The green-eyed monster keeps running as the water level keeps rising in the swamp. His whole body is a big ball made of green clovers. The clovers flutter as he moves, and spatter drops of water that reflects the faint light of the sky in a humble gleaming manner. Only until a moment ago, he had lived in the cave among rocks that were covered in soft damp moss. They were always there for him (they are rocks, and rocks don’t have legs). They cared for him, they enjoyed his company, but they mocked him for having legs, they argued with him, sometimes they said mean things to him. “Just like a family,” he thought, “family gets mad sometimes!” Now he is moving away from them.

He keeps running. The water has reached his knees. Every stomp he makes now gets heavier, sending out bigger splashes of water stirring up more silt adding to the muddiness of the path. Although it is a cloudy afternoon, he has never been under this much light. There was a hole on the side of the dome in the cave, over which trees gathered around and most of the time blocked out the sun. Only on a few days the sun managed to shine diagonally very close to the ground under the crown of the trees and dropped into the cave. During such a time, he and the rocks just stayed still for hours marveling at the amber beam shooting across the air. He realized the rocks not only were covered in green moss, but also had some clear crystals attached to them. The crystals slowly picked up the color of the beam, diffusing it into the atmosphere and lighting up the cave in a dull mist with sharp golden sparkles.

The water has risen to his chest. He can feel the pressure on his body, his legs have got tired. He has hardly worked his legs as much. Back in the cave, he sometimes snuck out to explore around it. Never this far. The family of rocks wanted him immobile, as the father rock said “our duty is to stay still and let the flow of time slide on us”. The green-eyed monster, however, felt differently. Only the Serpent urged him to go do what he wanted. She accompanied him outside, explained to him everything. That’s why he knows colors other than the monotone of his cave life: That of a peachy sky in the late afternoon, of the golden dashes of the sun when it rises, of the endless meadow as green as his fur with sprinkles of million flowers.

He is running, or is he not? His feet do not touch the ground. He floats in the water that now drowns the whole swamp. The swamp has become a lake. He can’t run because running requires one’s feet touching the ground. The Serpent once told him that. He panicked. He swirls around in currents which carry him aimlessly. Ah! Something crosses his legs underwater! Oh! This current tries to drown him. Unlike in the cave, he does not know where he is drifted to. Unlike in the cave, he has no walls to stop him. Whatever comes next is beyond his consciousness, beyond his prediction. He wishes the Serpent would be here, she would know what to do. After many many minutes of attempt to run against the current, he hopelessly gives himself up. If the Serpent was here, she would just easily bend her body, swiftly glide between the water flows. She would first hold her head high up looking around, and then she would dive in between these flows, and then she would contract one side, release another, and one motion at a time slither through this flood. He imagines, and she would say “don’t go against the flow, get a hold of it.” Only if it was as simple! Lost in thought, the green-eyed monster does not realize that his body is moving in the water like the Serpent. It must be the spiritual connection they share that teaches him this! It has always been she who guides him through every step. He pulls himself together, focuses on the new found remotely dispersed spiritual energy from the Serpent and starts to swim. He now knows where to go. And toward that, he confidently steers himself among the flood currents.

<< Chapter 9                                                    Chapter 11>>


A button falls off and rolls on the floor; its sound cracks the silence. The sky has shifted its cloak to reveal a translucent layer of color. The woody voice offers assistance, leaning to pick up the button.

– “I’ll sew it back on.”

– “It’s not necessary,” replies the soft silvery voice.

The woody voice halts for a few seconds and then sits back down. The flame from the candle was long gone.

– “Do you have to do it?”

The sky has sprinkled itself some orange dust on the east side. As the cosmo turns itself around, the silvery voice readjusts herself in microscopic motions, each of which widens the rip in the chrysalis.

– “Do what? Grow?” she softly questions.

– “Isn’t it painful?”

– “Not so much as being unaware of how vast the sky is.”

Another twist and the crack along her body fully opens. The wooden voice remains motionless, staring at the horizon. The horizon has now started to sparkle. Thread after thread of light fly through the air, get stuck on everything they touch and weave a gilded veil covering the valley.

The wooden voice notices, together with dust of dawn, so subtly dust rises out from the silvery voice’s chrysalis. After the dust scatters, emerge her two wings. Trembling but determined, they grow out like two new leaves sprouting.

A final quiet exhale and the silver voice completes her metamorphosis. She rests basking in the new sun, fluttering her enormous glittering wings every once in a while.

– “You have evolved,” murmured the wooden voice.

– “Have I yet? Morphism hardly equals evolution. Perhaps, wisdom does.

The wooden voice sits still contemplating while the silvery voice adjusts herself with her new wings. Under a gush of wind, she takes off. With her back against the rising sun, she looks as if she is emitting beams of light. The wooden voice looks up with admiration.

– “You know there will be no turning back, don’t you?” he asks.

– “There has been no turning back since the beginning. Promise me you’ll fulfil your part too.

– “As it has always been predetermined.”

