We were distant any way, even before all this.

Even when we were sitting across from one another at a small, intimate table; how much were we really willing to give out?  How much were we ready to take in?

We were always wearing masks and carrying shields.

The only things a real connection needs are honesty and willingness; proximity is optional.

Picture: Claude Cahun, 1928, Self portrait. Pantin, France.



Listen to the quiet, and you will hear the enormity of this all. 
Remember, embedded in the sound of silence, is the knowledge of everything. 

Image: Kadiya Qasem, 2011, The art of dying,


Bedtime story

Once, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But the next second, or after a million rotations of time, there was this colossal heaving existence. It had galaxies of burning stars rushing, black holes imploding secrets and fragile beings hanging desperately to floating rocks in between waging wars, falling in love and losing the plot.

Just like that? Yes, just like that.

In the next galactic second, all this will return to a sweet, harmless nothing. And there will not be a drop of conscience left to wonder if anything happened at all.

Nothing. Something. Hope. Despair.

We are children of apocalyptic chaos as much as we are of a blinding quiet. We are not an in-between kind.

We shine, we crash. This is our nature. This is what we’re made of. This is us.



Image – Making something from nothing by Gregory Talley


Recipe for life

Get wounded, find healing, learn to love beauty for beauty alone.  

Picture - David Copithorne

Picture – David Copithorne



are those who were ignored, misloved, laughed at, looked down upon and worse -forgotten, while they laid wretched.

Monsters need to be looked at and observed, not shut behind closed doors and forgotten. They need compassion, and protection from fear. They need to be offered open doors through which they can extend their worst selves through to others’ best. They are the buried, twisted, fermented outcomes of our collective misdoings; so they need to be accounted for by none other than us, ourselves.

Image jrstaxx.tumblr

Image jrstaxx.tumblr



Love is important.

Because it is the one time when we truly meet someone. When we love is when we abandon our wounds and look at someone with the grace of an unburnt child. It braves us to hammer at the walls of our self’s cathedrals and grow beyond ourselves, bursting, to meet the light cast by another. It humbles our supremeness, rusts our pitiful cages and allows in the light that brought us all to doubt the darkness in the first place.

Window by Mikhail Palinchak Jr

Window by Mikhail Palinchak Jr


Midnight man in Bambalapitiya: part 1

They called you mad.


Probably because you only ever did two things.

One; you would laugh at us walking into Monday morning-

good citizens going to slit themselves

in exchange for something that is theirs to begin with.

You laughed at those wretched things.

Two; you would sleep throughout the day’s bloodshed,

through the April heat, through the sound

of Colombo breaking its teeth,

through incredible kindness and cowardice.

You slept on and on

No, wonder they christened you.



What is it like? – the place you dream of

with your eyes rolling to the back of your head

and your skin pumping out the ocean?

Is it somewhere far and flickering.



Who was it? – the thing that cracked you open

and broke in to your secret self and

stripped it naked in front of them?

Was it a girl? was she too beautiful?


When was it? – when was the last drop of time

(when everything shook and the curtain crashed,

to see that all along, there’s been goddamn nothing at all).


Last full moon, I heard you run screaming down the street

asking the ocean to wash us all down to hell…

Everyone needs a name for convenience’s sake.

I’ll call you Midnight.


Illustration - Kat Philibin (

Illustration – Kat Philibin (




I like to think of you slowly.

You taunt me at the tip of my nose,

where I can’t quite lick,

but can smell.

Let me.

Let me think of you slowly,

early on my bed.


Image source unknown

Image source unknown


On nothing & something

Nothing-  the secret mother of fears, the thing that makes our hearts crash down to the floor, the thing we rush in a frenzy to deny -without stopping even for a second because if we stop…hush…it’s alive. Larger than everything we know or make to believe, it is what aches between dull noise of a workday and what’s real, in the silence between two slow drops in the shower, between  each mouthful while dining alone and reading yesterday’s newspaper. Nothing- stored for access in leaves, time, fungi and the ways of the world.

Something -the mountain we muster only so that there’s a breath of anticipation, a moment of loss, a pang of fear between us and the great, forever, latent undercurrent of nothing. It is a soft, masochistic play to get by, to become fools, to get lost, to do much ado about nothing.  

Photo - Stuart Freedman/

Photo – Stuart Freedman/


On company

Darling, I cannot see your dream,

out there, real, it’s only in your eyes.

But, I’ll feel it in your fight & catch it at our road’s close,

tangled in your gold,

shining your light.

Photo - Exorbibus Photography

Photo – Exorbibus Photography