Category Archives: Surrealism

The time to remember

I lay face down in the sands till I’m finally at peace with the scratching at my arms and the corner of my eyes.

I am not lonely, I am just spending more time thinking. I’m not depressed, I’m just suffering a deep, deep pain in my soul. I don’t know what I’m thinking, nor do I know what pain is like, because I have forgot what the alternatives really feel like.

We make small conversation, we talk about the weather and the friends we used to have. We twirl our toes as we sit cross-legged, tiptoeing around what really matters. We would like to feel ‘normal’ again, I’d like to spend time with you that is ‘normal’. We rush to avert ourselves from our reality, and devour every moment we can pretend things are fine as they are.

We try to speak of hope, but the shadow looms above us. I lie to you all the time, but it’s only because I yearn so hard to believe that lie, and you are the only one who can help me do that. Take it away from me, and you’ll just have the bare-bone remains of a man who lost all hope. I don’t want to be that man.

In a purple haze the conversation drifts to the times we try to forget. We sit in an elastic silence, threatening to break if it stretches further. It has been five years already, what remains of us of the angry, defiant young people who went out that day? Do you even remember what it feels to shout out at the top of your voice in defiance, siphoning the strength of those who stand with you like a pillar reaching out to lightening in the sky?

It suddenly gets much colder, and I shiver at the glimpses I see of the living, vibrant creature that rose from the ashes we were born as, to become something more than anyone ever imagined. I cuddle closer to you for warmth, but your skin freezes my fingertips, and send spikes into my brain as I lay my head in your lap.

We are legends no more, we are not even fantastical stories like we thought we might be. We are just whispers spoken of in the dark of nights by those cuddled around a fire, trying to realize why the fire burns cold rather than warmth.

We fall into silence again, but the stories well at the corner of our eyes. They’ll joke about it and blame us again, and we’ll die again. They don’t know that one day, we would not rise again. And the worst is, we won’t even be remembered anymore, nor will they really care.

They won’t tell our stories, they won’t tell our tales, they won’t honor our dead nor respect our remains. At the end, when the plague spreads endlessly, it will all fail and wither away like it always has. And when we fade back into ashes like we always were, the taste on the tip of our tongues will be all that remains.

And it’s worth it, a thousand times over.


The dreamy bloom

Trust me now and block out the universe. Refuse it. Abhor it. Let’s find our own rhythm away from this all and dance to it – just let go and move out of sync of their world. Imagine anything and let it be, but more importantly take me there with you. Rebel against their reality and choose the little fragments that we love and believe in.

Peel away the world and look at everything that’s waiting behind it for us. The way we want it, the way we dreamed it, building it like Lego bricks the way we always imagined it. I just want to be with you and no one but you as we do this. Let’s smash our dreams to little bits and build something new from the shards. Even if they don’t fit together, who are we to decide – the misfits of the world?

Let’s drive away then fly away then evolve away from this all. Take my hand and let’s build our own soundtrack and tune out the noise of their world. We do not owe them anything nor do they have the right to expect anything. Like black petals blowing on the winds, we don’t know where we will land nor do we care either. We do not need to take root anywhere we don’t believe in, we can phase out and exist on our own plane of thought.

I’ll slip into your smile and lose myself in the freedom as I break my restraints. We will draw fantastic beasts and ride them as mad wildlings when we burrow into the purple soft pus of our wounds. We don’t need them to lick them for us, we’ll find worlds there and be one again. I’ll listen to the groaning of our crippled limbs and we will rise to its rhythm and tear the skies apart in our anger and our love.

Take my hand and trust me and let’s leave this all behind. Somewhere, somehow, no one cares if things make sense. And that is where we will finally bloom into an idea beyond control.

Withering roots

He stood in the sandstorm defiant but weak. He knows it was happening, it was only a matter of time. In arrogance, he’d dug his roots deep into the ground, dreaming of giving it life. Instead, his roots have long since died – they were only gold and glitter in his mind. But deep inside, they were fragile – they were dying like the dust particles strewn around by the wings of a butterfly.

His tears his the ground and the sand breathed life, but his sacrifice has died long before it was made. It was ridiculed, it was hated, it was shunned by all as he stood there wet in his confusion. The tears left trails of memories across his face like dry lakes and rivers. Death slowly spread up from his roots into his legs. But he just stood there, dying in the gloom of his despair and fears.

He’d never been the kind of person who would look at the future – that was the realm of the clairvoyant. He only knew how to dig into the dreams and chew on hope to sustain himself. He regretted the falling petals that left him bare to the elements of the chipping little axes. He pushed his roots down deeper as the singing continued to drift from far away.

The floating fish appeared in and out, one minute at his roots the other whispering in his ear. It was not comfort anymore, however. When it found him again this time, he was broken – the remnant of who he was when he bloomed in that fateful winter. Now it was too late for him. He had failed to make piece with his dreams and his fears, but they couldn’t care less. They both just stood there, unlovable witnesses to the rot eating away at his root.

