Empty.

As I sit here with a warm cup of coffee and a pen waiting to be uncapped, there's a part of me that feels vibrant. Reckless. Alive. The sun has shied away from the world after a hot summer afternoon and is now sinking below the ocean, mile by mile, with clouds adhering at it's periphery, woozily so. It's warmth radiates through my being and there's a productive aggressiveness that is born inside, as I reminisce a few special encounters in the recent week. My fingers jitter as I uncap my pen and wrestle past the anxiety which those words bring along, and I can't help but think if it's going to be this way for the years to come. The moon will reckon and then beckon. Dawn will fail to initiate optimism, and nightfall will be the only acceptance. I will know not where I stand, and the rustle of leaves will be the only nature around. Even my shadow will abandon me when darkness takes over. The moonlight will be just enough for me to pen down my thoughts and experiences, and I will have to roll the paper up in a wine bottle and toss it in the ocean to maintain the illusion that I'm human enough to believe that someday, someone's going to read it. Words that represent two different worlds will become synonymous. Invulnerability will be rejection. Talent will be anger. Thoughts will be disinterests. Infatuation will be space. Intellect will be emotions. I will crave to have anyone but the mirror listen to the words that are uttered out. But nothing will change. And proximity won't come to pass. The sensation of 'touch' will be lost and forgotten, and words will decide where I stand. For I've been told a thousand times,

"You're going to die an empty person".

He found his shadow when he lost himself..

            Veggies. Check. A carton of eggs. Check. Mustard sauce. Check. Corn Flakes. Check. Nutella. Check.
With a hundred thoughts pacing through Luke's mind about the materialising of his new idea, he obviously needed a list to remember what the household requirements were. He'd got everything on the list, except for one thing. He needed peanut butter. And finding peanut butter in this enormous convenience store was practically impossible.
"Excuse me. Could you tell me where I could find peanut butter, please?", he asked the cashier.
"That will be on the third rack after you take a left four shelves after this one, sir", he pointed towards the aisle adjoining which there were shelves packed with various goods.
"Thank you", he said, as he started walking past the various shelves. Shelf One...Two...Three... His heart crept up into his mouth with what he saw next. Between Shelf Two and Three, right opposite to where he was standing, was a man. He looked lost. His face was red. Not with pain, but with experience and foregone senility. His index finger and thumb looked calloused, just at the places where one holds a pen. His eyes represented a million things at once. Emotions like pain, anger, agony, along with a glimpse of sufferings from the past. Mixed with that was misery, invulnerability and space. The strange part, however, was this impeccable smile that the man held. It seemed too well-grafted. Too perfect. Too fake. They stared at each other, their faces puzzled. What was it that caused this exchange of looks between the two? Was it recognition? Luke had to walk away. It was just a strange encounter. Nothing else. He shoved the peanut butter bottle in his shopping cart and exited the store..
            Next Sunday, he went to the convenience store again. He couldn't blame anyone. He was required to go there every Sunday to get what was needed in the house. A little unexpected this time, he walked past the strange man again. Same place, same strange smile. He obviously didn't read into it much. He didn't like interfering with peoples' lives much. Days. Weeks. And months passed by. The man always seemed to be there, with the same strange stance and the perfect smile. Luke had gotten used to it by now.
            It was a Sunday, just like any other. Nothing seemed out of place. He went to the store, as usual. He was about to pass by Shelf Two, which preceded the usual encounter with the man. Another breath-taking surprise. Where there was supposed to be the beginning of the other half of the store and the presence of the strange man, there was now a wall. A huge, limiting wall. It seemed a bit incongruous. Like a major part of Luke's life in the past two years was missing. Baffled and confused, he went to the cashier and inquired about the issue.
"Hey, um, what happened to the remaining half of your convenience store? Is it a new renovation plan?", he asked the cashier.
"I'm sorry, but I don't quite follow you, sir. This convenience store has always been this big.", the cashier replied.
"I'm not too sure about that. Because I've seen the other half of the store from between Shelf Two and Three. What happened to it?", he asked the cashier again, puzzled now.
"Oh, I'm afraid you're highly mistaken, sir.

All that there was over there for years now was a mirror which was recently taken down".

Figure 8.

A beautiful archway. Pale moonlight. Gorgeous brown hair, silky and damp. Fresh lilies in the vase. The aroma of toast filling the room on a fine winter night. A gentle, grasping smile. A hot cup of coffee. Freshly watered plants in the balcony. An entrancing touch. Fine, and meticulous skin. A warm woollen sweater outlining the stunning figure. My face buried into her hair as I hold her tight. The smell of maple syrup. Fingers brushing past the skin. A kiss; Ethereal. Celestial. Divine. Pure. Because in the back of a car with you I'll stare into the sun.


An empty archway. Clear skies. Frizzy brown hair. Withered lilies resting in the vase. The stink of betrayal dancing in the room on a hot summer morning. A prudent and disdainful look, painting my thoughts in red. A glass of an aerated drink. Dry plants, singed in the balcony. A hostile touch. Rough, and indifferent skin. My hand grasping hers, unwilling to let go. The smell of burnt toast. Fingers filled with pain and intimacy-deprivation. A look; Hostile. Treacherous. Larcenous. Contaminated. But lovers hold on to everything.


A broken archway. Dusty rays of sunlight. Rough brown hair, uncared for. An empty vase. Her presence filling the room with the inflammation of the tip of a Cuban. An absent look, making my neurons go haywire. I accompany a glass of 60-year old scotch. Dead plants, supported by sadistic surroundings. Her absence, sending my skin crawling. My hand dying to grasp hers, and feel her presence. The smell of a novice smoke. My fingers itching to entrap hers around, and say that everything will be alright. A goodbye; Unsaid. Alone. Uncared for. Reclusive. Conclusive. But even after all this, I chase your love around a figure 8.

Credits: Figure 8, Ellie Goulding.