Friday, 19 September 2008

City and Colour

So say goodbye to love, and hold your head up high.
We're all just die.

Wednesday, 17 September 2008

I love the water, but I can't swim. Subconscious desire to drown?

Out of the question, it is not.

Monday, 15 September 2008

The Swim Back Home.

There's all this blood on my hands. It smells of Iron. Or maybe that's just me. But that's besides the point. The point is all this blood on my hands. All this blood, all littered throughout the expanse. All of it swimming through my yearning fingers. A blood of a hundred people flows through in a single thread, so I do not even know whose blood it is. Who do I lament now? Was this spray from the stabwound? Or the shorn promise of longing love? Was this haste making waste? What is this? Why is this?

I'm swimming through crimson seas. There's something in the distance, just visible at the horizon. Or so I think. I can't be sure. But I think it's there. So head off towards it, I do. It's the only thing visible for miles. Or it's the only thing seemingly visible for miles. The dwarfed silhouette of a probable mirage clouds the image of my limbs thrashing arcs through waves of maroon. With every dip, I see nothing but crimson, stretching on like a natural darkness in burning shades. What is the point? Why am I here? I would never come here. Someone brought me here. Who would bring me here? Where is this going?

It seems there is no day or night. How long has it been? Time has morphed into a snow crash. A static concerto scroll at its last yank, staves in shambles. Maybe this is why red paper never made for good sheet music. Note to self; stick to plain white. Nothing but white above, magenta below. And all around. Everywhere. The silhouette seems to be getting clearer, but it is still at a distance not in my fathom. It seems to be getting clearer, at any rate. Maybe it's this belief that it should be getting clearer, getting bigger, getting closer. I would certainly like to hope so. No. I cannot hope so. I have to believe in what I have accepted. Hope is a poorly-tempered concept. Or so I would hope...

For all the claret I have swallowed, I might as well be eating scrap metal for a staple diet. The taste stays on the roof of your mouth, in your teeth, on your tongue, in your throat, in your lungs, in your blood. Hah. Blood in your blood. Look. A Funny. Yes, funny. You have to see the lighter side of things, when surrounded eternally by gravity, and the realities of, well, having to wade through an ocean's worth of blood to get to something you think is there, while somehow nursing a dreary suspicion that your belief is toying with your plight for resolution. All you want is answers. There's nothing but answers to seek. You'd also like to know the questions, if someone's willing to divulge surplus information. If there is anyone who could divulge information at all...

Crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave after crest after wave. Red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red. I wonder if all you see is red when you bleed in the eye. Another question, perhaps. Came up with one myself, i feel some strange sense of achievement. Pride, perhaps? Satisfaction? That blurry mantlepiece upon the horizon shows no signs of letting up. I must not question, I must believe if I have accepted. When I make it there, I will commemorate this momentuous occasion. If? No. No. When. When is good...

Friday, 5 September 2008


It's a strange quiet, the feeling that everything seems to be going right, but something, anything, could possibly be going wrong, without your knowing it. Knots age and, in their silent weariness, untie themselves without anxious hands pulling away. The dust lives a fast-paced life, but eventually settles down, sits to catch its breath, before someone sweeps it along, someone sets it aflight. Spectres wither in the shade of our minds, and the shade grows lighter with the movement of the sun. Our mind, cluttered with a thousand useless heirlooms. Our mind, cluttered with possibilities. Our mind, cluttered with hopes and fears. Our minds, ours and no one else's.
Let us take leave. Fly away together. Just the two of us. We won't need anyone. There will be love. There will be music. There will be peace. We will starve our minds, so they consume the clutter. We will rest in the radiance of our own notions of what is right and what isn't going wrong.
We will exist in the blink of an eye. A blink later, and we will be no more. So let us blink together, my love.

Wednesday, 3 September 2008