There is no life in that soil anymore. What once stood defiant was now just one more sick lie made in the face of the piranhas that swam through the sandstorm. All he could see was their stealing little knives biting at his proud branches that once picked color directly from the sun. In a purple storm, the sandstorm consumed him, bringing him down to his knees.

In a last frantic attempt he cried out to the ground, looking for something to hold him in place – to save him one more time. But the ground had no life. It never did. He only thought so in his arrogance of blind. There had ever only been death that moved through his blood. He was born to a grand visage, only to die in the piss of failed dreams. He cried out to the sun, but he knew it has long since forgot him.

His roots withered, and the stings of the sandstorm took away his eyesight. All he could see was his lifeless blood, drawing out cosmic rays of life around the world. All he could do was sigh as the rot spread out through him, finally bringing him to his knees to lay with the other lifeless dreams that have died here.

The devouring unicorn

When their swords clashed in a silvery storm, the sand beneath their bare feet shuddered. Fear. There are no two outcomes from here, only one. There is no winners and losers. The sand has already lost.

They danced around like lovers drunk on deep black ink. It flowed around them like drops of black rain and threads of hollow music. Ducking and jumping, twirling and waltzing, it all became a blurry blaze caught in the eye of the sun.

The cloudy unicorn floated lazily above them, shielding them from the burning screams of the fiery moon. There are no two outcomes here. The unicorn will feed on soul tonight. It hissed them on, tasting the angry tentacles of their souls with each clash of their swords. So close. Just a little longer before the scope down.

The sword flashed like a stealing whip out of nowhere, finding it’s soft home deep inside. There was no flash of lightening or naked nymphs. There was a silence, profound, traveling endlessly between the mountains they could not see.

The silence echoed out across the universe. Every being held its breath and bowed in reverence and awe. The deed was done the debt was paid. Now there was only chaos.

The unicorn burped as it floated lower to get drunk. There are no losers and winners here. Only a winner – as it was always meant to be. And it had no blood on its hand, just lots of it on its smile. When it spread it’s wings, it covered all the land in darkness. They both shivered, one on his feet and one on his knees, like the sun was sniffed out.

The dry sand wept blood as he crept slowly bit by bit to lie down. There are no losers and winners here. Only a devourer – as it was always meant to be. They can play their little games, speak their ages old lies, it did not care. It will always feed anyways.

Like time

I was huddled in the corner next to the bed when the spaceship swayed close to my window. Aren’t you guys stupendously late this time around? I watched lazily as the lights changed. This isn’t really as bright as I remember, or maybe it’s just darker than I remember – there’s very little I can remember anyways.

Come sit with me and read me your favorite line from that book again. Flip through and find it, I have time. I can wait as long as I’m looking at you. Just give me time, and I’ll be here looking at you. Tell me stories, you know, like that story I once told you in a delirium but never completed. Tell me the same story again, make up an ending and tell me the whole thing. You know I’ve waited for years and years to hear that ending and it’s all yours now.

It’s not unusual to be me. My hair just looks weird and my eyes have this sagging blackness around them. When I stopped time short so we may never grow old again, my body made up for it and aged at triple the speed. But I’ve still got time. At least, I hope it’s enough time to tell you the one story I actually believe. You know, that story that will change everything for you and me. And I won’t be delirious.

I love you. I love the thought of you, the presence of you. And there’s always time to love you more. As it ticks on, I’ll be fine. You know there’s nothing you can do so just relax and smile for my sake. You watch it closely like a little girl in a candy store. You watch closely and every time you see a crack, you rush to fill it up with your soul. But we both know cracks have a tendency to grow with time. You can’t fill them all all the time. You can fight but you know you’ll lose, like time.

Just keep your eyes on the spaceship. This time around, at least the sky won’t shatter to pieces again and cut my face. I’d get up and watch the spaceship too, but I’m just way, way too tired this time around. Time has painted me very differently from the last time the spaceship was outside my window.

Let’s play video games, or fly a kite, or blow bubbles or paint little dots on the walls and ceiling. Is that all right with you? Can I lean on you a bit? I’m fine but, you know, I haven’t yet made amends. We can ignore everyone else, like they never existed, as long as you have that happy look on your face.

You always wanted to play the piano. I wish you can play the piano for me today. I wish I can sit next to you and watch your fingers fly across like wild fairies. But all I can really watch is the sluggish lines made by time. It’s sticky and messy, broken even, so let’s just run barefooted straight through the grass. We won’t get anywhere, but that’s the last thing I will be thinking about.

The bright light of the spaceship outside silhouettes you, so that you may never leave the room. I’m feeling kind of broken right now, but I’m glad we broke all the rules. I’d go back and do it all over again, then break a few more, then laugh a lot more, then lie a little less, then try to make sense of the spaceship yet again. Just like time.