I learned this the hard way: one’s self-conscience could both be one’s savior and yet the source of all of one’s miseries. More often than not, my attraction to some people is not normal enough to let them go, and yet not great enough to stop other people from approaching them. A person might, earlier or later on, realize that one efficient way to avoid getting hurt is by not letting oneself get too attached to other people, and yet, like a fly attracted to fire, one can’t help but let oneself be drowned in the ecstasy of human lust and affection, sometimes at the price of one’s ever so treasured solitude, only to end up untying the thin threads which kept one’s heart from crumbling apart. Why is it that one would let one’s heart be broken not just once, but countless times? Perhaps there was never such a thing in the first place; perhaps it’s only poetry; one of which people have continued to weave across generations. Take a close look at it: such a delicate, charming invention! One must thank god for making such an irrational being out of Adam and Eve.


Please also to send

ninety sorrowing words

from which to choose

as I do not

I do not know

where the horizon is

located night or day to furnish

with cantilevered

messages from creatures

yet unnamed in the animate gusts of

of waiting for speech

that is a wonder thing.

To whom does the poem speak?

To whom is it speaking?


Invocation, Ann Lauterbach

In this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements.

Moby Dick, Charles Dickens

dream #231

There was a ghost of a woman in the current flat where I’d lived in for more than six months. Although I stayed there for quite some time, only then I realized she’d been there all along: one particular day a friend came over and told me that the room feels strange, and took a picture revealing the ghost herself. Despite being not particularly terrified — after all I lived with her existence looming in the corner of the room for a whole semester — I decided to rent a room in a motel, this time, for some reason, with my whole family. In the motel was this giant piano, placed awkwardly in the hallway in between the motel rooms. Just as I was going to inspect it, my hands ready to push into the keys, my grandparents appeared out of nowhere and remarked no one should be playing the piano in the middle of the night. Instead, they told me that the next day we were to go for a hike in a nearby mountain; grandpa asked me to do this, for reasons, if any, I couldn’t remember. However It happened that the next day was also my graduation day. Back at the old haunted flat, the place had been deserted, since the people around there figured that eventually anyone who spends time with the ghost would die of an unnatural cause. Next person to live in that room was an english footballer, whose name was Miller or Milward, I cannot remember. Whoever spent time with the ghost will turn zombie-like and would start cutting people down. One day M. realized this, escaped the flat, and fled to a little town somewhere on the hills in South America. There he found that people had actually turned into flesh-cutting zombies. Another stranger came for help and exploded a bomb, which contained orange flowers that expanded in the sky like some evening firework. These cured the zombies and everything and everyone turned back to the normal state they were once in before. With tears I awoke, half-gazingly staring at an orange-lit wall on the other side of the bed. The sun continued to radiate its soft evening light far in the distant horizon. 

dream #231

There was a ghost of a woman in the current flat where I’d lived in for more than six months. Although I stayed there for quite some time, only then I realized she’d been there all along: one particular day a friend came over and told me that the room feels strange, and took a picture revealing the ghost herself. Despite being not particularly terrified — after all I lived with her existence looming in the corner of the room for a whole semester — I decided to rent a room in a motel, this time, for some reason, with my whole family. In the motel was this giant piano, placed awkwardly in the hallway in between the motel rooms. Just as I was going to inspect it, my hands ready to push into the keys, my grandparents appeared out of nowhere and remarked no one should be playing the piano in the middle of the night. Instead, they told me that the next day we were to go for a hike in a nearby mountain; grandpa asked me to do this, for reasons, if any, I couldn’t remember. However It happened that the next day was also my graduation day. Back at the old haunted flat, the place had been deserted, since the people around there figured that eventually anyone who spends time with the ghost would die of an unnatural cause. Next person to live in that room was an english footballer, whose name was Miller or Milward, I cannot remember. Whoever spent time with the ghost will turn zombie-like and would start cutting people down. One day M. realized this, escaped the flat, and fled to a little town somewhere on the hills in South America. There he found that people had actually turned into flesh-cutting zombies. Another stranger came for help and exploded a bomb, which contained orange flowers that expanded in the sky like some evening firework. These cured the zombies and everything and everyone turned back to the normal state they were once in before. With tears I awoke, half-gazingly staring at an orange-lit wall on the other side of the bed. The sun continued to radiate its soft evening light far in the distant horizon. 

It came across as surprising to me that no matter where I go, people do not feel that differently than I do. A person may work hard to conceal it, but when the curtains have been unveiled, the thin layers of superficiality uncovered, and the false pretenses unmasked, a sort of a collective unconscious appears, tangible, perhaps, even to the eyes of the untrained: ever so subtly and translucently.