the dance at an epilogue.
love is washing the mugs a little slower after they leave.
dancing to a song that slips out as slivers of a broken hum,
a smile on her lips.
it is cold outside.
the window glass outside is frosting.
slowly.
i have a tendency of imagining the people i love dying. seems so gory. i've had so many dreams, it's become less gory now. i think it's a way of unconsciously experiencing grief.
it's trying to understand how i would feel. getting used to it.
fearing that if it actually happened,
i wouldn't know what to do.
the preparatory murder of grief. to subdue by comprehending.
i have become a subject for experimentation.
a lab rat for the self.
that's how i know how to medicate others.
-
the door is open. please close the door.
the door is open. please close the door.
the door is open. please close the door.
the metal gate clashes against the rusty mechanics of the elevator. unless you pull it really hard, you continue hearing the voice of a lady in the same hypertonic voice.
the door is open. please close the door.
the voice is sweetened. a sort of sweet that lingers in the pockets of businessmen. it's as if she is smiling from ear to ear as she requests the gate to be shut. i don't think she realized that it angers people after a while. the sugar in her voice.
a more monotonous voice would have made the experience less frustrating.
a man's voice perhaps.
the lift people have sugared the contents of this woman.
i wonder how that lady is. whether she is even real. whether she has kids. whether she ever loved. whether she only breathes through the cheap steel walls of a cranky lift.
or maybe i read too much into it.
i observe the metal pieces being clashed into.
their physics has worn out.
-
i am not good with prepositions.
it's always the prepositions i worry about in the question paper. yet there exists this superiority factor that feeds a 'i have always been good at this. of course i know it', which tells me if i practice the exercises, it dilutes my dexterity with the subject.
i used to be really good at english as a kid. that was one subject i knew like the back of my hand. i don't know whether that derived from my mother's proficiency in the language, ultimately imbibed in me,
or if it came as one thing i could be definitively good at.
i was eventually the 'english' kid. all the other students made my grades the comparative mark, so i was always under this ego-funded pressure.
at one point i had an enormous amount of faith in my skill, so much so that i refused to spend time with my books before my language exam.
owing to my mastery, that is.
this behaviour has fed into my adolescence. whatever left of it, atleast.
this contains too many 'i' sentences.
heeya is used to writing in first person.
it is starting to feel selfish.
-
didun is going through this surgical process.
they have removed her front teeth. it will make her look very different, once the new teeth come along.
she has always been conscious of her teeth. they grew inclined, and have ever since stayed at an angle. used to seeing her that way, her teeth became beautiful. she isn't pretty, but she's beautiful.
there's a slight difference :)
i see her, when she laughs with a hand on her mouth.
i visited them yesterday.
dadan was seated on a comedically small bamboo chair in front of a television that seems to malfunction when handled by anybody but him, and didun (now vacant of an insecurity), stood at the door the way she always has, waiting. knowing. understanding.
in another world, i would have lived with them on a farm. not a regular farm. an enid blyton farm. with fluffy cows and whatnot.
in another world, my father isn't dysfunctional. in another world, my mother isn't fighting the walls closing in on her. in another world, my sister isn't trying to find anomalies in herself.
in another world,
i know how to run.
i know not to understand.
i accept that to love is to destroy. to murder.
the door is open. please close the door.
the door is open.
i have a tendency of imagining the people i love dying. seems so gory. i've had so many dreams, it's become less gory now. i think it's a way of unconsciously experiencing grief.
it's trying to understand how i would feel. getting used to it.
fearing that if it actually happened,
i wouldn't know what to do.
the preparatory murder of grief. to subdue by comprehending.
i have become a subject for experimentation.
a lab rat for the self.
that's how i know how to medicate others.
-
the door is open. please close the door.
the door is open. please close the door.
the door is open. please close the door.
the metal gate clashes against the rusty mechanics of the elevator. unless you pull it really hard, you continue hearing the voice of a lady in the same hypertonic voice.
the door is open. please close the door.
the voice is sweetened. a sort of sweet that lingers in the pockets of businessmen. it's as if she is smiling from ear to ear as she requests the gate to be shut. i don't think she realized that it angers people after a while. the sugar in her voice.
a more monotonous voice would have made the experience less frustrating.
a man's voice perhaps.
the lift people have sugared the contents of this woman.
i wonder how that lady is. whether she is even real. whether she has kids. whether she ever loved. whether she only breathes through the cheap steel walls of a cranky lift.
or maybe i read too much into it.
i observe the metal pieces being clashed into.
their physics has worn out.
-
i am not good with prepositions.
it's always the prepositions i worry about in the question paper. yet there exists this superiority factor that feeds a 'i have always been good at this. of course i know it', which tells me if i practice the exercises, it dilutes my dexterity with the subject.
i used to be really good at english as a kid. that was one subject i knew like the back of my hand. i don't know whether that derived from my mother's proficiency in the language, ultimately imbibed in me,
or if it came as one thing i could be definitively good at.
i was eventually the 'english' kid. all the other students made my grades the comparative mark, so i was always under this ego-funded pressure.
at one point i had an enormous amount of faith in my skill, so much so that i refused to spend time with my books before my language exam.
owing to my mastery, that is.
this behaviour has fed into my adolescence. whatever left of it, atleast.
this contains too many 'i' sentences.
heeya is used to writing in first person.
it is starting to feel selfish.
-
didun is going through this surgical process.
they have removed her front teeth. it will make her look very different, once the new teeth come along.
she has always been conscious of her teeth. they grew inclined, and have ever since stayed at an angle. used to seeing her that way, her teeth became beautiful. she isn't pretty, but she's beautiful.
there's a slight difference :)
i see her, when she laughs with a hand on her mouth.
i visited them yesterday.
dadan was seated on a comedically small bamboo chair in front of a television that seems to malfunction when handled by anybody but him, and didun (now vacant of an insecurity), stood at the door the way she always has, waiting. knowing. understanding.
in another world, i would have lived with them on a farm. not a regular farm. an enid blyton farm. with fluffy cows and whatnot.
in another world, my father isn't dysfunctional. in another world, my mother isn't fighting the walls closing in on her. in another world, my sister isn't trying to find anomalies in herself.
in another world,
i know how to run.
i know not to understand.
i accept that to love is to destroy. to murder.
the door is open. please close the door.
the door is open.
Gustav Dore - Les Saltimbanques. (1874)
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