A Motionless Voyage

The tram drags itself along its prescribed track to Happy Valley;
Small squeals burst recurrently from its wheels,
Conveying neither bliss nor pain. 

A pale kitten sits like a frail rose behind a window pane
And watches dust rises from these construction sites
That never cease to flare up.

Sweating men bend over a range of baby desert mountains
As pure strength glows like gold under their lasting noonday skin, 
Calling a hint of bitterness to her pupils. 

It expands, permeates, but swiftly recedes back
Into the black before someone catches it. 
Her stomach shrinks; her paper body cries for food.

But the pineapple bun in her hands erodes like a stubborn cliff.
She flushes the last ample bite down with forceful gulps.
Why has eating lately too become such a drag?

The tram pauses in front of the Central Library.
She hops off to blistering heat, and enters

The soul of a doll trapped under a straightened duvet
Across a lifeless bed, hardly having room to breath.
Her eyes petrified, but
Her clean, firm cheeks betray this deadening.

The world and her, their incompatibility only widens.
Because the clumsy child in her fails to mutate. 
We live in a reality where virginity is a shame. 

I pretended indifference
even in the presence of love, in the presence of hunger.
And the more deeply I felt
the less able I was to respond.
written by Louise Glück, from “Timor Mortis (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via lifeinpoetry)

I had a dream last month. In the dream, my sister committed suicide but no one in the family cared. I watched my sister jumped out of my bedroom window. I wasn’t quick enough to stop her. Subduing my real emotions I went to my parents and reported it to them in a calm and matter of fact tone. Neither of them looked up. Their indifference was contagious. Though still a little dubious, fright churning within weakened. I picked up one of the fashion magazines my mom was reading and started flipping through it blindly. The dream ended there and I woke up somehow weeping.

The dream reminds me of a painting I saw on a blog years before: Landscape with the fall of Icarus. I remember the small flailing legs of Icarus sticking out of the sea making a feeble effort of not to drown. I search for it online and stare at the dominant land, the diversity of colours and things going on in the beautiful coast for a long time. Everything is depicted in glaring details to draw one’s attention away from the insignificant ripple that Icarus makes. This imperishable sad voice of the landscape frightens me, but it somehow calms me as well. It returns me the knowledge of the perishability of the present and that life always goes on.

The world in one snap is no longer the one I lived in. I drift around an imagined past, avoiding specific shadows, smelling the high and sweetness of unreachable summers. I listen to songs that speak about my new belief: no more summer and no more myths, but it is halting and has lost its power to hypnotise. Because life did go on. I had new summers and there were elements in each that shaped me again and again. My vision expands and narrows, expands and narrows. While something slowly withers, something grows much stronger. Thus it’s not entirely a pity. The so called wisdom that I learned through time comforts me. And life, like a flowy river, acknowledges that final thought with a refreshing ripple, continues to slouch onwards to a horizon yet to be seen or imagined.

I had a dream last month. In the dream, my sister committed suicide but no one in the family cared. I watched my sister jumped out of my bedroom window. I wasn’t quick enough to stop her. Subduing my real emotions I went to my parents and reported it to them in a calm and matter of fact tone. Neither of them looked up. Their indifference was contagious. Though still a little dubious, fright churning within weakened. I picked up one of the fashion magazines my mom was reading and started flipping through it blindly. The dream ended there and I woke up somehow weeping.

The dream reminds me of a painting I saw on a blog years before: Landscape with the fall of Icarus. I remember the small flailing legs of Icarus sticking out of the sea making a feeble effort of not to drown. I search for it online and stare at the dominant land, the diversity of colours and things going on in the beautiful coast for a long time. Everything is depicted in glaring details to draw one’s attention away from the insignificant ripple that Icarus makes. This imperishable sad voice of the landscape frightens me, but it somehow calms me as well. It returns me the knowledge of the perishability of the present and that life always goes on.

The world in one snap is no longer the one I lived in. I drift around an imagined past, avoiding specific shadows, smelling the high and sweetness of unreachable summers. I listen to songs that speak about my new belief: no more summer and no more myths, but it is halting and has lost its power to hypnotise. Because life did go on. I had new summers and there were elements in each that shaped me again and again. My vision expands and narrows, expands and narrows. While something slowly withers, something grows much stronger. Thus it’s not entirely a pity. The so called wisdom that I learned through time comforts me. And life, like a flowy river, acknowledges that final thought with a refreshing ripple, continues to slouch onwards to a horizon yet to be seen or imagined.


And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.
written by Sylvis Plath  (via thesearentveins)

(Source: s-emer)

riri-neko:

Mayumi Hosokura

riri-neko:

Mayumi Hosokura

(via skybear)