Sunday, January 1, 2012


rain |rān|
moisture condensed from the atmosphere that falls visibly in separate drops : the rain had not stopped for days | it's pouring rain.
Of course nothing surprised me. The dreadful rain seeping like pus from a chilly wound, the washed-out journey on the threshold between madness and apathy, exhaustion and slight horniness at the thought of unfertilized eggs snugly tucked in my aging belly while death's creaking joints squeak ever closer. Least surprising of all my presence there - back in the bare confinement of spirit and mind where the denial of physicality and emotion is the only object. The despicable sight of those who care without knowing, who attempt to distinguish a flame of words that still remain unspoken, with sharp consonants tearing at delicate flesh and soft vowels burrowing relentlessly to find a place to nestle and rot.

Of course, I thought, it would be the brown and yellow pattern of these wooden floors. Of course it would be the anaemic organ screeching butchered masterpieces. Of course it would be me perched on a cheap olive-green chair, clinging for dear life to a promise of sanity, groping and desperately hanging on to scraps of poetry flung unceremoniously at the emotionless faces, ripping away from meaning and somehow collecting in my throat.

Of course it would end like this.

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