World of Small Things

I’m afloat in the pale, red reverie that separates dreams from daylight.  Evading the daily rebirth into sameness, it is in this undecided delirium that I thumb through the pages of my life.  And as I do, clarity cuts me deeper than the papercuts.    It burrows beneath my skin and gnaws on my bones. Then it ties my tongue and siezes my vision, before stealthily settling into the depths of my soul like a cold, calculating creature of the sea. I must lure it out and spear it right through the heart. For that, these words must cut deeper. But as the pages flail and flutter, the sentences seem to be struggling to drag themselves home. The words hang on as long as they can, before collapsing under the weight of the author’s ineptitude. Before I’m drawn back into a slumber, I pry my eyes open. The unremarkable glow of this early winter morning is meekly attempting to colour the walls of the room. A familiar cooing belts out from the niche underneath the window, where a pig...

Dear Unknown, My eyelids are heavy and weary, yet too timid to embrace each other. Autumn whispers shyly through the netted window. This damp, dismal night is lit only by the sickly glow of flickering neon letters perched atop a preening building, screaming in shades of electric red and yellow. But it is in this horrid limelight that I speak tonight, to an audience of famished trees, elusive crickets and the anaemic winds of October.  Through half open eyes I watch this vulgar vista contort itself into hypnotising swirls in the murky puddles that litter the construction site below. In the haziness of a sleepless reverie I could see a reflection of myself in them. These puddles were cowards too, skulking behind a veil of unintelligible obscurity, distorting anything that remotely cared to pry beyond the surface.  I think back to the drivel that I have spilled on these pages. Brutish brushstrokes I have smeared canvases with. All those stuffy verses and crude colours never stood...