There's something about London

There’s something about London… it’s filled with too many bricks, too much concrete and glass, too much steel and too many ambitions. A city pregnant with progress, constantly giving birth to new structures that compete for the space reserved for the sky.

There’s something about London, it’s the place businesses come to die. They move in and thrive for a few months before succumbing to the harsh climates and disappearing over night, leaving behind the remains of what it use to be, its outer shell now displaying the birth banner of the new business that shall take over its vacant body and try its hand at surviving.

There’s something about London and the way it never sleeps. Cars never tire from running, lights are not allowed to dimly rest, sounds can never be quiet and when one job finishes another starts. Yet the city is incomplete: Roads are laid and re-laid, as if the definition of ‘flat’ changes every month. Lines shut down every weekend but never heal from whatever sickness seems to be plaguing them. And every year the city expands outwards, like a greedy child wanting more space to play in, stepping on flowers, digging holes in which to bury stuff, and then becoming bored with the mess it has made and leaving it behind to find newer ground to leave its destructive mark on.

There’s something about this city and how it defines the people that live in it: ‘Londoners.’ We’ve stopped looking up. We’ve forgotten that the real stars live in the sky and shine for us every night regardless of whether we stroke their egos with our attention or not. We’ve forgotten where dreams come from and instead wonder at the stars the media shines in our faces twenty-four hours a day, and look to them for answers to our destiny.

There’s something about Londoners, clichés wrapped up in a contradiction. They're always waiting for someone who never seems to arrive, or always in a hurry to meet someone they forgot was waiting. Full of empty gestures to have reunions they never set dates for, promises to call numbers their fingers no longer know how to dial. Kings and Queens of ‘we should get together’, ‘let me know when you’re free’, ‘I’ll call you sometime.’ Too busy with the concept of being busy to realise they don’t fit its definition; in a hurry to go nowhere.

Riding like zombies on tubes, shutting down like robots, we refuse to engage our peripheral vision. No longer living in houses but surviving in rooms. Running in a race in which the finish line is a myth, too busy looking ahead to enjoy the present, too busy thinking about the future to remember how good it felt to laugh in the past.

There’s something about all cities, scattered like fallen planets trying to reclaim the sky. But I know London I’ve lived in its recesses for what feels like a lifetime. I know its smell, I’ve seen it grow, I know how it breathes and I’ve seen how people are absorbed into its consciousness and take on its reality. There’s something about London and the people that live in it… there’s something missing.

-E-

One day Destiny followed me home

When I was 14 years old Destiny followed me home from the opticians one day, took advance of my nativity, kissed my imagination with her creative tongue and helped me see that I was meant to be a writer.

Lost in puberty the kiss aroused an urge in me that sprang forth from my very being, and in a desperate need to satisfy this new foreign impulse I picked up a pen for what felt like the very first time, opened the hidden door in my imagination, poured out my soul on the page and found my passion in words.

I was too young to understand what had happened. Destiny had taken my virgin mind and touched it in a way Convention never could, and then she left… left me alone on my bed filled with the messy stained pages of my scribbled emotions.
Seemingly over just as it had started, she left taking her delicate kiss with her, but her scent lingered like a butterfly in the air, and inspiring visions of her drifted through my every moment.

Destiny haunted me everywhere I went constantly painting the world around me in new shades of poetry, forcing me to spill ink in spontaneous unplanned busts of metaphor inspired prose, and bringing out of me untamed written expressions of my soul.

It wasn’t till four years later that I understood what had happened that day. That I realised the gift Destiny had given me, the passion and love she had blessed upon me and the door in my soul she had opened with her kiss.

When I was 14 years old Destiny followed me home from the opticians one day, took advance of my nativity, kissed my imagination with her creative tongue and helped me see that I was meant to be a writer.

~E~

Flashes of poetry

Your tears are my weakness, they fall from your soul and drown me in their sorrow, cracking the hardened shell I tried to keep around my heart making me want to hold you in my arms until the tomorrow, after tomorrow, after tomorrow.

Flashes of poetry

I’m hypnotised by beauty, my mind needs time to stop and digest the random significance your presence has upon my soul.

