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  • shizaine 10w

    My refrigerator is a mess. It's almost been eleven months since I bought the cheese, almost nine since it expired, almost seven since you died. The cheese for the Paprika Pie, you were supposed to teach me how to bake. It doesn't stink, you know. It's just there, wrapped in plastic, 'authentic greek Feta'. I just don't have the heart to throw it out, and so it stays.

    It's almost frustrating how your death affects me. In the most mundane of things, the shattering finality of it. The stabbing invasiveness in every moment I experience, the beautiful ones, the tragic ones, every place I go to. You will have none of that, nothing. Every future photograph will find you missing.

    But today's about cheese. While I'm away at work, my roommate decides to clean the refrigerator. When I return home, I find the cheese in the garbage.
    'You...', I say dumbly, 'you... threw the cheese...'
    'Yes, duh!' comes the almost irritated reply, 'Do you NOT look at the expiry dates or what!'

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  • shizaine 61w

    - Nietzsche

  • shizaine 69w


    And in the shaping
    of serendipity
    the shifts are subtle,
    in the way
    breaths align themselves
    onto a script, seldom read,
    unburdened by an audience.
    A trip here, a gasp there.
    Music, like a baby fairy
    just learning to walk
    let loose on a piano.
    Music, unhinged
    from the chains of rhythm.
    Ridiculous, but free.
    How beautiful
    to be a part of it at all,
    even in the ignorance of it.
    How beautiful,
    to just breathe...

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  • shizaine 70w

    Sometimes, your bladder is your own worst enemy.

  • shizaine 80w

    There are five stages to grief, which are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And right now, out there, they are all denying the fact that they're sad, and that's hard, and it's making them all angry. And it is my job to get them all the way through to acceptance, and, if not acceptance, then just depression. If I can get them depressed, then I'll have done my job.

    - Michael Scott, The Office

  • shizaine 94w

    What's your poison?

    Someday it'll change, the way I live this day, the way the dormant webs of dread conspire to tighten. The unrest, at best, is only kept at bay. The memory of madness is an ember that refuses to be snuffed out. For all the stability, for all the oceans I've put behind me, the craving remains unquenchable.

  • shizaine 98w

    Well, no I didn't but it was funny. Or as a certain someone would say, Word constipation.

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    For the longest time, I thought writer's block
    was a writer suffering from constipation.

  • shizaine 98w

    There's the popular opinion on not liking your own posts. But if you ask me why I like my own posts, I'll bring to your attention the first rule of self love. If I do not like my own posts, how do I expect others to like it. Of course it doesn't hurt that 6 likes look better than 5, but mind you, that's only secondary.

  • shizaine 98w

    On days like this, when the rain falls like it has lost its way, I think. I think about the umbrella I lost. The umbrella with the wide polyester canopy, the steel shaft (no pun intended) and the polished curved wooden handle (still no pun intended).

    I keep coming back to the same question, where did I lose it? The railway station, on the way to class, at the ice cream shop where I didn't buy any ice cream but sat anyway before I was kicked out, the laundromat, or was it stolen. Who could have done it? Who looked at my umbrella all wrong, who was so jealous that they couldn't see my umbrella in my caring arms? I do not know. I don't think I ever will. Closure seems to keep evading me. But hope doesn't. I hope whoever did find it, treats it with care. But I can't help but wonder, will they do the sword swirl like I did, or pretend like it was a gun like in The Kingsman, or simply poke other people with it.

    On days like this when I do not perspire answers, I pour my mango juice in the orange, apple and carrot juice, grimace at the resultant taste and think about my umbrella.

  • shizaine 98w

    I still see the image of a tree, a body of black bowed like a gymnast, even as it rises from the ground, mist swirling slowly around it, its branches sprawling out in a muted desperation, reaching for something it cannot touch. The music evades me, evades us, for surely a dance does not simply die midstep. What kind of art must it have been to make the immovable move, to leave such emotion displayed in the winter air, for an echo to tremor years after its death. How bittersweet to leave all of this in such plain sight.