New beginnings

Hello!

This blog is really old now, and kinda crowded, I believe it’s time to begin with a new one.

This was my first blog, and the only platform I posted on. However, I’ve decided to start posting not only what I write, but also the pictures I take and the drawings I make.

I need a clean slate, so I’ve made a new blog.

I’m going to start posting on Arcadilly

I’ll probably repost some of my old pieces which I like enough. I might even edit the old ones.

I’m really excited for this, I hope you guys join me.

PS I also post poetry on Instagram as @diluted.reality in addition to drawings @blancblue and pictures @arcadilly

Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I’m really grateful for all the love and support I’ve received.

It’s been a lovely adventure, and I can’t wait to begin a new one!

Home.

You’re home to me,
but I am a wanderer
and I find utmost pleasure
in fluttering around like a butterfly,
never pausing
for more than the few moments required
to soak in my surroundings
before soaring away, again.
I am a wanderer
and I find utmost pleasure
in walking through unfamiliar territory,
unearthing their treasures
while failing to understand the native tongues,
inhaling the air
so foreign to my lungs.

You’re home to me,
but sometimes, you can’t be the home I need.
Sometimes, I need a wooden lodge
with embroidered rugs
and oil paintings,
a brick fireplace,
and dim lights that flood it
with the warmth I require
after a long day of being kissed
by the cold lips of the icy wind
as I rush down slopes
of soft, silver snow.
Sometimes, when I’m sleeping
under the stars,
and the moon serves as my night-lamp,
the chirping crickets my music,
and the trees my only company,
I only need a hammock
to rock myself to sleep
in tune with the waves
that gently caress the shore.
Sometimes, when my body aches
and my soul is exhausted,
I need a soft bed and a blanket,
surrounded with white walls
as blank as my mind
and carved lanterns
that decorate them with shadows.

You’re home to me,
and while I may occasionally require repose
away from you,
you must understand
that it is not because you are any less comforting,
but because I need to roam,
I need to go away
in order to return
and I would never take you for granted
but the knowledge
that you will be waiting
with the same familiar fragrance
of scented candles
and the same song
of the birds outside my window,
is what gives me the courage
to wander a little farther each time I go.

You’re home to me,
but you can’t always be homely.

Instruments.

I wrote with pencils.
The rough lead always resisted the movement of my hand,
always took a moment longer to savour what I wrote,
as though it took pleasure in every mark it left on the paper,
like every word I wrote held something,
meant something
which ought to be celebrated without hurrying forward to the next word,
like I ought to pay attention to every alphabet I drew,
for I always drew,
I never wrote,
no, my letters were not uniform
and my words were not just words,
for every word I wrote was a drawing,
a description,
an emotion,
a piece of art.
Slow curves, straight lines, pronounced dots, 
even mistakes held a certain charm when I paused
and looked at them for a moment
before erasing them forever,
writing over the area and leaving no trace of the accident.
I miss writing with pencils,
I miss being at leisure to write slowly,
erase carelessly,
and rewrite deliberately.

I write with pens.
The ink ebbs and flows freely with my thoughts
and moves in tandem with my hand,
as though I were not writing with another instrument
but my own fingers,
spilling the contents of my heart
onto a blank sheet of paper
only too glad to absorb this splattered catharsis-
blotted and smudged-
as though it accepted that everything I had to say
and everything I needed to say
could no longer remain confined to my own introspections,
and the smallest obstruction would end this flurry of words
thrown around with little consideration for the words themselves,
and with no regard for their permanence as I worry less
about making mistakes which are inevitable,
rather revel in them and learn to carry on, undeterred,
embracing these scars of untidy cancellations,
correcting them as hurriedly and haphazardly as I made them,
for time is short I only have limited pauses to spare.
I shall miss writing with pens.
I shall miss writing recklessly,
cancelling untidily,
and rewriting wisely.

I shall write with my fingers.
There shall be no sound of my nib scraping over paper
as its ink seeps into the crevices of the parchment,
tainting it with commas and fullstops,
for my writing surfaces shall be lovingly caressed
with gentle fingertips which do not know how to make haste
for they have learned to take pleasure in the process of creation
without anxiously awaiting the arrival to their destination;
there shall be no trace of my mistakes
for they shall be made in silence
and to rectify them,
I shall only require my own will to do so, for none but me
shall be privy to the flaws that my fingers created, outlined,
and I shall know how to appreciate those faults for their modesty
for there is a certain amusement
in the knowledge of another’s ignorance.
I shall write with my fingers.
I shall write patiently,
erase honestly,
and rewrite kindly.

Binary.

