The fading boundaryBetween my two realities 

Lies the the edge of my sleep

On the stitches of the sleeves:
I stood on the steepest tip 

Of the antique clock

On the wall 

It said nine but it is pronounced seven
Early in the morning 

With the murmuring 

Of my brother and father

And the buzzing sound from the worn out radio,

Waking me up but it is not time yet 

Give me more rest before you regret 


Written on 12 March 2016

From the two realities



les fleurs du mal,
the yellow wallpaper,
the picture of dorian gray,
the old man and the sea,
a room with a view,
a pale view of hills
never let me go,

be drunken in literature,
in prose, in stories,
or in novels,
or in movies,
or in poetries,
or in words,
and in dreams;

forget about the really real reality,
believe in nothing that you see,
born and deprived and hope to be free,
to read,
to think,
to pray,
to chase,
to achieve,

what cannot be done by the body, the limbs, the senses,
if possible,
by the mind,

at least.

written on 15 July 2014, be drunken.

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