Unique.

Tiny flickering lights in a million windows
The hopes and dreams of a million different people
But they do not hope and dream
The way I hope and dream
Surely?

Opposable Thumbs.

An old friend
Made new again
What machinations of monstrous mind
Can explain what one now finds?

From easy familiarity
To anonymity
Only we can unfriend
Unlove
Did this come with opposable thumbs?

The capacity to love
Hate
Two sides of a coin
Third series
Do we get to choose
Which side it lands
Which face it shows
Is it so easily flipped?

Just the twitch of ones fingers
In the blink of ones eyes
Do we fall in hate
So recklessly too?

The Modern Art of Manliness.

Took for a twirl
Another girl
Told her that
She was his world
Another day
Another play
So says the art
of modern manliness.

Guard Your Heart.

Guard your heart, but don't freeze it. Living life without at least the chance, the hope! of falling in love is not much of a living at all. You'll fall in love, and it might amount to nothing, but it will not be a waste. You will hurt, you will cry, you will wish it all never happened, but you'll pull through. You will learn from it, learn to live through pain, learn to love better. Let yourself love completely, don't hold back out of fear, or be self-conscious about your love. A love that is half-hearted is doomed from the very start! Love completely, or not at all. One day, someone will love you for who you are. Someone will love you for your chipped tooth, your not-perfectly-straight hair, your small breasts. The world is going to try and tell you many things, but don't listen to it, listen to me. Don't change anything about yourself just because the world tells you to.

In The Attic.

A locked chest
Keepsakes.
A catalogue of the people
Who came into your life.
Those who stayed
Those who didn't.

A trophy, a medal
Once were proudly placed
Polished, burnished.
Now unwelcome reminders
Of bygone days
Of halcyon days.
Of potential gone to waste.

An album
Out spills the musky scent of nostalgia
And faded photographs.
From the dusty confines of plastic sleeves
Which the years and endless rearrangements
Have frayed beyond repair.
Solemn faces arranged by height
Preserved forever from domestic violence
From hypodermic needles and bottled rage.

A family portrait
Seven smiling faces behind a facade of glass.
Betraying nothing of the frustration
Three hours, seventy dollars worth
Of re-shoots and tantrums.
A perfect representation
Of modern family.
Gleaming veneers
Rotting wood.

Travelers.

The occupants of buses. The travelers. Those roving, restless searchers. Who've left it all behind. The lost loves, the disappointment of parents, etc. But have they really left it all behind?

Traveling is simple. You've got clear cut objectives, destinations to work your way towards. Sure, those objectives change once every few days, but for those couple of weeks, life becomes so simple again. You look to do things out of pure interest, not with any thing like responsibility, or duty guiding your hand. Carefree, in almost every way. All you're thinking about is the present, the next two days maybe. You're not weighed down.

The traveler. The weary soul. Those lonely hearts, whether by choice or by circumstance. A kid, thousands of miles from home, one of millions of transients. Doesn't enjoy life one bit, because every dollar he saves translates into that much more food for his family.

Peace.

The tranquility of a park. Parents trying to capture as many memories as they possible can of a child who's only going to grow up much too quickly. And of themselves, what remains of their youth. The dramas of every single person who's walking by. Maybe the old man on his daily routine, aching knees and aching heart, but still he persists, day after day. The woman who finally, after weeks and weeks of drudgery and household chores and wailing kids, finds some quiet time for herself, to brace her for the next few weeks of the same demanding, consuming tasks. The professional who needs his 10 minutes cause it's the only thing keeping him sane in this crazy, crazy world. No office politics, no bickering with the wife, or the increasingly outrageous demands of his children. The punk who's considered suspiciously by everybody, who's understood by nobody. But he's looking for the same things as the rest of us here, just some peace and quiet, anything soothing in a world which offers precious little in the way of comfort. Not for the drained mother, the lost punk. The stately woman with her two adorable dogs, who gives a gracious little smile to everyone she crosses paths with. Because those two dogs are the only companions she's got, and those smiles she gets in return (if they even are) the only human contact she gets, no matter how superficial they may seem. The kid sitting on a bench, plugged into his MP3, penning his thoughts into a battered old diary. We're all so different, we're all the same. We're searching and working for what seems to be vastly different things, but really isn't all that different when you think about it. Not just a park, in schools, shopping centres, the streets. If we would only realize it.

