You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


what i talk about when i talk about murakami

READING Murakami has always felt like walking downhill, along a strange street, alongside a stream in search of the shortest possible route toward the sea, but gently, quietly, and you follow it with the curiosity of a moth to a flame. And when you finally find your feet being licked by the water, you realize: that street was not so unfamiliar a place all along. You've been there time and again, back and forth. You've always been there, standing on the shore, eyes full of wonder to the distant horizon of a dream.


after the quake

I HAVE NEVER liked the way you make yourself known, like a troubled ghost, sometimes a wave of nausea, a vertigo attack. The way you operate on faults nor how you always catch me unaware when you're there or not there. I have never ever liked the way you shake my world.



THIS FEELING doesn't get old, does it? The feeling you get as your train pulls away from a station, from a comfortable familiar place. Only, you're not the one leaving, but a leftover washed ashore from a sudden shift of the tide, impermanence at default. Gears turn. The machine whirs. The laundry spins, as does the world, along with everything else sucked in time: all parts working to force change, always. So remind me again. Change is good and ever bittersweet. It never grows old.



BETWEEN hello and goodbye was our love. Somewhere there, some place, a glance, a look: we had loved. At what point exactly, I will never be sure; has anyone ever? Like in twilight, in what exact stretch of sky where night ends and a new day begins. But it was there. Somewhere beside a fading star, behind a sliver of silver cloud was a love felt, never realized. There. Bookmarked, written in ink now dried, forever ending.


nomad no more

HAPPINESS. I often wonder if it can be absolute, like love. As if there's no such thing as too much or less of it. It is what it is. Perfect. Full.

But unlike love, happiness is only a feeling, emotion, a room you walk into and leave, sometimes with the door left open. It neither exists on its own nor can it be distilled into its purest form.

So, no.

Happiness is not absolute. Then why does it feel like it is? Right now, right here, as we pull and push for truths in a rhythm set in beats we couldn't understand albeit willing our bodies to act in such yearning haste? If happiness is a place, this is where I am going to live, and stay. Tonight I build a home in that hollow on your neck, achoring myself with an arm under your back, another under a leg, lock it all in a kiss. There is a warmth between us feeding the flame of what's already burning within me, devouring towns, walls, bridges, until there is only us glistening in the dark. But I look into your eyes and suddenly find myself at sea, like a rock tossed mindlessly, disturbing the still surface creating waves, penetrating the shadowy depths. I am a welcomed disturbance and drowning with such ease. And when I can finally breathe, something within me breaks, a string or a glass jar, a beating vital than any organ and you're oblivious to it. My heart is an underground river silently carving its way into anything that does not resemble the happiness I am talking about. Happiness so full, so perfect  it rivals the way my body fits yours, how I cover the whole of your length. No current seeping, no light permeating into the space you have filled in my arms forever locked, and never letting go.