teething jaguar: bent double, under the bronzed sky, the sun a peach of white, the harvest flaying with pumpkin scorch and tiger striped whiskers of ash. sighted: a single musky wheelbarrow; in it, yellow boots and a child’s raincoat. no baby breaths or bedded moans, but a clean cut of proportion, silence sliced into neat halves by a mellowing of blaze. not even a peep from the old critter who sits out back and barrels through a pack a day, watching the earth split and the continental drift, parting the ground with a rod, reeling the soaked, shivering, sunken moon in with a net.

child, wilderness

today is dark, heavy, a dead end. i am a straight line in the middle of an orbit. i am an amputated trunk children sit on in the day and leave to birds and rain in the night. i am lying on the ground in an unfinished building within the city, in a soundproofed level 24, feeling the coldness of the concrete and the dripping of greasy water from a tiny leak in a ceiling pipe. i am flimsy and tired. i am plunging from a previous summit wherein i felt everything — and for this reason, today, i am nothing.

so much to be grateful for. i must hold onto days like the past few. people are beautiful: generous, faithful, honest, present, warm. tearing at this point, but there is so much goodness and love and tenderness; all readied with a safety net for any stumble or full-fledged fall. for being rock solid i will be too, always. truly the best individuals i am privileged to have as friends.

the walk home

soft starlight snaking silent streets; lofty lampposts lining lanes… i look up during the walk home, with snippets of the sky through shocks of leafy canopies and between cheap yellow overhead lights — before the welcomed disruption of an open canvas: a slate of sky, sometimes clouded over by wisps of resurrected fallen air, others clear and blank, and on rare occasion, morphed into a palette by brushstroke gradients. often the sky looks like it’s pressed up against a sheet, and i imagine the globe fitted inside a glass dome. i try to picture Earth being flung aside by an enormous Hand and falling down space, only to remember that space has no direction, and then to remember direction is relative to my imaginary position, and by this time the Earth is likely to be a small point engulfed in blackness, and then my mind hits a dead-end because how can i continue to picture something moving further away from me when i can’t picture seeing it, because picturing the microscopic in an infinite space would require a zooming in, which wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway?

when i’m not looking up i keep my head low. i don’t like walking too slow and by habit i switch sides of the street more than once. i listen to too many different things to ascertain what’s typical, but tonight the sky is milky, the lights glazed over by an unidentifiable haze, and uncannily enough Bliss n Eso comes on shuffle. it sounds wistful yet hopeful, and, emotionally, totally accessible. in other words, exactly what i need on this uncharacterisically soppy and giddily sentimental night. it’s a feeling i haven’t had in weeks, maybe months; i have missed the sureness, the familiarity, the warmth, the hint of something less lucid, playfully indulgent.

11pm: dewy and delicate. i know what’s going to come and i am ready for it, whatever the stop signs, however depreciating. just like old times. i am with the clouds, my heart caught in my throat, the rawness potent, almost piquant — if only for tonight.

too much unnecessary sadness coming out of nowhere but hitting everywhere possible. used to be a darkness for late nights and my own company, but now it creeps up even when i’m in the office, on the bus, walking home, having dinner. it’s as if the lights in these spaces i’d long ago deemed safe are faltering and flickering — unsteady, unreliable.

tonight i will let myself remain self-indulgent; tomorrow i will cast it aside.