The Interregnums

To my ride or dies,

We’re going to live forever.

There is substance to our offering. Defacing statues in the streets has always been a sign of the times – we need new ones; we didn’t invent the process, our forefathers did. If we must have gods, let them be hand crafted out of obsidian and Apache tears. Who does it hurt? Who does it harm? Can’t we share the same role models? I feel they had the same dreams, and wished the same things. Who wouldn’t pray wealth, prosperity, and laughter from their children so their smiles burst at the seams. Graphic happiness published in the paper, child turns box of Legos into skyscraper*.

I have a lot of radical ideas. Maybe they’re not so radical. I feel that too is a hallmark of our generation we’re just a little off center and we capture existentialism in quick paragraphs…

View original post 399 more words

Cycles, Corpses and Guillotines

I hate circles.

I hate how I never know where I started when I trace the circumference with my eyes. I hate that that too, has to be a cycle.

I hate cycles. Monday, to Sunday, then it’s Monday again. Nothing makes me sicker. Because they never existed until we humans fashioned them. We create cycles, then complain that they oppress us. Monday, to Sunday, then it’s Monday again. Twelve a.m., to eleven fifty-nine p.m., then it’s midnight again.

I hate the constructs we’ve made around time, because right now, I feel like my time is running out. Fast.                                                                                                                                 Locked inside the shed, the stench of two-day-old blood creeps up my nose, waiting to enter. I hate that I know how many days it’s been since he died, but I’m cursed with the knowledge, anyway. I’d watched as the cycle continued; daylight, no daylight, then daylight again.

My stomach screams at my legs to move for food. My legs scream at my heart to quit fearing what my brain doesn’t know. My heart screams at my brain to quit making it feel anything. But my brain screams back, “Stop beating, heart.”                                                 There is a bang on the aluminium. Two bangs. The sorry metal shakes. My spirit shakes. They’re coming for me. Gears are turning, and burning, inside my head. I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.                                                                                                                         

“Step out now, or we shoot!”

My heartstrings, I feel them tearing. I wish my legs would move, surrendering the rest of my body. But they throw a tantrum; they say no. I bury my face into the corpse’s neck, and take it all in; the smell, the memories, the sound, of death.                                                  They break the door and march in. I hear the beads on their wrists hit against each other, the metals on their ankles clang against one another. I have no strength to fight as they drag me out, and set the guillotine before me.                                                                        My heartstrings, they are tearing.

My eyes meet my mother’s, expressionless. “What did he do to you?”

I see a circle around me. Of people. From my town. I can’t see the looks on their faces, but I know they want me to die too.

I’m seventeen, and tired. Of this place. These people. These cycles, and this new corpse, of my own father. Sounds of stifled cries hit my ear, and I look up at the circle in the sky; white, and bright, and useless.                                                                                                          My execution has come too soon, but there’s no turning back now. My legs don’t know how to run.                                                                                                                                  “Forward, child, to your death.” The executioner looks away from me as he speaks, daring the crowd silently, to say a word, or mumble a cry. “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. He who commits patricide, must die too.”                                                                            Calm sweeps over me. My shoulders fall. The cycle is ending. The cycle of life. I look up to catch my mother’s eye, and feel the warmth of the cold guillotine.                                                “Goodb-”

The Odd One In

The Odd One In

Outcast. Oddball. Radical. Outlaw.

All these names they called me because I wouldn’t fit in

I was chained with heavy fetters

Side-lined and subtracted from my betters because I simply wouldn’t fit in

They told me to be normal

To quit wearing my old-fashioned clothes because it was abysmal

They told me to do what other people did because it was the right thing

But tell me, it was right by who else’s judgement?

Conformity is the world’s bane

We are gradually steering off the reasonable lane

We are walking into a dark abyss of conformism, our eyes have been blinded, our judgment confounded

Now it’s even insane to choose to lie low

We forget that alone we came into this world and alone we shall go

Now you close your eyes and count one, two, three, and another trend is already forthcoming

True non-conformism isn’t about rebellion

It isn’t about reacting

It is about being liberated from the beliefs and dogmas that have been judged right and proper by someone else’s standards

Being a pack animal isn’t the only way to survive

And living your life based on what someone else has asked you to do, isn’t how to keep alive

I went through pain trying to be someone else that I wasn’t

Critical thinking went down the drain

But I knew that all I had to do was to refrain from adding again to Conformity’s chain

And day by day, an extra piece of clay was added to the mould the world had created for me to fit into

I grew tired, I grew weary, but I still wouldn’t fit in

So I chose to be the same as I was

Because I realised that the main aim of life’s game that we play

Is to let your light shine for the Man above, and not the world that you love

So how about you pull away from the crowd?

Take the mask off your eyes, stand tall and be proud that you were forever you


And do not conform to someone else’s standards as right and true

Because nobody else can be you, better than you


I bear very little knowledge about what I’m doing to obey the eye-roll-worthy convention pertaining to ruled paper. Okay my sheet was ruled when I wrote this. I have all along fooled the inhabitant of my skull by forcing into it ignorant misinformation reading, ‘How much more awesome could you be?’ . But then there comes the misgiving, then the second thought, and then the doubt. Like, ‘how much worse could you get? ‘
I mean, I try to reflect humble, but then end up blinding their eyes on account of too much of an intensity of rays bouncing off my Facebook wall by my light.
This is my plight, it’s imbibed in me so much fright, it could be equated to my fight and battle in my mind as to what to do with my phobia of height.
Sometimes I just fear that my self-imposed esteem could climb up to its apogee, a high degree, and I may just fall, and tumble, and break my bones in Valley Shame.
But then I’m assured in some part of my heart [beating like crazy to the rythm of Numb♪] that my upliftment is yet to come, making an allusion to the Phoenix from the flames, or better yet, the dry bones spake of in Ezekiel.
As it is again, allow me to repeat that I still do not know what I’m writing. But all I know is that all this nothingness is the offspring of a minor detour of the euphoria in my life I had planned to defy all odds and make permanent.
I thought that I had got to my self-actualisation but then I got to this realisation that I may just as well now be making an effort to garner the pieces to tile that area of Square One.
From time to time you try so hard to be nice, not knowing that it seems quite unwonted in their eyes. You try so hard to fit in but you are just fitting out.
You’re like a bloodstain on a pair of white jeans. Like a yellow brushstroke on a black and white painting. Like a pretty red rose in an orchard of sunflowers, unknowingly utilizing your parts as a thorn in someone’s flesh.
‘You can be very mean sometimes’. And I just stand there so indifferent like whatever chickens lay eggs.
But then I’m not spared the perplexities following the thought, what if you’re right?
But I can’t really blame myself for getting a little irritated when others don’t live up to expectation. Okay now that’s a little bit of some OCD?
This life we’re living is actually gradually steering off Asphalt Meaning.
It’s slow but sure, like a baby’s weaning.
It’s ceased being a Marathon. It’s now more like;

Life(noun) – 1. The journey characterised by the effort to please people.
2. Growth that can only occur when one executes actions in accordance with others’ preferences.
But then what happened to be different? What happened to Be-you-tiful? What happened to do what you want don’t follow the crowd?
Truly truly I tell you;
I do not know the way to success
But the sure way to failure
Is trying to please others.
So who cares if they call you mean? You may actually be the sharp kind of blunt.
So I’ll work on myself. God be my helper. But I’m not going to subject myself to any boring conformity to social convention, like I’ve done by obeying the convention pertaining to ruled paper.

-At the sick bay.