Merely Fiction.

Run away to a field
and swim off with me
let's evade this life
with this foul final deed.

We'll inhale all the death
to keep the colors alive
if only we can flee
in this doting reverie.

How I wish to return
the seductive powder, liquid dirt
but foremost your tasty skin
truly bitter to begin with.

We lust after the danger,
the volatile mess our mission
and the love it was real
as a figment of merely fiction.



It's riveting how fragile we are. The idea of invincibility is so embedded within our minds; to think that, we are strong, we are secure, we are idealized.

There's a whole community of bloggers who post religiously everyday, what they wear, what they eat, who they're with. We occupy our time believing, learning, trying to believe we know and we hide behind our micro communities and music, books, intelligence, and what not. Yet, our world can be shattered so easily. Ten extra pounds and I turn into an insane, insecure, psychotic bitch. Small red dots on the face and you feel like a nobody. Tight relationships can easily be broken and dependence or the notion of independence that we pretend to have can leave us feeling at such unease.

I played god for a second. I watched myself in a cycle of catastrophes one after the other. I watched myself become a mess and as I watched myself, I pitied the entirety of it, I pitied humanity. I live in a city where people make everything into an art. The preparation of food, the tight knit community of eco-bikers and vegans, the musicians drowning themselves in drugs, blue-collars, white-collars, fashion-martyrs. And I thought, we're so fucking pathetic how we make ourselves an identity through inanely ridiculous patterns of life and lifestyles. It's so funny watching crazy fundamentalist Christians talk about killing gays and watch guidos talk about whatever the fuck. And yes we're all just as bad.

We lock ourselves in patterns of exercise and school, food and sleep, work and family, yet a small mishap along the way of our routine and it's emotional disaster. And death. Some Iranian girl got shot in the face. And I'm detached. I never knew her. We take numbers and statistics and look at them like hieroglyphics and interesting conversation topics. We make imitations of life and films and let them fuse into our cultural perspective veins. We place literature and language, science and philosophy onto the pedestal of our lives. But behind all this shit, we're all just delicate insecure bitches. How fragile are we? What's more sad, people who are fighting to survive with a complete idea of who they are, or people who have no idea who the fuck they are but have the luxury and comfort ability of life?

In the meantime. I'll continue living my little fragile life. With my organic shit and politics, yoga and useless jobs, my stupid guitar and stupid aspirations. Because that's western for you right there.