You are always a mere arrangement of ones and zeros away
and that is both comforting and frustrating,
because it is not enough
that it shall only take me a few moments to reach out to you,
no, I need to reach out and touch you,
feel your warmth under my skin
and listen to your voice-
clear and undisturbed by static-
when we have whispered conversations
that last long past midnight;
I need to have my face lit up
by the warm glow of the sun-
while we watch it dip into the ocean for a swim-
and kissed by your soft lips,
not by the glow of a phone-screen.
I need to grasp your arm while we walk around at night together,
not have my fingers curled around my phone
in order to feel your presence.
I need you here in flesh and bones,
I need to say your name out loud,
and not have to search for it
in a combination of ones and zeros.

You are always a mere arrangement of ones and zeros away
and that is both comforting and frustrating
for it baffles me that everything I wish to make you hear
is nothing but mere digits
and that every emotion
I have ever wished to express to you is,
in essence, the same;
all the times I’ve had tears rolling down my cheeks
and all the times my cheeks have hurt from laughing,
and all the times I’ve put them into words
to be sent to you,
they have been nothing but a combination of ones and zeros;
and maybe, that is all it is,
maybe, you and I are only ones and zeros,
and when put together correctly,
we articulate what would otherwise go unsaid,
for nobody else could be a better one to my zero.

You are always a mere arrangement of ones and zeros away
but no amount of ones and zeros
could ever fathom how much I wish you could be here.

Mosaic.

Hi,
I’m a tile.
I like to believe that I’m a navy blue ceramic tile,
but perhaps you consider me to be another color
and that’s perfectly fine;
although, I’d prefer a shade of blue,
it’s my favourite hue;
perhaps you have another image of me,
that’s fine too.

I’m just a tile;
and I’m here to break myself into pieces
and hand them over to you
so you can add me to your mosaic
because I’d really love to be a part of it.

You know,
your mosaic,
the one you’ve made
from all the various pieces you’ve collected
of all the various tiles you’ve encountered.

They don’t fit together too well, do they?
Don’t worry, they rarely ever do;
that bright green tile you found jogging in the park
is not meant to fit perfectly
between the cracks of the faded red tile you found
sitting alone at the bar,
buzzed out of his senses on a Tuesday night
because his daughter left him alone for his birthday dinner,
to go out on a date with a flashy yellow tile.

Your mosaic will probably be hideous
if you’re fortunate enough
to meet tiles that will never compliment each other-
for they don’t exist
in the same spectrum,
the same era,
the same location,
and they’re not made
from the same materials,
the same colour schemes
or the same manufacturing unit-
and only you will ever truly appreciate
the pieces you have collected.

If your mosaic looks the least bit aesthetic, 
do yourself a favour and begin again
because you’re surrounded by tiles
of the same spectrum,
the same era,
the same location,
and they’re made
from the same materials,
the same colour schemes
the same manufacturing unit-
and all that differs is, perhaps, their batch number. 

Hi,
I’m a tile.
You might disagree
but I consider myself to be a navy blue ceramic tile,
and I’m delighted to be able to give you a piece of myself
to add to your mosaic.
You’ll probably get a small corner piece
with a smooth side or two 
and perhaps a few rough contours,
they won’t hurt you,
but you’d better be cautious nonetheless.
You might get a part of the centre,
with no smooth sides,
just sharp edges which will gnaw at you
until it’s out of your hand
and safely placed amongst the other pieces you’ve collected-
perhaps they will help smoothen it out.
Nevertheless,
I hope you like the piece you get,
I hope it finds a place in your mosaic,
I hope you’re able to appreciate it,
but most importantly
I hope you realise
that it is just a piece of the whole
not the whole.

Remnants.

There is nothing left.

The broken bricks
of destroyed buildings
dam the rivers of blood
that flow through the streets-
not red,
but dark black streams
which drown the onlookers
with a grief
they are only too accustomed
to swimming in.

The cries of bodies
buried in the graves
of the rubble
of their own homes
pierce through,
while the deafening sounds
of explosive missiles echo
with warnings
of imminent death
for those who do not flee.

There is nothing left.

Hope was buried.
Purpose was starved.
Empathy was silenced.
Solidarity was severed.
Love was beaten.
Humanity was shot down.
Nothing was spared.

Questions.

Are you listening to me?
Please listen, I may never speak again.

Did you hear that explosion?
It’s okay if you didn’t.
They happen every few seconds, or is it minutes?
I can’t tell the difference.

Do you ever wonder what Hell is like?
I think it’s here, in this long, unending moment of sheer terror, helplessness, confusion and loneliness.

