Fear Talks

The setting was impeccable
flickering lights, foul winds
shattering glass, hurricane ring
The prospect however, quite terrible
the bitter cake in front of us, barely edible

 

‘Let us begin now, child’ fear tapped on the table
with its fingers long, dark and brittle
Unavoidable as this chance encounter was
I could already sense it going south, thumbs twiddled

 

‘Um.. How do I begin? Where does this start and where does it end?
What came before? the chicken or the egg?’
I asked, expecting a reply, barely holding back a sigh
Fear sneered itself into a mocking scowl
‘I do not know. Ask another question’
And so it continued one after the other
All to no avail

 

And thus, went the night
No sudden fright or icy spine-chilling roller coaster ride
Just an inert presence slowly fading away into distant memories
And once time was up, fear did not need
to disappear or even continue with the sneer

 

For the most lethal and darkest of fears
are not quite what they might seem
made not of tears or unfinished beers
not of companions found or lost
to the depths of time or even spectres in the rear
none of these situations perhaps even come near
the true depths of real darkness as it might appear

 

nay, the true destroyer is the question
the silent whisper in the back of your head
on a lonely rainy night, you very well know or you might
that silent whisper that slowly asks you to give up the fight
it’s all quiet and serene before its begins
a violent internal riot
tears you up, smiles as you slowly and slowly
choke your own dreams, kill your own means
until all that’s left is a few spare beans
nothing radical as you die watching tv in your jeans

 

there is perhaps another vague voice in the back
of your head that talks slowly while all the lights get whacked
and then before you know it, you killed it
every single cheat code hacked
while you play your video games
silent bliss oblivion
no desire nor fight left
it disappears and stays at the same time
reduced to not a even a nickel or a dime
ladies and gentlemen,
I present to you.
The power of the human mind

 

Bravo. Hurrah. Hallelujah.
Now, die.

Watercolours

The wonderful thing about life,
It starts with a blank canvas and a box of brand new brushes
You just need to find where the colours are
Magenta, green, purple and red
And some of them you conjure up all inside your head
And thus begins the journey

 

The more interesting thing about this situation
You start not knowing how to draw
A splash here and a spatter there
Some of it hits where it needs to, some doesn’t
Alas, a flawed masterpiece
But what does one truly do
when there aren’t any erasers or a clue
It does even seem that nobody cares
for a while

 

You keep splashing through
Like you’re learning how to swim
But you cant seem to see beyond the deep blue
You can’t find another colour
It’s quite the struggle to
find the colour you need,
perhaps because what you want is a different book to read
Not the same one over and over
You want to breathe, smell that strange clover
That once revitalised you, made you hover
Alas, it might be over

 

And then, the colour starts hardening
and so do the principles and the beliefs
You never realised this would happen
A great deal of more questions, a lot less answers
What must a hardened artist do,
After years and years of mistakes
centuries of colour shakes, watching sunset lakes
trying to get that inspiration before its too late
Maybe it’s already too late
The questions change everything

 

The next few years dissolve
trying to pick apart the hardened canvas
There was no other eventuality left
In between the confusion and the questions
The search for brand new colours, abandoned
Dismissed as a pointless charade
You don’t need brand new colours, you just need to get better
and there lies the belter
An artist destroys one’s own shelter
why you may ask, why the helter skelter
Is it perhaps disillusionment
With how the world works or perhaps something more conflicting
In nature

 

Maybe it’s our own opinion curvature
That spins us round and brings us back
to where it all began, in the rusty mind shack
Old canvas, old beginnings
No winnings
Airs are bold, but white hair eventually take hold
Another machine sold
For barely a percent of a life
Why even try anymore, why keep wrestling trife
Yet that one canvas slowly crackles away
As you go about your day
Harder work, lesser pay
Until one day it all dissolves before you
And another beautiful painting is lost
Memories, people and places
They all eventually disappear
The crackling paint finally melts
Death finally knocks
And finally asks that one question you always feared
What is it that made your life worth? What did you achieve?
Another blank canvas waiting, you say
I lived.

