there is a sensation in my bones
a chirping of molecules like crickets
fastened into my mouth and throat
like some oral fixation
feel myself moving like thuds in the attic
a ghost of a heartbeat manifesting
in poltergeist steroids of adrenalin and noise
I was flesh before I was matter
I was wind before I was echo
throating my whines and neighs and snarls and howls
making the most decisive decision
to not mute my speech.
I cannot sleep; the dust of it rounds my eyes
into separate spheres, a sea in each
dipping night’s ink like a chance of lead
into the silvery apparition of a reflected moon
cradled between the sinews of a hammocked brain
there is a long sigh, a long echo — followed slowly by a song
tethering is a lullaby in glades of sun and shadow
day hinged and riveted like a solarnaut in crucial voyages
and my mind sits there, ancient, stubborn — like a shard of shell
fossilised and unmoving, indifferent to the throes of sleep
and voyeuring on the agonies of silence.
I know I wasn’t a tragedy; I knew it seemed so
after the hallways laughed menacingly
and the bells that chimed once in my favour
grew to sand in some lothario’s hourglass of moves
glued to the stationary casket of time in motion
faster than sound and faster than quantum
it aches my head and bones; not my heart
she flutters still like some newborn butterfly
doing her pilgrimage of movements, she never tires
when I do — there lies the problem and the sanity.
I am sleek with the covers, I am armed with the pillows
salient are my eyebrows playing tic-tac with particles of skin
and the dreams that are coiling to these feathery antennas
I will sleep soon
then wake to conquer the seeming
for I am too
a shade of moon
encased in an hourglass of night
measured stably by a rush of adrenalin
in a spoon of reverberations.—
Cristian Mihai talks both about failure and his needs to move forward.
I started writing when I was thirteen years old. I thought it would be easy. I thought that all you needed was a brilliant idea…
First story I ever got the courage to let someone else read it… they called me a retard. They said it was so bad that I should give up writing.
First book I ever self-published: sold two e-book and two paperback copies, received two reviews, and that was it. I had it unpublished.
My second try with self-publishing? Sold 3 e-copies of a short story in the first month, earning $1.05 before taxes.
First try at blogging? Quit after three days.
First try at quitting smoking? Lasted for a month.
First time I went to the gym? Lasted for three days. Second time? About a week.
I have failed, over and over again, and I keep failing, and that is the key to becoming successful…
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Of Opinions – The Book
For today only, grab a copy of Of Opinions – the book – for FREE!
All you have to do is click the ‘Buy on Amazon’ link below, and get your copy absolutely free!
Description of Of Opinions:
A millennial going through a quarter-life crisis? What could be more annoying?
Ah, but there is more to it than meets the eye. Sample this:
Past your quarter-life, it is stupid to try to be young and idiotic to try to be old. You do not have the energy for the former, and you do not have the money for the latter.
They call it battling depression as it it were a one-off event, lasting only a few days. But, to me, it feels like warring depression, going on relentlessly with no sign of an end, both parties suffering without one winning over…
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Jimmy wakes up on the morning of his 18th birthday and drives to the clinic for his mandatory injection of love serum. This is a special medicine that makes him fall in love with the next person he sees. This is requires of all adult citizens, once per year.
It is very unlikely that the person he sees will also have just been injected, and will also fall in love with him. So the world is full of unrequited love–but it is full of love. And everyone understands each other’s pain and sympathize with those in love with them, because they feel it themselves–helplessly, uncontrollably, mandatorily–for someone else.
This world is a bit kinder to each other, a bit more understanding and sympathetic toward each other, a bit more loving for each other. Because everyone, by default, knows what a heartbreak is.
His illuminated soul
seemingly always in motion.
I read religiously his light.
Text etched with acid.
but cut with gentle sweetness
The light only growing brighter.
He coaxes me out of my
I could take refuge in his uniqueness
The magic of his mind, linger there
in the smudge of the stars.
Let him read the face of my spirit,
my wildest wishes, the lure
of eccentric things
Framed by endless strings of grace.
A concerto of serenity. defined
composition, melodic hope.