Dedication

Before she came along, he wondered why he was writing in the first place.

It started off as an experiment. He wanted to be a novelist. He wanted to build worlds of fantasy using the expansive set of tools he had at his disposal, having read libraries of books, but never enough. When he put those words onto paper, they twisted and turned, gnawing at the structure he thought they deserved, they rebelled and he let it fester. When the fight was done and the dust settled, he didn't write much, but he had said so much.

Before she came along, he wondered where his writing would take him.

Lines were uncaring of the rules he thought they had to follow, and he loved it. Every story seemed to breathe a new version of the truth, because that was what it was, a perspective of truth. His writing slowly started to unravel his inner demons, and slowly but surely they started to lay bare his ideas of love, his ideas of pain, his ideas of giving up yet wanting to start again. His heart slowly dusted off its wings and prepared to take flight while during his time away from writing the same heart yearned to beat for someone else.

Before she came along, he wondered who he could write for.

Yet the wings, dusted and feathered, stayed closed. It wasn't the right time just yet. He still wrote, now writing stories about people he loved and cared about, and he felt like this was all as a testament to those people. This didn't necessarily drive him like the passion he'd hoped it'd be; he felt a certain laziness in it, a sort of laid-back approach that he knew was not going help him finish the stretch. Did he want to finish this in the first place? Did he want to write a book?

Before she came along, he wondered where he was going.

The answer came that one night a friend in lands distant told him how a single story saved his life. A single story he wrote about someone else in his life, with the intention of just immortalising a sense of purpose in his life, stopped someone else from pulling the noose over their heads and around their neck. That night, the writer couldn't sleep, couldn't bring him to accept the weight of the responsibility he felt on his shoulders. If one story could save a life of a single person, he might have tapped deep enough into his passion to find the fire. He found something beautiful in his art he had not noticed before, and this gave him the drive he needed. He was going to finish that book.

Before she came along, he wondered if he was good enough.

That was when he started seeing everyone else who seemed to be writing too. Some seemed to garner fame much faster than he thought possible, some work seemingly mundane ad half hearted seemed to be the best thing for people around him. This halted his progress; what if people didn’t like his writing? What if his books didn’t sell? What if the reviewers were so harsh on his work that publishers decided to stay away from him? Reality hit him like a train derailing, the tracks to his future goals seemed further and further off course. Nights were hard to get by, days were harder to write during. That was when she walked in.

Before she came along, he wondered how long his fires would burn.

She fanned his flames again, breathing new life into his soul with words of encouragement, lifting his chin when all he wanted to do was give up and stop even before he started. He finally looked her in the eye and found a spark, a flash of lightning that hit him right at the core, at once firing up a string of stories he wanted to write about her. Anything to make her smile, he began again, putting pen to paper, fingers on his keyboard, making his words paint the pictures their love created, still frames of his favourite movie starring the both of them. He found a blissful need to keep making his art.

After she came along, he found answers for questions that were never asked before.

The morning after she left, he felt numb. Words seemed to come easy, he managed to say what he wanted to say but passion’s flame turned blue. He felt cold, alone and stranded, yet he knew his goals, he knew how to get there. She taught him so much about himself he never knew, about the world he never saw even though he was busy living in it, about his writing he never managed to read between the lines. it was never the same again, a long winding road that seemed to blend with the bushes that lined it. Here he got lost. When solitude finally crawled over him, it brought with it an answer. He knew his writing, his poetry and his need to express in words were akin to prayers, a need to be heard and remembered and a wishing for a happier tomorrow.

After she left him, he knew this book was going to be for her.

It started off as an experiment. He wanted to be famous but that quickly faded. He wanted to write about people he loved and cared for but that became a characteristic of his writing, not a goal. He wanted to save lives, and even that became a part of his writing, not a goal. No, now he knew the book was going to be not just a compilation, not just an expression, not just a contemplation of life and it’s various truths. This was going to be a dedication.

Maybe she would love him again.

Fast Lane

She looked at her phone. He was late. 

