The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

Submarines.

Float, sink, swim.
Up, down
Back, forth
Dare I say,
in and out.

Over, under.
Immerse, emerge.
Plunge, halt.
Release, holt.
Forward, backwards.
Round, straight.

Bullet.
Proof.

Never missile proof.

Resistance of the seas
Push and pull
Against the currents
Along with the wave-
-lengths
Of fluidity
As evidenced
By the ever-flowing,
Always-forward,
Sometimes-evaporated
Seas

Reflecting the skies.

Blue, sunny

Vast.

Endless stretch into eternity
Infinity on the rise.

And fall.

Compress.

 

Resist.

 

Fight through.

 

And emerge.

 

MG

 

Love is our resistance
They keep us apart and they won’t stop breaking us down
And hold me, our lips must always be sealed
If we live our life in fear
I’ll wait a thousand years
Just to see you smile again
~Muse~

 

In light of lightning
With positive on the rise
Negative always falling
From afar,
The charge.
The polarities , the gate-ways

The realities

The weight-
-ed truths of futures untold

As time unravels at the speed of light
The echo
The vibrations
The accommodation
The adaptation.

Adaptation.

That is essentially
What we , humans
of human nature
Were created to do.

The intent
The lack of pretense
the masks we wear
Conditioned to our forefathers
The foregrounds of aftermath
Instead of unlearning we are
Recreating
A flagon of confusion.

Flagon.
Wagon.
Wagonwheel
Bandwagon.

We all hop on it at some point
Hoping it would take us to where-
-ever it is we thought we would be.
But for what realities
To recreate
To reincarnate as a
Physical entity
Bearing a mind
Body
Soul
All wrapped into that same
Human shell
A skeleton key
That unleashes
Whose form of dream , fantasy
Colliding with presence, present, reality.

Future unravels
Unfurls
At the speed of light
But on a stormless day
The only light
That radiates
Is that star
Around
which the world
Revolves.

Revolve.
Involve
Revive.
Revolt.
To no longer be deprived of human nature,
The unconditioned self
The junior
The minor
Hiding in the dark
secretly retaining a spark
That can only be ignited through
The unshattered unscatteted parts
Of whatever it was you were creating
Deliberating
Debating
Recreating
Understanding
Understating
Under-evaluating
Under-rating

Contemplating
Commemorating
Considering all things
Unconsidered
Inconsiderate

Boundaries.
Why ,
Boundaries , the antithesis of liberty.
That liberation for years and a lifetime we seek
But why, on earth when it’s gifted
To you after years of relentless battle
After years of trading up your cattle
Upgrading
Uptaking
The uprising. Why,
The boundaries the lines
The conclusions you’ve drawn
All for the purposes of sacrificing your pawns
In order to save the queen
That version of your princess self
Yet to see
Your inner “queen”
Whatever it is you think that means,

Life is not a game of chess.

And even if it was
At the end of the game
The king and the queen
Return to the same box.

MG

30.4.17

It

It can be the most beautiful spectrum of life, the most colourful aspect of every silhouette.

It can be the most devastating pain, the most stabbing of truths unraveled at the speed of light.

It can be the most thrilling ride, filled with highs and lows, ups and downs, resets and continuation.

It can be the most exhilarating of encounters, an array of mutually experienced chemical changes.

It can be the steadiest and slowest of growths, a conservative one that serves to conserve, to preserve the beauty that is already in existence.

It can be the most rapid of changes, a liberation of sorts, roaming freely around each other, dancing daffodils in the wind.

It can be the most excruciating of moments, an essence of a droplet magnified into a concoction of patterns, of repetition, of spirals and depth.

It can be the most fleeting of frivolous fun, a joyous joviality jeering in the most “banterous” of manners.

It can be each and every reflection of who you were, are, and have yet to be.

It can be honest.

It can be deceptive.

It can be perceptive.

It can be receptive.

But if it is not reciprocated, it is non-existent.

That, is what sets it apart from love — Love can exist without reciprocation.

“It”, however, cannot.

“It”…

 

 

…is friendship.

MG

(Creative writing: May 2009 – when it all began)

Perhaps there was nothing wrong with her to begin with, and she was just as normal as everyone else. But maybe it was her honesty that landed her where she was now—a rut. All that she once represented, all that she once was, the person she used to be, all left behind with the rest of her past. Her memories are what they are—memories. None of it the reality of now, rather a fragment of the past she carries around with caution.

No one can explain her, no one understands her. No one can love her to the capacity she does. She’s alone, but not. Thrown into this place she couldn’t comprehend, this place she could never absorb, she sits in wonder. She watches as the cars go by, as people fall into the deep abyss of love. She watches as people don’t realize they’re being watched.

Life, the one big controversy waiting to erupt. Or maybe, just maybe, it already has. Maybe this rut she’s in is the result of being swept away by lava carrying to this state of confusion.

She watches everyone around her—no one is normal. No one conforms. No one can fully blend in with the scene. So what was she doing here on her own? Was there even an “answer” to such a question?

Tears started forming in her eyes as she unraveled the memories of her past. She wanted things to go back to the way they were. She would give up all emotions, even happiness, just so that she would never feel pain again. A long time ago, she was never happy; but a long time ago, she was whole and complete. A long time ago, she was never broken.

