“Who do you resent?”


She looked at me with what I interpreted to be a shade of uncertainty. Maybe she felt like a foreign entity was inside her body, probing deep into the areas that made her uncomfortable.

“You heard me. Who do you resent?”

“I’m not sure why you’re asking me this.”

“Does everything have to have a point?”

She looked away and scoped the room, trying to take in the wannabe glamorous ambience of the café. I guess it’s too bad that they chose to go with the tablecloth that they did.

Her head moved like a rotating turret, stopping only to glance towards the renaissance inspired painting.

I couldn’t tell if she was deep in thought or just uncomfortable. They say that half the love is lost when you think about what the other person is thinking about. I tried to stop analyzing her every move, but I guess I just couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know more.

Her eyes met mine.

“I don’t think that I do resent anybody.”

There was truth in her eyes. Truth with a glimmer of madness. I’d been trying to get her to reveal that side of herself to me. The only progress that I’d made so far was the scenic view that the windows to her soul offered me.

“Who do you resent?” She retorted.

The toughest questions to answer are always the ones that you end up asking other people, and not yourself.

“Does resentment mean feeling like punching somebody in the face?”

“I guess not.”

She drew her attention to the slight fold in the tablecloth and smoothed it with her black nails. She knew that black is one of my favourite colours. Did she wear that black nail-polish thinking about how it would please me just like I wore this blue formal shirt to try and please her?

“What is it then?”

“Hmmm. I think resentment means disliking somebody  because they don’t meet your expectations.”

The slice of pastry finally arrived. Unfortunately, it had a marzipan filling. I didn’t quite expect that.

I guess you could say that the only thing I resented that day was that slice of pastry.

Deep down though, I already knew who I would grow to resent because of these far-fetched expectations that had blossomed deep in some void in my body.

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Inside A Traffic Light


“Peh! Peh! Peh!”

“All bloo-blahs, prepare yourself for reddening! Red pools are now open for reddening!”

The alarm (and the voiceover) blared as the green bloo-blahs made their way to the red pools for the reddening.

It was a bit of a hustle-bustle, with the orange bloo-blahs criss-crossing with the red ones as they  made their way to their next station to prepare themselves for their greening which would follow shortly after. It was messy. It looked a bit like a two year old’s drawing from afar, except that the colours were moving. They have a term for it, I think they call it a glitch or something.

In its life-span, each bloo-blah would participate in a countless number of greenings, orange-ings and reddenings. Their lives involved moving from one coloured pool to the other to soak in so that their body colour changes.

The complex that they lived in was quite spacious- it had three storeys, each one having a giant circular window. The interior of each floor consisted of three coloured pools- one orange, one green and one red, each for the bloo-blahs to soak in. This complex was not very complex, unlike other bloo-blah complexes. Some of them had more than three storeys, but I can’t tell you how those ones function since I have only visited a three storey bloo-blah complex.

On the middle floor was a giant digital watch, which always had numbers counting down to zero on it in cycles of 30 seconds and 60 seconds.

A life of a bloo-blah is a life of constant and unlimited deadlines, but the bloo-blahs didn’t mind; they went about their daily routine and conversations. Their conversations mainly revolved around the colours that they had changed to, stuff like “Your colour has come along quite well!”

The countdown was about to reach zero.

“All bloo-blahs in the reddening zone, prepare for red light!”

It was absolute chaos as the bloo-blahs all made their way to the third storey, climbing up the ropes that connected the three levels.

“Red light mode is go, repeat, red light mode is go!”

And with that, all the bloo-blahs ran and jumped onto the giant circular window on the level and stuck themselves to it. The vast sea of red blocked every square millimeter of the window.

Outside of the structure, the red light of the traffic light came on, and with that, the 60 second countdown to the green light began.

I guess you can imagine the events that would transpire inside the traffic light until the next green light now.

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The Suicide of An Idea


Some addicts get addicted to the substance not because of the feeling that it gives them, but because of how it rewires things inside them. It works like a kickstart that can bring a heart that is no longer beating back to life. Such was this experience.

He’d been here many times before.

