memento mori

On The Normalcy of Horrors

The headlines report another horror as I woke up today, and it’s hardly important what it was; it’s a general occurence these days.

It’s doubly disconcerting how the response seems so familiar nowadays; the outcry of injustice, the ones who promote hope in response to the ones who fall to their knees in despair and hopelessness. Slight tweaks here and there to provide more contextually relevant anecdotes and tweets, but the message has always stayed on the same course.

For the youth, it is clear that we are the children of wartime.

From 15 years ago, we’ve seen nothing but the consequence of wars that only exists to most of us in headlines, targeted despair-inducing pieces, and the flood of opinions allowed by the emergence of social media giving everyone a voice.

We are jaded, as much as some would want to deny it, because if we weren’t, we could never survive all this. It is not a thing to be ashamed of, we do what we have to, in order to carry on.

Our ‘curious mix of cynicism, delusions, and hope’ seems to have become the armour of the 21st century, to what avail, I wish (and many others, I would imagine) I could name.

It’s exhausting to live in this world nowadays, but it makes every moment of joy seem victorious and glorious as it shines against the backdrop of despair.

I suppose that’s why we cling on to hope, because the shine is so worth it all.

I suppose that’s why we continue to fight, because the shine is so worth it all.

I suppose that’s why we are still here.


The shine is so worth it all.


On Immortality; or In Which A Clock Remembers Ozymandias

There stands a clock, in my room back home, that stopped ticking about 5 years ago.

It wasn’t a great affair; it only needed a fresh set of batteries, but being the typical lazy youth that I was back then, I decided against replacing them. Whether this was a permanent choice or a temporary one, I would’ve never found out as my mother eventually noticed it and berated me for simply leaving it be.

Immediately, and in order to cover myself, I began to wax poetic about the clock being an ‘aesthetic choice that symbolised the falsity of time as a construct’ until she gave up asking. This began my longstanding and somewhat comical back-and-forth with my mother who consistently tries to get the clock taken down, halted only by my committed efforts to elaborately create an ever-changing sense of symbolism around it

The latest form of this exercise had her, over Skype, joking to take it down since I was not there to stop her, which led me into a new rhetoric about the clock, now aged, yellowed, and cracked, serving as a ‘reminder of Ozymandias and that time will decay all that stands before it’. 

That line then gave me pause, and caused me to reflect.

“Why do you care so much about being remembered?”
“Isn’t that all there is?”

Death was never the final frontier for me, it was the idea of fading away. I feel like I could live with dying, as long as my work was finished, but the ultimate and universal Catch-22 is that your work will never be finished.

There is always something to be done.
There is always somewhere to be.
There is always someone to care for.

In that, hopefully, we create the stories that will carry us forward, even past the point of Death.

When Bowie passed, it was incredible to see the outpour of love and support, it was truly hard for anyone to say that he had died; he had simply… transcended. He had spun himself across the hearts and souls of millions, and that left him beyond mortality; an immortal.

The question though; how would anyone else fare? How would I fare?

Unlike Ozymandias or Bowie, I am a mere human, and all I have are my hands and my heart; so the task seems to be to use them to build a legacy of spirit in those that I choose to walk beside in my life, and those who chose me.

There will probably never be a Sonnet 55 penned for me or songs sung about me, but if I did at least something memorable in someone’s life; whether being a friend, a helpful hand, or if my words carried weight in someone’s heart, then maybe I could be at peace with my time here.

All I ever wanted to be was a good story in the chapter in someone’s life; but such an assurance can never be ascertained.

Until then, I will pen my own tales, and I hope there will be many good stories of others in mine.

a quiet moment

It’s hardest in the quiet moments.
As the light of the world dims,
All you see is yourself,
Clearest and unforgiving,
When the secrets that paper you,
Can fall off your skin,
And no one will see the cracks,
There is nothing to reach for in these moments.
Even your hands,
Lose clasp of each other,
And lie open,
As if to be pierced,
By something that will never.
Can you still
With the faint wisps,
Of the ghosts that haunt us all,
Draped across your shoulder,
A sash of memory,
Ever tightening.
Yours, to me, is strongest here.
The quiet kills,
Where noise saves.