Failure, The Creator

Success once asked failure ‘I give a man everything he wants – fame, money, a good life, high esteem in society. what do you give? nothing but pain,misery and sorrow.’

 

Failure replied – ‘I give those men a road full of stones, pebbles and potholes to walk on. they bleed, scream and curse their fortunes. I am their worst nightmare. I crush all hope. I’m a monster. It’s true. but know that without my existence, their life would be hollow. Without me, there would be no you. I am the creator.’

Inside the Palau - A Short Story

 
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ACT I

(0:00) INT. HALLWAY

(0:08) ‘Hahaha, this sounds like fun, lets go further!’ said Max pacing through the hall. ‘Come on, let’s go!’ He beckoned. They were in the middle of a long hallway with several doors. Claire was hesitant. ‘I don’t know Max, you know we could get lost and we aren’t supposed to be down here. Maybe we should go back.’ ‘No we’re either going together or I’m going alone.’ Max stated with a sense of blunt resolution. Carpe diem. Now or never. This was it. She decided to take a chance and follow Max. They soon came upon a red door on the right.

(0:22) “You first” he said. “Are you serious? I’m scared shitless and you’re being chivalrous. Is this for real?” Claire said exasperatedly There was a flicker of the light. “Woah, what was that?!” Claire thought to herself and consoled herself thinking it was just another power outage, or maybe another one of those stupid power malfunctions that had been plaguing the Palau recently.

 

 

ACT II – DOORWAYS

(0:32) She opened the door. Another long corridor, another long winding passageway of doors and lights, much like several they had encountered before. She wondered if things were starting to get strange and there definitely seemed to be some amount of confusion sifting through her head. She and Max had been walking for the past two hours through every door, passage and hall they could find in their strong attempt to get out of this massive architectural marvel. But somehow, it seemed that the further they went, The more difficult it got.

Claire took a deep sigh and walked into the hallway. The door slammed shut. “Max, is this your idea of joke, It’s not funny!?” Silence. no reply. “I swear I’m going to kill you, stop playing around!” There was still no reply from Max. “Fine! I’m going ahead. I’ve had enough.” She hesitantly tried opening the door that had just shut behind her to no avail. She had no other choice but to walk ahead. There was a slow comedown, a realisation. fear had slowly started to wrap itself around her and she wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Had Max disappeared? or maybe another one of his pranks? Little did she know that it was neither.

 

 

ACT III – BLACK

(0:48) Pitch black. Nothing to see, no eyes to be able to navigate. No cue to let him figure out which way was forwards or backwards. Max could sense a fleeting state of anxiousness taking over him. Purely guided by his ears and the tempo of his heartbeat which seemed to get faster with every second, he paced around trying to sense the entire hallway with his hands. As soon as he started moving, he heard a distinct sound like the one of a lever being pulled and something being set in motion.

Suddenly, the whole room was shaking and rumbling beneath him. It was alive, and breathing. Maybe he was going upwards, or maybe he was going downwards. It could have been either or neither. He had no idea.

 

 

ACT IV – WHITE

(1:10) Stark white and shiny, the room was. Claire wondered what she had got herself into. Perhaps travelling halfway across the world to Valencia to study opera music and violin had not been the brightest idea. But then again, adventure had always been her middle name.

This, however was different. The fear here was more menacing, more insidious ­ something she had never felt before. She whipped out her phone with the ridiculous sense of hope that there would actually be a signal. There wasn’t. 19% battery. She had to figure something out. and fast. She had an idea. She would open every door, see what’s behind it and eventually manage to figure out an escape route. Claire was going to find something very strange and unpredictable.

 

 

ACT V – INERTIA

(1:29) The room rumbled and screeched to an eventual halt. Max got thrown by the inertia, landing face down a few steps ahead within the hallway. This place was indeed getting stranger by the minute. Where was he and why did that door shut on him before the lights went out? There were so many questions but no answers. He decided that the priority would be to get out of this place as fast as possible. Composing himself and standing back up, he decided to again start by feeling for the walls and finding a door. He was very sure that finding a door would perhaps bring him easier to an escape route.

