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.


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.

The seasons have come full circle

It has been days since first feeling that cool autumnal breeze upon my cheeks, and now the evening sun hangs low in the sky with its diminishing warmth denoting the conclusory weeks of insipid sun we have remaining before summer departs. The trees have already begun to shed their leaves, and the seasons have come full circle again. Although i’m not particularly fond of the colder months, I do miss those pensive solitary walks in desolate parks forsaken to the cold and fog. Moments to clear my head or just be in the quiet were never far, in the sense that it didn’t matter what part of the city I found myself in, I could always escape the quotidian clamour at anytime.

But as summer descends, that distinct serenity brought about by balmy thunderstorms leaves as well. About a fortnight ago, a few hours before dawn, the most magnificence rain fell. I sat on my windowsill and gave in to it, drank in the sight, the sounds, the petrichor carried in the breeze sifting through the rain, through my hair, the smell of wet grass and mud. The deep earthly rumble of thunder, flashes of lightning, for only a second the leaden sky overhead became lucent with opalescent fulgurations mapping the clouds like veins, like silver ink, and the sky was an ancient scroll communicating a sacred message to me. Just before the storm began, I was reading a selection of poems by Rumi, and all throughout my time witnessing that splendour, my thoughts were wandering back to a particular verse, “What is the body? That shadow of a shadow of your love, that somehow contains the entire universe.” And as the city drifted off into dreams and slept, I felt the vastness encapsulated within me pouring out into the night, and the night pouring into me. I was always that vast space, and it—my soul, is tethered to a fate beyond this reality. But in this vessel in which it resides, and in this place of existence, it is both here and not, there in that fate and not. This is my disease, to have made peace with the death of these moments and this mortal shell long before their demise, but this bane is also the salvation that has preserved me through much. I linger between this sublunary existence and that other distance place that calls me, it is my strange home for I have never seen it, but it is nonetheless where I began, so I carry this distance with me. And for this reason, I drift through life detached from it but enchanted with it all the same.

And now, the sun has set and the city is aglow with an incandescent blue, it’s times like this, in this blue hour waltz of birdsong and zephyr that I can feel the entirety of the world silently nestled within me, and I myself become the drifting autumnal wind. We are all driven by something more profound and greater than this universe, and you can feel it in the rain, in early morning deluges when everything else is so quiet and still, you feel like the only person in the world, and I hold on to this.

Lakeside thoughts

What is tonight? Who am i tonight in the eyes of those i love? In hearts across oceans buried deep within? Where the light of my being is the light of their being, and in that light i burn steadily. My mind revolves around the source of this light and my body moves in someplace else, it is this dissonance that always reigns in silence. I want to move in that light, to breathe in it, to drink it in, to escape the physicality of everything, the venerated trivialities, to be still in the truth.

I glimpsed a sense of this peace by a lake this weekend, and through prayer under a tree, and for that time being everything beforehand in that day felt like drawing breath and longing for breath, so inconsequential that i wasn’t sure they even happened at all. I think much of this disconnection of mind and body emanates from the detachment with the essence of our being, the continual pursuit of our desires and chasing the day with no moment to reflect in solitude away from everything and with the earth. Without these reflections what are we but ornaments decorated with our desires?

What is the source of the light of my being? It existed in that rippling water, it was in the zephyr under that tree.