My muse


You were always my muse
I used your image, the lines on your face, the timber of your voice, the smell of your skin as fodder to fuel my literary libations.
I took the words you so innocently offered me, the touches you so carelessly threw my way and the confusing in my direction to create worlds, emotions and feelings that hinged on the very breath and word you possess.
I used you.
I took what you had, what you had given me and I used it all to fashion a universe where our casual encounters, gentle and often heated exchanges were more than figments of a vibrant imagination, but they were water and air, and life, they were real.
I made sure to inhale as much as you could unknowingly offer, held it all in and breathed life into the very creations that fixed me… tried to fix me.

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I talk to myself


I have conversations with myself.

Is it insane? probably, should I be admitted? unlikely, but does it work? you bet your crazy behind it does.

It’s not an everyday thing, I don’t find myself wandering the streets, randomly talking to myself for no reason, that would be crazy. It’s often within a controlled environment, with the curtains drawn and the lights turned off, just kidding, but it works best when I’m in an environment without prying eyes.

A stroll through the garden, a canter about my room (canter…makes me sound like a horse), more like a pace about my room, however small it may be, helps open up the channels and allows for a cathartic experience. Sure I make it sound like some kind of drug, a hallucigenic of some sort, but truth is it does wonders for the frayed, cluttered mind.

As an accounting student, I have quite a bit of information I need to retain and use (the income tax act, International Financial Reporting standards, international auditing standards and the sort), so talking to myself helps me engage with the mess that is often associated with case laws, acts and principles I would have otherwise forgotten and left to the deepest, darkest recesses of my subconscious, only to be resuscitated days, nay hours, before an important test or exam.

But studying aside, talking to myself helps flesh out ideas and thoughts I may have and would like to bring to life somehow. Whether through my writing, music or any other appropriate medium, it really works for me.

But the craziest part of this entire talking to myself thing is that I use it as a form of therapy. To many I might be passed over as your average joe, nothing extraordinary enough to need, but nothing basic enough to not notice, so it comes as no surprise when I tell people that I don’t have very many friends.

So to ease the silence, I talk to myself; that way I don’t forget the importance of language, I don’t forget the sound of my own voice and I guess part of me reminds myself that I’m still here. I pretend as though I’m being interviewed for achieving a great feat, I pretend as though I’m a lecturer, a nurturer or anybody really, it’s cathartic. Sometimes I ask myself how I’m feeling. It sounds sad and pathetic, but if nobody’s willing to ask, I figure being my own best friend, I should ask myself.

I know for a fact that I’m not alone. Keeping it closer to home, I’ve caught a glimpse or two of my sister doing the same whilst in the comfort of her own company. There’s no shame in it.

To be clear, I don’t have an imaginary friend, I don’t think I ever had one. Nor am I mad, although we’re all a little crazy, some are just better at hiding it.

I’m just a guy with a lot to say but not very many people to say it to. So I say it to myself.

I can be the keeper of my own secrets, I can hold my dreams and aspirations up high and I can give myself the praise I feel I deserve sometimes.

So I talk to myself, big deal, if you can’t love yourself enough to trust your own voice, then how can you learn to trust another’s?

I’m very bad at internetting


I’m very bad at internetting.

I’m not sure how politically correct that term is, but it sums up my feelings and my “techno-existential” crisis.

I keep using words that are made up, but they’re the most accurate way of explaining myself; they’re perfect because like my efforts to use and engage in all things social media, they probably shouldn’t even happen.

I get it, we live in a highly computerised society where interactions are guided by bytes and megabytes and the art of communication has evolved as rapidly as radioactive fish that do more than just swim. I understand and support the rapid growth technology offers not only within industry, but within our personal lives as well.

At the click of a button you’re able to reconnect with long lost friends, you’re able to share moments with loved ones who are continents away and that’s all such a beautiful thing.

I love it. But I also hate it.

Now I’m no dinosaur; I know my way around a laptop, a smartphone, tablet and whatever else you throw my way that vibrates, beeps of makes whatever sound these new gadgets make, but what I can’t wrap my heard around is how to make the internet, social media to be specific, work for me.

I’m really bad at it.

I once had a facebook profile, I say “once had” because I no longer have one, mainly because I didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

This idea that we’re meant to live our private lives publically was and still is too big of a concept for my little brain to wrap itself around.

There was also the idea that for most of my time on these social media sites, it felt as though I was shouting in the dark more than I was actually socialising. It’s weird; you have these large communities of people, all interconnected and all in the same space…the internet, and yet I’d still find a way to not have a decent, honest and real conversation with another human person.

