As I wash, My blood stained hands An eerie silence occupies my head and I whisper to my conscience About the disconsolate skies to follow. I wipe the serrated dagger, And toss it in a massive bin, Changing my clothes, I reckon the sin, I committed. Darkness blooms in my mind And I start walking beneath the Shattered golden sky, trembling.
I reach home, My kids rush towards me And I stand there, Mourning in stillness Hoping they would forgive me, For they have no mother to caress Them to sleep anymore. Those unknown cuts began disappearing Into oblivion As I seek for forgiveness.
Voices, I cannot hear them anymore Which clutched my skin and bones, Those demons which resided deep within me, Have collapsed into restlessness And I wonder, Whether I belong in hell.
"Hydrogen, given enough time will start to question its existence"
I trimmed my beard after what seems like forever because my mom told me that I look like a sociopath. And since I'm a nice son and I needed her credit card, I had to listen to her. Nah, I'm just kidding, I'm not nice. But the thing is, I still look like someone that you would run away from when you see me in a deserted alley.
But mom told me that I look like a different person (cute, I know), which made me think about the deep-rooted question of who am I? I had a very long conversation about it with the dude inside my head when I was in the shower, but when I tried to write it down, the words aren't falling in the right places like I wanted to. There is this sense of disconnection between what you think and what you can write. Often, it almost feels like two different people, trying to make sense of the same world, the same chaos. Are you a single individual or a collection of different things so carefully embedded to feel like one?
I had to force myself to write this before I leave because, for some reason, I felt that I should. The one thing that I realized after writing for some time, is the reality that most of what I write is complete garbage. Everything revolves around the same bleak view of the world and it is not so exciting or creative anymore. There is this unbelievable standard set by Neruda, Bukowski, Mary Oliver, Byron, Keats, and many more that are impossible to reach.
Someone asked me, "what is the most poetic thing that has ever happened to you?", I had to think for a while to answer that one. If everything is art, and everything is poetic then that's so futile, isn't it?
I have heard that all past human thought is just a development of the thoughts and ideas of previous thinkers. I can't deny this, because if true, then in my own thinking I would be merely repeating what others have already thought before me. I think our view of self is very complicated. We tend to have a lot of different kinds of concepts about ourselves, one for each context in which they appear.
There is a beautiful interpretation of quantum mechanics that says, we live in stories that the brain tells itself.
Even when you say you love someone, you're only loving the idea of that person, you're only loving the parts that they chose to show you, but there are millions of parts to someone that's been scattered around people that you don't even know about. Every time you read something, you feel like you're trying to know that person and in a way, a little part of them finds abode in you. Does that mean that a person is all the image that exists in all different narratives or the image that exists in your narrative is enough?
I think this is a complicated question. There's no correct answer because the universe doesn't care about who you are. It just cares about whether you can survive or not, to pass your genome to the next generation. All of the 'you' stuff is more like an illusion that we have to give meaning and direction to our lives. Entropy, order creating more chaos.
But let me try to be helpful. There exist many different perspectives on this question. First, you could consider yourself to be a collection of different things. You might even say that there is no such thing as 'you' at all. For example, let's say someone loses an arm in an accident and has it replaced with a prosthetic one. Do they then become two separate people? What about if they get their brain transplanted into the body of another person? At what point do we stop calling them the same person?
Second, you might consider yourself to be a collection of different memories. For example, if someone gradually forgets who they are and becomes an entirely new person due to damage in their brain or amnesia from trauma or disease, do we still call them the same person?
Third, you could consider yourself to be a collection of different experiences. For example, the person who is blind from birth and later becomes sighted after an operation has two separate experiences (one with sight and one without). If they then go on to live their life as if nothing happened but keep experiencing things differently due to how they perceive them now that they can see - do we still call them the same person?
Another way to think about yourself is how you feel. Do you ever stop feeling some feelings and start feeling others? What if someone gets depressed and loses their ability to experience happiness - are they still the same person?
Yesterday I was talking to someone and they told me about this image they have about me, just by reading what I post and share, you create an image about me. Is it really me or a part of me or not me at all?
In this digital data-driven age, I can easily tell you that you are this tiny little space bounded by a simple equation in multidimensional data. That simple equation is enough to predict what you're gonna eat next to when you feel so fucking lonely. We can talk about this digital existence some other time, but the important question is this digital identity. Why do you follow someone? Why do you read them? Why do you like and repost what they write? Is it because you like the idea of them, the digital identity of them, or is it because are you expecting something in return?
What's in a name when you have no plans to stay, I have always wondered. It is the stories that matter, isn't it? The way someone made you feel when you were feeling blue on a December night, for a moment and disappeared the next day. There is this suffocation that you feel when you stay for long. Tell me, who you are when you strip down the name and the face and the things that you love, like, and hate? Stories so entwined between the pages waiting for someone to pick it up and read, maybe?
it is hard for me to stay in the same place for long so I look for stories in people. it is easier than trying to find a home in them. you can start with a line, filling every space with more metaphors.
I ended up building these cities made out of words of all the strangers that I can't remember. faces and names are easy to forget but stories stay.
Perhaps, it's no wonder that we are insane. We live in this chaos, completely oblivious to the nature of our world and our own existence, where every day is a struggle to survive.
the sky never seemed to care about what you feel. for a poetic touch, you gave it a color, a life, and a story that fits in your journal.
but it was never the same, always changing; from one color to another. blue to the orange to the red and sometimes, a bit too grey for your liking.
you chose a word to match the color and a few more for the clouds and the wind.
it's always blue when you begin, not too bright but not too sad peeking through the window to the beginning; a beginning that's so uncertain. but put a smile on your face, a tired little one where your lips barely move.
you don't know why, but grey always had a sad story to rain down. sometimes a gentle kiss on your numb body sometimes drowning you to death. but, it always had something sad about it.
sadness that always fits so perfectly about a long lost one, as it rains down to drench the streets and numb the pain of all the ones that look through a window and leave a sigh.
like a fine Claude Monet's painting, the sky bleeds into a perfect stroke of all the colors; but it's never the same the next day. silent, but tranquil moments of serendipity that lets you breathe. some endings are always more artistic than some beginnings.
the day strips down into the night to end the charade; there is too much dark between the stars. we turn on the artificial colors to fill the room, darkness always questioned your existence.
you always loved the night sky, my moonchild; when the sky lay bare against your eyes you wrote the best lines of all the things that never made sense in your head but somehow someone felt connected to like the stars that always stayed till the end.
a tiny dot in the endless space, awed by the wonders that hide from the sight. perhaps, some infinities are bigger than what we can comprehend. but you always wondered what the sky feels.