contemplation on time

Recently, I was told that children don’t think about dying because they’re too young. They like getting into violent quarrels and riding their cycles too fast. Babies are fearless- licking crap off the floor, crawling off of beds, casually wanting to touch fire.  This got me thinking of myself- what about me? I was obsessed with death when I was child. I stood with my feet poking out of my balcony ledge, staring down. I didn’t see the floor, there was a tarpol sheet that was stretched just a little above the ground where we threw all our waste. If I fall, I’ll land on a pile of filth.  My grandfather’s father died when I was five or six. I have no memory of ever seeing him, except for the day I saw his corpse. He was a dark skinned man, covered in all white, lying prostrate on the floor. I was asked if I wanted to see him, and then they lifted the cloth from over his face and showed me. That was the only dead person I knew at age of three.  Yet still, I was te

There are three women, three fictional women to be exact, who have made their place in my heart. Even if their creators never created them, they'd still exist. They’ll find ways to come alive somewhere on my body, like a sprout.  Naoko is the one that dies first because she can’t have sex with her lover: like me. Maria is a whore, but she finds love almost instinctively: like me. Tereza is the one that believes in coincidences and dies tragically with her lover: also like me.  When my body closes up and I feel like nothing can enter, not even the breath that sustains me, is when Naoko is alive. I have cried so much when I’ve been unfriendly towards your body. It's almost like I am a disgusting binary: one that craves you inside me, another one that rejects touch and runs away.  I had my first kiss when I was fifteen, like Maria. I didn’t know how to kiss, but I still touched my lips on another person’s. I must've been brave at fifteen.  I kept my mouth close

There is an old picture of my mother and her brother, where she's leaning on a car and staring straight at the camera. She's wearing a high waisted skirt with a tucked in polka dotted shirt. Her hair was long, longer than mine ever was. I've spent a lot of time as a kid, simply scattering her pictures on the floor, and looking at them.  These days when we go shopping, my mother sits down somewhere, and says, "Call me when you pick something." She's getting old. She agrees with whatever I pick, and sometimes she barely even glances at it.  I remember when she was ecstatic about picking my clothes. She had ideas. On non-uniform days she would ask me before bed, "what're you wearing tomorrow?"  When I feel uncomfortable in my clothes I think about this one specific photo of my mother- and how she leans on that car.   I was thinking about my mother's clothes. She

I am huddled up in my sheets and I haven’t turned the lights on since 4. I’ve set up the whole mood to begin writing something. For the past three days this week, every day I frantically wake up at odd hours; sometimes at 3am, sometimes at 6.30am, sometimes at 2 in the noon with an intense lever pulling at me. “ If I don’t write this exact thought I’m thinking, right now it’ll die” But my laptop doesn’t start, my phone hangs, it’s usually too dark or i’m too lazy to pull a pen out in an old fashioned manner and scrawl. My thoughts run too quick and my hands never catch up, it’s a curse and not once have I been able to complete my whole idea. They never exist on paper, only inside me. But then maybe an hour or so later, I’ll be typing away and anybody can guess: the thought is tainted now, too many spikes of unwanted interjecting rods have poked into it’s skin, and now it’s a whole different organism. Whatever i’ve written, consequentially looks disfigured. This isn’t wha