Wonderland

I used to have the same fever dreams over and over again; an endless dream sequence set in a place like wonderland.

There, people walk around in a stupor with half-smiles on their faces. They talk about how the sun is shining so brightly, or compliment the precise diamond-like shape of raindrops but when asked about their names or who they are, they fall silent.

You are walking in the middle of a crowd of people; suddenly you stop, turn around and there's no one around you at all. You're standing in a narrow hallway and you can see no end to it. You put one foot ahead of another because there's really nothing else you can do.

She looks at me, her face utterly devoid of emotion and holds out her palm to me. WE'RE ALL MAD HERE, written in faded black ink. She continues licking the ink on her translucent skin.

There's a mirror in front of me and I see you in it; or rather, you see me. And I realize that we're the same person after all. And all the people walking in circles, with their zombie-smiles and their apparent lack of sound minds are more clones of me.

Then the dream would start all over again.

Dear You,

There was once a girl who spent so much time building castles and worlds and perennial universes;
her arms are islands and her feet are mountains.
The wind is her breath and the ocean her blood but at the same time, she is the island and the mountain, the wind and the ocean.
She is not here, or there, or anywhere but she is everywhere.

She spent nights trying to find her voice. She had it once, long, long ago. But the only memory she had of it is vague and unintelligible; she couldn't even recognize it.
So now she goes around knocking from mouth to mouth, trying to retrieve her lost voice.

She's a dreamer but such a strong one. Hurricanes that would leave her devastated come and go. New hearts are drawn over old, smudged and crossed out ones.
Torn seams and lost faith are stitched back onto her soul.
Her teardrops are the infinitesimal stars in the sky. She who dreamed and dream still of love.

On Feelings

I would like to write a book solely on feelings. I want to document and categorize every feeling known to man. I want to untangle the intricate and complex feelings and translate them into words. I want to catch the stray ghosts of feelings and inject into them a magic chemical that would make them solid and preserve them in formaldehyde. I want to tape them in my scrapbook of feelings and label every one of them. Then I will be named Prof. of Feeltology and win a Nobel prize for my amazing discovery.

Love is A Sticky Mess

My tongue is leaden with
particles of you,
and my soul weary;
I love you
but I love you
no more.

I am more

ghost

than solid flesh. I

roam the piceous concourse of

your murky mind too long,

too often.
And I saw

Your shriveled bones.

I love you

but I'm suffocating. 

You crowd my lips 

and you clot

in the pores of my 

withering skin. 

You disgust me,

but I love you

and I love you still.