Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Out of sync

I don’t recognise these heartbeats, these lub-dubs, not automated but influenced and beggared; they’re too fast and fishy, and I don’t have the kind of mind that keeps up with the fluctuations that the heart keeps bringing home.

I don’t recognise these heartaches, like raindrops expanding into oceans too big to land onto my palms; they’re too deep to be small and I don’t have the kind of mind that drops and drowns into the chemicals the heart keeps recommending.

Because the sound of syncing that turns out to mean sinking is not unbeknownst to me, I have the kind of mind that runs away from the heart.

Sunday, February 23, 2014


The network stutters so that in the confusion that builds up between us, you and I can build in those versions of ourselves who know why the network is here in the first place, that is, to imitate connections, which it does; only we developed a phobia of connections on the way, sometime between when we promised to permeate through the wires and show up by each other’s side and when we found separate back alleys to stop by and deal with oneself before meeting at the coffee table used-to waiting, sometime between when we didn't dial and when we dialled too often; sometime between when we found stories to tell and when we found stories that hurt and we stuttered.

And the network keeps imitating the lulls we keep allowing.