Pride brings a person low, but the lowly in spirit gain honour. Proverbs 29:23


September 2016


Over the years samples of life collected from various places and times are embedded into the storehouses of my memory.

The overwhelming sensation that rapidly approaches before the sudden thrust as a vision passes from the components of the eye into the hollow skull.

Traveling through the sea of crimson blood, reaching the fist-sized organ; balancing the logical between the extraordinary.

The involuntary pondering that follows as a dazed fool stands in utter awe of the process of forced memory.

A strange, yet stupidly amazing image from the seconds ticking by before us, travelling through the pupil, fighting against the rays of radiant light,

Agreeing with the laws embedded into the fifteen year old minds of a classroom full of facts, anatomical structures hung on the white walls of an empty room.

But the blind sensation, as one embraces the embrace of ethereal, life-lasting, eternal memories packed into the complexity of a fist-sized organ.

And still, the wonder and awe of a degenerate will remain, whether writing, reading, speaking or embracing the blind sensations gifted from the heavens above.


Photo Credits: A painting by Moon Beom.


A Boring Childhood

Often I find myself telling people that my childhood was a bore. But after some time, I find that most of the things that I say are most likely to please people. I am so infatuated with the idea of being alone. I loathe the company of others who I know will never offer to be there for me in my darkest hour. And so, my thoughts are always to push people away from me…as far as I can. But you cannot do this so rashly, you have to be gentle, subtle. People should not directly sense that you oppose their company, but rather they should hint from your body language that you don’t really want to be near them. The thing is, I’ve always been an observer. Never the one who was observed and over time as I grew up and was more noticeable, people started observing how shy I am. People started pointing fingers lightly at me, accusing me of being a “social coward”. So be it…if I am a social coward then so be it. But I am not a social coward. It took time, but I grew up silenced, not by anyone but by my own freewill. I was scared of the sound of my shivering voice in a room full of people who seemed to gape down into my weak youthful soul. I still admire anonymity and I desire it but I know truly that no man will ever achieve such unlimited power. I know that. That’s saying that your blind even in the sight of God, but I digress into a whole another topic. Sure, it’s a good thing to be anonymous but no one can ever live a life full of such freedom. But anyway readers, I had something to say! I did. I had much to say. The beauty of an observer is that they collect various artifacts of human behaviour and store it into a museum within their minds. Observers open new doors, psychological notes and records which are all piled away into neat little files. The thing is, the complex system within our mind is debarred. It is held tight within the walls of an inferior soul. Many times, I feel that the mind and the soul war with each other. They seek different things. The objects they desire are antithetical to each other. Glory and anonymity. They diverge from each other. Two parallel tracks of different origins and destinations: one heading into the brilliant, radiant horizon of a yellow Sun. The other heading down into the abyss so dark that even the stars are lost within the black mass. I write this with the thoughts pouring out into my mind. See, the beauty is, even though I cannot speak as eloquently as this world will let me, I am not bothered that others will find it offensive when I write it down. I may not be able to speak but I will write.



Click here for Meraki.

A Backward Family

“How many times do I have to tell you that we could’ve been happy the way we were? How many times do I have to remind you all the things you did to look better before others were the unnecessary stress that bought us precious time in our lives that could’ve been spent on happiness? And are you, happy with yourself? Are you pleased that all the hard work and your deeds are missed by the greater audience? I cannot comprehend why you still believe that you should estimate yourself on the values that society established? The morals you brought from countries blended with your own Western living and left you indecisive. It is a sad cycle to see the backward continue going backward, because, you are aware of your own actions. And though you could fix them, your mind has always bended towards the path of destruction, a path where nothing is gained but lost in a black mass and never regained. Your hard work and your efforts were better spent elsewhere. We could’ve been great. We could’ve been happy. That word, happy, we never hear it anymore. Pessimism and correction are words floating around the house for joy and acceptance have been expelled from the walls of this ruthless establishment. But the war inside of us rages like a storm and if it could be conjured up by some supernatural performance, we would watch as a hurricane savagely tore down the broken memories that lived so long in this place. Yet, to the world, we can hide the pain and the sorrow. Strangers will easily believe that our hearts are content, filled to the very brim with joy but even if they were smart enough to know we weren’t the happy number of individuals, they wouldn’t care. The neighbourhood closes their doors to the problems of the world and yet though I have lived so long here, I feel like each and every conflict is calling out to me.”




How come it took me so long to figure out that the life I was living was never something that I wanted? The little things in life that I couldn’t put my finger on seemed to dazzle and fascinate me with audacious dreams that surpassed the boundaries of the universe. Indeed, without a doubt, I was sure that I could live off of these magical moments believing that they were conjured up easily. After twelve years of my life were robbed out of my memory, the experiences and trauma that I’d collected over the years were remnants of the past me. I was not prepared for the change that would sweep over me like a hurricane, shaking me to my very core. It would be an irreversible experiment where those magical moments would be ghosts of a fallen dream. I never knew that the life I was living was going to eventually fade away. I would be lying if I said that this transition that I’d anticipated was something I wasn’t excited about. Truthfully, I speak with remembrance, of a young girl, dancing around in the rain under the shadow of old flats, her tanned skin fresh like her youth. Screaming, shouting and squealing. When she cried, it was not missed, for they resounded through the walls, down the streets and into the ears of a passerby. Her wild personality echoed in the dells of her memory, and all she could see was an auspicious future. Recklessly she lived her life, being the rebel learning about the world that in her eyes and her mind rejected her. Back then, I never felt like anyone really loved me and it never concerned me if they did. I wasn’t hoping for some natural disaster that was as quiet as a mouse to consume me, destroy the youthful body that I disregarded and reform me. I listen to the rain and the shouts of people in their flats, I listen to the chorus of children and I stare intently into the blood red sun hoping for some portal to open up in the sky, beckoning me with its eerie radiance. I ask the world, will you take me back to the days…but there is never an answer. This is the sadness that cannot be explained through salty tears and consoled through warm embraces.


