All things Language, all things Culture
The void is my friend. She has come to my door after ages. I fed her. Persimmons, cheese, rice made fragrant with lime leaves. I clothed her. In blue and silver. Silk and diamond. I poured her water from a mountain spring. I read to her the scribbles I have etched on my soul every… Continue reading Anatomy of an absence
Do not name your darkness, yet. Speak soft, gently... gently... Take the long way round. Take the stair by the patio, or the passage through the backyard. Cover your lamp, stay close to the bush. Your darkness awaits by the window. It is a lovely window still, if you but squint your eyes and the… Continue reading Hush
Digging is hard work, especially if you're digging alone. The drop of sweat that, Originating from the hairline has trickled down the inevitability of your brow and now trembles upon the lash, Let it cloud your eye. No one is there to look at through the haze No hands disturbing the air, no feet pushing… Continue reading At the End of the Heart, There is Steel
In the dream, I am walking. The chain around my foot rattles like a hungry snake. Yet I am walking, floating... down the sleek black streets of my past as if there is no chain around my ankle. As if this rain-soaked evening is as fresh and untainted as the day its first memory was… Continue reading Look Elsewhere
If the gods were real, what would I ask of them? Riches, comforts, unencumbered health A home with white walls and a courtyard with trees A river to swim, a river to drown A meadow to walk without pain A release, from pain. If the gods were real, should I bow to them or accuse… Continue reading If the Gods were Real
Trigger Warning: Trauma, Self harm, Intimate Partner Violence
The heaviness in your heart is not for the world to see, yet who to share it with, but the world? Who to cling to but the unknown, the unfamiliar? Love can heal, they say, but what if love is not enough? What if the hurt you carry has spilled one too many times and… Continue reading Unfamiliar
A life update about three hundred words too long on which I procrastinated for two years.
Just some beautiful dragons by Russian artist Arseniy Lapin that always manages to delight me.
We are the children of clouds, hiding from the day and waking when the Sun sets. We walk gingerly among the remains of the day; concrete, sand, and stones. We press our ears to still-warm walls, and listen to the sound of heat leaving their frames. It lingers a while, echoing through the brick and… Continue reading We the Children of Clouds
In Other Words 