the walls

i've been able to preserve my sanity because of the liliac coloured walls. monstrous intimacy gets lost in their monotone warmth with a hint of closure. it turns me low and slows my machinic thoughts into warped phrases, upside down commas, and then a string of silence. we merge, finally.

this silence yearns

Despite questioning the valorization of voice, this silence yearns to hear its name. This yearning is not for mere confrontation; nor is it to have a gaze returned. As Fanon notes in his chapter “The Fact of Blackness,” a black man (woman) experiences “crushing objecthood," as his (her) subjectivity is denied. He does not fall under the universal conception of human, according to his oppressors. Though, Fanon is referring to a racial gaze, and the alienating consequences of colonialism on the psyche and the body, the act of non-recognition, for an identity formation, creates a non-identity, a negative. This weighs down on the created, with each footstep chains ring. For in the end, as Fanon contends, the colonial subject experiences itself as nonexistent. It is not only the thoughts that are deemed nonexistent, but the whole. This silence yearns ....
Sorry for the short and choppy entry, but I decided I will not sleep without having written something down, any thought and this is the thought that came to mind.

at this moment

I feel guilty that I haven't written today, so I shall write whatever comes to mind before I head to sleep. In this state of semi-consciousness, i'm filled with uncertainty and doubtfulness about a great number of things. I feel as though I've currently begun building a fortress, but with sparse windows for strangers and friends, but some weave intricate tales that mangle me, while others speak of frailties, and still others place bricks unto this fortress with their thundering silence.

crossing paths

i’m reminded of the silence that once spoke peripherally through our slight, subtle glances: glances always drawn like a child peering through a window, unnoticed, cautious, fearful, hiding behind the receding light. this is all pure as honey. from this i create a story that stirs the heart, sends my mind to pulsate with the thought of proximity and silk.
the glances propel a shackled memory: one tied to an open interpretation-- an open corridor where two figures sway endlessly, like lost shadows moving and colliding like a split self seeking to reunite, reassemble an imagined notion.
but, what is invoked is never confirmed.
it is in that brief flash that i lose myself.

silence

millions of chords and every cord a thought
and every thought an illusion
and every illusion an absence
and every absence a speculation
and every speculation a shadow
and every shadow a prayer

and every prayer is lost in silence.