05.20.11 | Image of Imago: The Cabbage White

From afar it looks complete—head, thorax, abdomen. The antennae protrude from the head proudly but limp, and the four fragile ivory wings look more elegant than ever, as they are motionless. The feathery scales are silky as my fingers skim over them.

What delicate creatures, butterflies are.

But this one's dead.

04.05.11 | Just the Two of Us

I dreamed we were geese. We were sitting there in the grass, just the two of us, neither of us talking, but both fully understanding the other, without words. The sea breeze smelled of tears that day.

04.04.11 | Just Shoot

She loved taking photos. Just for the fun of it. She didn’t care about how artistic her photographs would turn out or what she could do to make them “prettier”: they captured the teensiest points of time that would have otherwise slipped away, forgotten, abandoned, thrown into the realm of all the other things—whether joyous or tragic—consigned to oblivion, because she knew that behind every point lived a story.

03.27.11 | Like Sand through my Fingers

Isn't it just so damn annoying when you wake up in the morning and think that you did not dream, only to be proven wrong later during the day when something you do triggers a sudden memory of what you dreamed of the previous night, after which you, just as suddenly as the familiarity came, forget what triggered the memory as well as the memory itself?

12.05.10 | Imitation of a Notebook

(As written on the inside cover of my notebook.)

​​​​​This is an imitation
​​​​of a ‘notebook’.

It appears to be
​​​a stack of thin sheets of pulped wood and fibre,
​​bound by metal rings,
​sitting here in your hands,
​​​waiting,
​​​​     waiting,
​​​​​          waiting…

​But what does it wait for?
​​               you ask.

​​​Does it await
​​the settling of your dreams
​​​​into this curious integration of squiggles
                         ​​​​​called words?

​​​Does it await
​the spilling of your ink and graphite
​​​​after battles
​​​​​of ideology?

Or does it await
               ​​the true awakening
​of your enigmatic mind?

​​​​​Ah,
          ​​​​I say.
It does not await a thing,
for this imitation of a ‘notebook’
is merely a figment of your imagination.

07.27.10 | Amelia Earhart

To delve into a sea of blue
And not get wet
But still feel the exhilaration—
Now, that is the magic
Of flying.

To hear the sound of wings
And imagine
I am a bird, whisp'ring
To the people and trees
That swish by,

I am victim
To the lure of flying;
I am a hobo of the air.

(Note: the last line is a quote by Earhart herself.)

05.09.10 | Alphabet Soup

I am swimming in a sea of commas and semicolons, trying to reach punctual shore, but these raging asyndetons and clauses and appositives and polysyndetons keep crashing, crashing, crashing at my power of will, trying to push me below literal surface. What is the meaning behind all of this?

But I don't want to drown in its seemingly bottomless sea. I wish to just stay on the surface, to make my way to Euphoria as soon as possible, where I'll finally be free of the strict rule of Syntax. Just swallow the words, I told myself. No need to digest—just keep going.

There are now predicates on my tail. Looking for their subjects, perhaps? But I have none to spare, for I am trying to survive; I have a goal.

I swim faster to prevent their action-verb teeth from chomping off my toes and feet, but homophones are straining me, pulling me in all directions but up. Who commanded all these actions?!

My body is tired. I have gained quite a distance between the predicates and myself. I take one gulp of air and decide to let go for a moment, to immerse myself briefly, just once. Beneath the surface I saw monsters - metaphors, similes, symbols, allegories. Terrified by their overwhelming complication, I resurfaced.

The shores of Euphoria are closer now. I see the waves of words crashing on the shores and breaking into letters and sinking into the sand to settle there as forgotten lore, meaningless. I could feel the sea loosening its grip on me, but due to my fatigue, I could not swim much faster.

After a while, I finally am washed ashore, out of breath.