(1:40) Max put his hand on the wall and started walking sideways. In some time, he realised that it was not just the room that had changed but perhaps what surrounded it. There were no doors anymore, or so he thought. Frantic and losing composure, Max sat back down and started wondering if he was ever going to get out of this place.

 

 

ACT VI – REPTILLIA

(1:50) Suddenly, there was a click. He looked around but he clearly could not see anything. Must be a figment of his imagination, he wondered. A slow creak on his left alerted him to the distinct possibility that maybe he was not alone in the room anymore. ‘Who’s there? Show yourself!’ He shouted half­-expecting to hear a reply. There was none. ‘Goddamnit!’ he muttered to himself and punched the wall with all his strength. There was no movement for a while. And then he heard them ­ the footsteps.

The ticking time­-bomb of realisation would eventually hit him. They certainly didn’t seem to be human footsteps.

 

(2:30) An earth­-shattering, shrieking roar followed.

 
 

Winter, She's A Traitor!

serene, icy cold winds blew that day that day she left, trees moaned in sleep

flowers wept, the sun long gone, slept

only whispers from old sirens felt

haunted ships of old memories lie in disrepair, wrecked

old, tattered and decaying like crevices of an old door

One i stopped stepping on, eating itself on the floor

music written, abandoned and destroyed

a broken score, a static flare on the edge of night

infected and choked by plague, blight

gangrene on the soul, black blue and white

all brittle, all bite

I shiver under the shelter of a dark cave

while I mourn her loss

Winter, she was cruel.

Letter upon letter, I wrote as seasons passed

Questions, answers, doubts yet nobody to ask

t'was quite a task

when yer at the end of the flask

give him a mask! give him a mask!

It was all so slow, it was all so fast

the weeping banshee wails, a remnant tethered flag still half mast

still in fragments and glass shards, I peek at the past

too many love letters aside, cast

what might one do when all that's left is the twig of a tree

another crumpled up page about what we used to be

a delightful mystery, an abyss underneath a beautiful symphony

a cacophony of all that was dark, all that dissonance and all that monotony

reduced down to a bare memory

Is it all that she wanted of me?

Winter, why were you so cruel to be?

That Bottle of Wine.

Seventeen seasons passed.

I only needed two to realise it was too late.

Not yet, I told myself.

Some days were too bright, some too dull.

Some too busy, while some ah, forget it just not right.

a seven in the morning and a five in the night

weren’t they all the same

controlled and tame

just not yet, no time for that bottle of wine

as the grainy sands of time trickled through my fingers

winds turned, eclipses appeared

fight, disappeared

sunsets blew away the fury of youth

just not yet, no time for that bottle of wine

on my deathbed now I lie

wondering why I would never quite

open that bottle of wine

laying seconds before my death

the hounds of hell speaketh

in wrath and growls

calling me to the grave

unashamed to be brave

and to be depraved

of one last sip

there wasn’t ever a time for that bottle of wine

Broken Mysteries

Oh, sinkhole.

What has life become?

Once, a flowery wisp of smoke caressing my lips while I slept in dreamy oblivion.

Awake and charred, broken and boldly breathing.

May this dawn bring a new recovery.

Another finished bottle of unhinged madness.

a broken colourful sandbox with crystals purple in green.

dissolve in my shrunken head.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

When everything’s broken. what can you find, yet again.

what can you find, yet again.

repetitive motion. actions and motives.

left right and center. while the collective conscious static ever-burning.

How many fires I daresay, should burn before I find fresh water anew.

it’s a broken mystery.

The Ship That Sailed Far Too North

My life has always been a kind of oxymoron.

A walking contradiction.

Mirror inversion.

 

I have seen rejection.

I have felt the sound of collapsing waves.

