Remember That Corner?

Do you remember? Everyday in that blissful summer,
We’d meet by that corner, walking beside each other,
And you tried to show me what love is?
You wanted me to love you, even though
You couldn’t love yourself.

You made me feel like my love wasn’t enough,
Like my love was worthless, but it was just
Something you weren’t prepared to accept yet,
Do you know how that makes me feel?

Do you remember, that night in that corner again,
The beaming streetlamp, the frosty wind,
When all love grew cold and withered away,
Into a space where all your favourite lies are kept?


The Painter

You remind me of topaz stones, summer’s interlude into autumn, and a sea of cerulean pimpernels.

I want to say this to her, but I can’t.

I simply fail to bring myself to doing so. I just stand, frozen in awe in some realm independent of time and matter.

The setting seems to slowly fade into nothingness, leaving only her form and the painting she’s immersed in. The setting? I’m not entirely sure where I am anymore. And it doesn’t matter. The fact of the matter is: I’m here, and so is she.

Perhaps we’re in some archaic building with a murky clay interior for walls. An old, former-temple, no longer in use, maybe. The ceiling is probably about 30-feet above us. There could be a square, window-sized gape in the wall, ushering in a beam of sunlight which trickles along the smooth but dusty ground.

No furniture, no decorations. Just an empty, expansive building enclosing only a huge, intricately designed Indian-style rug, the cushion she’s knelt on, her canvas plus all her equipment, and herself. And me.

Her eyes don’t trail away from the canvas set before her for a moment. I’m sure she’s not even aware of my presence. Her hands, slender and polka-dotted with paint, move elegantly. She motors the brush over the paper with such graceful and refined technique. I simply stare for a while, encapsulated by the wonder before me.

To me, she is the art. An important piece of work, worthy of being framed up only in the most sacred of places.

I pictured for a moment me laying back-down beside her, strumming away at a sitar, blanketing the empty room in a psychedelic melody while she continued painting. That’s what I wanted to do, to just lay beside her.

She pauses for a moment, placing the brush down gently on a pallet. She retrieves the steaming cup beside her and sips at the drink, probably Pu-erh or Matcha, all the while glaring intently at her incomplete work. Her expression indicating neither contentment nor distaste.

She’s lost. Lost in the alternate truth and existence that the colours set before her have enticed her into. A truth and existence she forged, herself.

I simply gawk. She brushes an idle strand of hair behind one ear, and with the same finger, prods her glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

She’s clothed in a simple over-sized button-up with the sleeves rolled up and dark olive shorts. Sandals lay next her. Her jewellery is minimal, but notably precious and beautifully ancient. A crown of full, semi-curly hair rests upon her head. The roots brown, fading into a resplendent blonde. Vague, dark patches circle around her eyes, and a hoop in her right nostril compliments her gentle expression.

She radiates this array of strange but somehow rejuvenating energy. I can’t explain it well. But as I eyeball her with this keen infatuation, it brings fresh, vibrant flowers to mind.

She reminds me of everything that blossoms.
Of precious stones passed down through generations.
Of a chest of ancient gold.
Of exquisite hues.

You remind me of topaz stones, summer’s interlude into autumn, and a sea of cerulean pimpernels.

I want to say this to her,
but I don’t.

Ramblings (Nostalgia)

(Inspired by Cristian Mihai’s “Nostalgia” post). 

Nostalgia has always been a big thing for me. Of course,
we all get times when we feel nostalgic and are temporarily
taken back to a specific moment in time. But it’s odd, there are times
where I can find myself deeply lost in hindsight, so severely that
the present time seems to melt away, to fizzle out into some frivolous mirage.

I’ve never had an addiction, as such, but hunting for things,
anything – pictures, music, old text messages – that can
snatch me from the present and take me back to a specific
experience, or give life to a feeling I felt a long time ago has
always been something I can’t arrest myself from doing.

Again, it’s odd. But it’s deeper than just being lost in a memory
and getting a strange feeling in your chest for a moment.
It’s almost as though, over the years, I’ve trailed through life,
shedding bits and pieces of myself as time stretched on,
parts of myself of which, for whatever reason, I’m almost
afraid of losing. Little sentimental components which make up
the entirety of my being. Like as if, if I was to ever lose who I was,
I could never be sure of who I am today. So I have to keep
checking up on the old self,
like checking if the sky’s still blue or if fire’s still hot.

I’m afraid to let go. I shed, I change, I grow, but I never want to
completely throw out those old pieces of me. It’s like a kind of photo album of all the experiences, emotions, thoughts and personalities I’ve ever had.
It’s something I enjoy looking back at, a strange confirmation
that I really am here today. That I actually exist.

I’ve changed so much over the years.
Particularly because I’ve never really known who
I was only until recently. So looking back in hindsight
and at the person (or different people) I once was helps me to realise who I am.

And being the sad and lonely kid I was, I (me now) sometimes want to back into the past and place a hand on the shoulder of the person I used to be and tell him,
Hey, don’t worry so much. Things’ll get better. You’ll find yourself one day and really know who you are. And smile.

Nostalgia is such a bittersweet stigma.

Ramblings (Nothing New Under The Sun)

“[…] There is nothing new under the sun.”

Although I’ve taken the quote vastly out of context, it still holds relevance in this specific area (and many, many other conditions).

Sometimes I feel that way.
That nothing is new, nothing surprises or excites me.
And as a result, the days are fleeting and the
gears of time shift on perpetually and mundanely.
I barely realise the days go by.

The sun rises, and gives way
to the moon before I’ve had time to digest the dawn of a new day.
The days don’t even feel new sometimes, it feels as though I’m
watching the same morning, looping over and over again
as reality turns more and more grey and drab as each passing
day trails on.

Time glides nonchalantly through me, and I through time.
A lot of the time I’m not soaking in the days, I barely feel at times.
Pages turn with no real sense of understanding of the stanzas and episodes of life.

On and on… Nothing new is under the sun.