She had to fight back the liquidized demons they called “emotions” that were beginning to fall from her face. No, she couldn’t be weak. She couldn’t let society win. But society itself had an advantage over her. It was closing in tightly around her, entrapping her, blocking her from herself.

Outside this cage was a mirror.

Inside this mirror stood a girl with a distorted smile. She was pretty, and she was smiling. The eyes in the mirror told a story, a happy story. But as she studied this intriguing person, she realized that her hands were tied. She had no means of breaking free, but she was happy. The person in the mirror sighed. A tear drop trickled down her cheek, fell to the ground, but didn’t break. A single teardrop, so small and fragile, yet so strong it did not shatter as it hit the floor.

This girl looked away. She couldn’t bear the image of a teardrop. Looking down, she found a pool of clear water on her shoulder. She looked away. These teardrops were her memories melting, liquidizing. She couldn’t fight it anymore. She looked back at the mirror once more, at the girl who smiled and hid her tears. The girl whose hands were bound, yet didn’t struggle to break free. The girl, who could be happy.

She blinked, and turned around.

On and on she ran, looking away from anything which fueled her memories, her emotions.

Those memories, no matter how close they were to her heart…were unfinished.

MG

There’s always that stage in life
when and where life, itself, is a stage.

Darling, do we live life on a stage?
Do we parade around the masquerades?
Do we perform as if we are there to show
The world of us, our “selves”, and all that we know?

Or do we live as if life is a stage?
In between heaven and hell, love and hate?
Existence is merely a few seconds in history
A few shreds of leaves written down in a biography.

What is our purpose, my dear,
Why are we here?
Is it of importance, or is time an illusion?
Are we happy, are we sure?
Well here’s some challenge to endure.
Are we miserable, or are we just bored?
Well here’s some advice, we’re all equally flawed.

We’re the same on the inside
Wearing different masks
Different human skeletons
Completing different tasks
The only walls between us
Would be the human ego
So how long can one ride along with this mainstream flow?

You want to blend in
But you were made to shine
You want to stand out
Yet you refuse to give it time
To put in the work
To plant the seeds
To grow the trees you breed

So take it slow, my dear
No fear
Life is but a stage
A stage on which you could choose to stand
Or a stage
You could simply
embrace.

MG

(Creative writing: 2016)

“If you’re sick of everyone falling for you, stop being so bloody perfect then,” she’d screamed at me, a sheer projection of inadequacy.

*      *     *     *    *

I know that feeling, I was young once, and I remember that insecurity. I also remember the effort it took to outgrow those feelings of “never being enough”, and while part of it was conscious effort to always improve every aspect that was within my control, the other part of it was simply to give it time…to give myself time.

I’d wanted to say that. I knew it was the right thing to say. But the right thing to say would’ve resulted in me having to explain myself, and then talk about my life story or how I came to that realization. It would be insulting, if anything, considering I’ve been writing about my journey for years. You don’t read it, then you ask me questions I’ve already answered countless times, in multiple ways.

Instead, you come at me with these projections and I’m shielded by my own experiences…ones I was never shy about, ones I’ve blasted expressively for years.

Calling me perfect, as if that’s not offensive. As if I’d had everything handed to me and never had to work a day in my life. As if…

Sure, you have the right to feel what you want to feel. You have to express whatever you want.

I also have the right to simply say “Ok, glad you got that out your system now. Was I supposed to do something about it?”

No, darling. I’m not.

It’s that same damn thing you do, every single time you want me to tell you how I feel, knowing that you’re not going to do anything about it. Well, I’m not either. And if the best action is inaction to let things fall into place, then so be it. But I’m not playing your games and I’m not running circles chasing typhoons.

And no, I’m not walking away. What from, anyway? A shadow? A fragment of a memory? An unfinished reality that was never made?

No, darling. Running is your thing, and fighting is mine.

It’s what we do. I’ve accepted that, over time. It’s taken long enough.

I still miss you, but I can’t hold onto what never existed, darling. Much as you wanted to exist, you chose not to, and I suppose that’s what hurts the most…is that at the end of the day, much as you wanted to choose me…you couldn’t. You chose…you

That’s okay, though. I’ve learned to live without you; it’s you who has to live with you.

And for your sake, I sincerely hope you find yourself to be as enjoyable as I found you…If anything…I hope you find you.

I hope you let yourself be found.

Again.

I love you, always.

MG

One day, our paths will cross again
One day, our worlds will merge
Day after day
Readying the way
Until the stars emerge

From behind the clouds
That sheltered you in the crowd
You hid from the spotlight —
sunlight and moonlight

But our journey is the same
Our destination is nigh
I took a train
And you, the night flight

We took a different route
Leading to the same airport
A transition point is where we met
Yet “Hello” and “goodbye” was all you sought

I remember you, my love
But the memories weren’t enough
I had to pave a way to ready
Myself for thee

So one day, my dearest,
We shall meet again
In the forest or a desert
City streets or beach
Mountain peaks, ocean deeps
Rooftops atop old bookshops

One day, you and I will meet again
But maybe not today.

 

And when we meet again my dear
She will be nothing like you…

 

I fear.

 

MG

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