She wasn’t worried about him per se; she just missed him. He promised her they’d have dinner together, so maybe she was a little hungry as well. Okay, maybe it was the hunger that was making her feeling irksome. 

Her room was small, but without him, it seemed too spacious for her comfort. It wasn’t that she hated large open spaces; she just couldn’t stand the void of loneliness that crept back into her life when he wasn’t there. That void seemed to encompass her so fully she felt like she would lose touch with this beautiful reality she’s found herself in ever since he walked in.

She wasn’t disappointed in him per se; she was just a tad blue. He told her he was going to be half an hour late, but that turned into an hour because of the traffic, so maybe he wasn’t all to blame. Okay, maybe she blamed him a little for not avoiding the traffic.

Her life wasn’t all butterflies and rainbows after he happened; to be frank, he didn’t do that much to change things up from her usual climate anyway. It mainly had a lot to do with how there seemed to be less dark days than usual. She hated how he was like a tattoo on her, under her skin and a part of the way the world saw her. It wasn’t because she wasn’t happy about this; quite the contrary, she found joy in the smiles he gave to her. She hated it because the only way she could let him go was to rip him out of her.

She looked at her phone. He was late.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

He looked at his phone. He was late.

He wasn’t worried about himself per se; he’s lived safe yet borderline dangerously for quite a while. The pedal wouldn’t go further into the floor of the car. The speedometer teetered over the edge of the 220 kph mark, a little higher than his usual indulgence. Okay, maybe he was a little more reckless than usual.

His car was a beautiful modified sedan, sports spec attachments, and improvements that both tore a hole in his pocket and gave him satisfaction by the mile, but that didn’t match up to the joy she brought. He smiled as the image of her walking up to him that cute way she swaggered made him miss her more. He promised her they’d have dinner together, and he knew how she’d feel if she was left hungry for too long. 

He wasn’t indifferent about disappointing her as his face seemingly showed; quite the contrary, underneath his calm mask of concentration, he was disappointed in himself for letting her down. This wasn’t the first time, and he kicked himself mentally for knowing that this won’t be the last either. She gave him so much more to live for than the cheap thrills he was used to, more than the speed on the road and so much more than the sting of alcohol that lined the walls of his mouth and throat. A glass or two of sweet heavenly red had passed by his lips, lips that would have to explain to his lover why he was late, why an indulgence in spirits was of good motive before leaving his friends. 

He looked at his phone. He was late. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________

She looked at her phone. It was late.

She had sat on the freshly upturned dirt, her eyes sore and dry. It ached now, that need to cry now long gone and replaced by that need to stop. The sun was low on the horizon now, and the messy patch of ground that housed someone she once knew seemed more welcoming than the prospect of home and a warm bed. She ached for the night he never came home, the morning she went to the morgue to see the result of the incident the night before, and the afternoon spent in a group of friends who felt only snippets of her grief. They had lives to live, and so they left on their ways to live them. She knew she had to go too, she knew she could do nothing now to change what is to what could have been.

She painfully lifted her gaze from the ground to the inscribed stone that marked the resting place of someone that once made her life seem liveable.

Loving friend, who left us too early.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

DRIVE RESPONSIBLY, DRIVE SAFE.

Face of Mine

There she was again, with that emotionless face of hers.

I know I'm asleep, I know I'm safe in my bed back in my room, surrounded by faces on posters, an old record on repeat and the lights turned down low. I know my mother is in the next room, softly snoring away the night. I know my street is quiet, the neighborhood kids having gone to sleep hours before. I know this.

But there she was again, with that emotionless face of hers.

Again? I wonder out loud, and she doesn't respond.  I watch her trace her message in the thick, sultry air of that place where I was meeting her, that ever-changing unreality that lay at the back of my mind. I sit myself down on a white rock in the middle of the plain of dark sand, watching her walk around me, wearing that pink hoodie I always wore. Her message was clear as day.

Be wary, a storm is brewing.

There she was again, with that emotionless face of hers.