It was post after post of just musing out loud without a soul to interact with, I was social-media-ing without the social part of it all, I felt duped. Wasn’t it part of the “social-media contract” that there’d be…I don’t know…virtual interaction with other humans?

It took me a minute to understand that everyone is so busy saying things, posting things, screaming into the darkness, that they didn’t have time or the ability to interact in a meaningful way. Now I say this based on my own pathetic experiences with social media, keeping in mind that there are pockets of actual successful social media engagements and communities of online folks who share and respond to one another’s posts and are fortunate enough to get something out of this internet thing.

But for me, personally, it’s been pretty dismal. It could be that my love-hate relationship with social media is impeding on my ability to thrive on either twitter, Instagram or whatever else is out there. By nature, I’m a bit of a recluse, I enjoy my quiet times and I’m at my best within my thoughts, so I get how the social aspect of these sites could pose a problem for an already socially inept person such as myself.

However, the more I observe, the more antisocial social-media appears to be. I understand the irony of my bringing this issue to the fore when in fact blogging is a subculture within the social media “society”, but I’m not super successful in theses here streets either.

This is probably a problem I may never resolve, or something might click and turn into this social media beast who’s as charming online as I am in my secret dreams.

Until then, I guess I can appreciate the internet for what It can be; a space for creators, a hub of knowledge, a vast wealth of resource and a glimpse into what it is we can be, where we could go and how much more antisocial we could be…

We have our demons…

“I can’t let them go as easily as you want me to. I don’t know how strong, or smart or talented I am without them”

“That’s not true”

“yes it is. I am who I am because of my demons. They’ve woven themselves so intricately, so beautifully into my very identity that I don’t know where I end and they begin”

“You can’t possibly see yourself that way”

“It’s not me seeing myself this way, it’s me being honest to myself and the world for the first time. I sing with these demons, I write with these demons, I create with these demons…don’t you get it, these demons are the reason why I am alive”

“You’re justified in feeling that way, but that doesn’t make it right or healthy… “

“You say that because you managed rid yourself of whatever had latched onto you, I’m not strong enough nor am I willing to do the same. They’re like scars now, they’ve settled into my skin and they won’t go without taking a piece of me with them”

“You speak as though they’re alive”

“And they aren’t? You don’t think they’re living, breathing, feeding entities that are so real and so alive that they crave the sun, they fight back when the world, my world, is at peace and they’re drawn to all things broken?”

“I think you’ve convinced yourself that you’re not worth being saved”

“I’ve convinced myself that I’m worth leaving as is. I’ve convinced myself that if you take me to the king now, if you tie me on my bed right now, if you drag me to the pulpit, you’ll be leading me to the hanging tree and burning me at the steak”

“You are not your demons”

“But I am the fruit of their labour, and when the tree burns, so does the fruit”

Night the leveler…

The dark’s been at the receiving end of some bad press for too long. Sure what lurks beneath the shadows is scary, dangerous and damn near fatal, but I happen to like the dark.

When the lights are out and the moon is out, people change. It’s like we can hide in plain sight, we can move as a tribe of unknowns, all searching for nothing and be content. I like the dark. It’s like magic; you get to be invisible, you get to be ageless, worry-less and perfect. I bet you vampires don’t go out in the day not for fear of death, but because time stands still when you’re in the shadows.

There’s something about the night that frees you. Something about the anonymity that uninhibits (if that’s even a word) you and cradles you and your cares.

Everyone is beautiful, everyone is perfect; it’s like God’s Photoshop. The world sparkles, the air is electric and you’re powerful.

But time’s a heartless beast, so night falls. The fall is spectacular; a shining, glorious battle that takes with it all the sparkle, the timelessness and beauty that once embalmed the freed souls that inhabited the earth in those hours.

Daylight sweeps through the streets and I’m vulnerable again, life’s real again and my imperfections are illuminated. I can’t hide anywhere; I can’t run without being caught; I’m faced with what’s really scary again; the real world.

Daylight’s the real monster.

Where the shadows have evaporated and you’re faced with the horrors that once inhabited them, when you see and hear of the beasts that you roamed the earth with, aimlessly. Daylight’s the real abomination, the destroyer of dreams, the incinerator of illusions and the great divider.

Where the night made us all equal, the day brought with it an inheritance of classism, fascism and make clear the pungent stench of war that’d we’d escaped for just a moment.

So we lay in wait, with bated breath and glazed eyes.

We anticipate the scent of twilight, and with it the promise of glamour and we wait for the night.

We wait for the great leveler.