this musty little corner of the wide, wide world of the internet (that is, this site) is usually only visited by my lazy ass whenever my emotions seemingly jerk awake after being in a long, long slumber (extremely rare considering my phlegmatic disposition), or when i draw notable inspiration from the world around me (also, has become a pretty uncommon occurrence nowadays due to my mundane routine of absorbing things already explored and things already discovered a thousand times before myself).
rest your bones from time to time because there is an unavowed need to have those moments in which we sit down in repose: the only way to catch a glimpse of delicate seedlings swaying in the cracks of the asphalt pavement, how they stretch their necks to satiate their thirst for cups of sunlight. petals a tad bit more saturated than their mother’s, she’s an ocean away. tip-toeing to reaching a little higher than the sporadic weeds to see every setting of the sun. slapped so hard by the wind that its head descends to the earth. then recovers and dreams grandly again, skyward.
so everything is motionless and we see motion.
then we understand and carry on.
(sit down again if you must)
i looked once and then i crossed
last post as a fourteen year old — not going to be obtusely pretentious this time. here’s a picture of the skyline that traces the peripheries of my happiest memories. there is so much i have moulded in this past year and so much i want to demolish. clock’s ticking — thirty one minutes. i feel oddly insipid this time round — my heart has slowed down to the tempo of my grandmother’s strained footsteps; to the distracting soft grumbles my brother makes when he dies in a game. clock’s ticking — twenty seven minutes. my eyelids are fluttering, threatening to shut, to the rhythm of my grandfather’s hurried breath whenever i’m running late for school; to the hastened scratches of my baby brother’s pencil on his worksheets. clock’s ticking — twenty five minutes. i can feel the searing heat resonating under the railways of my skin — like my mother’s warm tears on my cheek when i tell her i’m not good enough; when my dad holds up one of my certificates and smiles a smile warmer than the coasts of a thousand tropical beaches. clock’s ticking — twenty three minutes. my heart starts to swell and soften. i think about you guys; not even the horizon between the grandest mountainous vistas and the azure heavens can contain how grateful i am for you. i’m fading into inevitable slumber now. tomorrow will be like any other. a genesis of a new day, a better epoch. ok bye.
in bitter retrospect, i lay my head down and my vision becomes one with the multitudinous stars. the placid rhythm of their pulsation, analogous to the heartbeat of history, keeps … slowing … down … and in my great sorrow for all the thing i’ve done i seep away into soothing repose, like rainwater into a shore, letting the waves take me with them to a better tomorrow, where i am forgiven
nobody thinks of the sunrise as a metaphor, when it is in all actuality. in thousands of years of idle orbit, earth’s inhabitants think what they see, despite theoretical defects. the human skull, a barrier to true wisdom, is so rooted to this world we know of. to sit among dewy bushes with a cup of coffee to catch the ritualized rising sun makes the moment seem fleeting, when in fact, the golden ball of fire is nothing but permanent, while transience and mortality is all we will ever know of. who are we to predict the years that the sun has left to burn in all its glory, when we have still not found a way to induce how many more times we ourselves may witness it, our momentariness, our final denouement?
us, puerile, earthly beings measure our time, our environment, and lives by the immortal sun, yet forget to see clearly the colossal disparity between it and us. just as i hold your face between my hands in clandestine visits, bathed in moonlight, it slips my mind that although you are like me, evanescent and a physical body destined to return to the earth as dust as what we started from, the ephemeral rhythm of your heart is what will let your ribs forever rise… and set… long after the sun makes the horizon its grave. time perpetuates nothing, epochs fly by one after another, yet you are my immortal metaphor, and the fire in your eyes will continue to burn for the cosmos after all the solar deities have dropped their staffs.
i’m sorry for my recent disappearance in terms of poetic entries. my voice and imagination had simmered away into the thousands of blank papers that i had been forced to review, complete, mark, revise, write, examine, analyze, take down, remember, cite, fill up; you name it. what a paradox it is — education and school gave me the gift of what it is to write, yet it is too what drowns it away. due to recent events i had been brought back to read a few of my past works that i had uploaded on this website, and i am nothing but bemused as to how much i had forgotten the joy of documenting my musings in the form of prose/poetry. how wonderful it is to have my own words remind me of the beauty of itself. i promise i will be back, and i promise to learn to let the sunrise bleed into not only my eyes, but my soul once more, and with that i will pick up a pen.
– xoxo kelly
all beauty and great things in this world are created because one has another. if we didn’t all coexist, there would not be a need to write, a need to construct, a need to theorize. i’m starting to think that we humans only create for. we dance for. we paint for. we sing for. even the mighty taj mahal, those towers of white marble in all its grandeur, was the creation of mortal love for another.
when i think of you, words flow out of my mouth like honey, sounds dance on the soft exhale that escapes through parted lips. i dust for i clean for, hoping to find potsherds of memories in the chasms of my (un)consciousness. my feet trace your silhouette as i spin to the music in the room. i don’t even have to try.
for the only thing i’d live for
— is you.
i don’t know you yet but i know you are out there
making memories that i’ll hear about years from now
over a hot cup of coffee, long black
in a cafe where our eyes will first meet
and a question will linger above our heads
do i know you?
(inspired by lang leav and themessyheads)
‘the world is full of kind people. if you can’t find one, be one.’
what if the world around you told you they didn’t need your love? it would only be forced into their veins, like painkillers through injections and tubes. my dear, their skin is made of concrete and your gentle shower of love will never permeate their souls. words, soaked in honey, will trickle off their faces, never felt, never heard.
sure, you could do a little favour for someone or tell the cashier to keep the change, or hold open the door for a stranger, but how much do they ache for this benevolence? will you be remembered, or will you dissolve away into the crevices of their minds, like trifling dates of the past, like an ordinary dinner they had last week, like all the kind people eventually do?