She was from a month from now, and I knew I had to heed her message. I know I would wake up and carry on with my life. I know I would be careful about everything I was doing, keeping her words in my mind. All in all, what I didn't know was that a friend of mine was going to betray me, but you can say I was forewarned in part. The last time I saw her, she told me "Whatever you're worrying about now will no longer be a concern", and true to her word, things worked out well.  But that still didn't make this phenomenon any easier to accept. It made me question what I really knew anyway. 

There she was again, with that emotionless face of hers.

But how does she know in the first place? She wears my hoodie, she appears whenever she wants to and I am powerless to talk to her, powerless to know what she's thinking. When I close my eyes and enter that world of my subconscious, I find in there a person I never thought I'd meet. A person who's only concern is me, who's only drive is me. In there I find the tutor of my future, someone who has seen more truth than I have just yet. I know this.

I wake up from my long night and plan ahead, recalibrate my emotions and desires to be wary for what the future might bring. I would see her again anyway. Going through the motions, I am ready to leave and get my day started, so I stand in front of my dressing table, a double check on my slight makeup and my clothes. I loved the feel of my pink hoodie, but even through its thickness, I shudder as a chill runs up my spine.

There she was again, with that emotionless face of mine.

Blink

Just as he closed his eyes, the lights started flashing. 

Blink, Blink, flash, strobe lights so strong he wanted to scream, but then he realised that it didn't hurt anymore. The dim, warm lighting of his room greeted his eyes when he opened them, 'the light of Gondor that was never heeded', he jokingly told himself. The call for help that was never heard let alone sounded. Rolling onto a side, he looked at the square-shaped device that told him how much sleep he was wasting by not facing to slumber. It was measured in hours at first, and then in minutes, and finally, in seconds when the sun kisses the horizon. 

Blink, blink, flash, they were back. A shady club where the music was so bad that you automatically put it on mute in your mind, being there not out of choice but out of obligation. This was the essence of how he felt with his overactive rods and cones, the nerves of his failing optics. What was darkness if darkness gave you no solace? Shaken to the core when it first happened to him, but now accepting it with a quiet resignation, he stared at the ceiling again. Oh sweet, paint-peeled roof over my head, how I will miss you, he thought sombrely. Braille came easy to him, but what was hardest was letting go. A shiver down his spine came well timed, his silent prayers for forgiveness now muted and unspoken as he lay in silent resignation. 

Blink, blink. 

He waited for the flash. It was coming, he knew. He waited long and hard for the flash that accompanied the blinks for the past two months, a doom of minimal proportions with galactic consequences. The darkness waited with him, expectantly, giving him a ledge to stand on while he waited at the abyss. The abyss watched him with a sense of deep, everlasting patience as he waited. 

He moved his hands trying to reach the small button that would summon the only answer to his prayers of mercy; a kindly old nurse whom he would never see again. The button hailed her, and his ears tried to put an image to a black canvas of blindness to no avail. There was only one acquaintance now, someone he spent half his life with, an entity that welcomed him with open arms to a world mired below the one he was just in. 

Hello, darkness my old friend. 

Blink. 

Ice and Flowers

But the ice melts and the flowers die. 

We hunt the night for prey that satisfies our peculiar appetites. Individualistic and unique, while at the same time being the same as everyone else, we are creatures of instinct, with absolute dominion over our will and absolutely no control over who we love. We know we're not alone, sitting across each other in cafés, lying beside each other on our beds, walking alongside each other down paved streets. We know we're not special either, taking steps to bring ourselves down from the pedestals we build for ourselves, hoping someone would look up to you again, hoping someone would lift you up and put you there again. The driving force that pushes you to go and hunt that which you crave is not the craving itself. but the need to feel important, to feel treasured like that first crush of yours, all those years ago. Maybe it might drive you to greater heights, or to the edge of a cliff.

What am I saying? 

