11:00 am

Wet pavement

Rain on lips

Soggy sneakers

Damp eye lashes

Slippery streets

Umbrellas raised high


Read: Picture of Dorian Gray


I had the great pleasure of introducing my wayward soul to ‘Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde. This is not a book to be read. It is a book to be felt. It is a book for the senses. It is long winded poetry that is beautiful and tiresome, much the way beautiful young men are.

I am wretched at writing reviews, so I won’t. Instead, I wanted to list some of my favourite lines and of course show you my pick for Dorian Gray. I know they’ve made movie adaptations before, but this young gent would be my casting choice. He has all the beauty and wonder of new beginnings, and a look of sheer contempt for the future. Yes I think he would make a fine Dorian Gray.


“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.

“Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

“To define is to limit.”

“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired, women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”

“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

“Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?”

“What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”

“Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play… I tell you, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. ”

“Man is many things, but he is not rational.”

“Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”
“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I will show the world what is it; and for that the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”


She is soft waves upon the shore

With eyes mystic like the moors

She is ease and tranquillity

A place to regain sanity

No wild passions will you find in her

No neurotic out burts to make you stir

To some she is a bore

But I will love her forever more



Fog still sits outside my doorway. The world complains but I am comforted. Perhaps because I have always loved the unseen, the mystery, and the unknown, thick visually limiting fog does not disturb me, it stirs me.

Everyone is looking for clarity, but I feel no rush to solve the trivia which is my life. The days blur into each other anyway. Whether we like it or not, there will always be some part of our lives that is in a fog. Unclear, difficult to navigate through, void of simple answers. It is life. And like the cold dense fog, there is beauty in it.

There is beauty in the unknown. You ask yourself what lurks within the mist. What is hiding from my sight. For a brief moment, it can be anything. Your imagination can run as wild as you wish it. Or you leave it tamed, if only to hold onto your sanity. But that frightful rush caused by needing an answer. The madness that is felt by seeking clarity is beauty. It is a beauty that can only be found in fog.

There are only two ways life can answer your question. It will either tell you to step back, and watch the fog lift. Do not move, don’t breath, until your eyes fool you into thinking it is safe to do so. Let the fog ascend and with it your burdens.

Or life will say, step deeper into the unknown. Be cautious, but be brave. Give your senses some exercise. Lean in further into the mystery, the grey darkness, and find out the truth for yourself. Unchain yourself from timid waiting and give into courage and faith. Trust that your heart can see what eyes cannot.

Fog makes us nervous. Life makes us nervous. Both are very beautiful

Best left at peace

skyonThe stars wrap themselves around you

And cradle you gently while you sleep

They tell me not to disturb you

They tell me you are best left at peace

We fought for you. I fought so hard for you

But I lost

Don’t think the stars love you more

Just sleep quietly until I can sleep next to you

Kisses and Mayhem


She is made of kisses and mayhem
A clumsy excuse for a girl
But damn, when she puts her lips to yours
You can’t think of anything else
Her mouth is a portal
A perfect escape
She is surreal
But she’ll leave a mess
In your bed and your heart
She’ll knock down your sanity
Like a stack of dishes
She is made of kisses and mayhem
A wreck of a girl that you’d wreck yourself for

In March

In March I experience all sorts of longing

I long for warmer weather to heed nature’s cry for adventure

I long for new faces and places

I long for shadowed parts of myself to come to light

In March I anticipate the splendor of life to wrap itself around me

But like a virgin lover, it hesitates. It keeps me waiting

In March I want to behave with accuracy

But I always come off foolishly

March and I have always been at odds

It never meets me full on. It barely comes half way

And so I become exhausted, chasing it

Chasing whatever happiness its made itself out to be


I did not want to heal


There were times when I felt myself missing her so deeply I thought I would fall down the black vacant hole she left when she walked out and then there were times I was disturbedly calm about her absence, as if I had never met her, never loved her.

The latter bothered me more. It meant I was healing, but it also meant I would become indifferent and I feared that the indifference would fade out the beautiful memories we made, watering them down to a bland tasteless point. I never wanted to look at her photo and feel a detached sense of knowing, like seeing the mail man but not caring at all what his life might be like.

I had loved her. Deeply. To feel anything else made me feel almost unhuman. After all, she was like my life, and we shared a life, a wonderful one. We were two halves making one. It was the greatest gift and adventure of my life. To love is the most fulfilling kind of suffering. I did not want to heal. Not completely.

But as I pack away her things, wash her scent from my clothes, and meet new people she becomes nothing more than a moment, something that occurred in my life. It’s significance, her significance, would dull out till it lost all meaning.

Or maybe, perhaps maybe what I was truly afraid of was becoming that to her. She would see me one day while she was walking with a new boyfriend and would say “he’s just someone I used to date.”