Monochrome Me

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Just Another Atlantis

i have to admit there was a time when the idea of you and me

was equal to everything that is intangible.

there used to be a time when love was a city

and this city was surrounded by walls that stood sentinel all around,

with a golden gate to keep the likes of us out.

later in life, i realised i was born on the wrong side of the gate

i realised that i’ve never seen any more of this great city

other than its silhouette at pre-dawn.

no wonder i wake up too early, when the sun hasn’t yet risen

and the streets are still empty, the dust settled.

they all talk about the road to happiness and the path to hell

but there’s never been a path or a road, a ladder or a mountain.

we’re in the middle of an ocean.

and we were never set out to swim.

we are shipwrecks and oil spills,

our arms are packed with the same things that anchors are made of.

but then, the gates flung wide open

and we ran til our feet were but blisters and blood.

we ran til the air we breathed began to choke us

so we gasped for more, and for a moment we were like fishes out of water:

weightless, free, and dying. it was the closest we’ve ever come to beautiful.

and then, we came in contact with the concrete.

for the first time, i didn’t mind being broken at all.

phone conversations overheard on public transport

"it’s not enough to love her," she said. "boy, you gonna have to let her know too."

Anonymous asked - "I miss him so much it hurts , and I don't know what to do without him ..."

this is what i do:

"Tomorrow, we burn our flags. We’ll watch the colours shift to hues of orange and blood. We’ll let the ashes run through our fingers like riverwater. We’ll drink up like it’s the finest wine until our throats are clogged up and we’re all as drunk as the guy with a thousand glass shards for a heart. Tomorrow, we burn this house down. The windows will explode inward, the roof will fall through. Brambles and dandelions we tended to out back will strangle each other to death. The children will pick them by the handful a year from now, I imagine, and sell them as necklaces down by the wharf. But the ocean’s miles from here, you say. If anything, this place is a desert, with occasional rains to dampen our moods. Oh, but the oceans will come to us. Because tomorrow, we drown. The vultures will die, the sky will finally meet his dancing sister. The clouds will weep and weep and weep. And you will float towards the light whilst I sink into the moss."

- We sit idle for today.

Anonymous asked - "I miss her God, do I miss her It's like the tightening of the chest losing sleep over the thought of her head on my chest and my hands in her hair while trying to fight back tears yet you moved on and she's there and God do I miss you... Thoughts?"

Dunno, man but “it takes getting everything you ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.” - Lana del Rey


she tiptoes atop fences
in need of paint,
four feet high.

on one side, the grass
are like needles
with eyes that wait
for threads to pass
through because the sky
here breaks more often
so it is in constant need
of repair. but the earth here
is softer and the birds,

on the other side,
the flowers are bent low.
some say the wind blows
fiercer here. but no one
can see the wind.
so some blame the thorns
tiptoeing across a rose’s
back instead.

it’s a lovely painting, you say.

Anonymous asked - "Do you still take writing requests?"

Yeah. Send them in :)

Anonymous asked - "What do you look like?"

Like a girl, I suppose :)

"There is an ember in the soul of a poet. The way he wields a lie so easily, or in how she professes her torture so casually. And how the mind can be so wildly uncouth; between unyielding storm beckoning, daring us to summon it, teasing us to strangle sentences together in some kind of vain recollection of memories and intrusions into our desires and long forgotten impulses. Or there’s the choking silence instead in which there is nothing but bones, cobwebs, white noise and ill formulated clouds. But still we pick up our pens and search, we create, we dare, we discover, we travel; we sketch out the love we feel we are capable of, but know we are not; we triumph in the face of our madness, we laugh at the fluidity in which we write but cannot speak; we conquer the wastelands, we mimic maelstroms and marvel at our own volatility."

- (via reykogast)

i don’t mind being alone. but today, i do. today i do.

i think we’ve established the difference between lonely and alone by now. but then, 3am us has been writing to 3pm us more often again lately. and she’s finding new ways to tell us that life sucks.

there are crickets outside and i have no idea how near or far they actually are but they all sound like they’re rubbing their little wings furiously on top of my brain like there’s no tomorrow.

when i was little, i used to hide beneath the blankets with a flashlight and a book to read until after midnight. by then the crickets would start to sing. and i’d rub my own hands together as fast as i could, hoping for some music, or for them to catch fire. either way, i would’ve been a happy kid.

i was never the happy kid. but the happy kids never knew the difference between lonely and alone. and i do, i do. just, not now.