My heart races this slow, painful night, with me hoping that it rains like the lakes of heaven just overflowed. You wish the best things in life stopped passing you by long enough to let you jump on the wagon and see where it takes you, but it just doesn't work that way. The grass is always greener on the other side, your mind is a torture rack on wheels with pictures of those people you can't help but love, chasing you down everytime you think you can walk away from the pain. Then you finally land your mind on that one person that puts your puzzle pieces together without even trying, and they don't think it's all that special. Not their fault, of course, maybe they've seen the world more than you have, lost more than you may have had, given more than you'll ever have. Not your fault either, maybe you've seen more in them than they've known, felt more than they may have known, cried more than they'll ever know. We're all different, yet we're all the same, aren't we?

Then you move on.

You admit to yourself that they may never see you the same way you see them, which is honestly one of the hardest things you'll ever do, maybe because your mind fights to not agree. Thoughts flit across your haphazard plain of consciousness, trying to take hold, trying to find water beneath the mirages, trying to find sunlight in dark caverns. She was always the brightest star in my current hemisphere, this atmosphere that I found myself in for now. Walk into a room, she sets it on fire as everyone burns in her glorious existence. Blooms like a flower in spring even in the acrid, polluted soils of society, she brings nothing but joy to the depressed, certainty to the unsure, hope to the desperate, healing to the broken; and all she has to do is smile. I ask her how she finds all her positivity, and she smiles yet again. Magic of the highest degree.

That's when I saw the flower wilt just a little.

Months have passed, bridges crossed and lands have been mapped and I find myself wondering again. I am a believer in her magic, a faith born out of months of being in awe at her certainty in life, and maybe it's my perseverance that leads me here. When she finally told me the smile that she wears was doesn't always stay, I saw something new. I pressed some more, asked her why she never lets herself become vulnerable, never lets anyone beyond the closed doors of her intimacy, and she told me why. She asked me, why should I? 

I swear I had answers, but not for her question. I had answers for questions I had about her.

Somethings last as long as you want it to, I tell her. To me, she became one of my favourite muses, a source of both reality and poetry, grounding me when I might drift, lifting me when all I wanted to do was sink. I saw her as that titan that held the sky, unwavering and unreal, as she made me think there was nothing in the world we needed to despair over, just trudge on things would be better. Don't we all need that kind of reassurance in our lives? But sometimes when we find that person who can show it to us, we wonder at their humanity, at their vulnerability, at what makes them cry or despair. She never showed hers, and most men fight themselves to the death on the ramparts of her mind trying in vain to find out more, walls which I've once tried to climb until I found my niche in the bailey. I was still not in the keep, that which housed her heart, her hopes and her fears, and I was content to wait and worship. 

And then I delved in. 

And then what? What would we be in a few years? She was smiling, albeit weakly and with frustration, but I started to see beyond her porcelain mask of surety and strength, a face of... yearning? I pressed some more, hoping to get beyond that moat of crocodiles that kept her skepticism fed, my curiosity starving and my intentions only to find meaning in existence. She didn't want to believe what I was trying to say, she didn't want to believe beyond her horizon, and then she tells me, after an hour of soul-searching, watching cat videos and talking about past haunts and ghostly decisions, her horizon was always bleak.

She had cried her last tears years ago.

She fought against belief, the belief that put the million people in the sand, the belief that made fools fly and wise men die alone. The belief that made her wish for a prince to sweep her off her feet, the belief that made her cry when they told her those were all dreams, those were all wishful thoughts. She watched, with pity and envy, the rest of the world as we dreamed on, pity because she knew what we would soon know, envy because the ignorant bliss we found ourselves in was a sweet serenity, albeit temporary. My mission was to not prove her wrong but to give her hope again, and try I did, for a few more hours, in simple gestures, in confessions of hope and in admissions of love. 

What is this all going to be then? she asked, just a slight hoping in her voice.

I knew at that moment, that I have reached that Holy Grail other men have fought to find, only to give up and go. Men she's seen try to win her heart but she wouldn't let them, for God sake she's not a prize to win! Yet the fools and wise men alike move on, knowing that she was not going to be the one that put them on the pedestal they made for themselves. They left her, cementing her belief that nothing in life was going to last anyway, and knowing this killed me inside every time, yet I persevere. Not in hopes she'd look at me the same way, but in hopes that one day she would learn to dream again. She saw herself as ice; hard, cold, and clear of intentions. She hated the idea of flowers, as they could wilt a week after she got them, implying that such a symbol of love can die as love dies too. She wanted to be an image of consistency, an image of unwavering existence, but hard as she might try to deny it,  

The ice melts and the flowers die. 

