First encounter with the set of sadness

As I sat there in the impeccable whitewashed balcony looking out to lines and lines of mountains, a set of sadness turned themselves up at my doorstep. They, as well, were painted white and smelled like the ocean. The song was still bleeding from the tiny broken speaker, each note spit out all crooked and rough, like a stream of static. The set of sadness stared blankly into my face, and I was at a loss for words. I wished I could drop myself from a cliff into the roaring ocean waves, yet the mountains stood there grimmly like a ruthless barrier.

I turned to look at the story that was now spreading out miles and miles on the table, sceneries of Greece and France and Afghanistan stacked up onto one another. They were weighed down by the set of sadness as well.

Right that moment, an old car passed by outside. Disheartenedly, it was also painted white, albeit a worn-out, nostalgic shade. The sky was turning muted, dark blue, faded orange stripes of clouds resided at the far end.


A love poem

A force, a living force
the same sort of thing I responded to in Matisse,
in Picasso, in Mondrian…
I was hit hard with what I saw

– Lee Krasner on Jackson Pollock’s work

On wearing too little on a cold night

And so it goes, I am running away once more…


Right now my hands are as cold as my lungs, and I blame it all on this storm that has come and gone in a blink of an eye, much like an anxiety episode. Surely it’s not because of the solitude that I am trapped in right now, not at all the imprisonment I declared my own in this tiny messy room.

No, not at all because I cannot face the dark side of my soul, the demons that have been hiding inside for so long they now have rooted too deep. Not that they have eaten me from the inside out and now I have grown trivial. Petty. Insignificant.

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