Late Night Melancholy

Night after night
As though drunk, you stumble clumsily into her
the writings
You know not to withhold;  to restrain


It’s impossible
Yet like a dying ember you struggle
With wild foresight
And misled judgement


It’s not possible
Your mind swindled by your heart
Your vision is blurry


Maybe it’s possible,
Maybe if you grasp on relentlessly
Like death hanging onto
every soul
A deer bleeding from its neck (infatuated with the lion)


Just maybe

The process of  undeciding and deciding
You imagine a future, a path guided by certain virtues and the change you seek of the world
Yet you’re undecided
With infinite perspectives and thousand morals,
Your vision unending like a flux
Because even change is not the only constant

I’d Rather Be.

I’d rather be in an open field under a blanket of stars, with a cool gentle breeze caressing the skin on my face.

I’d rather be by a monsoon sea, staring as the waves crashed against the rocks, and the smell of salt brushed against my nose.

There are many places I’d rather be, places rather than this rat’s nest. Life void of empathy and feelings, but brimming with negativity and distress.

I’d rather be among tall grass by myself than with humans that are not being.

I’d rather hear the turbulence and thrashing of nature than the outburst and wails of angst.

One day rather, I’d be. Then maybe there won’t be any other rather bes.


For why do we grief? What is that bitter feeling in the heart, the lump in the throat?

We grief when a being dies, a life that once could move but then became motionless. What is the grief? Is it a feeling of confusion or fear? Or is it the fruit of a soul within us? All of us intricately, inextricably linked, all feeling a universal understanding of the language of life, and death. Why do we cry when our parents or pet dies? Why do we feel melancholic when death of strangers and fallen souls flood the news, when we see a character fall still in a movie? It seems in a moment in time, we coexisted with death, with the lifelessness we see. We place ourselves in somebody else’s coffin. Grieve is really an incomprehensible feeling, a concoction of pain, fear, sorrow, regret, …

It shoves aside our daily hustles and reminds us the frailty of life, of every existence. Of how we are weak and still lost, even as we have tried not to be. It reconciles our reality which we often neglect such that we do not indulge or drown in grief.


The doldrums of life
Always filling the heart
suffocating the emotional being
lack of choices, thrown into dilemma
cannot escape, peripheral vision is encroached with darkness

What is the peace to seek
Where is it
What does it feel like to be free?

The pain resonates with the pulse
it never leaves, only arising like the tides
Like piercing cold waves hitting the heart

Maybe i‘ve totally lost it
lost the mind, the identity
the way to be free
to be sane and normal like (everyone) else
A train wreck that went off the rails in a long stretch of barren desert
without a single wind to mark its existence

But then again, the existence doesn’t matter, it will not in time’s clutches

i just seek/wish for an exit, an escape from this pit, the abyss with no light
any ways would be fine, even if it means to no longer exist in this physical cage

Motion Picture Soundtrack

Sometimes the world feels staged,

Like in a theater 

Where we i am the actor

and the onlooker,

The observer who participates

and the actor that spectates.

The everyday cycle

Normally mundane

Yet fast-paced

With the occasional thrill,

The predictable plot,

and the bland sourness and confusion.

Feels like a dream in a dream,

An unreal loop

in itself.

The constant questioning feels

Like a character

Realizing his existence in the setting .

Yet the setting is all there is.

This body

A costume

Binding his mind

and existence

As this soul,

A molecular speck of dust

In the many centers

Of the outstretched universe,

yearns for the day

At last,

when the final curtain is drawn,


The day when i am



Why have I changed so much?

Referring to past photos I’ve found myself a different person.

Why have the times slip through my fingers like sand?

It feels as though I’ve been stuck in quicksand, failing to progress but instead regress.

Why, of all things in the large scale of this universe, should I worry?

Why of all the words in the world do I not know how to describe this feeling within?