Log IV: Swarm

Criticism flows in from all directions,

but is directionless.

The swarm moves like

a nitrogen bubble waiting to be popped

(tailing the pressure gradient

created by the presence of a will)

So that the collective conscious

can let out a sigh of relief

At the creaking sound of bones being broken

In the most illusory fashion possible.

But where there should be broken bones

We see fully formed skeletons sliding

across the ground, following a dead man

being stripped of his skins and his flesh

noiselessly, so that he might enjoy

the moment of his death

the hour of his awakening

when his eyes shall close

and his mind shall escape

transforming into the bubble popping pin

piercing the fictional film, the camera lens

shatters and the lights go out


the wall cracks, reality seeps in

dissolving these nightmarish constructs

and everything is clear and dark as the ocean

and A finally equals B

the end, as prophesied

is perfect homogeneity.


Log III: The Wall

Can you smell the forest, my dear?

Can you hear the wind pick up its scent

it’s rushing urgency, a soft lament

for all that lived and died this day

For the living, because they inch

closer to death, and for the dead

because they grow old.

They grow old with the stones,

with the stars in the firmament

with the wine in the cabin

of the fisherman who lives

on the outskirts of this realm

unaware of the powers that rule

day and night, addition and negation

he merely sees

a bigger catch or a hungry dinner

and the wine thinks

only of getting older still.

All of this is the world you do not see

of the time that swallows itself

and gushes inwards towards the boundaries of existence

of the time of the tree-lords where

every new leaf is a different branch

and every branch is a dead end

the quantum world unravels

in their mind, a woodpecker

pecking away at their very hearts

till the burden exceeds strength,

till the branches come crashing down

in a certain savage storm.

But you, my tireless friend

Pursuing a direction

perpendicular to these realities

protected by my cold unfeeling back

as I try not to look you in the eye

and gaze at the ends of the world.

Log II: Lead

There are no more references. The universe attempts to find its own center, but its hands stretch endlessly, intersecting themselves and painting cosmic futility on the canvas I have brought into existence with this imaginary observation. Every narration begins with an I, and ends with an I. Events imprint upon the readers as picture frames of my ordinary imagination, clawed on by the nails of reality, as if reality were a woman in the dune, an object that has no other reference but itself, entrapped in a recursion that regurgitates a situational loop, sequentially growing larger in size, the cyclic nature of all matters temporal re-asserting itself to the patron saints of nihilism and optimism alike – here, look at me, I am the cynic and I stand for what is, and I accept myself only with careful scrutiny.

But can narration consist solely of interlocking ideas, as a mechanical contraption fueled solely by metaphors and cold, lifeless imagery, devoid of the finer and not-so-fine emotions, the warmth of her embrace, the despair at distance, the ruthless scheming anger at fate, attempting to rework its fabric and foil its designs, replacing them with one’s own and imagining the cold heartless satisfaction which is probably the least emotional emotion, the most fragile and precious one, that of triumph over an equally supercilious destiny? There are men who challenge other men, there are men who challenge themselves, and there are those who challenge the most probable future with a far less probable version of their own.

He did not understand what a ‘man’ was, even though he constituted the very textbook definition of one – made up of a pair each of hands, eyes, legs, ears, nostrils, genitals, feet, and one each of a head, neck, torso, nose and a brain and a heart, amongst other things, all governed by a singular will to tread forward. His brain was solely concerned with coordinating his movements appropriately – it did not serve any other purpose, it did not generate any other thoughts except the ones that occasionally arose as reactions to his environs, and most of all, generated a signal that synced with the organ providing nutrition, oxygen and warmth to his battered body through several tubular channels via fluids colored in varying hues of crimson occasionally tinged with blue – a signal that came with a footnote telling him never to turn his head backwards, or to look over his shoulders, or to walk in the opposite direction in which he was currently headed.

If he had ignored this subtext, a sea of humans would have been visible to him – humans who had been following his lead as long as he had been walking. He did not know the meanings of the words ‘messiah’ or ‘leader’ either, but he was one in the same fashion as he was a man – his unwavering resolution, albeit unreasonable and unfounded (or rather precisely because it was thus) elevating him in the eyes of his followers who never for a second doubted his sense of direction or the promise he symbolized, the strength radiating with such intensity that his ragged appearance only served as a shade lest the ones following be blinded by it.

Log I: Search

When pain transcends words, the latter assume the form of vehicles fueled by angst, a pain as pure as snow, and freezing to touch. For angst is a pain unattended for far too long, craving the light of someone’s care, begging to be acknowledged as something more than a vacuous state of identifying with the unfeeling infinite. Surely, the intensity of this state further repels the easily intimidated, and the sufferer wanders on immersed in this horrifying substance, wading his way through the sludge till it flows through his very veins like a paradox of stagnation.

His eyes scaled the wall, his hand brushing against the corrugated cement covering the red bricks underneath, letting himself be overwhelmed by both a sense of accompaniment and animosity emanating from the piece of architecture separating him from the world beyond, and yet faithfully following him without a single complaint. His vision caressed the surface lovingly, for even though the sight of it filled him with dread and longing, it was the only sight he had, and he cherished it as one would a treasured possession.

He wondered why he did not react similarly to the path, why it felt so distant in spite of always being right under his feet. It made up a solid mass that held him up from falling into the void that lay to his right, the void that was a wall inverted, a wall that extended far beyond his imagination would allow, and hence filled him with pure fear – quite distinct from the solid wall to his left. He had attempted to test it once for what it was, but the experience had left him sufficiently scarred to avoid it at all costs. Not that he knew what it would feel like to be completely consumed by it, but a voice inside him, the only one that existed and spoke, warned him against it. But the ground was uneven, hard, and often too warm – the soles of his feet were covered with dried blood, which made walking easier and more difficult at the same time.

He was unsure as to why he continued walking. As far as he knew, the wall and the void were entirely static and did not make attempts to converge upon him from the sides, and he could just stay in one place. But there was an inexplicable feeling that prompted him to explore and traverse distances meaninglessly till he didn’t have to anymore. Till he could find an entity that would not inflict its existence on him, while refusing to acknowledge his own. What he was searching for was the harmony of mutual ignorance.