If you pick up a stone
And throw it at me
That would be
If you pick up a stone
And throw it at me
That would be
I want to write
But its haraam
Because I swear a lot
And that shit ain’t halal
Lets face it, we’re all sick and tire of that classic kind of romantic bullshit where a guy comes out of the blue to safe his sweetheart from danger (or from herself). And be it we change the two positions of guy and girl, or change it to some other non-binary vocabulary, we’re still going to be tired of that shit. Yet, be still dearly long for that exact strain of romantic bullshit. Romance is bullshit.
I don’t blame anyone for wanting that kind of emotional bond between two people, where one receives all the comfort and safety, and the other continuously gives and gives and gives, or it may be they’re more reciprocal than that, but still, bullshit. Bullshit to the core of it. There’s never going to be anyone that would sweep you off your feet to save you from anything or anyone. Those are the kind of shit that got us stuck in this age of romantic pessimism in the first place: our collective disappointment in ideal romances. So fuck that shit.
Fuck that shit and throw it in the trash bin. Crumple that shit up, throw it away as far as your bodily capabilities would let you. Take it by the neck and snap it in half. Kill it. Destroy it.
There’s nothing more than obscene idolatry in romance. That’s the only thing that matters. Worship. Worship matters. Only that and nothing else. Once you’ve found a new God to worship, to lead you to salvation, that new God would be your center of devotion.
Fuck the romantics.
I’ve been writing you many letters, none of them has reached your hands, and I would never give them to you. I would not give them to you, I would never let you read them. You do not deserve to read what I wrote for you.
I’ve written many hundred pages long letters, all of them talking about you. The way you move, the way you look at the world, I’ve put many small details which you yourself would miss into my letters. But in the end these are just what I perceive you to be. Maybe what I wrote wasn’t even you, but the “you” that I could
You see, I am not obsessed about you. Not even the slightest. But you have this ability, one which you aren’t aware of, to pull me into fixation. You constantly draw me closer, you force me to examine you from head to toe, you force me to understand you inside and out; you possess a power to control me, one which I myself do not possess.
I am indeed aware of your flaws, but they’re not that interesting to write about. Look at yourself in the mirror, and instantly you could find what you lack of. Try battling your wits with someone else, and they would pinpoint exactly what’s wrong in your way of thinking. But these aren’t interesting, there is nothing interesting about your flaws. Flaws are facts that you need to accept, you can’t deny flaws once they’re established. But writing about you minus all of those flaws is another thing, it’s something that not everyone could see, it’s something that needs a degree of attention to realize, it’s not something that easy to spot; I behold your beauty, that’s why I could write endlessly about you.
You’re really something else, and you don’t realize that. My job here is to make you realize all the things you are, and not to make you think of the things you are not. I’ll leave that job for you, or for anyone that would oblige to take on that duty, but it wouldn’t be me. Ever.
I am naive, I realize that. I only think of you as how I perceive you, and not as everyone else does. It’s subjective, and anyone with common sense could spot the flaw in my logic by adhering to this subjective view, by hearing me repeat these words: you are flawless to me. If I was a scientist I wouldn’t be a very good one. Luckily, I am not a scientist, nor am I a philosopher who could convey their concepts systematically, I am just me. I am just in
love. I am in love with the thought of you.
He needs sleep, but couldn’t fall asleep easily. Every time he shuts his eyes, every time he tries to sleep, his thoughts would come rushing out. Bad thoughts, thoughts that hadn’t bothered him the whole day. It’s like that night after night.
“Why now?” He asked himself. It was a pointless question.
He couldn’t control his mind, it was one of the things he was certain he had no power over. His thoughts swarmed him like flies to a rotting corpse. Sometimes he wished that actual flies swarmed him, and that he was actually rotting. He was never brave enough to kill himself, he just couldn’t do it. He could resist his suicidal thoughts, be it for now.
He has a problem with guilt. Guilt had always bothered him, he would feel guilt building up inside him every time he does something wrong. That’s how he sees himself, a let down, a disappointment. Because of how deep guilt hits him, he couldn’t kill himself. He’s afraid that he would always be remembered as what he is: a let down to everyone.
He has too much on his mind.
He needs his sleep.
Please let him sleep.
since a young age I had problems
played ball all day, but at nights fall apart
tears rolled down and the pain was from the heart
books were a means of escape, but was temporary
ran away from problems and figures imaginary
fell into a pit of existential angst
and dread and never hoped that much for life
like most millenials living in the information age
consumed information without knowing the harm it creates
I couldn’t manage anger, but atleast I was smart
couldn’t elaborate feelings, and expressing was hard
personally I took things for granted
a very young mind though already pragmatic
outside of that I was really alright
in school I was indeed shining bright
high on dopamine and it felt so right
now I’m suspending on a rope so tight
between dumb unfunny jokes
(and here’s one now)
and the dark, dark, void inside
I remembered after school examinations
everyone was busy documenting moments
all in hopes of capturing memories
into frozen time on paper
used as future room ornaments
while I felt alone in alienation
handled it well, no dramatic tantrums
while everyone else kept saying they’d miss me
some did, some did, but not that much
because people were unstable at the time
you see one laughing one day
then spent the other crying in agony
sobbing the shit out of sadness they felt
onto tailored shirts just for one occasion
made especially for graduation
hugged their very best of friends
while me I was embracing them
but they weren’t in my thoughts
see I was around a lot of people but
somewhere in my mind I was fighting a bout
right around a few weeks after the announcements
I was happy to see that my request was acknowledged
I got into the place I wanted to go to
but recalling it now is really laughable
I feel happy imagining the younger me
but my happiness was that of a fool
was stuck up, loud, and very snobbish
while now I know that my mind was filled with rubbish
now I rethink on the past and see a different picture
I never had real friends back then and I understand
I was a sorry ass motherfucker saved by a wacky demeanor
now I know that the reason people handled me differently
was not because I was too smart but I was too much
I was this guy walking around everywhere
with too much in his mind to share
and to everyone he was just there
imagine living life in delusion
everyday peering into a mirror
only using eyes covered by a fog of illusion
oh fuck the old me let him die
as the useless trash he is
because he wasted his life living in a tunnel
his brain was the container and his mouth the funnel
spitting out nonsense that no everyone would hear
but would never be listened to, wasn’t understandable
that was me in the past and I think he died
a compilation of short stories
on a long ass page
inside a non existent book
that I didn’t plan to write
but I had nothing, it was all that I posessed
and that was it, nothing more, nothing less.
the skies are clear and blue
reflecting from the waters
flowing out to endlessness
to an ocean of bliss
forces none to enjoy
and how beautiful it is today
how beautiful it is to live
and how grateful I am
to be alive
a breeze of fresh air
meadows of flowers
the sweet scent of spring
the warm light of day
after a long winter
and for no one do they appear
but they are there, I believe
and I believe in what is true
no more dark clouds
no more blurred sight
no more do they appear
and I feel alright
not again do they conjure up
disappointments so clear
and memoirs of fears
all the fallen tears
and how easy it was to call upon
the sadness instilled
inside of a dying mind
no more grey skies
shading my light
but where do they retreat?