Click here for Horror.


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Maybe under all the glamour and glitz,

We’ll finally uncover the seedy truth,

Concealed by troubled hearts blackened to ashes.

We’ll discover the distance from the mountains of elation as we tread the salty waters of tears.

And eventually, our thoughts will all converge into a biting silence filled with agony and confusion.

We’ll be blinded, writhing in pain like the creatures of the earth, crawling on the dust, feeding on white powders and exhaling plumes of grey smoke.

Treasuring moments when heavenly interferences cause us to rethink and be moulded into a flawless vessel.

Burning tatters and tears in old garments in a rising fire, consuming dead lives.

Fascination with realism turned into fascination with the procedure of gentle demise somehow.



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They shrugged off my questions gaping down into my broken soul; ostracising me to confusion and loneliness,

Shadows became fleeting friends, coming and going, never permanent sources of support,

And the only words that were exchanged between the reticent adolescents; words that were lifeless as a grave,

Some who bought into the lies before their minds couldn’t even comprehend the whole setting before them,

Voices were hushed over melodious phrases drifting across the seas of eloquent rivers of musical notes slurring,

Hands bonded by precious metals, pearls and rare beads, that boasted only illumination yet withheld shame.

Eyes painted finely to resemble the youth of children’s dolls, that retired once their material was in tatters.

Such was the industry of the generations, to intoxicate them with obscene lies that encouraged greed,

That welcomed destruction to rot the core of vulnerable, gullible fish swimming in the deep end of the world,

All seeking for glory and fame, reputation in this hard game that no-one ever needed to play.



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The preliminary years had long back gone through the transition phase, leaving me distraught, holding onto a ghost of a person,

This chaotic sense of mind allows thoughts to visit the dark senses, the theological senses, the playful phases, and sink back into oblivion.

How is it possible to return to innocence?

Those days were sweeter than honey where there were no cares, no regrets as the Sun rose from the brightening sky and sunk to the beautiful fading tones of an ethereal magnificence no longer recognised nor acknowledged today.

She grew up surrounded by four-wheeled vehicles that exhaled plumes of grey waste, driving past the countryside where her mind opened its borders to even more realisms.

Her days were silenced; factories breathing out ashy grey gusts into the night sky, and somehow she saw it as beautiful.

Everyone told her she was beautiful being, but deep down, even she could tell that she was a different girl.

All those years, she was silent, a puppet whose strings were cut off. She was wasted, no longer youthful.

And so being a disposed piece of show, she continues to marvel at her own hardships, longing for something new to embrace.



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Carpe Diem

Only at the arrival of death will we receive wisdom.

Eating sweet lies under the starry night sky,

Minds intoxicated with strong drink and obsessions of the age.

Credulous to every word, vulnerable to the first blow.

Beauteous girls seduced by glamour wipe transpicuous tears from their eyes,

Greedy boys bent on conquering, blinded by glory, live to let dreams die in the bars of a perfidious cage.

Infatuated by nitid allure and flamboyant châteaus.

Only at the arrival of death will we receive wisdom.

The satisfaction of little grey hairs sprouting from the shrivelled mass of skin,

The colour in glassy pupils forfeiting memory and glimmer.

Like the inescapable snare as day fades into a still twilight; the departure of troubled waters.

The door left open, wisdom invites itself into the presence of a worn-down inn,

With all its subtle power and magnificence, does it entice the soul of an old-timer,

Yet reminds the host that the days are ending, leaving their destiny in the hands of the potter.

Only at the arrival of death will we receive wisdom.



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As I slept one night, specks of white lights were pervaded throughout the black sheet above…

…I dreamed a magnificent dream.

In the dream, I saw soft dolls sitting up on a green carpet; the features of their painted faces ambivalent.

Two children sat, the glass window above them; their delicate skin absorbing the assortment of colourful pink and green lights,

Shining in unison with the sunlight at its side, sweeping into the room like a silent parade, bringing tidings of warmth and magic.

And at once, the world around was saturated: full of mirth and animation,

So joyous that there was no room to breathe, for if you breathed, you would risk missing out on a magical moment,

No, there was no choice but to breathe…

And so I breathed, and when I awoke it was all but a dream.

However, my skin was tingling with excitement, as I’d travelled to an unknown world before my time and had travelled back to the present,

Oh, could this be true..? And then I sighed, “Perhaps…” and I never knew what to say.

Only the Heaven above, the stars and my mind would ever know my sweet dream, that died away like the colourful lights,

An animated fantasy that confused yet dazzled the delicate core of my once youthful mind.



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