Thursday, 19 December 2013
Sunday, 17 November 2013
Tuesday, 22 October 2013
At the age of twenty six, I was long dead. I had retreated home. I carted off Granny to Uncle C. She was at the late stage of arterioscleroses, and I could not countenance keeping an eye on her. I still hated her. She was not safe in my hands. I used to hover over her face chanting you gonna die, you gonna die and I don't care. After a while I got bored and decided to start small fires underneath the sofa. Other times I would smash the funereal vases that she collected for her late husband's tomb, my beloved yet unknown grand father rip
If they try to punish me for my misdemeanours, I'll just disappeared into the mirror
Tuesday, 15 October 2013
She loves water: whenever it rains, she sits at the window. She says it is her homage to an imaginary woman from same tale or another. She refuses to elaborate. Nimble, covered with droplets, she smiles. Nothing really matters, she sings over and over again.
Thursday, 3 October 2013
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Sunday, 22 September 2013
The last time she saw her, she was wearing her dirty old ballerina shoes, the hippie skirt and a sad smile. There was something growing inside, she said, and it was not a child. She had just finished drawing one million lines. She counted them one by one. It took a thousand days to complete.
In her world everything was measured, weighed, thought. She dwelled in clarity and purpose.