When will Mother return?
She told me not to leave my place from under this table.
She said she’d be back in a moment but it’s been over an hour.
Where is she?

Are you praying for me?
I was taught that prayer is the mightiest weapon of all.
I’m tired of weapons.

Is this what Doomsday looks like?
Father told me that the day the world is turned into a rubble of ruins is the day it shall all be over.
I wish it would end soon.
There’s nothing left to destroy, after all.

Are you listening to me?
Please listen, I may never speak again.

Audiences.

You are mere pawns on a mighty chessboard.
Your deaths are mere numbers
and you should be glad,
for what more dignified way is there to die
in the midst of a war-
one you did not want-
than to be an additional digit
in a tally of deaths?

What would you rather have
than a silent, ignorant audience?

Would you rather have your face-
or whatever is left of it
from the explosion
that tore half your identity away,
leaving the other half so covered in blood and death
that your own mother would struggle to recognise you,
if she were alive to see you-
used as the symbol
of humanity’s greatest defeat?

Would you rather have your name flashed
across mobile screens and televisions
for all the world to chant
in a whisper of gratefulness
that your fate is not theirs,
that your name is just one
amongst a list of other unfortunates
which, fortunately, do not include one of their own?

Would you rather have the statistics
of the bombs that explode
every three minutes
and of every bleeding body
that they leave in their wake;
or perhaps you’d like to have
every bullet
that left the barrel of a gun
to enter the body of an innocent
documented, in an organised file
in order to be pondered upon intently
by suited men
who shall nonchalantly discuss
what outcome your life is worth?

What would you rather have
than a silent, ignorant audience?

Sunflower Man.

​
What right have I to speak of starvation
when my tongue has never tasted the bitter flavours
of coffee and bread,
and the acids which formed when i had nothing
but a piece of tobacco and a draught of absinthe
to call a meal,
when my limbs refused to move from hunger.

How do I sob in apparent misery
when my face is not smeared with black coal,
my bones do not tremble with the cold
and my body has not shriveled like a withered flower,
circling the black abyss of death,
with nothing but the will to continue blooming
to keep me from plummeting into its depths.

My hands do not whirl in a frenzy of passion.
Look at them,
they could just as well be the blue hands of a corpse-
they have so little to say,
to show,
to create,
to give birth to;
they have no urgency,
no reason,
no fervour
and they scarcely do anything worthwhile,
much less allow themselves to be burned
by the flame of a lamp,
out of a desperate yearning
which would nearly kill me.

My feet, so clean.
What do they know
about walking miles without proper footwear,
carrying the weight of a haggard, sick body,
cloaked in nothing but tatters,
through the cold
for the sake of a consuming love
from which one derives nothing but scorn,
disdain,
and spite,
in rejections
that ooze with disgust and disappointment
until my love is no more than a cause for shame.

How dare I try to paint
without spending eight years surviving on nothing
but my thirst to do so,
while being stabbed and beaten by words and glares
which pierce my soul and leave it bruised;
scarred beyond repair.

How can I pick my brush up
and coat it in paint I have not yet learned to love,
to respect,
to worship,
to treat with more reverence than i do my own blood.

What audacity must I have
to attempt to pity myself
for a loneliness which does not exist
for I am not lonesome;
no, not unless I am locked in an asylum
and conformed to high walls
within which the only normalcy is insanity
and reality is a mere illusion
which evasively exists
between my nightmares and hallucinations.

What entitlement do I assume
to everything I have,
when I have not spent the entirety of my life wishing,
hoping,
longing,
and dying for it.

The man who has never been miserable has nothing to paint about.
-Lust For Life

Blank Canvas.

​
​
May I touch you?
That is all I could want to do.

I only want to slowly,
lightly
trace my fingers
on your pristine surface
and paint invisible pictures on it,
because I am afraid
that my fingers are not skilled enough to procure
what my mind has created
and while I do know exactly what I want my result to be,
I do not know how to achieve it;
I am ignorant of where my hands must press down on you
with all the might they can fathom
and where my fingers must only gently dab,
covering you
with a thin blanket of translucent colour;
and so I resort to closing my eyes
and pretending that the tips of my fingers
are paintbrushes
and my nervous perspiration
is paint-
it is the only way
I shall ever allow myself to stain you,
for I am certain that i am not worthy of you.
No, you belong under the dexterous touch
of capable hands,
qualified to do justice to their selection
from the plethora of landscapes
that you could otherwise be adorned with.
Love, you are a blank canvas
only waiting to be kissed
with the right colours
and I have no right
to subject you to my delinquency.

May I touch you?
That is all I should to do.