:aspectacularlie:

I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you. - Friedrich Nietzsche

Lying is withholding. It's shirking the reality, obscuring it, keeping even the tiniest of personal minutiae concealed. And, at which point you finally admit the lie, you concede unhappiness. In a situation, in your fellow man, the third party. For the most part, in yourself. 

Some kind of major unhappiness created the lie, caused you to lie. Fed that lie love and grew that lie strength. Housed that lie and bathed that lie, groomed it and pruned it, and fostered it and cherished it.

And then the reality sets in. You not only lived with that lie, nestled comfortably alongside it, but you lived that lie unequivocally. You embodied it, imbued it, became it, took ownership of it. Invested time unto it. You breathed into this lie a spirit. The fact that you dressed up your lie and gave it a name and carried it with you on outings one-and-twenty means you perpetuated this great vilification.

What's more, it means I will never again know whether you are telling a lie or a truth. Or whether you in fact know which is which of your own self. Wicked is the web you have woven.

Sometimes darkness is the truth, and the only thing to set you free is light. Sometimes, though, light cannot break for the fury of the lingering storm, the twisted folly of its keeper.

image : ying ang

:tidaldeluge:

Lay down your ragged head

Here beneath my quivering fear

To concede defeat

Is at times the only way forth

Let pass this torrent

Water

Under a tired old bridge

Surrender that turbulent heart

Raise up those empty hands

Dispense with your weapon

In absolution lay repose

There’s so much

Water

Under a decaying bridge

For whom the bell tolls

Not yet apparent

Pale threads fray in homage to the fissure

Do not resuscitate

It’s too much

Water

Under the bridge

Once the dazzling big picture

Now strangled in a deathlock

By a frame too obdurate

Faces stifled by time

The river floods

Water

Bursts its banks

image : chris mcconville

:achromatic:

Sometimes the questions are too much. The thoughts one length too consuming, one level too exhausting, one degree too debilitating. Sometimes the mind condemns the body to physical paralysis, subjects its chemistry to chaos, asphyxiates the heart into a thick and suffocated silence. From the alchemy grows a pernicious anarchy.

Sometimes it’s the slightest of things: a familiar gesture, an avocado sliced just so, a rainbow sunset painfully alike a former rainbow sky. The breath catches in your throat, ragged and shallow. A particular pair of boots. A throwaway comment from a taxi-driver, harking back to the days of yore. Your body flattened and forlorn against a rapidly spinning earth, vertigo long revoking the freedom of forward motion.

Sometimes it’s the eye falling on a date now passed; the mind casting forth kaleidoscope memories all and sundry.  It’s the notion of your future renounced, your past erased, your present slain. Your happiness extinguished.  The summer garden weeded before the flora has come to bloom. A diary flipped open to an unfinished entry, the pen still smarting from the warmth of its master.  A canister of film perished by morning’s first light, precious moments now exposed beyond repair. A future unknown, yet a mind still wondering, regardless. But a future is a perennial unknown, a past a poisoned chalice.

image : ying ang

:tideline:

Communication

Conjugation

Adulation

Dedication

Veneration

Inclination

Affectation

Revelation

Mutilation

Elimination

Disintegration

Isolation

No explanation

Alienation

Trepidation

Devastation

Lamentation

Realisation

Resignation

Abdication

Excavation

Reformation

Cultivation

Elevation

Affirmation

Growth

:thechrysalis:

She spins her cocoon

Weaves the layers thick around her

Inch by inch

Fostering a cushy thickness

Loosely at first

Building a delicate shell

Layer upon layer

She who hungers

Who ploughs and sows and reaps and bides

She who bears the glacial brunt of bodily rime

And withstands the capricious change of season

Who reserves the right

To be three parts hot

And six parts cold

She who plays animal kingdom

In the glorified and giddy human realm

Turns bilious beast upon threat

The tightened strain of her falsetto shrill

Disarming in alacrity

She who lay in wait

She who is

With seasonality comes change

Firm footed in the conviction of her own love

Yet blithely unaware

Of the magnetism of her newly engorged marrow

Be it a hegemonic push

Or an overtly oppressive pull

Influenced by stimuli one way on first glance

And another on reinspection

She is doggedly plagued

Finally assuaged

My heart isn't always consistent

But it's always right

It never fails me

And that's more than I can say for you

Because you've failed me enough

And fuck you if you can't abide that

Because I no longer abide you

image : ying ang

:shacklesandstitches:

Some mornings I have weights on my ankles and other days wings on my back. Tumbling, bumbling, stumbling over words, I rumble.

Knit one, purl one, hold tight that yarn, never drop a stitch.

I catch my shin with the razor and watch mutely on as my entire vessel is choked of all blood, seeping indolently across a naked bathroom floor.

Engulfed by a congealing pool of dropped stitches I lay, weighted by the shackles of lost dreams and waylaid hope. Wallowing in a remorseful tide of bloodied regret I droop, tempering my once flaxen locks with the darkly hollowed hues of pain.

Setting my intention, I brace against the terminal vertigo of eons spent itinerant. Atop shaky legs I stand. My trailing red fingertips smear the curvature of the porcelain rail, evoking in the splintered veneer a newly crimson finish.

The famine of love has broken; I torpidly feel my way. Rise, I start. I circle once, twice, clocking the fading misery of the witching hours. Retreat, I must. On the floor below, the gushing red deluge dissipates into nihility. Repent, I have. The door stands open and defiant, aghast at the scene. Resurrected, I am.

     image : ying ang

:onceadreamer:

Once upon a dream, I was in love. With plans so grand we’d run away, shave our scalps and warm each other; someday we would return.

A dream it seems it must have been, for this unseemly scene was not redeemed. What now remains is in between, life and something else. What now remains is me.

Alas the sun is long since set; nevertheless, I think fondly of its glow.

        image : ying ang

           

:metamorphosis:

It’s a sky the shadow of suicide's lips

The boisterous curls of defiant youth

A faded colour swatch

The instant recoil from a fiery furnace

An ashen face licked clean by childbirth

The dewy flush of opportunity

A second-storey window seat

The oppressive gait of an old man diminished

A devastating change of heart

The tolling peals of twilight laughter

Thievery in the abbey

The rigid resilience of an early bloom

Your father's eyes siphoned dry of grief

A love anchored and bound

A weary sun engulfed by belligerent ocean

A pleading surrender

All the heat you've ever known

At once reduced to frost

image : mel tjoeng