My Cursed Kingdom

Khushk Siyahi

mobzilla — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 06:02:42 +0000

Please click on the image and enlarge for a better view.

il rumore del fiore di carta

mobzilla — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 22:06:40 +0000

From the chatter of the kids I hear the bugle playing. A xylophone assists the sadness. It’s almost like they’re soul mates. The nylon strings of a guitar join in. The bugle seems to feel the change. It makes me feel the change. They are all in sync. In rhythm. It’s an equilibrium. The bugle dies out. It knows it has done it’s work. Percussions take over. A bass guitar is heard creeping in the back. The xylophone lingers on. The nylon strings weep. They tell a story not many are familiar with. The beating of the drums is slow, it’s monotonous; but it’s perfect.

The soul search goes on for a while. It breathes into me. I can feel myself breathe a heavy sigh. I know I am not in presence. I am somewhere else, somewhere where I don’t belong. The occasional slides on the bass strings bring my thoughts back, but the monotony of the tune sets me adrift once again. It hits me deep. Deep. It sends a shiver down the spine. The tremolo effect. Perfect presentation. It makes me sway. Thoughts. It reminds me of you. Of my times with you. The tremolo takes over. It presents a psychedelic hue. I know exactly what I am thinking about. The build up.

You taught me a lot. You opened me to new worlds. Worlds I might never be able to close. Worlds I might introduce more people to. But there will always be one thing missing; you.

Mira.

In you I find my Autumn

mobzilla — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 22:35:48 +0000

Winters remind me of the time I used to sit on the bench in the park. The cold wind was bothersome enough to make anyone uneasy, but I remember covering myself nicely and comfortably in my leather jacket; a scarf around my neck and a beanie over my head. My feet would still feel cold. The park was a beautiful place. The trees were over shadowing and naked. Their leaves would dance around with the wind. Mostly lying on the ground like a large blanket with beautiful shades of orange, red and yellow. I would sit on the wooden bench and take out my little notebook. I would write down my thoughts, ponder over them; write down more thoughts. Look around at the people walking by and the trees swaying. Sometimes I would feel a shiver down my spine.

At night I would read the words written in my small notebook in the light of my bed-side lamp. The words were sometimes saddening; sometimes they were reassuring. They would leave a lasting impression on my mind; like they were coming from someone else. Sometimes I would wonder if I had really written them myself. They painted a picture of my insides; the part of myself that I could never see with my own eyes. They were a portal into my soul. After reading a few pages, I would shut my little notebook and place it back into the drawer, neatly placed along with the other little notebooks.

Doors

mobzilla — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 22:03:55 +0000

After you shut the door, don’t look back.

Don’t be startled by the loud bang. Don’t even think about turning the handle to see if the door would still budge. Leave it be. Don’t pay attention to the light creeping through from under the door. Don’t be distracted by the weaning and waving of the shadows on the other side. They are only there to confuse you.

Look around. You will see windows. You will see the world outside through the windows. Green pastures, vast fields. They will soothe you. Breathe them in. Enjoy the moment. Listen for the song that plays. The familiar melody will beckon you. It will lift your spirits. Violins. Cellos. You can hear them. They are playing the exact same tune that plays in your mind when you close your eyes.

If you look intently, you will notice the edge of a door; a door in the wall. A door across the door you just walked through. Don’t be afraid, try the handle. It will open. You will feel the gush of wind hit your face softly. Open you eyes. Take a step through the door. Shut the door behind you.

After you shut the door, don’t look back.

Painting on the wall

mobzilla — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 11:59:02 +0000

It’s raining outside. I can hear it hitting hard on the pavement. Splatters that echo in the empty street. I can smell the damp in the air. The wind is hitting against my face again and again; it’s making my skin crawl. The room seems very quiet; almost empty. I am looking at a painting on the wall. A painting whose colors flow; almost out of the canvas. They swirl and intermingle. They create an image that is unexplainable. It is a painting that defines the very nature of me, and you. A painting that fills the empty room, it sits in the corner on the wall but overshadows everything. Empowers everything. Bares everyone’s soul. Lays them wide open. A painting that is you. We both know the colors lie, but they aren’t far from the truth. I implore you to come back and join me in the empty room, the empty room full of the painting, and myself. I want to read out the poems to you, but they are so meaningless to you. The poems that reflect me, life in general and the love that I exuberate. Once again, meaningless to you.
I secretly wish that it keeps on raining. So that today is washed away, and from beneath the flowing grey comes out a new tomorrow, a tomorrow that pulls open my nailed windows and beckons me to follow the colors of the painting out of the room, out on the street, everywhere that you are not. Swirling and intermingling.

I think

mobzilla — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 20:42:09 +0000

I think about bright blue skies that spread beyond sight,

I think about long drives with groovy music playing in the background,

I think about thoughts,

I think about being complete, being content,

I think about laughter, enjoying life to the fullest,

I think about vacations and feel good days,

I think about things I’ve done, things I want to do, things I’ll never get to do,

I think about playing in the sand at the beach,

I think about lost love.

Perfect imperfections

mobzilla — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 18:18:55 +0000

I built a memory treasure. I knew I would need it. I buried it, but I didn’t burry it deep. Not deep enough. It had been several weeks now. The feeling was still pretty much there. It was there to stay. The deep, heart crunching, stomach cringing sinking feeling. I knew I would be going over the contents of my treasure box several times in my life. I had resisted long enough. I just had to indulge now, indulge myself into the memorabilia that were nothing but lost memories. Pictures, cards, random papers with scribbling over them, CDs. It was the pictures that I was mostly interested in. Each one of them depicting a separate point in time, flooding the mind with the exact moments and the feelings associated with them. There were very few of us together. Mostly of her alone. This one particular photograph caught my attention and I picked it up. I don’t think I blinked for the next several minutes. My body was physically present there but my mind was nowhere in the same time period. It was back to the time when that picture was taken. It was a picture of her looking down, a beautiful smile over her face, a shimmering hair band showing through her beautiful dark hair that still fell over her face somewhat, sitting by the wall in a deep blue shirt. Someone had captured that moment in its true essence that it was. The photograph had somehow made it to my treasure box. I stared at the picture and in my head went over all the conversations that had taken place when the photograph was taken. I mostly remembered laughter, but I felt like crying.

“I’d like it if you stay with me. I’d love to stick it out with you. I’m glad I met you.” I remembered her saying to me a few days after that photograph was taken.

It was supposed to last. I thought I had worked on it hard enough. We were supposed to evolve together. It wasn’t just the distance that was nibbling on my insides slowly and steadily, but it was the fact it was no more.

The Dream

mobzilla — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 20:00:27 +0000

Authored by Caterbunny

Funnybone invited me to his house to get some rest. I went over very tired, snuggled into the sheets and immediately fell asleep with the last waking memory of his scent from the pillow cases.

I dreamt of long walks in the neverending forests, where the sunlight cascaded through the tall trees and formed patterns illuminating the pathways. I remember feeling small in comparison to my surroundings. I was constantly reminded of my solitude in nature.

I followed the wide pathway that meandered and undulated eventually narrowing down and flattening out in front of a house shrouded in trees. I had arrived at my destination. It was inviting. The floor was almost completely covered in a sea of red orange leaves. Looked spectacular against the freshly painted whites of the house. The rest was mostly stone. Looked like autumn everywhere I looked.

I was curious to know why I was here. I was almost certain I’d started off in a summery forest. I could recall feeling the sun on my bare neck and shoulders. Seemed like I’d been walking a while. My bare feet were now covered in orange leather boots; I could almost blend into the bed of leaves around me in my attire.

I looked around for someone in sight. This place looked lived in. even the chimney gave out random spurts of smoke. There must be a fire running somewhere. I was excited. I looked around for a door.

The robin pecked at my scalp and eventually started singing a sweet song. I closed my eyes and started imagining the leaves dancing at my feet to the rhythm of the robin’s song. The ground beneath my feet started trembling from the commotion. It trembled and reverberated through my body. My autumn attire started melting and I sank into the floor.

It felt like I’d dived into a pool. Oh wait, I was in a pool. Or was I? I was floating. I felt around me. I felt a keyboard. I looked for the ‘escape’ key. A light switched on. A basement. But I was looking down at it almost as though I was perched somewhere along the ceiling. But strangely, I wasn’t even there.

It looked like a study. There were books and books lined up against the shelving on the walls. The evening sunlight filtered through the cotton curtains and glazed everything with a honey hue. I could almost taste the honey infusing with the musty scent of books. Seemed like a private space. Daily ledgers were spread out open on the study desk. I felt guilty being there.

February

mobzilla — Sun, 06 Feb 2011 19:19:28 +0000

Play in the background while you read.

Dying to live

mobzilla — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 20:46:04 +0000

Hey Mom,

I’m sorry things haven’t really been great for us for the last couple of years. I’m sorry I’ve given you a hard time. You know what they say about teenagers, we’re always a handful. I’m sorry I made things so difficult for all of us after Dad passed away. There just wasn’t much that I could do.

I know you had to work a lot on getting me better. It’s been 1 year now since I started the medication. Turns out depression isn’t the best thing in the world to have. Nor is it easy to get rid of. But I think the medication did a good job. I feel a lot better now than I used to a couple of years ago. Life actually seems better. I’m having fun with my friends, I’m doing well at school, I’m enjoying going out and having a good time. I really didn’t see me getting any better to be honest. I hardly ever cry now.

Which is why I have decided to quit while I’m ahead. I don’t want to ever get back into the life I had a few years ago. I cannot bear being depressed again ever.But you know what they say; all good things come to an end. I really can’t let that happen. I can’t see the lows again. I’m sorry mother I know you will miss me; and I’m sure so will I. I love you. I’m sorry. I hope you will understand.

Love,

Your daughter.