The silvery voice flutters her wings one more time, rises and takes a dive before soaring through the sky. The wooden voice remains motionless.

<< Chapter 8                                                   Chapter 10>>

On the Verge

I shrunk down to this size
Drowned in the unbearable tide
Of worthlessness
Of invisibility
Of loneliness
Oh the fear,
The fear has grown!
The fear of the candle
Burning out on its own
Of unspoken ripped seams on the shirt
Staying unmended unknown
Of being true but also
Being wrong and regretful.
What a mess that is called “I”
That wears courage and boisterousness
Hiding scars of fragility and recklessness
Who should I answer to
Your expectation, or mine?
How much self-esteem is selfishness?
How much confidence is arrogance?
How much independence is heartlessness?
And how much love to get me blind?
These loves! These loves are burden
Like another flapping
Of the wing of a butterfly.


No More Missing

                               Happy birthday to B.B., and my excuses

I’ve stopped missing you
I’ve chosen to,
or have I forgotten to?

You taught the lesson
When you were gone;
When it is dark
It promises dawn.

What’s good in mourning
If we neglect the living?
What’s good in missing
And the time we talked about life
More than we contemplated it
More than we lived it.

I don’t miss you any more
Or the time I
Abandoned you
Ridiculed you
What’s good in regretting
If we don’t do the current doings?
You taught the lesson
And then you were gone.
I’ve learned it and now
I must head for the new dawn.


Winter passes, spring dawns a new year and summer graces the earth. As fast as the distracting mind of a little girl keen on exploring the world, the empress tree has grown back. Now with all her branches adorned with heart-shaped leaves, she resumes her lullaby and dances to the forever carefree breeze.

The plethora of livelihood floods down the stream, giving vigour to all flora. The wild juvenile grasses spread out like a flashmob, one blade after another and all sway to the rhythm of the wind. Gradually, as the temperature rises, so do their vibrant blossoms, painting the hillside variegated.

“We are the beauty of this life
We dance from sun-up to moonlight
We embellish the world that we touch
We’re the youth that all desire”

On a sunny morning, the now grown-up empress tree casts her shadow on the bank beside the stream. It is started by a turf of grass, and before the shadow withdraws to the empress tree’s root, the whole meadow chants a tune mocking her existence.

“Be thankful, fellow bloomers!
The tree is a mere sinner,
A lifeless column of disgrace
To glorify our charm further!”

Over and over they sing, after the sun turns in and the moon springs out. The mountains resonate it to each other, carrying it miles and miles away.

“Be thankful, fellow bloomers!
The tree is a mere sinner,
A lifeless column of disgrace
To glorify our charm further!”

The breeze carries the tune over to the fox’s place the next morning. Upon realizing what it is about, he runs downhill to the bank beside the stream. As he gapes at what he sees, despair overflows out of his eyes. The empress tree has succumbed to the spiteful words and turned herself into a lifeless column. Through the tears, he grieves.

“Oh my dear what have I found
These malicious creatures on the ground
With their young minds and their foul hearts
To rejection they’ve made you bound”

The fox stands on the hillside, tears gushing out. He howls and vows revenge for his dear friend, positioning himself ready to smash the whole meadow. In the breeze comes a melody, to which tone the fox recognizes and halts.

“My little fireball, you may see
Too much wrong can bend reality
Frequent falsity becomes the truth
But all you need is constant belief!
The grasses are young and wild and free
Soon they’ll learn how fleeting life is
I’ll turn back with branches and bark
As long as you remember me.”

The fox wipes his tears away and spends the rest of the day observing the grey column. As the dusk light weakens, so does the chant from the grasses.

<< Chapter 7                                                   Chapter 9>>

For David

I’m glad we ended where we began. I am eager to go undigitalized and get drowned in sunset. Farewell.



For the Ocean You Gave Me to Explore

I am jealous with you
For the lonesomeness
You induce in me when you leave

Not much but enough
Like a damp cloth in a desert
Like the little push in the back
And somebody dares the bungee jump

The table didn’t turn
Only we have grown.

The breeze doesn’t bend the tree
It’s leaning on it.

The bat flies out of me
And turns into the night
And I can see clearly
The full moon rising high

The sky sometimes cries petals
Other time it laughs snow
Our swear words are impeccable
We keep hardships as our arrows

Still it is the same sky
That when I look up I know
You’re under it too and you might
See my trace in your life’s flow

Farewell and bon voyage
Over us the future beholds.




The silent interval prolongs till the last order is taken.

– When are you going to propose to me?

– Not yet. We need the right timing.

Another quiet period extends over the last dish. The waiter comes and asks to clear the table.

– Could we have some more minutes?

The waiter says he understands and retreats to the kitchen.

– So it’s time and I…

– Yes.



By the time the school girl in uniform bends down and picks up the trash and puts into the bin; and the fairly-dyed-hair woman nods to (seemingly) the man in a low neck blouse that reveals his bra strings; and the father stops the baby car as his wife murmurs some comments; and the elder women falter at the intersection; and my stomach growls for its destination, a little ordinary peace hatches.



