Speech is becoming difficult; more difficult with every passing day. Your head whirls around and races with thoughts. Words manifest themselves in your mind’s eye, but putting them together to form a comprehensible sentence is proving to be impossible.

On some level of consciousness, you are aware of what you are feeling. The difficulty lies in expressing it.

You try, and everything comes out wrong; the words, your tone of voice, the breath breaks in-between sentences. The final result; you are misundertstood.

You try again, and it happens again. Words just fail you.

What you say is not what you mean. You hurt people’s feelings. You express what you are not. You insult when you are actually trying to compliment. It just always comes out wrong.

You start feeling crippled, as though you were paralyzed yet insisting on trying to move your muscles by mere will.

Eventually, the truth dawns on you; you are mute, but not because you have no voice. You are mute because what is in your head is utterly and completely different than what you say.

As that truth resides, you give in to it and make a vow of silence; to never try to speak your mind again.

As comforting as that may seem, it proves to be even more difficult, because your desire – your need – to express yourself has not died yet. It still thrives inside you and awaits manifestation. Unfortunately, that kind of desire does not die. It keeps feeding and growing, and it cripples you more and more with every new endeavour.

You start looking at the world around you with bewildered eyes, like a child who discovers the Earth and can only make grunts and woes of incomprehensible sounds.

Words just fail you over and over again until they make no sense anymore.

You are like a spectator who knows more – much more – than anyone gives you credit for, yet your silence conceals it brilliantly.

As more time passes, your muted state spreads to your facial expressions. They are always blank. Even though volcanoes are erupting inside of you, your face shows nothing, your body language reveals void.

Again, the end result is; you are misunderstood.

You sit down and write, and every expression that comes out is in the form of a question.

How do I kill this desire to express?

Will I ever stop caring about being understood?

Why is the action to not speak preceding the conviction?

When will it be ok?

Or will it ever be ok?

Questions, questions and more questions, all of which you have no answers for.

You put your pencil aside, stare down at the piece of paper that harbors your latest endeavor with self expression, and gasp in horror.

The words in front of you are not the same words that were going through your mind or that you willed yourself to write.

Your mute-ness has spread to the tips of your fingers, to the lead dust that carves its way across the paper in the form of words, to the very core of your head.

You have become contagious! You have transferred your muted state to the cold, lifeless objects that surround you.



All in utter silence; pure, expressionless, muted horror!





Beautiful surrender…



To gaze at you and not feel obliged to look away.

To get lost in the folds of the skin of your fingers and linger, freely.

To reach out and touch your face, without hesitation.

To run my finger ever so sparingly across your arm and know that you will not back away.

To feel the urge to press my lips against your neck, and do so without a second thought.

To breathe in your scent and let it rush my senses into euphoria, with trust.

To infuse it with mine into oneness as your will and mine are equaled.

To guide your hand across my body, knowing that you will not reject me.

To want your fingers in my hair and instantly have them there.

To indulge my instincts without a trace of fear.

To emit my flares of energy and know that you will absorb them.

To want you, and to show it without shame.

To trust that you will take me in, no questions asked.

Such is the beautiful surrender that I will never know…




Missing you…




It’s like knowing that you are alright, but still feeling like you are walking around with a huge hole in your body.


It’s like knowing that you are complete, but still feeling like a large portion of your peace is missing.


It’s like focusing on your normal day, but having a constant buzz in the back of your mind that keeps repeating your name.


It’s like knowing deep inside that this won’t kill you, but wanting it for the life of you!


It’s like thirst for something that you know with all your conscience will not quench, but that you will die without.


It’s like feeling your touch when you are miles away, merely by soliciting the memory.


It’s like a razor that shreds your focus to oblivion, consuming every conscious minute of being without you.


It’s like walking in the dark and seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, and knowing that it isn’t light.


It’s like a shudder you get all of a sudden and for no reason, then you realize it is a shiver to a memory of you.


It’s like an attack of breathlessness that does not make you panic, for you know it is breathless want of you.


It’s like the moment when you laugh and then suddenly stop, because you realize this moment would have been better with you.


It’s like an overwhelming restlessness that makes you want to run, but that can also vanish with a touch from you.


It’s like losing the trail of every thought that starts, and having it always end with you.


It’s like fire and ice, peace and war, like passion and despair all merged into me.


It’s like the battle you fight with every tear in your eye, when all you need to stop them from falling is you.


It’s like loving life for a fleeting moment and knowing this love was born when I thought of you.


It’s like craving for something that you are not sure of, then frowning when realizing that it is you.


It’s like laying in bed and waiting for sleep, just so I could find a place to hide from missing you.




The woman in the room upstairs


The woman in the room upstairs is a saint; a saint of a different kind.

She is the soother of lost souls; the solace of fallen angels. She understands all too well how they feel and, thus, knows exactly what they need.

The room upstairs is dimply lit with a plethora of red that reflects her martyrdom for the absolution of men.

They come to her beseeching an undoing of their pasts, or a chance to resurrect a memory that they want undone.

She unleashes their deepest desires and manifests them, shattering their hopes against the jagged edges of reality.

She is a saint who will either let your euphoric fantasies overwhelm your reality, or will help you reach the realization that your past cannot be undone.

Tread those stairs with care.







That Lingering Scent



It was a fleeting moment; one that I tried to capture and eternally memorialize in hope that it would solace me in hard times to come.

It was the zealous scent of something that mimicked the freshness of citrus, but was not citrus.

It was awakening like a dip in cold water, but not so shocking.

The aroma reminded me of safety that lingered on the edge of danger.

