My father sleeps at the edge of the bed adjacent to a chair. Upon that chair, there sits a man with a dark horse-shoe jawline. His collars have little lilies, scattered across the cloth in some harmony. Whenever I visit the room to take out one cold water-bottle from the fridge—cool water is the lady of the night—I see this man with his inhuman straight back, staring right at me. I freeze for a second and then look at his unblinking eyes in the shimmering yellow light of the fridge. You may ask, what is new here? If you were to sleep next to an old shoddy window; sure you’ll see the nearby tree growing out a hand in the beating wind, too.
The difference between you and me, however, is that you get under the covers and say oh, but it is the mere wind, oh, it is the mere rain. I on the other hand, invite the monsters in. I move the refrigerator door just enough to let that tall man’s eye glint in the dark as he sit like he’s been sitting there from the beginning of time. There is an art in conjuring monsters from the nothing. After all the man in my father’s chair is nothing but my dead grandmother’s handbag—not there for sentimental purposes but mostly because things move around in my house with certain amnesia. And in the society we live in, I have become interested in things.
Either people eat them up or some nook drag them down where house-objects retire and dream till their owners are left to do the same in the graves until after all, someone new develops a fancy to these ghosts. Or worst, being munched into paper mache is one way to go. If your things are you, then you better hope you’re not getting picked up for that.
I do that sometimes. I imagine the life of objects fast forward to hundred years. What if there are more survivors than just cockroaches. All these inanimate things that have a sacred river in which they all flow, sometimes caressing each other or other times, singing campfire songs with joined hands. A blue handkerchief wiping off the sweat off a red wallet. Their masters despised each other when they were alive, but here we are.
Rivers into a sea.
A plethora of dead people’s objects. Enough to keep me awake in the dark.
My eyes are thawing the mist, gradually
for I was the sight of the winter moon
Leaping into the lofty landscapes,
floating in the afternoon muse.
I began to rustle the wind, a little more
as my eyes can’t stop their peering
as if a dimension has adorned the panes
Separate from the world of moist eyes.
I gather my soul
and poured it into the woods
as they transplant me up the monsoon hills
Churning me inside the lacy grass,
gazing up at the migrant birds.
By the rivulet with amber like eyes
Mourns a sea breeze, slow
And all is now what is left of me,
lingers at the window.
My visions emboss my thoughts
as they nurture on the panes
wavering like distant shadows
of a nymph of the southern rivulet.