Raging Love – Just another day





He threw the kitchen knife at her, “Fuck you, what the fuck did I do to you?”

Her eyes red with rage, she swiftly ducked and with a samurai like movement made two steps, grabbed his Biro off the bench and stabbed him in his hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Ironic isn’t it you piece of shit, you throw a knife at me in my kitchen and miss but I stab you with your fucking muse, admit it, you never loved me, you….”

“What on earth are you on about now you psychopath? Whilst you snore I sit counting your breaths for so long that I forget to breathe myself.”

“I snore? You wish I do, you’re probably thinking of your mother, you arse hole.”

“Nope, it’s you sweet piggy,” he ducks a book, “I know it’s you because I don’t give a shit about the fruits in your hair as you smother your eau de parfum of cigarettes in your roots with Estee but I feel the weight of your head get heavier on my outstretched arm and I know the time it takes for you to go from falling asleep, to deep sleep, completely gone because my arm goes from pulsating back against your head to completely dead, lifeless, circulation cut and no pulse. So shove your denial up your arse.”

“You’re so full of it Mr word smith, you could convince the night it’s white and silence it’s loud, you’re the one who falls asleep first. Breath? Huh, I notice how you slow down from your adrenaline filled vein pulsating sprint breathing to a slow rhapsody of puffs. Only then do I know I can curl your body, fashion it as I please to make pillows to arch my body against.”

“Yeah whatever, you love to lie. How could I be pillows if I’m awake before you and you have three alarms on your phone and two on the radio alarm clock blaring at you and your face is still buried in a pillow. You may as well be dead.”

“I’ll kill you if it means I’ll kill myself too you prick! For thirteen years I’ve been struggling to get up to those alarms but, I wake when I hear your voice instantly don’t I you unappreciative low life.”

“Unappreciative? Nah, I see the clothes you lay out for me from the night before, perfectly folded, fabric softener scented and pressed collars, I’m not blind you know”.

“You are blind; as you don’t see that I see the perfect disarrangement of clothes, scattered hallway to shower, forcing me to pick up remnants of your soul, my soul after you’ve left the house. Forcing me to trace your scent down the stairs and to the kitchen, then back out the foyer and to the door where I lose you to the particles of air. I close that door every morning hoping I don’t see you again but I get to the kitchen bench and there you are. You leave behind a heart poured through a silky white Rosetta latte, gold elixir wafting through the air that you made with your own hands and the cups brim still smells like your fragrance. I drink your heart and when I get to the last drop, you serve me divorce papers for eight hours. Eight hours you make me suffer with nothing more than lactose intolerance as a reminder of your painful love you leave lingering in the pit of my stomach.”

“You see that? Really? I see the hardship written in the paragraphs on your forehead as I come back home, I know there’s stories penned there and prose etched in the salt stains on your cheeks waiting for me to read it and you know how much I love to read, but I can’t open your book just yet, not when the garbage bags of my daily dealings needs to be tied up and moved away, away enough for the stench not to offend you or anyone at home. Just give me five minutes to collect my…”

“…Thoughts? Guess what your son did today? Guess what your other son did to his younger brother? Guess what your daughter drew today? Guess what the little one broke today? Guess whose mother died.What do you think about that?”

“Wow, I can’t believe they’re growing so quick, I never knew he had it in him, I always knew she’s an artist, and fuck it, it’s just a vase. I don’t know her mother do I? You know I’ve never been emotional about death, what can I say? But I did miss you.”

“How can you miss me when you don’t notice me?”

“Hah! You’re deluded. I notice, trust me I notice. Like when I smell Narciso Rodriguez top noted with mascara float into the room, I know the kids are asleep, you’ve showered your woes away and got your lingerie on. I know it’s an invitation to shut down for the night and to head to bed. I know that you lay in bed and pretend to go to sleep because you add one more breath than you took the night before, before you fall asleep to see if I am paying attention. I notice you bitch!”

“Fuck you, I love you”.


Egoïste – 4


Without the idolatry of


I wouldn’t have found

the grandeur of



Egoïste – 3


What if I wanted to be a ghost?

Long ago I raised my heart on the steps of your temple,

I asked of you to make me invisible,

Now I balance the sword you gave me carefully.

No longer can anyone see me,

I may as well be dead.

But now I see my Self ever so clearly,

And that is worse than others seeing me.


A cure for anxiety – Extract from Remembering God by Charles Le Gai Eaton



I have revisited this quote countless times this week and I feel I will visit it countless more. A reminder of the nature of affairs.