It made me reminisce on a sense of warmth that I knew did not belong to me, like a parasite that finds a home by feeding on the body of another being.

I have freed the soul that feeds me from my impenetrable grasp, knowing that it will kill me.

All I am left with now is the memory of his lingering scent on my skin…







I am becoming weightless; hovering over my reality like a volatile mass of energy -void of shape. I can feel the surge of experiences passed running through me, and the experiences that are yet to come loom somewhere nearby. They wait to turn the reality that lies beneath me into a memory and to commence a new one that is yet to delight and disappoint.

In my mind’s eye, I can feel the familiarity of what is happening, as though this transformation I am going through is not entirely new. This déjà vu feels soothing. It gives me reason to surrender to this change and to resist the urge to resist.

My shapelessness is coming to shape. I stretch an unnamed part of my body outwards and, slowly, it turns into a long, fiery wing, stretched across the plane of my vision. I am some kind of bird.

I open what I believe to be my mouth and am met by a monotone whistle that, even though void of song, still sounds musical and tranquil. I feel heat, but it does not disturb me. I feel like fire was perhaps a part of me one day and that fearing it is not one of my instincts.

Slowly, I stretch more parts of me outwards, channelling the energy within me into another form and, one by one, my features emerge in an intensity of colour that I must admit is simply beautiful. I am turning into something beautiful!

The surge of energy within me suddenly erupts and I can feel myself darting across a brilliant sky of blue. I feel graceful, but not fragile. I feel ablaze, but not threatened. I feel the wind that I have created through my gliding cleanse me of the ashes that I once was.

I am the Phoenix that has risen from dust. I am an intense meteor of fire that has been thrust across the sky, but that will not perish. I am renewed and reborn. I have left my past behind me, but have not forgotten it. I am revived and I will soar across my existence until I am able to no more.

I have risen from my ashes and will remain luminous and flamboyant until my time to touch the earth comes again.

Until then, I soar.






Choices and decisions,

Paths walked and left behind.

Friendships that were rock-solid,

Now left undefined…


Lovers who weren’t lovers,

Though it felt so at the time.

Sisters from different mothers

Bound forever like words that rhyme…


Fleeting moments of feeling

Like home, like you belong.

Warmth, smiles and safety

In your heart merge and prolong…


Then comes a day when you

Make a simple – or complex – choice.

While facing your life’s crossroads

You say “goodbye” in that hoarse voice… 


The me of the present

Wishes for those past bonds to revive,

But – alas – ’tis where the path I took

Has led; to alone survive…


In my heart, the bonds stand strong,

Never faltering with warmth avid.

But, sadly, they are only memories

Of where you and I once stood…




I run…


In a silent cry for help,
I run.


I declare war on life;
On myself,
And I run.

I hide from eyes that can read my distress
Though I long for someone to see.

I smile, I nod my head and say “I’m fine!”
While the knife twists further into me.

I run.
I run from my reality.
I drown all ration with noise till I can’t hear me anymore.

I run.

I must embrace the truth, but I run.

I must admit I was a fool, but I run.

I must realize the simplicity of it all,
Yet all I can do is run.

Tomorrow, it’ll hurt a little less,
But, for now, I run…




Love no more…



I stand in front of him, I stare at him.

I go numb, I lose my tongue.

I grow cold as ice and I start to shiver.

I say “I love you” with a quiver.

He laughs and passes it on as a joke.

I laugh, too, and, on my own tears, I choke…


I try again and it happens again;

The same old story

And I wonder; will he ever know I’m telling the truth?

Then it strikes me; he already knows!

And I start to cry…


I call no more,

I see him no more,

I try to run away, to hide, to exist no more in his life.

It works – for a while…

But the tears are always fresh,

The pain is always there,

The yearning, growing fast…


He calls me, he doesn’t find me.

He comes over, he holds my hand, he says he’s sorry…

He was too proud to say it

But, now, he simply can’t take it.

He loves me, he wants me…

He holds me, he kisses me…

But I don’t hold him back,

I don’t kiss him back,

I don’t feel him anymore,

I don’t want him anymore,

I don’t love him anymore…


So, with a heart as cold as ice and as hard as glass,

I pass it on as a joke and I laugh.

I see him laugh, too, then he chokes…

I can see tears in his eyes,

They only make me smile…


The tables have turned,

And I am happier this way…




N.B. This piece was originally written in November 1998. This is an updated version of it that I have edited in August 2011.




On giving up…

I have (temporarily) given up on creative writing. I am muse-less and uninspired, and I have been struggling for far too long with words. As a result, I decided to stop trying… For now…

The philosopher in me theorizes on this state and has come up with a hypothesis that I am liking very much and that is helping me deal with this state of stagnation.

The theory is: it’s perfectly ok.

Human beings are an ever-changing species. We are ridiculously diverse and in constant states of development. Sometimes we soar like phoenixes, other times, we just dive into abysses of darkness that are too difficult to describe or even understand at times. And that is perfectly ok…

It’s ok to feel lost, it’s ok to temporarily give up. It’s ok to stop trying for a while and just wait. Maybe not even wait, just give up entirely.

I trust in divinity. I trust in the need for highs and lows in our individual existences because it is these highs and lows that make up our individuality. Unique interpretations of the highs and lows that each of us goes through are one of the God-given gifts we humans are blessed with. It is something to be thankful for, though it may seem like a curse sometimes.

I am sinking deeper into my state of stagnation. I will stop fighting it. I am letting it consume me and I am waiting to hit rock-bottom.

Only then will my ashes reform themselves into a phoenix.

Only then will I soar once again…


But then again, what do I know? I’m just rambling…