, eyes shaded, jaw clenched and shoulders that won’t relax. She looks at his reflection in the glass window, the man she loved. Loves? He’d asked her if she wanted anything before boarding the bus, water? Food? Candy? She said no. He got a bottle of water and bar of chocolate and slipped them into his bag. She felt repulsion and overwhelming love at the same time. She wanted to turn, grab his arm and put it around her neck and rest on his shoulders. He’d turn his head and smell her hair. They’d entwine their fingers and he would start tracing the tiny scar on her index finger, over and over again, the scar from her childhood when she accidentally shut the door over her hand. She tried to hold the tears back, she was tired of them.

He felt her eyes staring at him from the reflection on the window. He always knew when she was looking at him, he fancied he even knew when she was thinking about him. He was all to aware of the gap between them, of her leaning away from him, trying to get away. He wanted to touch her, but he knew she wouldn’t let him, he wanted to touch her anyway. Grab her and not let her go, even if she’s kicking and screaming, hold her head against his chest as she cries. He wanted to make love to her, make love to her and keep the pain away. He wanted to heal her.
He caught a whiff of her hair and breathed in deeply and held it.

It was a 3 hour ride to the city, to the clinic, neither of them spoke a single word to each other the entire way.

The city roared with sounds, smells and sights. They made their way to the clinic, dodging traffic and walkers alike. When they had to cross a busy road he’d switch sides and put himself towards the on coming traffic, then he’d switch sides again on the divider, always keeping her on the far end of the approaching traffic. She wanted to hold him then, hold him and tell him she loved him like she used to before this whole thing. She’d hold him and tackle him down on the bed, hold his head and feel his breath on her breasts as he fell asleep. Then she thought about the little piece of life in her belly, his and her life, combined and made into one and headed to the slaughter house and the hatred came back. Hatred that threatened to consume everything in it’s path. She imagined him going under the wheels of an oncoming truck. Blood, brains and bone on the black tar road under the burning heat of the march sun.

She realizes with horror what she just witnessed in her head and starts shaking. Fear replaces hatred replaces self loathing. She’s shaking now, he sees and puts his hand around her, she jerks away, he turns and resumes walking, eyes shaded, and shoulders straight.

He waits for her in the lounge of the clinic as she walks in with an attendant. Behind his sunglasses he studies those around him. Young men, old men young women, old women, all the same, here to resolve a declared problem, declared by whom? doesn’t matter, he thinks. The walls are covered with posters and images of contraceptives and condoms, and information on how to use them. Some were about family planning, most seemed to prefer prevention rather than responsibility. He closes his eyes.

She wakes him up with a nudge. The first thing he sees are her bloodshot eyes, she’d cried a lot. Then he registered the blank look on her face, the painkiller, he presumed. They made their way back through the congested roads and the traffic to the bus depot, and from there the receding city, the growing fields and occasionally the ocean on their left. He’d asked her if she was hurting, she’d said no. he asked her if she wanted to eat something, she’d said no. She stared straight ahead or out of the window, but never at him.

The bus pulled in to their stop and they get out and start walking to her apartment in silence. When they reach it she turns to him and looks into his tinted sunglasses and tells him she doesn’t want to see him anymore. She tells him not to call her or even talk to her if they should run into each other. She does this simply, with no hatred or sadness or any other emotion. She also says bye. He nods his head once, the sunglasses slip a little and he pushes them back. Then she turns and walks away, leaving him alone on the street. He watches her shut the door behind her before turning and walking away.

He reaches his own apartment and walks up the stairs, his back straight, shoulders stiff, head held up high. He walks up the 5 stories to his flat, and takes his shoes off before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Inside he’s sitting on a chair, his sunglasses resting on the floor, his hands over his eyes and head, shoulders slumped and shaking gently, the yellow evening light from a window falling over his head, like some ironical halo.


December Lost

Ugly man, lonely man where are you walking to?
can’t be to a women, no decent one will love you
not with those broken eyes, that big ugly nose
where do you go, with that broken lonely soul
do you cry yourself to sleep, all these cold nights?

broken man, hurting man, why do you cry
no amount of tears will save your bleeding soul
hurting man, go live by yourself, on your own
no sunshine will warm your freezing heart
no tune shall bring back your long lost youth

no love for the broken in this world
no love for the hurting and the bleeding
find your own love, leave them whores alone
for all women are whores, when they see a broken man

lonely man where did you lose your soul?
for now your are not only lonely
but also ugly, bleeding and unwhole
you have lost your way

women, those whores, feigning holiness
have cost you your being, your sense of being
but you have let them do so, you fool
whores they are, whores they will be
but you are worse sir, a fool of a man

do not blame the harlots, you have damned yourself
whores might not care for love, but you do too much so
now you walk alone, through sirens screaming
screaming, they swear their indifference
but lonely man, whom do you walk to?


