A Writer’s Dilemma III

Or take Haruki Murakami for example. In his work he communicates so much of his own poignant observations about the world through his characters, without sounding preachy. His words tend to be gentle and poetic to the point of creating soft background music, with an effect similar to those in movie scenes. After reading almost all of his books, it’s still hard to pin how he does it. On the first page of his novel “Dance Dance Dance” there is this passage: “I wake up. I wonder where I am. Not only do I think about it, I also ask myself out loud: “Where am I?” But the question makes no sense. Even without asking, I know the answer. I am here, in my life. In my everyday life – an addition to my true being. A few incidents and affairs, circumstances that god-knows-when became my attributes, although I’ve never accepted them.” (A loose translation from another language.) I don’t know about others, but I find it hard to escape this riptide of vulnerability; helpless about the main character’s – my own – helplessness, I end up being pulled into yet another Murakami’s kingdom.

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Imperfect

The river
carries all there is:
we meet, and we part
each time like the first.

As riptides
wrench the roots
we hang on to the clutter
looking to tape back who we were.

Flow rushes
ahead; patterns
zoom in and out from
the inside of cracked eyes.

Against streams
we wade. To lull and
forget – if for moments –
is providence of a human heart.

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the blank page

in the light of a new day, I stepped
out of those relentless gray whispers
soaked with futility and doubts, and welcomed
the weave and smell of a clear page.

it was so long since the last chapter had begun;
the one who started it looks foreign, out of place.
the same handwriting perseveres to inhabit
yet another tale of continuation, survival, change.

circles and destinies mash together, making
as little and as much sense as imagination unfurls.
our books are perfected patterns, too swift for
one-legged grasp, running free in fields of chance.

in the newborn light I greeted the dripping ink:
lot’s sticky fingers led my hand to pour out
a hopeful phrase. paragraphs away from brand new scrapes
I drew in, with vigor, smells of fresh commence.

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Bittersweet Lessons of Love

When nervousness speaks volumes
It can, like a murky fog,
Hide the truth of the hearts.

When stakes are sky high
Bridges that reshape confines of reality
Often remain unbuilt.

When shared depths instigate fright
Stubborn silence, revealing all of God’s glory,
Marks the end before the start.

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How often do you peek over the fence?

Following the trail of curiosity about the character of my brawny automatic pilot, I started to descend into the secrets behind a person’s behaviour. What I found at the end of the road filled with trial, unease and bewilderment was fear, or rather, a myriad of them in a rainbow-like sequence – fear of inadequacy, fear of not knowing, fear of survival, fear of not fitting in, and on a pedestal amongst them, the king: fear of death.

Deeply embedded in my self-image were lies that made up a frail spider-web of certainty, shielding me from coming face to face with fears that resided within.

(Part III – to be continued)

Read part I and part II

How often do you peek over the fence?

I am not sure how it all came about but I took notice as it turned into a poke in the eye. Opinions I was hearing myself say in various conversations had little in common, other than me proving that I was certain about myself and the world.

It is not that I had an agenda to lie; I wasn’t consciously trying to hide or alter anything about myself. Yet, every now and then I was finding myself talking – all the more, defending certain beliefs – while on the inside wondering: WHY am I saying this?

The spider-web of human desire for certainty…

(Part II – to be continued)

Read Part I here