Showing posts from December, 2012

Think of the woman selling pineapples

I rarely go back to read my journals. I have a whole stack of them in my room at my parents' house but they all get shoved around from one shelf to another, piled up on each other or spread out and wedged among other books here and there. I have been writing stuff down ever since I knew how to write, and -surprise surprise- most of this stuff is about myself and how I experience the world.
Most of the stuff I write is also boring, even to my self-centered self, and it begins serving no purpose almost immediately after being put down on paper. 
As of late however, after having recently embarked upon life as an adult (and by that I mean the stage where I am finally out of a hormone haze and fully the captain of my own ship, and all the decision-making and consequence-bearing that that entails), I have realised that the frequency with which the important phases of my life occur has increased, and with it, the frequency with which I go back to my adult journals.
I went through incred…


I'm walking down the street,
gathering my stray thoughts.

The pack of dogs is not following me tonight.
They are lying in the church under the candlelit dome and sleeping.

I think: How beautiful this road that leads me home.
The balconies,
the windows and the doors,
the fragrant smells of food that penetrate the mud brick walls
and find me on these lonely streets.

I try to peer through windows and curtains
to feel my neighbours' lives.

In arrogance of love I question their reality
and think: have these people ever really lived.

I think of you
and like a little tea candle I flicker and I shiver
and I melt into a puddle of human flesh,
with a beating heart still pounding on the dirty, cobbled pavement.

I pick myself up from the ground and hurry home before the
neighbours glance out their low windows
and see my sorry state.

The evening light is drowned in yellow
from the street lamps

and I walk through gold to reach my house.