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Hi, and welcome! (Scroll past this post if you’re looking for the updates :))

This is my new thought and fiction diary! Here I’m going to be posting whatever comes to mind, experimenting with whatever I feel like at the time. There will be a lot of first drafts coming through here, but the quality of stuff should reach at least a decent standard. The first post (‘#1: for the sake of flow’) is actually an example of experimentation gone very badly, but you know what? Next time it’ll be better, and that’s the point of this secondary blog!

My previous blog is at ChasjngDreams, a blog that’s taken more of the spin of personal thoughts and rants. If you like what you read here, maybe you’d like the writer behind all of this too!

Hope you enjoy!

– j. NG

225:

Because for hours the land of dreams
Has offered me no admittance,
I return now to the bland wakeful hours
In a strained morning air.

This world is so vast
Yet my containment has been this bed
This room. A cell. Unbarred, not jailed.
It is the most frightening of places.
An open house. Not what you wish for
But enough to call yours.
Beside my bed is a
Graveyard of dreams.
Let us take a tour.

Laid aside, strewn over the floor
Like old, discarded clothes.
That one, old, tough jeans.
The love of grandparents.
The belt there. Support.
As if I could hold up a family.
Socks, filthy, trod on.
With shoes, none fit for hiking
Or exploring. By my bed is a series of lights
Jagged like a continent on a map.
Unexplored. Untouched.

It is not the lack of sleep
That keeps my jaw moving erratically so
But because the jaw must move
And the ejaculation of criticism must come
I cannot sleep. Still, with all this said
I will only fall onto the black steed of a dream.
I cannot sleep.

224: Emotional Hibernation

It’s not the same as sleep.
Not the same as seasonal sleep either.
It’s really the curling up like an armadillo would
Or in the way lice might
To protect the soft underbelly from too much
Stress. Belittlings. Pointless days.
Scenes of noisy silence. Too many, then.
A little ball, pushed down in winter,
Growing, eating up the surroundings as
Comically it all just grows, eating all.
Whenever spring comes it might take another
Year to thaw, another winter
Ten sunny days, days uncountable.
When spring comes maybe we’ll wake.

223: An Ill-Equipped Worldbuilder’s Lament

I promise you this is true;
Every time I try to start anew
On world creation, imagination exploration –
A piece of my left cranium
In the back, where it feels the most like bone
Begins to ache and hurt, like the pain has become
Warning signs of mines
When traipsing on forbidden, or foreign land.
They are mental eyesores in the back of the head.
Apparently in those spots
I keep my worlds locked away.

It is the ache of old muscles,
But it feels like the stretching of new ones,
Under this forever-striving of trying to understand
How the world works, watching from rushing bus
Up on a highway, spotting lights, peering into offices
The uncensored dull lives of thousands, millions
Passed by on the street, some with umbrellas
Inside a face, longingly looking out and watching
The pattering of rain, their minds no less sharp
Than mine, working in a building’s name
Commercially advertised, brand new working space
On opposite side the sea, chopping at the air, restrained,
Fish underneath, breathing differently to me.
When I try to understand all this and then
Breathe in deep and try to make a world of mine own
It all hurts. So I retreat to poetry where everything works
Rhyme lurks, rhythm promises easy comings like a prostitute
And I make my confusion and love an art form
Even though I have stories locked away.

I yearn to unlock that box, I have a tale!
I do! God, why is prose such a pain,
Why are my eyes so blind, my ears so deaf,
Bereft from the ability to hear thoughts,
To assimilate pasts into my present,
Without straining that globe,
That left side backside of it anyway.
I refuse to relegate prose to just left-side buttocks.

222: Rain

I saw a man outstretched in the rain
Head tilted up, spectacles stained
With blotches of water while his mouth
Stayed agape; he drank in the waterfall
As if each drop was a second from a clock
And by staying there, he would tremble,
Growing younger as the world grew old.

Of course I could not watch for long,
So his fate, whether it was to be taken away
By cop or by car, for he stood in the middle
Of the road – I do not know, for need brought
Me back indoors to my fine table, organized,
Where I sat with the glimmer of work falling
Into my eyes, stinging them, as if it were rain.

221: Dead Eyes

Dead eyes see all the same colors
Save with more age, more grey,
And they know with certainty
That blindness, like TV screens
Comes not only from disability
But from the burn-in of seeing
The same sights everyday,
Everytime in the exact same way.

Dead eyes surround their sceneries
In darkness; no light, hoping somewhere
There’s a monster roaring, exclaiming
Its presence, its danger, perhaps from it
Would erupt a new colour, fear perhaps,
Or a willingness to embrace the velvety
Purple of a departure into an endless night.
That would be a sight, for sure to see.

Dead eyes look for wholesome things,
They go sleepless, though they know
That exhaustion brings impotence to
The mind, that depression is castration
To positivity, productivity yet fighting,
Giving into that urge to sleep and blinding
Dead eyes is exhausting within itself.

Dead eyes see your eyes and love them.
Love that you love theirs. Admire you
For bravery, for compassion and wish
So much to be different, alive, bright.
Oftentimes from seeing yours they
Learn to sparkle too, for eyes are
Mirrors. Thank you for being Medusa
When our worlds are made of stone.
Thank you for showing to us through
Our own eyes that we are not alone.

220: Impetus for a Verse

What makes me want to write?
Reading a poem that is so able
To tell another poet’s story;
Brightly with her vivid colors
All the diction finding its right place
With every image in its god-given space.
A poem so perfect, magnificent
In telling this poet’s tale
Yet still so dark and unilluminous,
Impotent in telling mine.
So from her words I scrape her brew
And from leftovers begin anew.
Hence I create the shell and cauldron
For a poem that I can call mine.

219: The Rose: The Ultimate Tool for Men

We safely bear those flowers
In nets and bags of plastic sheen.
We’ve removed from stalks
Those spearhead thorns
Cut them off so clean.
We admire the abscissions,
Label the appendages as risk
And we uphold that rose
As the final reward
The precursor for a kiss.

We love the green as a background to red
Analogize that for life leading to bed
For flourishing love, for human soon bred
We say the green brings out the red.

And fluttering leaves are but unsuitable petals
The stalk, the pedestal for art –
Not lungs to breathe, those loitering leaves –
Not a spine to stand, that stalk, so grand –
No – only the crown is the rose, with its deep folds.

I suppose it’s only right, the ultimate adage to nature
Nose in, breathe deep, love leads to love.
The inseminator and receiver, spurting out that semenous pollen
Received by us, translated to a night of thrust after thrust.
Funnily enough, that dangerous thorn earlier shorn,
Well, we’ve found it again, placed firmly on the men.

– j. NG