It gnaws at my throat, gripping, grabbing, ripping and clenching.
Tightening my wind pipes, squeezing my breath, I look round hoping it won’t come to collect.
Collecting my hopes, my dreams, my love for you; it never left, it’s residue lingering on the fringes of my faith, I cry in anxiety, calling out to God. Free me, hold me, keep me close, don’t let him take me and don’t let him collect.
The dark place.
That place where the soul lingers, gasping for light, seeking its might.

Don’t let it collect; remaining fragments of love, hope and years of ache, the small pieces of glass, broken, some mended, always cracked.
Don’t collect.
Fear, how real a transformation of the abstract.


The Male Anatomy: Oedipus


The moment that gun was in my face, I knew, it would never be the same again. I mean I’d been threatened with violence before not so long before, but that was the threat of a bat, desiring to connect with my skin, wanting to leave satisfactory footprints of multi-coloured bruises and probably craving to draw blood at the same time.

My mind wondered. Had I even seen a gun before? I can’t lie. I was pretty nonsensical about the whole dilemma. An awkward moment that was, staring into the eyes of another one of God’s creatures, who stared back hungry, animalistic, full of blood thirst with a composure of – beautifully ugly. Not in the fashioned sense as such, but in the spiritual sense, in the “human” sense. (Note – Not that I even really knew what a “spiritual sense” was back then.) An ugly thing, unable to deal with defiance and lack of control; an example of classical Freudian, sex driven, lustful – probably stuck at that Oedipul phase Freud was always banging on about. A true patriarch of a male dominated culture and religion. Suppose he felt pretty manly, standing there in his white vest and shalwar, pulling a gun to a fourteen yr old kid, demanding and threatening to kill.

Why were men so obsessed with guns, bats and long, pointy instruments of torture? I had no answers but I bet Freud did.

I realized something through that experience.

I learnt that all that praying, rolling the beads like a programmed automaton, one after the other, getting on bended knees whilst banging my head on a mat, smelling earth and feet and muttering in a language I didn’t understand; all the while hoping, believing painfully, in a Virgin Mary miracle which would never come through. All that unknown, ill-informed and unintelligible belief and hope – well to put it mildly was a waste of my damn energies. I should’ve been looking for an escape route for weeks, not frivolously “praying” and childishly thinking a great big eagle would come and sweep me away, from those cow dung smelling rooftops.

In my defence, I hadn’t even watched Lord of the Rings at that point. Well I suppose, I could always count on my imagination when all else failed.

I also realised that “Belief” and “Hope” are two important ideologies. They make the worlds go round and keep the people partially sane.

The idea that some higher divine source will make it all right, will give you that miracle, the fire escape route that your desperately pining for, in a great time of distress and need, is really a devious, not very thought out and a short lived, ultimately disappointing, hopeless hope. It’s just an idea that was fed and most of us never think it through or ask the questions.

Then we expect God to talk to us like he did to Moses. But I was no Moses, I didn’t know that then.

No great eagles were in sight that night or any other night. Not on the cranked up stereo and getting whipped with a black lead night, not on the getting punched in front of the kid night, nor on the manipulating a kid with lies of freedom and  kidnapping me night.

I thank that last night and trick. After that last night, the revelation came.

You see I’d forgotten that God had given me two feet.

And Boy, did I run at sunrise the next day.

I got out Alive.

But even the word “Alive” is really a stretched out idea. But that is a discussion for another day. Was it enough? Just getting out alive? I wasn’t unscratched, without bruises or invisible scars but I was and I am alive.

Boy, do I hate men in white vests and a shalwar. Now when I think about it I wish I had a damned gun myself. I know I would’ve pulled the trigger. I was man enough.

One bullet is all it would’ve taken.





Real Lies. Realise.

Too much thinking

Too much time

Can’t seem to figure out what’s on this mind


Stop. Think. Reflect.


I cannot seem to do too much


No more lies

I cannot hide behind these eyes

They see too much

These ears hear too much

But I still don’t wake up or do anything much


Stop. Think. Reflect.



Another day gone by.

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