“I felt the beginning of a passion, hopeless in the long run, but very nourishing, for identifying myself with people who were not my own, and whose lives were governed by ideas alien to mine.” V. S. Pritchett in A Midnight Oil

In-between, there’s always a space. Whether between places, words, and people. Everything has its own space, even water is being divided with water bubbles, and nights including its  dense darkness is littered with glitters. These spaces allowed us to breathe, and think, and do things in transition.

A couple of months ago, i lost more than images of childhood, memories of summer, and time spent uncaringly putting rolled tobacco on my young and succulent lips. Those secret travels i made with cousins, friends, and acquaintances, hunting for spiders, fishes, and monsters that came alive one dreamy afternoon, when every kitchen in the neighbourhood blackened with soot and festivities become pregnant with cooked sweet potatoes, bananas, and laughter.

Most of these memories were interspersed with finding love on a bicycle i used to pedal around the city- in quaint streets, in hidden passages, and in secret lairs where fierce red ants and psychotic bees reign supreme, this is where love are tested waging little wars of attrition. The love i found, i share it with the sweetness of banana cue and curled-up sugarcane molasses. It was long ago, where everything is about adventure, where the world is a big playground, and our poetics rhyme with sweets peddled in the streets.

Sweets are important to remembering.

On all souls day, sticky rice cooked with coconut milk and brown sugar is our way to remember the lives of those who left us, differently, or Dad said so. This manner of cooking to summon memory left me together with the departure of my father.

I only have a few important leavings – September 2010 and February 2011, in-betweens are trysts.

October is a good promise, your eyes they disappear when they are delighted with the idea of drifting, but still you are a  puzzle. Today, i no longer have the patience to solve puzzles or anything that has similarity to finding solutions to a puzzle, i don’t want to think too much. i would want to think of things outside puzzles, as it is the planet is a puzzle.

Tonight it’s going to be different. Something else blared from the beat-box

It’s ahum, hoo, ahum haa, aho ahoooooo, hooooo, howew.

it’s a soft jumpy and jittery music playing in the background.

Let me tell you a story of a horse, that most people mistook for a lot of things. Last week my neighbours’ child who came home late with all the dried-up puddle on his face, cried out loud even during meals, the kid who developed the talent to cry and cry while chewing his dinner gained the ire of the horse, whom the child called the greatest living painter ever for solving the class assignment the boy took from school, as a punishment for singing without any reasons and continuously after the flag ceremony. The assignment known as the greatest punishment since, is a conversation in colors that varies in tones and hues.


White-absence-of-strokes-thickening-like-a-melody-of-distant-song-coming-to-life-on-the-canvass-of-your head.”

Or as how the village gossip got hold of the conversation.

The horse became a cow for plowing the wind as if it’s a ricefield, anticipating the coming of hunger. jumping, running as a melody – tom tom toom, tooom tom tom tom, pam poom taam. Paaa paaa pa pa ra pa pa paaaaa..

Last night somebody died, the horse became a holy person – an intercessor of God, a holy lawyer, a spoke-person of the recent dead, collecting money in bundles from the pockets of believers, the starry eyed redemption of the heavens.

It became a pusher for the chemically loaded, a gun on the temple of the head of the desperate.

Like a horse, our state in transition will assume names, weathers, and phenomenon, we will gallop. The horse is a story of transition, a story in transition, transient stories, the space between here and there, the significant pause before we continue our conversations, it’s the nose-bridge between our eyes. It’s the wrinkle that divides your palm in many chambers

Boom booooom booooom boom bombooom booooom.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

One day the horse disappeared, and we dive into forgetting. What is color? what is distance? what are lies.

We became pure. No more music or the pounding of melodies. We lost everything.

How will i retell our stories?

A couple of months ago, i went on running hoping to catch the past the left me suddenly, i rode my bike and got lost in corners, i went after the breathing that left you. I went after the stories.

A couple of months ago is in-between, a stone i nibbled on my waking.

“The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” Thomas Paine


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  1. #1 by Writing Jobs on November 24, 2011 - 9:36 am

    Great post thanks. I really enjoyed it very much. You have a great blog here. Thanks again for sharing.

    Love writing? We would love for you to join us!

    – Writers Wanted –

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