With the lights of the world dimming down, I swim further and further into the horizon.

I lie here, where the waves forget to crest. Apt as I begin to forget myself, lost in the siren call of the sea’s raging in the distance.

Why are you so angry? What curse has fallen on your shores, that you insist on beating it mercilessly and with eternal vigour?

But you are not angry here, where I lay, floating in your heart of hearts.

Can you truly seek refuge with a storm?

On Vesper

Somewhere, possibly in Germany, there might be a cat sleeping in a bookstore.

I’d imagine that it’s nestled itself comfortably on a nice stack of books, paperbacks and all. Hopefully, the books are in good taste, but really, she may have different tastes from me, being a cat.

I wonder where this cat has been and where it will go. About the people it’s seen and the creatures it’s faced, or maybe vice versa.

Although it may go by many other names, I’m going to name this cat, Vesper, and that will always be my name for it.

So, Vesper, I hope your dreams are calm and that life treats you well, and I hope that you will believe in a person vaguely like me as I believe in a cat vaguely like you.

Save one of your nine lives for us to meet, alright?

Postscript :

I vaguely remember writing the first version of this around 2013, and I think it was only read by one other person, who I’ve lost touch with, and she’s probably part of a life I possibly left behind. Upon writing, I realise I miss her a lot, and I wonder if she ever thinks about me.

This version was edited and posted to my Facebook as a status around 2014, when a friend asked me to write something. He liked cats, and so I thought to revisit this piece and save it from whatever oblivion all my scraps of writing end up in.

If anything, Vesper deserved it.

On Responses To Despair

Should preface this by saying this is not a personal attack on anyone, but there’s always that one person who decides that is, isn’t there?

People sometimes act strangely to people who are openly in distress or despair over their own thoughts or something that stems from themselves, and not from an external event that is deemed ‘acceptable’ to be sad over.

With external events like death or destruction, it’s simpler, there are tried and tested ways to deliver consolation. When one doesn’t have a direct avenue to direct your consolations, things can get a bit murky in what constitutes a proper response.

Platitudes such as “Don’t worry so much!” or “Other people have it worse, don’t complain!” really make me question why they decided to write such a response. It comes across like seeing a hand reaching out for help, then deciding to slap it away.

To those people, I get where you’re trying to come from and that you’re trying to help. But do you genuinely believe that your introduction to the concept of worrying less is a completely revolutionary idea? Plus, if your response to something bad is not to complain about it because someone out there is worse, I don’t even want to begin to point out the fallacies of that stance.

Just seeing these things irk me, and I can only imagine how those on receiving end must feel, and I am sorry that you have to deal with these people on top of everything else.

Take care.


In the normal cycle of a blog, it spawns from complete boredom and dies when things actually get interesting in the real world of the writer.

If anything, I feel like I should try and write more stuff out in the open, and not be limited to the control group of people who get to read my work.

What better time to start one than being on break with a sprained ankle and unholy sleeping patterns?

At time of writing, I roughly wake up at noon and sleep around dawn. This is more of a preference, than an accidental happenstance. I prefer writing and reading in the dead of the night, I suppose, because I can think in peace and hot tea feels even more glorious.

The sprained ankle is both literally and metaphorically a pain though. I thought I’d only consider stairs as my greatest enemy in around 50 years or so, not every time I need to get a glass of water.

It’s also interesting to note how it made me consider one of greater follies of youth; our invulnerability and indifference to the tides of the world.

We’ll always think ourselves as greater and fearless of the trials of the earth, because why would it ever befall us, of all people?

The thing about being a youth is that we don’t always look over our shoulder because our eyes are focused on the horizon, and that’s the way it’ll always be.

But there are days where the world will knock you down and I guess you only truly learn to smell the flowers when you’re face down in them.