See the world with your heart. Forget how it looks. Remember how it felt.

All I want is a black cat to blame. They spoke of superstitions in those far-off places. Their doors were open but their minds were closed. Old women would curse me on the street as I took their pictures. If I were to believe them, my camera would be a repository of stolen souls. Wouldn’t that be something? Perhaps there are a few treasures in the old box, hidden where I haven’t looked.

We will die and we will not know it. And our gods are eternal, but only until the stone weathers and their features fade. It is tragic that humanity has been reduced to a condition. Our love is anodyne and our lovers are stoic; carved from an Italian marble and burned at the stake to no avail. Our price-tags are fireproof, our artists are castrated. We are yet to be challenged from beyond the grave, where our poets have gone to be free.

Poetry is a deliverance granted unto insignificances. It is why I love poetry. I am a connoisseur of the insignificant. I collect sun rays that have lost their way past a dense foliage, I collect them from the walls that they cling to, when they are afraid they might fall off. I collect spent cigarette butts crushed under the weight of their smokers, flat against the cold city floors. I collect them for they are adorned with lipstick kisses, and the weight of their sadness sinks my heart. 

I both love and hate where the world is headed. Machine-pressed, cutting-edge, gluten-free, farm-fed. I hate the word ‘organic’, it shouldn’t need to exist. Not on the stickers of my wax-polished apples from Fiji. Please leave my vegetables alone. And give me back my hand-written letters. A teardrop cannot stain an email. Marginalia is magical well past the enchantment of its own name. Nostalgia is a powerful motivator. Memory is an endless resource. Call me when the pages of your eBook are dog-eared. I will be waiting.

See the world with your heart. Forget how it looks. Remember how it felt. Pay attention to everything on the table. It is then that you might see time draped over the edge, melting, slowly dripping into obscurity. 

I like reading in the waning light. The fair pages whence the dark texts sleep, are now grey. As the sun dips into a slumber, your eyes begin to fatigue and your mind begins to wander. Then words image. It’s bad for your eyes, but great for your soul.