Of being swallowed into the night

I fantasise myself being swallowed into the night. Walking in the direction of the sun disappearing, and there is no more light to stream the warmth through. The street lamp will start to show itself, the orange standing tall in the night, noble and almost human. I stand under the street light alone. There is no… Continue reading Of being swallowed into the night


Before it rains

There was a sense of rain in the air last night on my way home from work. Maybe I knew it from the morning of that day, when I wrote about the sky burning down onto the ocean and felt like the whole world was on fire. It is usually 1-3 days later that it… Continue reading Before it rains


  Mellow rhythm and sound walks on a tightrope spread out into hundreds of directions. It is the softness, but not too soft, it is that feeling of being alive with the sound, like the beat flowing through your veins, not an attachment from the outside but there with you, and therefore, you cannot get… Continue reading Mellow

There is a sense of beginning after finishing a novel.

There is a sense of beginning after finishing a novel. Story becomes something, in the presence of blank spaces in-between the time actually reading and moving around in daily life. There is always a piece of each other, stories to connect with, memories and experience to store away and the colour of the heart. Emotions… Continue reading There is a sense of beginning after finishing a novel.


  I usually sit on the left side of the bus. It is the direction of sunrise. It is when morning tries to break itself from behind, between the thick clouds that covers its body. There are occasional holes the cloud has missed to fill, and the orange warmth streams through, onto my shoulder, my… Continue reading Scream