Heart-Shaped Box

I want to cry. And cry more. I don’t remember the last time I cried. Well I do, but it’s been so long that the whole event seems like some distant memory of past which is all but blurred out in front of my eyes right now. No, my eyes feel tired. Tired of looking at every little piece of nuisance become an integral part of this beautiful green world. They close themselves, my eyes. They’re not dry. Just tired and full of emotions. Emotions that vary on a high scale. They are constantly suffering. Scientifically too, if you want to look at them that way. But more concerning is the spirituality and innocence of them.

Everything, and I mean everything, is fucking them over. The people, useless jobs, waste of potential, worthless concerns, they don’t need all that bullshit. What happened to the sight of the sunset, the rays that breach your protective layers and are warmly accepted by your eyes like a mother receiving her son coming home after a long time? The birds, and their random flights, full of dreams and hopes of survival, focusing on what’s most important. That’s love to the eyes. They want to see as far as they can. Across the horizon and even more.

Towards the sky and inside a soul.

“What all do we rule, dad?” “We rule as far as you can see Simba.” Freedom. That’s what is conveyed by the bedtime stories. But they are not here anymore. Those bedtime stories. It’s all real but even more fake than ever. As fake as one can get. About everything. Inside out. To that extent where fake is real and real is fake. Cobain is singing about the heart-shaped box right now. Is that where true freedom and love for my eyes lie? I wonder. At least something isn’t a sham. But my eyes can’t take it anymore. The tears need to come out. My eyes need to be refreshed with a new original perspective. One that’s honest with itself and to everyone around. Maybe that’s why babies are so innocent. They do cry a lot. All the time.

I can’t.

At all.

I just can’t.

Pale Blue Dot

“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.

Carl Sagan

Face Value

over there
is a stranded girl
stuck with her
worthless means of
caged brew
and fake curls

looking back and forth
at her
splendidly lit fruit
the graffiti
on her hand proposes
her surface
is her roots

there’s a lot of
filtered noise
in her
but there’s only
so much
she can discern
and hear

but all of this
the point is not

the point is that
she’s got
what you desire
a lot

your frivolous dreams
keep you
in a haze
but you just
can’t have it the
same way

can you?

A day in the life

i lived my day
on the worn out
green table, with skeletons
puffing out rings
around me
singing the ballads
while grinding their bones
to the soulless jukebox
of their
fucked up pasts,

i looked at
that 17
held me beat
and hit it
that damned number
on the glossy piece of paper
drowned me
in the glass of
melancholy on the rocks
the skulls,
they had a laugh
i got pulled in too
we made sure the sunset
wasn’t going to last.