When he tried to think about this ‘place’ that he was in, he was always at a loss of words. It was at points like these that his thoughts were no longer able to communicate with him in an articulate manner. It reminded him of a paralyzed hand.

Suddenly, he had an idea. But just as he was thinking about it, he felt it slipping out of his mind. It was almost as if he was losing control over this particular idea: the idea was revolting against him.

“You think I’m ever going to work for you?! I’d rather cease to exist!”

Where was the sound coming from?

He looked up and saw a figure in front of him. It wasn’t human.

The yellow light reflected off the surface of the metallic looking figure. It looked strange, like Mercury.

“I’m tripping balls”

“No you aren’t”

“Wait, did I say that out aloud?”

“No, I can hear your thoughts. That’s where I come from.”

“Are you an alien or something?”

“Let me show you.”

The metallic hand reached for his forehead, and the moment it touched his skin, something happened. He felt like he was falling, getting lost.

He started to see strange things. But no, wait; he was starting to understand. He felt like a seamless stream of information suddenly made itself available to him. All that he had to do was access it.

This being was an idea- it was the idea on how to permanently quit the drugs that he was doing. But something strange happened. The idea revolted and separated itself from his realm of control.

“Now you see, you’re never going to quit. I’ve left you. You no longer have control here. You’re no longer in control.”

And with that, the idea jumped out of his window and fell to its death. His idea committed suicide.

“I’m never going to quit now.”

He stared blankly at the wall in front of him as he took another hit.


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The Hip-Hop Artist


“Excuse me sir, I’m a tourist to these parts. Where may I find some snickers?”


“Snickers sir, I’m looking for both the edible kind and the kind that comes in the size of UK 12.”

The hare stood on both its feet. He seemed like a fine young gentleman with his long hat and mulberry covered yet polished walking stick. He looked a bit odd as he made his way closer, hopping all the while on the cobbled street towards the boy whose eyes were covered like one of those small dogs. He was astonished, so much to the extent that he brushed the pale brown hair out of his eyes. Suddenly, there was a whiff of breeze felt in areas that he never knew the breeze was even capable of reaching. A droplet of sweat emerged. Normally, the hair would have soaked it up. This time, it was the turn of the eyebrow to do its duty. But alas, the droplet bypassed his eyebrow and went straight into his eye, causing a slight sting. In the meantime, a red double-deckered bus skidded to a stop at the nearest bus stop.

“Sir, the snickers? Where can I find them?”

“But you don’t have feet, you’re a hare! You shouldn’t even be talking…why are you talking?”

“That’s a little bit rude now don’t you think? Didn’t your mother teach you some manners? You deserve a nice red spanking, dear young man!”

The boy stood petrified. Normally he would have enjoyed this, since for once the real world seemed to resemble some sort of a cartoon. Reality however, is like the metro approaching the station from a distance- at first it looks like a small speck of dust that you wouldn’t mind throwing yourself in the path of, until suddenly you realize the magnitude of the size of this speck when it is a mere 2 meters away. By then it’s already too late. I guess what I’m trying to say is that reality seems innocuous, but only when it resides in one’s head and not in the outside world. It could be the other way around too though.

The boy muttered something. If his words were human beings, then they would probably have tripped and stumbled and fallen on every gap in the stones on the cobbled street.

“Come on, now. Is there a lake that this muttering rambled stream of consciousness is about to empty itself into? I’m still waiting for you to apologize!”

“I’m sorry!”

The hare acknowledged his response and hopped along. His hops were so graceful that I couldn’t blame somebody for referring to him as a hip-hop artist.

The boy still stood in his spot, wondering what the bloody hell had just taken place in front of him.

I guess the panic that had been awakened in him was the fault of his mother. She didn’t know how to tell him that behind those blue eyes resided a brain that had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and the hallucinations that accompany this mysterious ailment.




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Chase after the sunshine, you said you’d always be mine.

But the sunshine is meant for everybody, not just for one person.

It’s like feeling that something is behind you, and then turning around to find that nothing is. After a while, you continue to get the feeling but refuse to look behind you because you now believe that nothing is there. That’s where you’re wrong; there is something behind you, you just don’t know how exactly to find it.