It had been me and the levee, only. I had silently followed its path, completely ignorant of anything else. If I had ever noticed anything, perhaps, it would have been the dark damp dusty substance occupying the space around us – me and the lonely levee. Then you came. I started to recognize the trembling of the grass to the intermittent touching of the wind, the cement-friction dragging sound of joggers’ feet, the clumsy bike headlight making zigzag on the ground to each rotation of its squeaking chain, my embarrassment, excitement and edginess. And your lips. I quickly steered you into a matsuri.



I whistled to the stray cat. It was a white furry one. I coyly walked and stopped and turned around and signaled it to follow my lead. By the threshold of the entrance door to my building, I looked at it for the last time with the most kittenish glance I could garner; then I disappeared. Since then, all my lovers had always led me to their doorsteps before they turned me down. Cats, supposedly, have nine lives and possess magic. 



Salmons can swim upstream. So can I walk against the flow of adults. With little bother, I maneuver through the stream of salarymen/officeladies swarming in from all directions. The horde of kids, however, always catches me in an impasse. They stampede in no direction and block all possible courses of walking I can fathom. 



They were lazily grazing; some liberally dropped some dung. I fancied the carefree way of life the elephants led so much that I wished I would become one. The next morning, I found myself roaming my own bedroom on four legs while swinging my trunk constantly. I fled the house before my mother woke up. “I am sorry, mom“, I groaned to myself, “despite this new body mass, I can no longer take the responsibility for our home“.

Instances of Contemplation


Contentment can come in many shapes, one of which is vacuum. A tube is by design hollow, and we need it to be hallow. One day, I woke up to this emptiness and felt no bother. It was as if I had opened the letter box and found nothing – not even the many spams cramming in daily; as if tranquility had sealed the aperture.



– This is the road, go straight

– To where?

– Just go!

– Umm… thanks.

After a few steps on to the road, I already feel exhausted. It is horrendously tediously flat and I have no idea when it is going to end.



– “A funny side up please.”

– “That’s cute”, she chuckled, “So would you like your sunny side up with coffee or tea?”

– “No, a funny side up. As in life.”

– “Oh, here you go”, she handed over a book whose every page had only one line printed ‘This page is intentionally left blank’.

– “Clever!”

A Love Story

We met at a club, twice. The second time, we made out because it was the club vibe. In the end, we got to my home where we gradually grew fonder of each other. We then discovered that we shared the same birthday. I then discovered his name was on my watch. Another day, I crossed the whole city just to see his face and we discovered we met before. Several days later, he found the oblivion photos of us randomly taken a while back where we met for the first time. Fate, as it apparently shows, arranged us to bind and fall in love with each other. We talked in poetry.


I see
So subtly,
You call me weird.
you state
You don’t like me.


You were able,
To take something
seemingly so innocent,
And make it personal.
I could be annoyed,
But I feel it underscores your affection for me.
And I appreciate that.


For aesthetic purpose,
Mine was an underscore.
What thoughts of your own
Does that hyphen stand for?


In the case that
Someday far from this one
You should forget my name
My face
My very being
You can at least know
That someone with the letter T
As in triumph
Tender kindness
And togetherness
Once cared deeply about you


My watch bears your name;
Your face is chiseled on my brain.
I, the one with the letter V,
As in victory
Vibes and vivacity,
Solemnly swear that
In my heart forever you remain.


A walk down a cold street, in a world filled with characters that are, as of yet, meaningless to me.
Listening to music that has no feeling to it.
A smell present that I don’t even notice.
Trees that seem like nothing but skinny shadows.


I want to plant this memory in a garden!
In between Lilly of the valley and a bed of white grass.
Where I can stop and enjoy them when my feet pull me there.
A garden that I will keep pristine.

But I guess it will have to survive where it is now.
In between the Bald Mountain and the sound of my mother humming.

Wait for me there


Wait for me there.
The garden can be as marvelous as the mountain.
The trees can also give home to the fairies
And every time the wind blows past
It sings about us and our stories.


I couldn’t say 10 nice things.
Please don’t mistake this as an inability to confess kind thoughts or feelings about you;
Chalk it up to my upbringing
Or my culture
Or, what it really is, my shortcomings.
10 nice things is a lot.
It was hard for me to pick just 10
It was difficult to say:
Your generosity;
Your smile;
The way you say asshole;
The way you make me feel confident;
The way life seemed to force us together;
How time with you is effortless;
Sleeping naked with you is my favorite;
Your oral hygiene;
The little moans you make;
When you write me poems;
And just so it’s 110%,
The fact that you let me talk about anything and listen attentively.
Please never doubt how I feel about you.


You nearly made me cry.
But I won’t.
Because tears will dry,
But my feelings won’t.
I cherish each second I had with you.
And silently pray our next crashing into each other
Will make me, once again, live in your world.