For Your Birthday

If I collected all the texts I wrote to you but didn’t send,

A novel would come to life.

Sometimes the urge to write when you cross my mind is stronger than the urge to talk to you…

Do you even exist outside of my words and beyond my lines? I might never discover, and these words shall never be said. But here, I am sending you a post card, I hope it arrives in time.

via Daily Prompt: Conveyor


In Her Memory

There’s no greater satisfaction than reading hearing one putting your ideas and thoughts and sentiments which you’ve had in your brain and soul unorganised in a beautiful prose.

I should think about death, think about death so that I decide how to feel about it when she arrives to anyone I love. I had forgotten death existed as I had forgotten about life. Vacuum, Time. Time and space of a third world dimension had swallowed us. All we are is a downward journey through the throat.

I cannot write beautiful words. I cannot express myself in English. I am weak. I cannot express myself at all. She left us too soon. With her words. Her prose her Grief. I weeped, silently, as I read her Grief.

Featured image by Krikor Avessian.



This is a confession.

This is my confession.

I did not leave my bed today.

This is a confession.

This is my confession.

I did not leave my room today and I walked down the stairs to                                                        the basement to pick up some tools to prepare my bed. The stairs were broken so I           decided        to fix them on my way.

I picked some nails and a hammer. I wore the glove hanging there. Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak… I made a noise through my mouth imitating the hammer’s. I continued going up and down and up and downer..

My house doesn’t have a basement and I live in an apartment…

This is a confession. I always talk myself out of going to the basement, because climbing the stairs is a challenge for my immobile feet. I always go and I am back for now. They say ‘one step at a time’. What should I call this?