You’ve Got Mail

Another night walking home from his place, cigarette in hand, smiling myself silly. My iPod had ran out of battery so I was desperately trying to think of a song I could sing to myself - being the music addict that I am. 

A mailbox. 

God, I thought to myself walking past it, I never realised it was there before. I must have walked this way a countless times, but if one were to ask me if there was a mailbox there, I would have instantly said no. As I walked further away from it, I turned back a couple of times to see if it was still there, dumbfounded by my absolute lack of observation.

Guess we never really know what we don’t know in familiarity. Cause it’s all so familiar, we just assume it’s like this and it is. Have we ever stopped to look around and see what we are blinded to? Stuff we see everyday, but never appreciated, never had a second look at? Stuff that was there all along, just that we were to complacent to notice?

And so I started to wonder, where else I could post my letters.

Redemption

He was small - so so small. I pitied him with each word he said, each sentence that came out from his mouth, each sweeping - and nonsensical - statement he said.

I wanted to stop him, tell him how much bigger the world was beyond his myopic vision. But the more he ranted on.

I could blame myself, but I couldn’t do much now that it was done. He left me with mixed feelings, the cold night air, and a cigarette in my hand.

Did he redeem himself? Did I?

Angry Hands

There you go, another happy couple. All smiles, all laughs, all good, all normal. Publicly showing any form of affection they could and would.

I took one too many side glances at him, each time, looking at his face, then at his hand - so empty - where my hand should be. He looks around cautiously each time we had any form of contact. We were less than, we were smaller, we weren’t them. Not what the public sees as. Normal.

We walked on. Mentally, I held his hand. My palm touching his. His hand, still empty.

Things That Go Thump In The Night

I looked down at my chest. Something was different. I could hear a faint thumping. Could it be? It’s been months since I felt this. I felt life, I felt a feeling, an emotion. I was moved. A wall came down. It was a heart beat.

Deconstruction

A year of building walls. A year of desensitizing myself from reality, hoping that in some way, I would find meaning in my life. A year of trying to be strong on the exterior, a year of ignoring my interior. Basically, a year of fucking up my insides, and becoming a zombie - a heartless, emotionless zombie.

I gotta start learning to live. Learning to feel. Again. Where’s the wrecking ball?

Blank Canvases

You aren’t all that good.

I know I’m not - not now, not yet. I know some things can be learnt and this is definitely not one of them and being mediocre is completely not acceptable.

I will not do this to myself.

I know I’m still that kid who had it in me. Who created beauty and recognised it, way before his years. That sparkle in his eyes - said it all.

Mark my words, I will hunt that kid down. And makes sure he never leaves me again - ever.

Art Porn

Time to start something in my life. I need to paint the Mona Lisa, I need to build the Sistine Chapel, I need to fucking get out of this rut. 

I need enrichment, I thirst for inspiration, I hunger for the visually orgasmic. I need to fuck an easel, I need an easel to fuck me. I need to jump into a pool of assorted oil paints naked and as I ascend slowly from the paint I will rub the swirling colours in sensual circular motions on my chest. I will then attempt sculpting, and mould a huge piece of clay into various phallic shapes, moaning loudly as I am so consumed by the extreme levels of passion and pleasure derived from forming these pillars of art…

Oh. God. I need to break out of this creative block. Pronto.

Gruelling Gradients

I wish I didn’t have to decide. Some things are better left undecided. Grey’s a nice colour - I like it. It’s not as harsh as black, and not as bland as white. I wish we could stay in gradients of colour all the time.

But I guess the reality of it is that if there were no defined colours, we wouldn’t know when to stop or go at junctions.

Road to Recovery

The rain continues to patter on the cab window. A sappy ballet plays on the radio. Sitting here looking out into the night. Thinking. Though I know I shouldn’t be. How long could a week be? Really long? I thought to myself. The rain wasn’t helping. So wasn’t the taxi meter.

Wait for me. Cause I am.