#pastandpresent
I went to the window
for a last puff of fresh air,
expecting nothing
but the quiet of night.
And there he was—
a man bent over our garbage,
phone light trembling in his hand
as he searched for food
or something like it.
Thirty meters.
Nothing more.
Close enough to touch a memory
I thought I’d buried.
Below him,
a monster-truck show packing up,
bright metal and roaring engines
pretending the world is loud.
Above him,
the cats didn’t even look twice—
just kept digging,
as if men in the dark
belong there.
And me?
I stood in the window,
smoke in my lungs,
salt in my eyes,
thinking:
I was him.
Once.
Not that far ago.
And something in me
wanted to go down,
to say “come inside,”
to give him warmth,
food,
a moment of being seen.
But I couldn’t.
It would hurt him.
And it would hurt me.
In that life,
kindness feels like a spotlight
you can’t bear.
So I stayed where I was,
puffing into the cold air,
crying quietly for a stranger
and for the ghost of myself
standing beside him.
A man in the garbage.
A man in the window.
Only luck,
and a few brutal choices,
separating the two.
And tonight,
for a breath,
they recognized each other.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 9:41 PM UTC
Is it worth walking the tightline of life
as a drunken trapeze artist— feeding on grass
from the greener side? We are gentle, grazing creatures,
trading paint against the rail fence, peering through
cracks at a better life, always just out of reach.
I meet the ceiling of my limits, hanging from the rafters
of myself. I face the wall as if it could talk back, as if
my skeletons could speak through the plaster of the
closet that hides them.
Beneath the roar in my chest, a lion would still cry—
but never in front of their pride, perhaps because
of pride. A new man, mane brushed clean, yet what
is new when the old still haunts, when it’s harder
to forget regret than to accept what must be accepted?
So I obliterate the past, declare death to the old self—
all the undone things, all the debts unpaid.
On the cards I’ve been dealt, I keep a poker face
for enemies. But I never play a hand just to impress;
I clean up my own mess, one move at a time.
Watch every step you take. _This is life’s tightrope_.
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 5:17 PM UTC
I'm not saying I did nothing wrong.
But now I'm doing it right
That's all I'm saying.
Nobody can throw my past in my face
I'll tell you all about it
start to finish
No shame
I engraved the darkness on my skin
Wore it like armour .
So maybe sit down,
Take notes.
To hell with what we used to be.
Now we are, what we need to be.
Listen, like advice whispered
From your most unethical friend
With a voice laced with sin
To validate your wicked desires.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 4:31 AM UTC
It's impossible for your past to repeat itself. Every moment is new.
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 8:39 PM UTC
I am torn
Ripped apart
Fragments of regret pile
Cherished memories make it harder
To let go of years shared as one
I want to carry on
Make the most of life without you
I chose this path without you
And yet I cling to distant highlights of our lovereel
How brillant and sabotaging that our brain only recalls the good after the darkness has lifted
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
On autumns ground I walk,
As winters snow sky blindingly glows.
In the thylacines footsteps i tread,
On a path the future presents.
Sitting in a cafe, I realise,
The tea I have just had, was built from a billion lives.
Who tasted the leaves.
Who told the others.
Who invented the farm.
Who planted the leaves.
Who planted the seeds.
Who made them grow.
Who picked them.
Who told the nation.
Who created the plough, made the grow more effectively, created the axe, learned to chop a tree, learned to shape it, learned wood floated, came up with the ships, made the first boat, made it sail, told the others, discovered nations, learned their language, spoke it, found what they wanted, got tea, got it back, gave birth to 200,000 generations who split off as cup makers, baristas, cow farmers, milkmen, sugar farmers, sugar packers, cafe owners and tea farmers.
'CHEERS!'
We are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants, but the weight will build on ours.
Swimming the route laid out by the Baiji.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
She stumbles
Her
Way
Thru the
Present,
But doesn't
Trip over
Her
Past.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC