My Cursed Kingdom
This is my kingdom, i am the slave.


I dreamt of you. I hate you. You held my hand. I love you.


I sat at my desk and wrote. Under my lamp that shone dusty light on my single piece of paper. All I could see was the paper, the pencil racing furiously from one end to the other and a hundred shadows dancing around in the room.

I was alone. No one was there to bother me, question me, ask me; comfort me. I sat there alone, hunched over my writing desk, a desk so old, it squeaked with my every move. But it was my only support; it stood steadfast and held up my purpose for me. It enabled me to pour out my thoughts onto that single torn piece of paper.

I wrote and wrote, but still my thoughts wouldn’t run out. I ran out of space, but not out of words, not out of thoughts, not out of feelings. It dropped on the paper and quickly absorbed in it. I watched it fade away, leaving a wet mark as it disappeared. I wasn’t sure whether it was a drop of sweat from my forehead, or a tear from my eye.

I felt my fragile emotions travel through my whole body. I felt the gaping hole in my chest; bigger than ever. I felt a hundred shivers down my spine. I felt the hair on my arm stand at end. But I kept writing. I kept pouring. I kept dying.

All I wanted was for you to reach out of that piece of paper, and grab my falling soul. Hold it up and tell it that everything would be okay. Comfort. Reassurance. A shoulder to cry on. Place a hand on the gaping hole and stop the entire world from being sucked in. That’s all my words asked for.

I reached the end of the page; with my pencil making scratching noises everytime I would glide it across the thin sheet made out of wood to give the scribbles shapes of words. The alphabets seamlessly flowed into words without meanings. I placed the pencil down and looked at what I had written. The piece of paper was as empty and blank as it was when I had begun.

Inspired by Hands of Silk by Michael Whalen.


The only memory I had left of you were a stream of words. Words that joined together to make sentences. The sentences arranged themselves into paragraphs. The paragraphs aligned themselves into flowing sheets of memories. They moved infront of my eyes. Swaying, singing, teasing.

I would read and re-read. I would remember and re-remember. Back it up, stop, fast forward, rewind. I avoided the words. I avoided the sentences. And I dreaded the paragraphs. I stayed away from them, they would consume me. I was afraid, but I was compelled. They would take me back, they would bring me back. I could still smell the smell, and feel the breeze. Live it once again, for a few moments, with a heavy heart.

I picked up the pages, and tore them apart. But it was no use; they were engraved in me by now.


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


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.



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.


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.


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 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.


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.