book project: lies = fiction

the story of you’s been walking around the world with me for so long, that i’m now lies and fictionafraid to let it go on paper.

you’ve been growing in my head all this time that i can hardly separate truth from lie from fiction.

i’m not me. i’m not you.

what about all the lies? were they part of the narrative of you? a way of escaping the unbearable reality called life.

multiple personalities? there must be, how else do you explain the intricate lives your character is juggling?

paranoia? afraid that someone will figure it all out. the fiction.

anxiety? well…

fear? hardly surprising considering the fictional living

all make for an interesting state of mind…

do the lies we tell, the small untruths, add up to the fiction of you?

if they do, then we are all born storytellers…

magic series: inside out…

inside outSo many bodies,

so many hands that have touched.

Clambering to get away.

It’s like looking in a mirror.

All around me. These faces.

They don’t stop gazing. Looking.

Running doesn’t help.

Climbing walls to get away.

They are already in.


Reaching. For me.


Scrubbing doesn’t help.

Forgetting doesn’t work.

Climbing walls to get away.

Bordering on music.

I stop there.

Afraid to carry on.

Scared this beastly creation

would leave my body.

Exhausted. I toss and turn.

Tortured by visions

of where I should be.

The lies told to the minds which choose to believe them.

Sometimes we think we know what we want.

Then we get into situations that we believe resemble what we want.

As time goes, and we start exploring what we are in, we realise it’s not quite where we want to be.

Maybe we have changed our minds.

Want more.

Want less.

She is lying on your chest now.

Her body supposedly in this moment.

Her mind, however, is fighting demons.

Trying to forget the one before you

She lies there. Hoping your body will transport her, for a while.

She moans and groans. Hoping to drown any thoughts of him.

The other person in this room.

She needed a place to stay tonight.

Too soon to have another body in her bed.

Hasn’t even had a chance to change pillows from the last time.

She lets you touch her preciousness.

She feels nothing. But wants to you carry on regardless.

Tears streaming down her face.

The embarrassment.

He puts his hand on her chin.

Lifts up her face up till their eyes meet.

She believes what is there. 

Deep down in shallow pools of brightness,

As she tries to wash away the sad spread between her legs.

She hides behind her hands.

Her eyes cannot take the brightness.

She opens her mouth to protest.

Nothing comes out. She retreats.

He keeps on coming towards her.

His arms stretched towards her.

The brightness. 

‘Heaviness is shattering. Colour is lost in its folds’, these thoughts don’t leave her. 

She needed somewhere to pass time. 

No need for pity.

book project: blue is not a happy colour

Blue is not a happy colour, only the illusion of a reflection on the seablue

High up in the clouds, behind a fluff of white.

Blue is not a disease,

It’s a Russian novel.

Blue is not a happy colour

Because it breezes past your cheek

like it was never there

Blue is not a happy colour

because it leaves you behind,

feeling robbed. Railroaded.

So the decision to track it back to day one just came to me. Ignited by the need to claim my spirit back. The drama of my life unfolded here. Little did I know back then. Otherwise I would have made an effort of taking in the details. Now I am like that victim who had no clue that she would have to return on her own. And have to recall the journey on instinct. I had quit my job. Paused my life. Pondering what I wanted to be. I needed to be more than what I was becoming. Or at least afraid of becoming.

That smell hits my face. It is cold. A room with white tiles. Sparsely furnished. Saggy sofas arranged around the room that looks more like a public clinic lobby than someone’s home. My home. At least what used to be my home.

‘Papa’, I call out to him. There is no answer.

I drop my bags in the adjoining kitchen. It is spotless. All these plastic containers arranged all over the empty spaces.

I walk back towards his bedroom. There he is. Sleeping on his back. I can hear his shallow breathing sounds. Is he alive? I wonder. I inch closer to his bed. He still doesn’t move.

When did he start losing his mind?

living with the walking dead is not easy…

 the anxiety and stress has a way of seeping through…

 no matter how thick your caring skin may be..

 when it reaches the bones… deep down..

 you can’t help but pray for divine intervention…

 for a miracle…

 a permanent solution…