 

take control of wandering minds.

before I took it apart.

 

The crash is inevitable.

when you swim in murky waters.

 

you knew it all along, didn’t you?

It was.

 

It wasn’t meant to be.

you were stranded.

 

but you watched it fade.

day after day.

 

you ask why.

that ship’s already sailed.

 

they said.

with a fret and a shrug.

 

times change and so do I.

 

What’s to kill is to buy.

 

you prick and you pry

 

but we did try.

 

you and I.

 

We never.

 

Fly.

 

past differences.

 

motive and ego.

 

A disturbing childish game.

 

who is it to blame?

 

is it me, is it you?

 

is it the sky, so violently blue?

 

what sets us apart?

the paths we pursue.

 

the method and the madness.

intertwining.

Question and Clue.

 

I ask the whistling breeze.

it replies in whispers and codes.

 

The only path, after all.

is the road that stretches ahead.

 

No more sea, no more to see.

what is to be, will be.

 

My world explodes, and all that was is far past damaged.

I walk.

Chaotic Visions I

Seconds are passing me by, and it’s futile.

But I’m looking for maps yet unknown and wondering if they’ll lead me to new places.

But what is new, and old when your life is a straight line.

There are no jagged curves and violent heaves.

Without an extreme, it feels synthetic.

Like a machine all alone trying to find its purpose in the universe.

The bull without a master is the most dangerous of them all.

Do you prod it with an iron stick? Or do you make it one of your own?

How do you tell the illusion from the mistake?

Do you pull the curtain back before a flabbergasted audience?

Do you let them drown in self-ignorance and let them discover the method to the madness?

Isn’t it all just a rumbling criss-cross of jumbled-up motion and intertwining fates on top of a speck of a dust?

There are no higher purposes, what if it’s all made to just be.

A giant test.

An experiment.

Starts with self-medication.

You slowly incapacitate.

When it’s just not visible anymore, you become your own test-tube.

You toss one chemical and then the other, hoping for an even bigger illusion.

Something so synthetically cheap and poisonous to yourself, that it helps you to see, to feel.

But you’re not there yet.

More chemicals. It’s a kitchen party and we’re all inviting ourselves to this giant experiment.

Still not there yet.

The fix eludes you.

This doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.

Not until there’s pain and love and sorrow and ecstasy. Nothing feels real without it.

Was this the giant plan? Are we so fucking numb? Are we so fucking dumb?

Where’s the colour. Did it all bleed out the day we twisted and churned our world into hues of gray

Black, white and pistol-shit

Death and desire, Sin and Sex.

If the world was inherently good, we’d have to be evil to feel, to know it was real.

To see the truth behind the lies, the dumbing down, the constant conformity. Feeding the chaos.

Killing the inner eye. Working for the man. Not sticking it up to him. Slowly decapitate ourselves.

To see what matters. For patterns start to emerge everywhere. Everything connects.

Once you’re  disconnected enough. from everything.

From prying eyes, from the chip in your brain, from all the unnecessary sound, from that painful ring in your ears that screams.

Screams and screams and screams. It cries hoarse. You have to fucking hear me. Why don’t you fucking listen?!

From the big man in the sky, that kills all that lives and all that dies.

Do you see the giant TV show, it’s playing out on a chessboard.

Three. C. Pawn to King. Decapitate.

E Seven to Be Four. Replace.

A warp machine is being created. Distorting the signals in our head. Its creating a giant fucking abyss.

Tearing apart all that thrives. Making mothers shriek. Lifting children up and then throwing them back into the war, like they did before.

The endless cycle continues.