Instead of being pulled and pushed by the world, by our emotions, into frustration and simmering rage. Pulled under into endless melancholia, sapping depression. Being angry for minutes, hours, because you were jostled rather roughly when exiting the train. Cause the auntie was being brusque with you as you ordered your morning coffee. All these small, ridiculous things! Laughable things. Stuff you wouldn't record in your diary, your blog, and yet it affected your mood for one whole day! It's not worth it, it's almost never worth it. Peace comes from within, now this I am learning!

(What it means to be alive)

When we are young, it is to fly. To test the limits of our endeavour, of our courage.

When we are older, it is to survive. To remain afloat in a world of shifting currents. It is to get by, to reach old age relatively intact, ah but what a dream!

When we are older still, it becomes an end in itself. To be alive. To feel alive. The rare occasion of visits from grandchildren, them so full of vitality you can only hope it rubs off.

(What it means to be alive)

Tapestry.

A tapestry of other people's thoughts. Something I mistook for a certain sensitivity, something I thought that I, too, possessed.

A girlish demeanour, the wide-eyed wonder with which she took in the world around her. Her soft lips, slightly parted in awe at the beauty only she could perceive.

Those same lips are not the same now. Pursed in vexation. Curled in anger.

The Real World.

We live in an odd age.
Duality of life.
Two realities: the real world and the online world.
Which is richer?
Which is more real?

Which is more permanent?
Which will stand the test of time
Which will stem the tides of time?

Where Are We Now?

"W-w-w-where are we?"

Silence greets this sudden question.

"Are we reaching yet?"

A few passengers glance backwards, wondering at the source of the interruptions.

"Hello.."

A couple of people close to the source exchange glances, silently querying whether any of them should answer.

Rachel received a little shrug of the shoulders from her co-passenger, so she thinks well, it's not just me then. It is kinda mean but.. I'm not even sure of the answer anyway, maybe someone who does will reply him.

She does not voice, even to herself, that she does not want to be the one to answer the man because then she'd be obliged to do so for the the rest of the journey, and she definitely didn't want that.

"W-w-where are we now?"

Natalie stared straight out the window. God, of all the people to sit next to me! I had to get a retard. Maybe I could pretend to fall asleep.. She closed her eyes but half-opened her right eye every once in a while to make sure he wasn't doing anything crazy. You never know what people like that could do to you, especially a woman alone like herself.

Four Letters.

What is love? Love is the feeble attempt by the English language to, in four letters, describe the indescribable. The French do it in 5 letters, the Chinese in 9 strokes,but they are all inadequate. It is impossible to describe it, only to experience it. But I will say this. Love is the single most powerful, transforming experience any one can have.

Seeker Of Solitude.

I know you. You are a seeker of solitude. I have known men like you. Who have given up on any chance at meaningful relationships. Some men use and abuse the women in their lives. You're all searching for something, a special something, but you don't know what it is.

Know this: most men like you never find what they're looking for. You know why? Because most of you who are searching, actually want to be found.

So I Am Alone.

Life is hard, but I am harder. The world is cold and mean, so I am meaner. The world will betray you. So I am alone.

He said. Come with me. Come on a journey with me.

Why?

You are my son.

No, I know my father. He's the one who taught me everything I needed to know about life. "Life is hard. The world is a cold and mean place, and it's out to get you. Trust no one, cause everyone will betray you at some point. The world is gonna lie to you, don't listen to them, listen to me."

Where is he now?

He.. he left. He told me he was coming back for me, and then he left.

He's gone. He's never coming back.

Thousands Of Miles And A Phone Call Away.

01
-

11
Where are you? We look around at each other, we are crying. We don't know what to do. Why aren't you here with us?

21
You are thousands of miles and a phone call away. After 10 years I finally realize I've been asking the wrong question. Why weren't we there for you? I miss you.

31
You shouldn't be, but you're still working. I'm slowly beginning to understand you. I might even be beginning to be like you.

41
You're 80. You're not tired of life, but life is a tiresome sumbitch. Mostly, you're bored.

51
Where are you? you cry. You don't know where you are. You barely know who I am. You might not understand me now, but I hope throughout the years you always have - I love you pa.

If We Could Only Hate.