Do I have answers for her questions? Maybe, but it's going to take me a lifetime to prove them.

We hunt the night for prey that satisfies our peculiar appetites. Individualistic and unique, while at the same time being the same as everyone else, we are creatures of instinct, with absolute dominion over our will and absolutely no control over who we love. We know we're not alone, sitting across each other in cafés, lying beside each other on our beds, walking alongside each other down paved streets. Just know that you'll never be alone, was all I could say to her. 

______________________________________________________________

For you, and you know it. 

Dear Mother, with love

Dear Mother,

I saw something really nice, really touching on Facebook recently. "Celebrate your birthday with your mother; it's her special day too."

It's been months since I last spent some time with you. Months since I last heard your voice across the room. My third consecutive birthday spent without your loving embrace has left me feeling shallow and empty, and for the third time, I'm busy living this life of mine as everyone else is spending the day with their mothers, celebrating Mother's Day. 

Gosh, it makes me feel so empty.

You'll remember this; when I was five or six, I had this little soft toy which was surprisingly a Manchester United mascot. That memory recently came to mind, the exact moment I asked you, 'What's his name?' and you replied, 'Let's call him Chester.' 

That was one of the many times I had looked to you for an answer to any and every little curiosity I had, and every moment with you, knowing that you were there if I ever needed you, I grew. I became a better person because of you, how you would hold my hand when I crossed the road, how it came upon me years later to hold your hand to help you cross the road too. Those mornings you made us breakfast even though cooking was never your biggest passion, and the other mornings when I made you scrambled eggs and baked beans just because I didn't know any better. Those afternoons you spent sitting me down and teaching me numbers, and those afternoons that you would mail me a document to help you make a project out of, all of those moments. 

Even those days when you would book your flight for work and I'd hug you goodnight the night before, and then those nights when you would fuss over my luggage as I packed to fly off the next morning. Also, those moments that you'd scold me for one thing or the other, and I would try to make it up to you by buying you little snacks and drinks whenever I got out of the house. 

It's been three years now since I called another apartment my home. I miss waking up to you walking in loudly, telling me I'm sleeping too much. I miss sending you a text message to tell you I'll be late in coming home. I also miss your incessant worrying about my homework, and God knows just how much I miss you.

So much has changed in me in my time being away from you. We had dreams, dreams that I will achieve a certain career and path in life, and you worked so goddamn hard to get me there, at least as far as you could with your two hands. I've found passions for so much more now, and I know that in more ways than one I would be disappointing you, going against what you had by default expected of me. But nevertheless, you have never failed in showing your support. You've always given me that push to go further, achieve more and just be happier, and through my darkest times and not, you've been the wind beneath my wings, forever lifting me higher. Without all that you've taught me, without all your cheer and without all your love, I wouldn't be even close to where I am now, and today, I would like to celebrate all that I am as appreciation for all that you've made me into. 

Mother's Day isn't only a celebration of the amazing women like you, Mum. It's a day we celebrate how much you've done for al of us that call you mother. It's a day we celebrate the sanctity of love in its most honest and overpowering form, a love born even before two souls look into each other's eyes. It's also a day to appreciate the very breath you're taking now because you are here on this world because of someone, or in some cases even if the mother that raised you isn't the one that gave you life, you're alive and well, stronger than you ever were, standing tall and proud because of the love of a mother. 

Mummy, you mean the world to me. My destiny looks bumpy, with a lot of things that you would have wished I'd done differently, but I'll always strive to make you proud.

Dear Mum, 

I've made it so far, I'm living my dream. 

I hope you're proud of me.

I love you,

Your son, and your biggest fan,

Axam

Blue Funk - 4

"Do you ever just stare outside and wonder about how amazing it is watching people go from point A to point B?"

