Nº. 1 of  24

spectacular, spectacular

no words in the vernacular

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

—Carl Jung (via 13neighbors)

the city in which I loved

lying on the hood of a cool, inert car, i look up at the silky dark sky above me. the scene i am in is dust-soaked. the air is saturated with pulsating beats and eerie melodies. razor thin streaks of laser beams cut through the thickness of the atmosphere as if it was butter. 

i have spent the night wrapped in warm conversations and bouts of giggles. basked in the light of good company decorated with christmas bulbs and led wires. and slowly, as each person drifts off into their own private sanctuary, i become untethered - another anonymous, floating member of this city. 

the sky surrounds me in all directions. a sliver of icy moon and the sharp glint of a single star’s light pierce through the darkness. the clouds are muffled and heavy; weighed down with dust, they hang low on the periphery. as i lay parallel to the earth, i turn my gaze eastward and watch as the city spins towards the sun. 

ever so creepingly, i feel myself rotate too, slowed down by the enormous gravity of the planet beneath me. together the city and i turn expectantly in the direction of the sun’s brightness. light peeks out from below the vast horizon and scatters into wavelengths of color. a soft red hue glows like a bed of embers, spreading warmth upwards across the cool blue sky.

i am being pulled away from the darkness directly above me. drawn into the bright white light which obscures any man-made beams or reflections of space rocks light-years away. as the day envelopes this section of the earth in its heat, the light enters and fills me to the brim, burning a path of emptiness in its wake - and i become everything and nothing, at once.

In the darkest hour of the night, I lay amidst the white-blue sheets you bought for me, thinking of your discerning eyes wandering over rows and rows of packaged bedding, trying to decide which colors would please me the most.

A recording of soft piano and violin plays through my speakers and washes over me as I remember the night you stayed in my apartment, after the doctor’s visit. We sat on the couch, munching on hummus and watching the news. We talked about love and relationships and how to lead a happier, simpler life. You had tidied up my place while I was at school, and the apartment was clean in a way only you could achieve.

I wanted you to stay with me longer; I imagined you spending the week with me after each visit. We’d stay up late talking and during the day, I’d take you to my favorite city spots, to show you the Chicago I had fallen for, to give you a taste of the love I felt for this city.

Instead, I’m lying in bed alone. Wishes and regrets seeping into wet puddles on my pillows. I want to call you to tell you that I’m happy now, that I finally feel like things might be okay. But I can’t and things won’t ever really be okay, will they. And a piercing heartbreak mixes with my faltering happiness and pushes against my chest. The feeling breaks through the sternum and becomes a cloud that surrounds me. A bittersweet mixture of darkness, sound, sharp pangs of memories, and wistful imaginings of moments that can never be. 

early morning fiddling, a nice way to start the day :) 


Never knew freedom, or life for that matter, could feel this exhilarating - BM 2012

Photo Credit - Alex Fumsan


Never knew freedom, or life for that matter, could feel this exhilarating - BM 2012

Photo Credit - Alex Fumsan

The air was full of moisture - as if it had been overambitious in its thirst and now lay on its back, belly full of moisture. I had the shutters of my window pulled open, regardless of the rain, in order to let the warm, exotic air drift into my room. 

I’m not one to undress quickly, but the steady drumming of the rain set a slow and throbbing rhythm that made the act of disrobing even more languorous. Amidst the moisture and foreign smells, I try to imagine the orchard in the town I was trying to escape from…

The dry summer sun, beating down on rows of lush and fertile trees. And, within the hazy recollection of summer harvest, his image slowly materialized. Young and soft, dressed in a striped tee-shirt and dusty blue shorts, he looked around in panic. He had lost sight of me and began to whirl around, eyes frantically scanning between tree trunks. From my perch in the branches above, I looked down at him. I had never seen him look so vulnerable.

My mind, realizing its error in conjuring the image, quickly clicks back into the present.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

-e.e. cummings

She’s sensitive, too. Takes to hurt the way water takes to paper.

—Junot Díaz, This Is How You Lose Her 

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via poetfire)

Nº. 1 of  24