Face to face:
eyes locked,
staring into each other;
seeing your reflection
in the dark lake of her iris.
Hand on hand,
praying together-
not like those bible verses preach-
no, praying to the abyss,
hoping it won’t swallow you whole;
understanding at first the irony
and then the futility
of your act.
The abyss has wet black lips,
kissing you to compensate
for chewing pieces of your soul
and spitting them out
because they were bittersweet.
Now they are soaked, slippery,
no longer sticking either in or to the puzzle,
which is why you don’t make sense
except in the silver,
face to face,
where your soul is pure, whole,
and wholly unleashed.
poetry
A poem: Unfiltered
Clinical,
surreal emptiness.
Chocolate-scented wood.
Smell of new and
non-alcoholic intoxication.
Life as art for art’s sake.
Neon light flickers as you blink
infected by dizziness.
No longer tone-deaf to the harmonies
of your own soul,
you don’t shrink for someone else to grow.
An invisible corpse in the plastic bag
winks at you from the corner-
madness, it grows
in sanity.
Lifeless but intense:
you don’t pray for another,
you prey for yourself.
A Poem: Bloody act
Two bodies wrapped in an embrace
in a tomb of glitter and frost-
the blood lingers while they kiss,
then it pours gently down the legs
of the cradle surrounded by mist.
The lake of tears reflects the moon of sorrow-
trembling, fluid, unpredictable;
their red eyes locked, unblinking,
while eternity replaces the morrow.
A poem: Echoes
A silhouette merging with the unknown-
all that is left is your breath in the cold air
as you exhale in slow motion.
I speak in shadows,
you respond with specters of light,
haunting every word-
making sense of it all;
I choose to live in the now,
but if you whisper in my ear
I will take decades to figure out
why you chose to disappear
that day
when I ran down the hallway-
gargoyles staring from above-
for a second I thought I could hear
another set of footsteps
under a different weight
even after I accepted your longing
for the netherworld.
The statues were grotesque,
threatening, demon-like in thunder and lightning,
and still, I hoped that hallway would never end
just so I could hear the sounds again and again
and convince myself they weren’t merely
echoes of my footsteps into the unknown.
A poem: Afterlife
I taste the blood of dehydrated lips,
admire the inadequately plucked eyebrows
above vapid black circles surrounded by
red on translucent white.
Dark hair, itchy like rope
against my neck,
frozen hands trembling,
features particularly thin:
I forgot how to live,
yet I laugh at my own sin.
Train of thought
You said to yourself that it was too cold and that was why you could barely function. It was either that, or the weeks-long stagnation of the spirit.
One day you will no longer think of your own passing, or that of those closest to you, no longer delving in scenarios of unhappiness out of masochistic urges, or in abyssal streams of consciousness.
The city, oh, the city. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes the city is in you, sometimes the city does not exist, or is something so detached from who you are, even as you pass right through its heart. The city in daylight and the city at night – such peculiar dualism to which your mindset adjusts, and which appeals to different beings within you, with different dreams and different nightmares.
You need success and fulfilment in order to open up. Is it right? It might be ingrained – inherited or caused by nurture. Unfolding at your most vulnerable seems impractical anyway, what a silly thing to do. Put up walls and let flowers climb them.
I ate everything I had in the house -red and purple fruits and chocolate, then I took the first train and stopped at the station where my train of thought decided to let me go. The station was all empty, I smiled to myself, and nature witnessed. There is a journey ahead.
Shiver
That tender memory
of snowdrops,
dreamy air,
and spring dew
made my world shiver this morning
once again.
status quo
The universal shift of focus
from being to seeming
permeates our age of confusion.
Identity & divided introspection
As a Postgraduate student in the arts (the extended definition of art, including film, photography, and literature), I often find that I have to reconcile two sides of myself when it comes to my blog and digital footprint, both of these sides being complex and assertive to the point that I can call them two selves:
One of them is my artistic identity, which has been shaped over the years by several factors, hopefully progressing in style, concept, aesthetic, and presentation. This self prefers to express an inner world indirectly, through symbols and conceptual images. Within this context, there are concerns about projection and representation: the conception of the self, the reconciliation between truth and appearance, the gaps in between, inner and outer perceptions, and questions regarding aesthetic. I explore my self through different forms of art, the result being a reflection of something within. This is why I tend to eliminate previous work, once I feel like I surpassed it in some way, like I have become someone else since then, and I no longer identify with the selves I presented prior to some particular life-turning knowledge. This self thinks creating art is the aim; this self is raw, unapologetic about its at times elusive symbolic nature in which there is depth and sincerity to be found, but which is often too preoccupied with finding the right way of expression. Through this perception, less is more when it comes to conveying what is within, in that explanations are unnecessary, as creative endeavours are self-sufficient. Creative language is essential and absolute to how I perceive myself. Thus I don’t like talking about myself directly, for it seems any description would not comprise all the depths.
However, objectively, you cannot always tell that much about someone’s personality through their artwork, of whatever nature, and I am saying this despite the fact that I feel like I pour myself entirely into it, sometimes. In fact, perhaps, being on the outside, looking in, you can only see a fraction, which is open to interpretation. When you take a photograph of a place you experienced with rapture, or a portrait, you remember those moments, and you associate the photograph with them, feeling that it conveys so much because it is charged with your feelings. But those emotions remain within you, and the photograph is an extension of you, thereby others will not perceive it as you do. They will perceive it based on how it resonates with their own being.
To return to the suggested dichotomy, the other self involves the social and analytical nature. The one allowing me to write this sincere post in a public space, going against the privacy and representation concerns of the first. Because of this other inclination, I started my blog, rather than simply going for a portfolio website. Because of this, I did not use a pen name for it. In this case, the social use of language is essential, while promoting or exploring the poetic and photographic language. Sincerity means exposure; exposure means sincerity. Reaching others through this sincerity and through more unequivocal forms of expression is important. This self mediates my relationship with the outside world. It also means I try to let go, allow myself to make progress in various areas of life without having to get rid of previous versions of myself forever. This self is raw and unapologetic about its direct stream-of-consciousness confessions.
In other words, there is a constant battle between revealing too much and not revealing enough when it comes to life, social media persona, just as when you take a photograph. Should there be a curation of thoughts? Yes. Should it be based on what makes sense at the time, or what seems to represent a more long-lasting belief? Most websites, and most artworks imply careful curation of content. Sometimes it feels that you can more easily convey something, your artistic awareness, and an awareness of what is within, an inner permanence and at the same time touch an audience through selected conceptual artwork rather than distract with random thoughts and perhaps temporary beliefs, whilst other times it feels like these perhaps not-so-random thoughts and temporary beliefs are a significant part of you, as they represent your thought process at a particular time, even if you later realise it was not perfect. Being able to balance these two comes with experience.
There are many branches in this tree, and this post extended on many, but hopefully they can all be grasped without leaves falling.
A poem: November
The vanishing words,
the vanishing images,
the shedding
of selves like autumn leaves;
of withered lives on wrinkled paper,
dust off the treasure chest
in the desert, next to a snake
regenerating its skin
polished,
your porcelain appearance melting into
the undefined-
does the new verse annihilate
or build you?
perhaps it is the fading portrait
either that, or the smile in between
either that, or the infinite encounters
with the ineffable
You write, you cross out
another identity and over to
another vision.