Literary lobotomy

This category contains 53 posts

Mantra of art

The sun dies in the room when you block the window. I should have heard you come in, but I was writing a letter. Few things can disturb me in the mesmerisation of composition. It wasn’t so much the content, but the mantra of art. A writer who stops writing for anything else but more … Continue reading

Modern Sisyphus

The following was influenced by Albert Camus quote, “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” * Should I kill myself or update my Facebook? Maybe I can see how many likes I can get instead. That’d be nice. It could also not be nice, though. I could get three only. How many … Continue reading

The inside out

I am convinced that if there is anything like happiness, it is found in belly button lint. Take a look, and you’ll see clothes contained in a little hole that opens its hungry mouth at every moment. Press up against it. Have a person grab you close. Walk slowly, hesitantly through the falling leaves in … Continue reading

The future

Five years from now: Before I hear the knock, my hand is in his guts. Blood climbs my elbow, but the guy doesn’t notice. Just lays there as his pancreas then his small intestine then is large intestine wiggle around awkwardly like a highschool dance. His appendix groans. It is inflated so much that a … Continue reading

Everything will be okay

The following was something I wrote on March 6th. I’m sorry that there was ever the need to write it. * I lived beside Justin Stark for ten years. You may not know him. You may have read about him in the newspaper recently. Either way, I want you to meet him as I did: … Continue reading

Holes in the moon

On the night I died, I watched myself. I was pulled from my body and stood above myself like an angel on a Christmas tree: there I was, sleeping, no snoring, and I rocked in a soft bed. The sheets smelled. The stench rose as high as I did. I tried to climb higher, but … Continue reading

Avocado spread

I saw her through the rain. It rained often here, though I didn’t notice it much anymore. In such a little town, the rain was inevitable. Expected even. Most got used to it. They would find a place very much like where I am now – a coffee shop symphony with forks clattering and spoons … Continue reading

How to write an opinion

The following is a transition report I wrote to the next opinions editor of the Silhouette. God rest their soul. * You don’t know me – ghost that I have become – and I most likely don’t know you. I’m sure you’re a wonderful person. That’s why you’re here after all. You’re smart. You’re funny. … Continue reading

You know how it is

You know how it is. There is not much to tell you which hasn’t already been said. Things like this or that, that or this. Or even this: I was six when I found my mother’s head in my sandbox. I’m sure that something like it has been said some time at some place for … Continue reading

Late to breakfast

The following was written for my thesis. The final copy was heavily edited, * I don’t know how to explain it, Marge, but it feels like I’m on part of the short end of a stick that only gets shorter. I wake up and my back hurts. I move and my hands hurt. I look … Continue reading