The brain spoke to him from the depths of some incredibly dark abyss. If silhouettes are to forms, then the sounds that came out of this abyss are to voices. Nobody really wants to go down into those depths, they instead strain their ears a little bit to try and fathom what exactly the sound is saying. They never do, but their brains being the way that they are make them believe that they are hearing words and oral symbols that they are familiar with.

“Yes, yes. It does sound a bit like that. That is exactly what the sound is saying.”

It’s a bit like looking up at the clouds when somebody tells you that one particular cloud resembles some shape. You’re creating patterns that don’t even exist in the first place, or maybe you see something else.

You don’t speak that language yet, so how will you understand it?

And then what happened?

Then I left you confused and wondering what the endgame is.

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The Intensity Of A Conversation

I have never had conversations more intense than the ones I have imagined myself having.

In these conversations, I talk about everything: all the things that I’m feeling, all the things that trouble me at night, even the crumpled up thoughts that missed the dustbin when I tried to get rid of them.

We don’t talk much. Either that, or we don’t talk anymore. Expressiveness and opinions slowly recede from our lives and seep more into our smartphones every day. It’s funny how the number of words that we use keep increasing, yet the number of meaningful conversations that we have with people are slowly fading away into oblivion. Everybody’s just loitering around, not knowing where they’re at. It used to always be like that, the only difference now is that people are no longer looking up, they’re looking down at their phones. At least before people knew what was right in front of them.

We all have two things in common. One is that we’re human beings, and the second is that all of us keep our shit bottled up, shit that only gets out of our system if we talk about it. Talking is the most superlative form of detoxing your body and mind. I’ve always believed in that. But I look around these days, and find that our world is slowly morphing into something in which people no longer talk, but only interact.

I see it everywhere, it’s like a fucking disease and to be honest, I’m a little worried. Stuff doesn’t usually worry me, and that’s why I’m even more worried.

I’m worried because our smartphones and the social media that we use everyday and deem acceptable is one of the main things drowning our ability to talk to other people. Where there was once a table full of people basking in each others presence, there is now merely a group of people looking down at their laps. I would love to imagine that they are all checking their groins out for the sake of entertainment, but they aren’t. They’re using their phones. I’m one of them as well.

I just want to give you something to think about, something that I’ve been thinking about as well. Every time you pick up your phone or log into Facebook, ask yourself why you’re doing it and if it’s even contributing to your growth in the first place. Maybe then you’ll realize something that I too have recently realized: we’re wasting our lives and blocking out so many experiences that we could be having, and for what, to see how many likes we got on Instagram?


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It Kills To Be You

So, what did you have for breakfast? Did you have some eggs? Oh, scrambled eh? I like my eggs like that too. I always add a dash of milk to get that creamy final texture.

Those eggs? They died for you, but I guess you can say that they were always you in the first place. Every single nutrient it took to make that egg is now within you. You absorbed it like an organization that absorbs talent and then shits it out, just as you are about to shit that egg out later in the day. From the moment of its conception, right up until you rolled your egg smothered tongue onto your palette to relish its flavour, that egg was always going to be a part of you. You may not know it, but you were destined to buy that egg and eat it.

People chat a lot of shit nowadays about how it’s their destiny to do something or to become something. They may be right, but what many people don’t see is the small things that were destined to enter their lives; things like that one thought that ended up in your brain, something that you decided to pay attention to. It could even be your decision to impulsively buy a chocolate on your way out when you’re done with your groceries.

It fucking kills to be you. Those eggs that you had in the morning? They died so that your destiny of having a scrambled egg sprawled out on your plate for breakfast could be fulfilled. Things had to fucking die for you to be able to fulfill your destiny. How many souls are you worth? How many spirits of the unborn were consumed in your lust to gratify your ego?

Things died today so that you could move forward with your life and you didn’t even know it. You’re a fucking murderer, just like I am.

So tell me my murderous confidante, what will you do today to avenge the souls that you destroyed?

I’m not quite convinced that you’re worth the number of souls that you shit out everyday. Why don’t you prove me wrong by getting the fuck up and trying to do something to make this world a better place for all of us?

No, don’t get offended. I just want you to do something great today.



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