Why? I have to know.

I guess.. I was never truly happy. I know I was meant to be happy, I thought I loved you, and that you loved me.

I did love you. (I do, still.)

And then one day it just hit me - I didn't love you. I couldn't. I was in love with an idea, the ideal man who seemed to have it all.

But I never could match up to the man inside of your head.

No.

What was I supposed to do? What can I do? You're trying to say I never had a chance. Then why did you even try?

I.. I was in love. Just not with you. With the idea of you. I'm sorry.

No. No. You can't do this. At least give me something to regret. Give me something to blame myself over. Something to point to and say I should not have done that, that I have only myself to blame. That I at least had a chance. Come on. Please.

I can't. I'm so sorry. You're a good man.. just not perfect, not the way I imagined you to be in my head.

What do you mean? Was I supposed to be perfect? Was I not allowed to do anything wrong at all? I mean, come on! You never told me I had to be perfect. At least tell me what you expected of me before I got into this!

Would it have changed anything? Would you have walked away if I'd told you this in the beginning?

No. I don't know. What does it matter? Don't you dare turn this on me.

(silence)

Well. You've certainly taken me on a damn ride then haven't you?

What do you want me to say? Yes. No. I don't know. I'm sorry. I know you're bitter. You must hate me.

No. No I don't. If only I could. If only it were that easy.

(silence)

(silence) (don't go.)

Goodbye.

Beautiful Pressure.

No, he never felt like he belonged to the Crowd at all, although no one had a say in that of course. It was a naturally pre-determined thing, you were either in it or you were not.

And yet he could not help but look at other members of the Crowd and feel like he was somehow different. They were all cool, and effortlessly so. They never made any gaffes, or if they did they were suitably and hilariously goofy, never embarrassing, and never anything to be ashamed about.

He could not help but feel like he on the other hand was doing too many things which were unpleasantly embarrassing, like that time he played football (which he was not terribly good at) and missed 3 easy shots at goal. He was sure everyone was looking at him and laughing at him. And they laughed particularly loudly at him too, compared to the other guys who made mistakes.

He never saw other members of the Crowd get into situations like that. They almost always were good at the sports they played, and would never be seen playing something they couldn't. How did they manage that?

He always felt like people were looking at him, that when they were they did so with great expectation, that when he failed they laughed their vengeful mocking laughs. One of the Crowd failing so miserably. He could never be merely mediocre at anything, for that would be considered failure in their eyes.

He felt their eyes on him always. And the pressure. The pressure to be brilliant, to be beautiful, to be wittier, and stronger, in every way superior to the others. Cause that's what it meant to be part of the Crowd. You could not be worse than the rest, you could not even be just the same as the rest of them. You were superior and you were supposed to look down on them, past your perfect nose, and twist your perfect lips with a sneer as they try to be like you. Oh no, you were nothing like the rest of them.

What They Took From Her.

She was the best of us but they changed that
they took her away from us they took her away
they took away her smiles the happy ones the sad ones
they took away her joy her life her trust in life
they took away the wind in her hair the bounce in her step
they took away her hopes her dreams her childish fears
(and replaced them with grown up ones)

and now she
cannot give and cannot take
only hurt and maybe hate

cannot love and cannot trust
a stranger to the rest of us

cannot dream she cannot dream!
no respite in worlds unseen

and now
she cannot cry not even cry!
it hurts too much to even try

and now
she rots and now she rusts
the girl who was the best of us.

And Beauty.

The beauty of the ephemeral. Beauty in all its forms. In the permanence of mountains. And in the constant motion of its surfaces, the flurry of snow or the rustling of grass. In the busker playing outside a train station, the musician in a public square, a master in the concert hall. In an early morning greeting between friends. Strangers. Between long lost lovers and family and friends. In the skies above. In the innocence of children. Of grown men and women. In the sunrise and sunset and twilight and the glow of the moon. In fireworks which come alive for brief seconds before being spent forevermore. In the calm waters of a clear lake, the reflections on its surface. In the girls with their painted faces and their lacquered nails. In the flight of birds as they move in tandem with each other, a perfectly executed dance of bone and muscle and feathers. In the flight of planes carrying the hopes and dreams of a hundred passengers, going forth to live their lives or leave their lives, the only lives they've ever known.