The human condition


It has been so long, this sinuous journey of mine. It has been unforgiving and dense, but in its slow bends as if in candlelight and a song was playing from the sky, I was in awe from time to time. In such moments, very little mattered.

Somewhere along the way I have learned to see differently. So much has changed so quickly, from one corner of the world to the next very little tends to remain the same, and even less has remained with me. The little things in this material world provide more comfort and solace in the end. The little things are the same people and a few places, the feelings, the portraits yellowing in the corners, the conversations interjecting a favourite song on an old cassette–they always end unfinished, the bottles and vials of thick perfume, the ancient messages on the back of a tattered airmail envelope, a scarf still redolent of a corner in the world, and so on and so on, and nothing more.

In the end,
what is left of this material world? Of the seemingly grand things, the lavish things, the outward things that are so unnecessary. What about you underneath, what will be left of you? A photograph? A poem? A scarf? Simple objects of memory that will unravel the fabric of time just to rearrange everything so perfectly reticulated with an idea, to make someone wonder: look, it will always be alright in the end.

On this journey, the same things seem to go and return, beckoning, abandoning. I have learned that it is a cycle of death and recrudescence and one should expect things to pass as they emerge. So far, much has come and gone and the path grows more rough, more uncertain. I have learned to be patient and content, my journey continues, I feel that I am at a threshold, like when the roads and the birds and the people are asleep, and something stirs in the quiet hum and thrum just after midnight. All the golden things that could be true linger somewhere in the horizon, somewhere beyond the bend, and there’s music.


There are so many things to say.

In the harsh light of some mornings, when my thoughts are still in a nocturne, there are so many things I know to say.
I will explain, but they are hidden.
I will explain, but they are echoes of memory no longer remembered.
They are coloured in moonlight, tucked away in some thousand parallel dreams.
I will explain.
They are on a mountain beneath the shadow of a pine tree.
They are the python’s suffering, the running river’s song.
They are in the eyes of a wild deer, ambushed, afraid.
I will explain.
They speak in the rain, ever so quietly, so gently, but nobody hears.
They are bitter and bleak to the lonesome wayfarer accompanying the wind.
They are littered on an old path denuned by time of its sacred distinction.
I will explain.
They are kismet when the trees shrivel and weep.
They are behind the moon, east of the gate.
They are so many wordless things to say.

The dishevelled hour of 1800


When the veneer of propriety barely hangs for most and some not at all
and eyes avoid eyes in the abysmal desolation as the last fragments of light filter through the trees
We are all simply passing through this resented place
simply teetering on the precipice of bad conversation
“where did you come from?”
“where are you going?”
and you–enshrouded in a mellifluous saxophone solo or something
dreaming distantly
Do you need to break
over the phone
in an email
in a letter
a long harboured confession
simply languishing in the hour?

A moment

I thought,
overlooking the rowing boats and afternoon boaters, and trails of small wakes fading away into the water, as people came and went constantly, or sat in the shade of an awning,
do all these people have a place to which they always return? A place to go to in the end, or a person, like home, whose eyes are always tethered to the end of every somnolent thought.
Pulling away from the world for a moment (or for some hours), the day transitioned in the background as I walked along the river towards nowhere and into the evening, further into the moving picture. I walked until the silence of the river emerged and the noise of the world subsided, save for the faintest floaty music emanating from a distant café, but it too eventually drifted away.


The end begins to timely unfold, a synopticism alluding to the past a little. A journey once propelled by a smothering passion comes to a close, and begins again, a smothering passion—albeit fleeting—rekindles and tenderly permeates so seemingly slowly, like the passing of seasons. Winter still creeps in the shade, but soon it will all be reasonable.
Far away, an old discourse continues quietly, continues, the rain softly beating on the windowpane.