It was raining now, the thunder playing that fun game with the lightning, trying to outbid the other in magnificence. In my opinion, Lightning was winning. I like lights more than thunderous noise, but hey, that's just me.

They were on the 21st floor, facing south, her eyes drinking in the amazing view of the clash between humanity and nature. Humanity with its persistent flood of concrete appendages upon that landscape owned by nature, and nature with her green arms of flora and fauna snaking through the buildings that were built. He put his camera down, wondering how to answer her question. It was a good question, as questions came, phrased well, the point not lost while at the same time making an opinion of her own, yet--

"Hello, are you listening to me?" she smiled as she said it, and he smiled in return. She was good at keeping his attention, but today was different. 

"It is, isn't it? Every pair of headlights you see through the gloom of the rain is another portion of the universe, experiencing itself like no one ever did. Countless memories that make up that one particular mind, and the countless interactions that mind has with others through the course of the day before finally getting into that beast on four wheels that carries them home. If one doesn't find wonder in that, one barely appreciates the joy of living."

She was watching him as he spoke, "You always had a way with words, but I bet everyone says that to you..." She walked towards the balcony doors, unlocked them with a click and drew them apart. The wind was always a blessing, now misty with the vapor of the heavy rain, floating in as if beckoned by the occupants to come and caress, embrace them. He watched her as she absently emptied her pockets, "You got a spare towel?" to which he nodded. She smiled that cheeky smile of hers as she walked out.

He didn't pick up the camera, but he captured every moment. She was graceful, probably pretending to be a ballerina, as the water, heavy and thick as God-sent as it was, bathed her blue. The colors of the moment were blue, blue, blue, slashing his vision with that occasional white as the lightning reigned supreme. Haha, pun intended, he thought. 

She was soaked now, her laugh pealing out musically as she spun around, a few cold drops gracing his face too. He couldn't help but smile, "Come join me! This is so much fun oh gosh!" He could hear the slight quiver in her voice as she shivered in the cold. For only a moment, he worried about her, and then the feeling passed. She stopped her dancing and looked at him.

"Why do you take pictures? I always wondered."

"Maybe for the art of the final product? Maybe for the feeling I get when I immortalise a beautiful moment, in a way which everyone can see and relate to, get their own meaning from." He took a deep breath, looking her right in the eye, looking for an answer. "Every time I have a session, I feel like I'm unravelling another universe, a universe with countless memories that make up that one particular mind, and the countless interactions that mind has with others through the course of their lives. What makes you, you? Nobody stops and asks these questions anymore, nobody cares yet they yearn for someone to care about them." He picked up the camera again, finding her face through the viewfinder, "And when I look through these lenses, I find something different everytime, something beautiful, something raw, something magical..."

Her eyes were soul-searchingly deep now, and in that moment he knew, he was the subject.

"Find me, as I am," she said, slowly gripping the bottom of her shirt. As she lifted it up, over her head, and then dropped it wet and heavy and thick onto the floor, he couldn't understand. The moment was pristine, the water coursing down the crevice on her chest in torrents as the rain kept falling, kept pelting her. Her hair was slick and flat, drawing an intricate map of paths from her crown onto her collar bones, some cutting across her eyes, hiding the gaze that deciphered his very existence. With hands that were free, she unbuttoned her jeans, catching him completely off-guard and vulnerable. 

"Find me, as I am", she repeated, and for the life of him, he could not tell if this was a dream or reality. The moment defied all logic, as the camera in his hand stayed immobile, his eyes only peering through the glass of the viewfinder. Here he was at the pinnacle of his inspiration, the game of the rain, lightning and thunder adding magic to all that he was feeling. Afraid of what he might find, with much hesitation he lowered the camera, blinked a few times as the mist of the rain hit his eyes, and watched her again. There she was , before him as she was, her chest heaving up and down in the motion of the long breaths she was taking. Her lips were parted only slightly, giving him the impression she wanted him to say something yet she had something to say too.

"Find me, as I always was." 

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The camera battery slowly winked out over the next few hours.