"I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."

I lost sight of my map that you snatched and vandalized, scribbled lines I blindly

followed in the dark.

I trusted you and not a torch, spare batteries I let fall only to hold your hand and have you crush every bone and marrow that no longer

differentiates warmth and frost.

But to blame you for my present, only selfish, what seems a lifetime ago, imprudent and foolish. I hate how it’s shaped me and how I’ve licensed to

forget me.

For they say the hands on the clock is mine and you, a ghost I can no longer


But unchained demons lick my ears with careless whisper, calling out on all the things you’ve done and

the kind of love I’ll ever know.


“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

– In Search of Lost Time

High and dry

It has been ages since I’ve last written and the ink out of my right hand stalls at a beat that feels too much and expresses so little. It’s been ages.

I am so angry. I am so fucking angry.

I love the English language and have always thought hate was a strong word, till you proved me wrong.

Times like these I feel that trying to be a kind person does nothing in return, (oh fuck you to call oneself kind)

then I breathe; exhale.

Will I allow one individual to unalign my peace? (oh fuck you to say you’re at peace)

Did I mention how angry I am?

The bottle of white in my palm now feels much of a chore, it will be done tonight nonetheless. So much for a detox, who again was this dreary joke for? I didn’t last long enough for a good laugh. I hope you did.

All the crazies are looking
for someone sane.

They don’t realize, you need two
halves to become



And if I should dive into my own mind,
I will go heads first.

Find the glitch in a pool of broken alphabets;

however dark, however deep.

You light matches in the wind
to watch their smoky deaths
(like you, their warmth never lasts)

20 minutes


I have found joy in going to the laundromat recently. Something about the sound of the machines and a good book. 



Reading between absent lines

One for the road?


I’m in the bus on the way to Bagan and its three hours into a ten hour journey. We arrive at a pitstop. A lady hands me a packet of tissue and a toothbrush.

“30 minutes”, she says.

The guy sitted next to me in the bus, Tham Zaw, from Thailand, joins me during this little break. We barely understand each other, aside from general handsigns.

He orders a beer, and so do i. Nearly everyone working at the rest stop smiles and laughs. Tham Zaw looks at me to reassure that a beer was what I ordered. So I gave him a thumbs up.

I would prefer to use the word rarely but with all honesty, I have not once seen a Burmese lady drink or smoke a cigarette.

I felt out of place for a bit – am I being rude? What’s so funny???? But it’s really good beer and I figured it’d help me catch some shut eye during the bus ride.

While they laughed harmoniously, I laughed alone wondering, is this so rare? I then ordered my second glass. 10 minutes left.

Tham Zaw humoured with the random faces around us; he spoke Burmese aside from Thai. Not being able to comprehend what they were saying and to know that it was about me, the glass of beer and cigarette in my hand – it became amusing more than strange.

If I could only pick a handful of Burmese men/women and gently drop them in Clarke Quay on a Saturday evening. A thirty minutes pitstop maybe?

I wonder.

23:13 – 16/12/15