Flashes of poetry

I’m a storm in a world where everyone else seems content to be the breeze.

Running from the Future

I’ve tried in vain to run from the future, it smells of burning ignorance and greed, tinged with the ever growing human propensity to be controlled by superficial desires and place wants over needs. I think I fear the ravenous flames burning away all remnants of a much simpler past and leaving behind in its wake a complicated mess of so-called human progression.

I’ve tired in vain to run because yesterday seemed easier, clearer, a more carefree life of days decided by the weather, interactions with others based more on intimacy and emotion, and nights filled with moments that would spring out of nothingness simply because of a phone call. But tomorrow seems like a puzzle, an over complicated, excuse filled time where you loose touch with those who don’t conform to the latest cyber trends and where everyone is always planning to meet yet never actually occupying the same space. A tomorrow where technology has become a wonderful distraction of a pointless pursue to always have the next best thing, and where people don’t seem to even realise that they are slowly forgetting what it use to be like to actually become involved in another person’s existence.

I’ve tried in vain but every time I look up I am reminded of our obsession to build towards the sky, as if we are trying to discover a hidden doorway to the heavens, instead of remembering that life springs from and always returns to the earth.

But as I run I see individuals ahead of me, those that began running before my existence even began and the irony of my flight hits me. Because for those ahead of me the past which I am trying to hold onto is the future burning away the remnants of a time much easier and simpler to them. And just as my past is the future burning away their past, their past is the future burning away the past of those running ahead of them, and those ahead of them, and those ahead of them.

The present we are born into is always simpler because it is the rites of passage through which we are inducted into the world, the shore upon which we find ourselves looking out towards an unknown horizon, and the comfortable state of being that gives us certainty.
The future from which I run is to someone else the present through which they are now being inducted into the world and even when that present becomes their past, it will forever be the water mark through with which they judge the state of things to come.

I’ve tried to run from the future, but now I have stopped running and turned away from those ahead, facing what’s to come with an embracing air of anticipation. The present in which I was inducted into the world now the past whose essences has become apart of the way through which I interpret and learn to accept the world to come.

I have tried in vain to run from the future but the future is as certain as the greying of your hair, the wrinkling of your skin and the setting of the sun, and to run from it is to run in circles around a past that you can only take with you, but never truly stay in.

~E~

Flashes of poetry

I'm lost in a perpetual moment of clarity, the world constantly blurring into perspective before my eyes.

Flashes of poetry

Words pour out of me like water from a fresh crack in the earth.
My streams become rivers and flow into poetry.

Have you ever had a dream that you didn’t want to wake up from?

My life is defined by that moment. Ever since I was young I was Dreaming, drifting through the ether, fantasizing about all the impossible, possibilities of life. But as is the nature of Dreams mine was constantly changing, never in a fixed state of certainty. Until one day all the Dreams came together and birthed one single fantasy, one single vision of life, one desired impossibility. And from this Dream I refused to wake.
But the world is a wonderfully crafted distraction, created to keep us alert and fearful of Dreaming.
‘Wake up and smell the coffee!’ ‘Get a job!’ ‘Get a mortgage’ ‘You’re not married yet?’ ‘Isn’t it time you thought about having kids’ ‘Are you still chasing that silly Dream?’
Dreams are random, spontaneous and free. Reality is order, structure and control. Only a few chase the Dream and allow it to take them to new unimagined places, but the majority are afraid. Afraid of the Dream's deviant and rebellious nature, afraid everyone will see and label them with unwanted titles. So instead they embrace all the wonderful distractions in an attempt to drown out the Dream's voice and beat it back into subconsciousness.
Me, I could never do this. I live everyday fighting off the distractions, attempting to slumber... and I Dream! I Dream to loss myself, to fall submerged in the fantasy of my desires, until one day I fall so deep that my Dream becomes my reality and I walk through your world like a conscious sleep walker. My former subconscious now my conscious, no longer beaten back or distracted, I walk contently through the fantasy that has now become my existence.

Only a fool Dreams with the desire to sleep forever. A wise man brings his Dream into reality and therefore makes reality his Dream.

~E~

No titled needed

Choose the right Words and they can last forever.