Fatalism, as an attitude to life in general, is retrospective. Only when something has happened can we say that it had to happen. The notion that it makes people inactive is disproved by experience. The courage of the Prophet’s Companions, going into battle against overwhelming odds, must certainly have owed something to the conviction that the outcome of the battle was in God’s hands, not theirs, and that they would die not a moment before or after “a time appointed”. If their time had not yet come, the enemy’s weaponry would prove to be no more dangerous than a child’s toys; if they were fated to meet their end that day, nothing they did could prevent this. In our time, countless men and women suffer extreme stress in their work and this is often due to the belief that “everything depends on me”. For the Muslim, everything depends on God; nothing “depends on me”. Paradoxical as it may seem, the conviction that all is pre-ordained is liberating, whereas belief in total freedom of choice creates, for those who hold it, a prison of anxiety and uncertainty. It is for us to act. The outcome of our actions is God’s business, not ours. It is for us to do what is right under all circumstances. Subsequent failures does not mean that right action was, after all, wrong.

From Charles Le Gai Eaton’s book Remembering God

A supplication taught to Muslims by the Prophet Muhammad. On reflection, it is easy to adapt this into your life no matter what your religious inclination.

Noise Fein

Image credit: Flickr/Photo Monkey


When the noise becomes too much

Come with me and I’ll show you how to walk amongst the tombstones of silence.

I’ll guide you through the mist of unfamiliarity

As you struggle to recognise your inner most thoughts

Not by chance is your soul a corpse

By your own hand you bludgeoned it

As you feined for noise.



weve got it wrong

We’ve got it all wrong.

We try so hard to ‘keep our head above water’ when the pearls of life are buried deep into the abyss of the ocean.

We’re ‘just trying to survive’ by killing ourselves to pay bills.

We’re ‘getting by’ without moving at all.

We’re ‘getting through school’ but our schooling is not thorough, then again if we were to hold ourselves to account, the meaning of the word is being fulfilled, people are most definitely ‘schooled’.

We’re ‘battling along’ but we wouldn’t have the physical integrity to run to the local convenience store let alone battle anything.

We’re ‘trying to find ourselves’, but this is the biggest hoax spread today, as if we’ve all become lost and we need a ten year journey to reconcile with who we are.

If the internet were invented first, people would not bother with facebook, twitter, forums and the such. Picking up the phone and conversing would be the in thing to do, better yet, meeting up in person, watching the creases of ones face move as they speak, feeling their emotion or lack thereof, watching their body language, hearing their laughter, tone and meter in their speech would be so fun, but alas we’re happy to ignore the real things. These are far too many things to co-ordinate for the modern day cerebrally severed being.

In my world celebrities aren’t real. The people who quietly go about their business interest me. Their dreams, hopes, thoughts and intricacies make me wonder. They intrigue me, they fascinate me. You want to grab my attention? Seek none and I’ll notice you.

Reminds me of a quote from the secret life of Walter Mitty where Sean Penn said – “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention”.


The extrovert delusion


I love this quote by Mary Walsh. It was in review of Susan Cain’s book titled: Quiet, the power of introverts in a world that can’t stop talking.

To say I am excited to read this book is an understatement. Without spoiling it too much, the praises are never ending and it’s description is something that appeals to me.
I’m utterly dissatisfied with the status quo of my and my fellow younger generations. Their utter disregard for the quiet achiever’s resolve, focus and ability is an imbecilic crime against ourselves and one another.

The worship of the extrovert has done nothing more than create a culture so superficially void and defunct that we will be feeling the pain of our momentary lapse in the time-space of eternity for a very long time.

We will be remembered for our ignorance and our ability to purposefully dumb each other down. Self inflicted stupidity, lack of intelligence seen as cool and the praise of self-admittance to lack of literary and educational prowess are so prevalent that if you differ, you’re an outcast waiting for the barrage of psychiatrists to invent a disease for your condition.

I am somewhat saddened but feel this overwhelming urge to forge an army of intelligent people, introverts of the highest order, the ones who care not for the glamour and fame but the ones who would sit for hours on end watching an organism grow so that they can record and understand it more in the wider scope of other organism, in hope to find a cure to help if but one person, just because he or she WANTS to. The ones who will strum their guitar until their fingers bleed so they can play a riff of perfection to make your hairs stand on end, one riff, that is all. The ones who will not stop reading until they have encompassed enough inside themselves to be able to pass if only one tenth of what they know on to another generation. The ones who will not separate a relentless drive and ambition for business success from morals and ethics and fight their ego despite the pressure of outside forces in their dealings. The ones who will throw away canvas upon canvas, waste oil and wear brushes, be buried in their rooms for days or weeks to produce a visual treat.

Introverts are belittled by default, but try as you may, when the shit hit’s the fan, the extroverts don’t know what to do, it’s to the ones who spent enough time resolving themselves that we all turn to, to their knowledge, wisdom, abilities or at least their candour and calm in the wake of the storms around us.

Next time you feel like making fun of or joining in on a back-biting and gossip session about the new kid at school or the employee who drinks water instead of beer at your social gatherings or the person in the street who just doesn’t quite fit in, know that they might have a few years or leagues above you, gained only by their introversion.

Do yourself a favour and add this book to your collection.