Lazy dark clouds floated above the funeral house like an apparition, while the chilly mountain wind whipped the clothes about the congregation below. The attendees stood around a particularly small coffin, unbelievably small almost. Cruelly small.

A group of eight stood on one side of the coffin, like how only a family could stand; closely, without discomfort. The youngest of them, a woman, barely, stood closest to the coffin. Tears streamed down devil red eyes, dragging her mascara down her slender, delicate face. Her abused eyes did not leave the coffin.
The women in the group were sniffing loudly, the men stood solemnly, with stern jaws and firm eyes. Eyes that would occasionally settle on the man on the other side of the coffin and harden.

He was young man, almost as young as the woman on the other side. But he seemed to grow older the longer one stared at him, as if time were speeding up for around him.
He did not cry. His face betrayed no emotion, his eyes were lowered but his gaze was distant, his shoulders slumped slightly. The wind whipped his long bangs, making them move about his head in fantastic ways. A leaf caught on his jacket zipper and stayed there before setting itself free.

The funeral master’s voice rose and fell with the wind, his monotonous discourse lost on those who were grieving.

“….and we lay this infant child down into the earth, into your care again lord,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust….”

The older women wailed at a higher pitch now, one of them even blew her nose dryly into a kerchief. The men held their women, the children, two of them, fidgeted and waited impatiently for their elders to get a move on. Eventually the family hustled and floated away, towards the gate, to their parked cars, leaving the young woman and the man alone.

She lifted her eyes in a quick motion and fixed them on the man. He was looking at her. Their eyes met, like so many times before, but they both knew something had changed in it now, forever. From now on, every time they would look at each other, it would be a reminder, a reminder of the part them that was now lost forever. That piece of them that now was in the ground between them.
Her eyes now pleaded at him. As if begging him to do something. Anything. But he just looked back at her, with eyes that saw her as she was. It was impossible to see behind them. She suddenly gasped and cried out, her face crunching up, like how she must have cried when she was a child; overwhelmed by pain. She clutched at her heart and slowly came down on her knees. He was there before she hit down. He grabbed her around the waist and lifter her up. She leaned against him and clutched at his jacket.
They walked back together.

She looked up at him while they were walking, through a glass of tears and saw the same expression. His eyes faraway, his face blank. Neither of them said anything.

When they reached the parking lot he stopped near his dusty red hatchback while she walked back to her family. They were already in the car. She stopped midway and turned back, again, with the same begging eyes she looked at him. Searching for something, something she knew she’d find only in him. Her hand found her breast again as she held his eyes. His broken eyes. She took a few steps forward, as if to come hold him, but then she stopped, turned, ran to the car, got in, and then she was gone.

The man looked on till they turned around the corner. He then turned to the hill and found the dark patch in the ground, he made as if to go to the grave again, but he stopped and just stood there. The sun slowly went down behind the dark clouds,without showing face, and still he stood there. He stood there as the clouds finally broke and let down upon him. He stood there even as he got into the car, pulled out and drove away, his eyes, the same. And still he stood there.

Letters To My Dead Self #1

Days of nothing. Days of regression. Days of living a half-life, barely there, barely aware of your own being. What a waste of life. And the longer life is lived like this, the more you forget of how it really is. The bliss of being in the moment, of living with will, presence and awareness. You know this, you know it all, but knowing means nothing here.

Days turn into months into years and we are all here, but are we? Are you here? Can you stay here? With no apologies, no expectations, no fear, no anxiety, just a witness….a witness to this holy playground. Can you? Can I? If yes…we made it. we are the godhead.

Noises, noises all around me, all within my head, begging to be heard, to be invested in. Noises from other people, other people telling me things i have no interest in, things i find no joy in. Leave me to the silence. I have nothing to say to you.

Let nothing be taken seriously, especially the things that beg to be taken seriously. These men and women with their stern faces and rigid eyes telling anyone who listens about the harshness of life and preaching the true way to live it. Fools. All you know is all you’ve chosen to see, all you are is all you’ve ever allowed yourself to be. I reject nothing. I believe in nothing and everything. I care not for your truth. I shall find my own. Now off with you.

You have desires? Acknowledge them – write them down, ask for them, work towards them. This is a part of the play. You do not acquire? Try harder or let it go. Do not complain! Never complain. You must suffer, but must you suffer loudly without dignity? Cursing and wailing you put a dent in your end of the universe. You do not know what you desire? Sit by yourself in silence for a while and watch your angst get washed away.