Chains

Seldom life sends you flowers, it sends you gifts and boots
but sometimes it sends you colours and men in suits
They jump off roofs dressed in blue and disappear
real life didn’t give them a pill, only fear and more fear
pumped up by the media, drugs and hysteria
like a bland computer program coded in sepia
they carry out functions, imitations and visitations
embrace board meetings, notes and perspiration
Finally, all processes come to an end
a new one must take their place and blend
into the dust of the evening train
Come, follow the story of chains

 

Once, a boy much full of glee
and thoughts otherworldly
Decided to steal a key
to a locked closet, mystery
It was old and pointy
abuzz like a bee
he wondered what it would be
Maybe a door to another universe
or maybe a stone with a curse
Could be a walking-talking toy
or just a girl and a boy
stuck for all eternity
He tried to see, but it wasn’t meant to be
Come, follow the story of chains

 

A dreamer and a screamer are similar, yet not the same
while one thinks, another plays a child’s game
This is the story of dwarves making claims
One sees a monster under every window and door
while another sees a new world beyond the moor
Days and years seem trivial and forced for one
while another counts the seconds and minutes of the sun
which one is the better and which one the lesser?
Stuck inside a mushroom, there is not much room
to decide which one is sane
Come, follow the story of chains

 

Before I begin a tale, another
A word of caution, brother
listen and laugh to your heart’s content
but after we arrive at the end
run back to your tent
tell no one, what you heard and said
this is all a dream and you’re in bed
A snap and a click will wake you up with a fuzzy head

Surreal Captivity

I sit and I wait.

And it seems like an eternity for her to come.

The dawn of a new idea never echoed before in the universe.

Maybe, a brand new pill.

Manufactured and Digested in the system.

I eat and get bitter. It makes me so much more content.

Like self-consummation, only more dangerous.

More real, it seems.

But what can I say about, what needs to be or rather, what is?

It is within these thoughts, these fractals and patterns.

That I lose the plot somewhere.

I remember how easy it was.

To break a wall, and make a new one.

Now it just gets tougher and tougher with every fleeting moment.

It towers through, engorging all that lies ahead of it.

And as I get infinitely smaller, it is only much bigger.

Oh, what a monotony has set in.

There are no new ideas.

Only cheap manufactured clones of what once was.

Oh, such tragedy.

This existence.

It is but a true form of what lies within and about.

It is much more dangerous and alive.

Cannibalism, it is at the heart of the beginning of everything.

How else do you rationalize all that grows and all that dies.

All that withers and all that blooms.

It is all just a cycle.

Inversion of variables.

Black. White. Cyan. Magenta. Yin. Yang.

Rational Numbers. Irrational.

And yet hopelessly lost within the chaos, there is a need to go back.

The need to just be.

Everything so vicariously opposite to each other, its just eats up.

All that was, all that is. all that will be.

Such revelations only destroy.

And they plant seeds yet unknown.

I do not know what lies ahead of me.

Only an infinitely long cycle of time.

It repeats itself after every cycle.

And that is truly what lies at the bottom of this arrest.

This hopelessness.

This need to destroy. To be Destroyed.

And it all amounts to Nil.

The universe, it cancels itself.

The secret window in my mind, it tells me all I need to know.

but what I want, I will never know.

Dimensionless.

When The Gloom Kicks In.

My life is a scissor pale zigzag.

It goes from bad to worse to fucking amazing.

It's a spiral road into infinity and back.

It is the worst possible trajectory you can imagine.

A hell-hole that promises cheap thrills.

only instead of making you feel any better, it only consolidates the promise that things are only going to get more difficult and fucked up.

You want to sit and chill the fuck out. but nobody gives you the freedom to do that. you're in this cage of a system. pumping shit through, in and out of you. It's one big fucking vacuumed vortex of pressurized shit that only gets heavier and heavier as time passes by.

things get distorted. visions get blurred. paths are not clear anymore. you can't remember where you were five minutes ago. you're fucking confused and you don't know where the fuck you are anymore. you're spinning through space and time at several miles an hour and you cant feel anything, and yet you feel so much at the same time, its nauseating.

Before you know, you're being packed into a little tube one millimeter square big and pumped through the universe at the speed of light. it's disorienting.

you don't know where you're going.

You're Lost. You're Lost.

When The Gloom Kicks In.