Tuesday, June 30, 2009


They say not belonging anywhere is a good and creative place.

The proclamation document of the State of Delirium adopted such a principle in word and spirit.

The island is situated not on a map but in the points of agreement that its citizens agree upon in their sub conscience.

A great surge in the population was expected since its formation hundreds of centuries ago, but lack of written archaeological proof has left its legitimacy in tatters.

Besides, the inhabitants are too static to venture on a validation trip.

People just belong, without signatures and anthems.

The politics are numerous, none superior to the other, hence rendering it all absent.

Religion was rejected sometime in its turbulent history, again lack of documentation has led to mere resignation amongst the populace.

The geography is complex, with constant transformations, eruptions and extinction.

Each generation re defines the topography, from empty forests, to boiling oceans.

However, the creative extinction of the rest of the world, points to mass emigration, causes of which can't be investigated due to lack of will and widespread delirium of affected parties.

Visitors are hence forth discouraged from seeking the El Dorado of the insane.

Friday, June 12, 2009


I am dying of love.
It's OK.

(P.S. It just sounds great when you say it!)

Friday, June 05, 2009


And this is where this story begins and ends, at one point, one period, one breath, the end of one circle.

If there is the need to spell out people then she is her and he was him. She was standing, her wet, soft skin numbly plastered against the cream tiles with sunflower watermarks sprinkled judiciously.

The shower of cold, merciless water struck her face with the force of life taking with it her transparent tears down the pit of her neck, her navel, etching fine black hair in downward streaks trickling down her thighs and calves like first springs on green mountain slopes, swirling around her feet to end as a whirlpool around the sieve of a drain hole, down the rusty pipes to ancient sewers, pouring into the river Bega flowing to join multiple rivers of tears at the Danube, only to lift up as vapours on a sunny afternoon caught by ice cold winds carried over a city red with soot, and history, to fall playfully as pure globules of water running up clean, steely pipes that trickles into a glass touched by his thirsty lips that sip her while he walks above the ancient sewers on grey concrete drenched with the rain stinging his eyes for the moment he looks up to the dirty white sky.

And this story began and ended, at one point, one period, one breath, the end of one circle.