The Pond is My Mirror; Here is my Wavering Reflection

The Bar at Twilight by Frederick Tuten rests on the table. I don’t know what it represents. Some unreachable realm of abstract beauty, perhaps, blissful times tainted by mauve shades of disgust. Everything represents everything these days. Offred describes petals bursting into shards. I find a lot of myself in Offred, actually. This fierce determination, defiant yearning of a fantasized future, ruthless observations to the point where everything becomes self-questioning, where one becomes isolated within the confines of the mind – and everyone is alone, alone. And beyond all of that, a wave of tentativeness overshadows all, a damned inhibitor, because now all remains concealed within the mind, remnants of now-lost potentiality. Perhaps the double-edged sword of hope is the most dangerous of all.

I touched the moon and it was Neon Hot.

I’m trying to be more attuned to my environment. I can hear the wind. I can hear the rumbling of car engines twenty-three floors down.

The building across has a green roof. It was not green before.

measuring cylinder

i am filled with spite and venom and i hate what i become on nights like these, where everything is just painted on my face and i become painfully stoic and cold and emotionally decrepit as if i have aged a hundred years and my voice strangles itself and i become so volatile and now my body is empty; it is an empty vessel through which no thoughts flow and what is this, this disparaging of the self; i am currently writing for the sake of writing, it seems, and everything is real but it is not Real; i cannot believe that it has been four weeks here and i am letting myself live like This, as if nothing mattered at all, letting the days go by like that; i hate the silences; i hate that meaning resides in all that is not said, for even after we scavenge the emptiness in search for futile meanings to clutch onto there is inevitably nothing that is done with these meanings.

Grace

Sitting in my History lecture right now and I am not idle. Not idle because I, shortly before, was at the bakery with Sareena and it was just such a breath of serenity; with Sareena comes the same whiffs of warmth and pensiveness and comfortable confessionalism that I find so, so precious. Such is the case with many of my friends, actually. I love the gentle patience that we give to each other.

I had a lavender cold brew and a cinnamon toast; Sareena had a coconut almond loaf and a cappuccino. And it was delightful, nestled in this little corner of this city, realizing that there is still so much to relish, to devour bite by bite, the coalescence of the city’s tastes melting and lingering on my tongue.

The Clothes You Wash in Your Washing Machine, Are They Really Clean?

Gia’s flowers are slowly decaying. Decay can be beautiful too. My room smells a little bit like rot, but an angelic, organic, grassy rot. Charmaine says it fits. It is the passing of time. Kyra told me today she was sad everything is ending. But I’m savouring the present. Savouring tonight. Savouring the messiness. Savouring my feelings. I don’t think romanticism can be considered romanticism if it aligns with our version of reality. So I live, and I smile, and crumble, and rise.

I am, I am, I am.

A Bouquet of Overflowing Sentiment

Tchaikovsky gushes into my ear and my mind floats Across The Universe: somewhere far far away I am gently swaying to this waltz, feet gliding across glistening marbled floors, and I wish I could be there, there with her, but alas I am still here, tethered to this land.

There is, at times, nothing else to do but spin, spin, until the vision blurs and objects fuse into the air, fluid and one.

Reverb

Submerged myself into water just so my ears were underwater. And the music was blurry, like it was being played from a speaker faraway. And so everything felt like a movie, still.

A dream. Distanced. As today had felt. And as I have felt, living this life, in Northern California.