But above all…breathe. And you shall be just fine.

A Letter To The Lost

You do this often, and it works so do not despair.

It is not an exercise at all, but rather how nature unfolds, or at least how it’s supposed to unfold. Like a flower blooming.

Live here. Live now. Breath.

See everything for what it is, see it with love if you can but never resentment.

You stray the path, like misguided sheep, and then play shepherd and bring yourself back. So it is. So it is alright.

On good days you accept most of yourself, of bad ones I do not wish to speak on such a beautiful morning.

A sign, a guide, a conversation is what you crave for, to beg clarification of your righteous path. But you forget, such divine synchronicity only occurs when you forget the self and stop looking.

Blessed are you with rationality, riddled with emotions, yes, but rationality it is, hence the last good king predicts your success. Do not doubt it. For no harm shall come from it.

How do I stress the utter importance of vulnerability?

To stay open, to be subject to ideas, emotions, people, events and perhaps in some contexts, even thoughts, all the time maintaining your position as a rational man. Alive and observing, strong and grounded, while still letting himself get carried down roads that he knows not where they lead.

Because that is life. That is how you grow. And amid security, self assurance and comfort there is nothing but old age and self loathing.

So live and breath and be, in this holy reality while you last. Even as we speak your time grows short.

So live. And let nothing take this reflection from you, for than you would be a failure. A human non-being.

So live. And breathe.

A Practical Solution

He gave up looking for the pills and looked around the wrecked room.

He’d knocked most of the things around in his feverish frenzy. Trying to breath calmly, he focused on his heart pounding against his chest and ignored his thoughts and the rising anxiety. It was worth trying.

He gives in, and thinks of alternatives. One presents itself. Not very healthy. Not very practical. But there is the promise of effectiveness.

He steels himself, walks slowly to the wall and leans, resting his head against the cold plaster. Slowly lifting his clenched fist he begins knocking it against the wall.

Slowly at first, just a gentle knocking. And then faster, harder.

Before long he’s pounding with all his might. Over and over again, with tears starting to flowing down his face.

A muffled scream escapes even as he clenches his jaw tighter. The fist stops mid air and he lets it drop to his side. The blood slowly trickles down to the floor into a pool, next to a smaller puddle of tears from his face.

He listens for any thoughts that might pop up. But there’s no space for thought. The pain dominates everything else.

Pain kills pain. The irony is not lost on him as he chuckles through the tears. Pain, the painkiller.

And then it comes. A silhouette of a face. A scent. The essence of a memory. Vibrant, alive, breathing.

His body shakes as a torrent of energy takes over him. Anger. Self-loathing. Despair. Pain.

But mostly anger.

He clenches his fist again and raises it and throws it against the wall with everything he’s got.

A crack. Followed by his bellowing.

He collapses unto the floor, writhing in pain, and listens to his own repressed screams bouncing off the walls, clutching his broken, mangled fist.



He lights a cigarette and watches the city’s skyline through the rain, smoke rising up in disturbed patterns. Patched up hand still throbbing, he focuses on the twinkling city lights with moist eyes. They were seldom dry these days.

He leans out the balcony and stretches out his better hand to the rain, and the rain embraces it with cold droplets. He looks down, 15 stories down. A long way to go. He sighs and steps back, pulling long and hard at the cigarette.

Death was a solution he couldn’t afford yet.



The Downward Spiral.

Angel dust and blood flowing from my nose
fumes from my belly, oozing through my pores,
the darkness in my rotting lungs
a reminder of my date with the reaper.

kill thyself, lest thine be killed
father awaits my bleeding soul
regardless of the heathen I’ve been,
when am dying slowly, I feel whole

Angel dust and needle pricks,
numbing soul and killing thoughts
toxic spirits and suicide sticks,
ease my pain, take me quick.

All these vices, all these tricks
just to feel something else for a moment
can’t do it otherwise, no way slick
angel dust and needle pricks,
one last time, take me quick.


I have been watching and I see nothing at last. I’ve been blessed with emptiness.

Everything on my mind can and will be dropped, leaving me whole and inspired.

My resistances, a seed to perversions. Levee broken, soul set free.

I am nothing, I know nothing, I don’t have to, I am.

Nothing has been solved, just a revelation regarding the lack of a problem.

I witness; my thoughts, my emotions, the fire rising from my belly through my spine to my skull. I am the watcher. I have the power to let power go.

I am nothing.

I am free.