R

An accumulation of thoughts from an ink puddle. Ink is lovely, dark, and deep.

[inkandomen]

Cracked Faucet

This cracked faucet is a scale that never tips—perfectly balanced, as they say all things should be.

In times of flood, that storming monsoon moment, when tears should inexorably prickle and slink out, water spits outward between the cracks until what arrives the faucet's end and drips out is steady as a clock's ticking march. No matter how swiftly water may gush, nor how immense the hydrostatic pressure, what reaches the sprout is a storm calmed. Yet in seasons of drought, this tap is still dripping at that same unchanging pace; like a force of nature, it runs unstoppable and unrelenting.

It must simply be magic and myth, a twirl of impossibility that just cannot exist, for where could that consistent influx of water arrive from? The faucet's handle is closed, as always—in fact, it serves no function whether raised or bowed.

The water's pulse is eerily constant, unfettered by the severing scythes of emailed harbingers, all dressed in sweet condoling words while closing doors to futures; or the angels that do reach open hands that promise of hope, love, and more; the red numbers of scores peaking high or dipping low; the bursts of citrus in the first bite of pie; a ghastly mask's scare amidst glowing pumpkins; and even the misty atmosphere of the final youthful school days...

I must be the faucet with a cracked pipe.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Fun fact! The last sentence was originally the first, but I thought it'd be nicer to switch it—this was inspired by Brian Doyle's structure in his "Joyas Voladoras," with how he begins with a seemingly unrelated topic to transition to his main point.

Some additional notes and my yapping:

Used the first paragraph to set up a false "balance" (since scales that do not tip are thus jammed/broken), expanded upon by linking it to "magic," "myths," and "impossibility," to create a sense of unnaturalness.

Used the metaphors of flood/drought to create a binary that reveals how the (emotional) output is identical no matter the expected level of output. At times when the water (symbolising emotions) should gush out during "floods," the "cracks" dissipate it so a full, expected expression consistent with the triggering situation is never reached. A similar thing happens with the "drought" side, but this one is less grounded in a realistic explanation—which could reflect and further emphasize how this emotional stagnancy is unnatural.

Idea of the faucet handle being dysfunctional is there to symbolise how this output cannot be controlled; the system/contraption for controlling it is broken.

The listing is just a bunch of experience that should normally trigger intense emotional reactions (like...a university rejection/acceptance letter, academic results, some sort of sensory experience, etc).

I did debate about whether to go add an "Oh." before the last line, but ultimately decided not to as the flow makes more sense (imo) with the original. Adding it would also change the vibe... and tbh up to now still, I can't truly decide which vibe I like more.

[inkandomen]

(Please) Stay

Sweetie, step away from the ledge! Darling, keep that edge away! Sugar, don't cross a road spotlit in red!

Come hither by the hearth, young dear, and let not battering wind but my warmth embrace you. Incandescent with tenacious love, the frolicking flames entwine in the most glorious dance. Let each ring of our laughter flick away that which shadows your cheer—or soft silence too, if that's what you'd prefer.

Steady now, my sweet. Let's take it nice, easy, and slow. Here, see this? This diadem I wove just for you, of pink carnations and sunflowers, is morganite and gold in your darling hair. Effulgent in the sun's beam, they are, though the radiance of your smile is by far the more.

My angel, if wings cannot carry what you do and must, allow me to shoulder it beside you, to the ends of stars. We could walk by blooming clouds of cosmic dust, counting the tails of rising stars.

Love…? Where do you go? Come back!

Take my hand, and let us add peat to the fire, together. -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

(The first piece: Shrouded by Bouquets)

Author notes with some analysis, as always! Some will be basic, but good to mention anyways. Basic-er stuff:

First three lines are imperatives of concerns delivered with endearments -> Speaker's protectiveness dressed in comfort.

Hearth / flames -> common symbols for warmth, with hearth also representing family, connection, safety.

The suggestion of "add[ing] peat to the fire" is meant to act as a distraction for the speaker's target from their burdens. Also note the collective "us," and the symbol of offering a hand. ;)

Maybe the most minor comment ever, but the final line's last comma before "together" is there to add weight (and therefore emphasis) to that last word. That last word pretty much sums up the whole piece, which gravitates around the speaker's desperate and protective longing for togetherness.

I've tried to dot this piece with an almost overwhelming amount of protective/positive imagery, to imply the speaker's desperation in keeping their target audience feeling loved and safe. Well, you can see the aftermath of their attempts in my first piece. :P

More notes on my thoughts:

In homage to the first piece, which weaves in flower symbolism, this one uses the symbols of "pink carnations" and "sunflowers". Pink carnations signify gratitude and are commonly gifted during Mother's Day (I did want something motherly because of the associated nurture, but no, this piece was not originally written to have the speaker in a maternal position. Interpret it as you want though!). Sunflowers = joy, faith, loyalty.

"Morganite" is a pink stone that symbolises emotional healing and unconditional love. Thus, this "diadem" (crown) of "pink carnations and sunflowers" being "morganite" and "gold" in the target audience's hair is the speaker's symbolic attempt to crown their target audience with life, love, and value.

The frolicking flames dancing sentence = turning something dangerous into something tender & sweet, while amplifying the liveliness (which we associate with fire), since this whole monologue is the speaker's desperate attempt to prevent their target audience (aka the muse of the first piece) from touching death. It's also there as an inverse of the first piece, which involves snow, stillness, and ethereal delicacy.

There is archaic language used, mirroring the first piece. Other than simply having fun with more archaic language, I felt that it perhaps evoked a sense of nostalgia (which contributes to the speaker's comforting), or added to the sense of amiss from the speaker's 'overdoing.' Additional note: I'm sorry that target audience is such an awkward phrase, but I can't think of anything better right now.

[inkandomen]

To be parallel

There are wistful moments in which I long for the option to become a sort of silent spectral spectator. A moment wherein I can just delete myself from the plane that everybody traverses, and watch people interact—watching omnisciently as I would characters within a movie—without the social pressure of reaction. I would be something parallel, a state of not-quite-existence; yet able to savour the sweetness of life without the fret of performance. The need to chuckle or smile would no longer dampen the joy of hearing a delightful joke.

[inkandomen]

I was once polished by soft silken cloth, sterile cotton balls, and warmed spring water, cradled in loving arms. Brought out to run in wind swept fields, crayon green grass spilling around me. Ring'd round azure blue, I'd stand—proud as an eagle on tall cliffs, overlooking crawling, wrinkled waves. Once the sun dipped low, I'd lay on fine sand, basking in the limelight of ten thousand stars festooning the sky as they scintillated and winked.

Now. Sinking. Weathered. Tired. A forgotten relic battered weary by waves and time. Rusted. Festering. Neglected. Sanded by gritty tough words, of demands, disappointment, disapproval. Demands, which I cannot fulfill; disappointment, as I cannot fulfill those demands; and disapproval, lurking close behind the inevitable two. Ring'd around towering mountains I stand. Boulders wait around me. I cannot run and cannot lay. I am enveloped in the sun's searing blaze. My cuts are polished by grains of sea salt. I am cradled by the stale, still air. The sun dips low, and I turn my hands. More calloused, more blistered, more bruised ink purple. In this valley of despair, I alone toil, though with a heavy heart, I know a fact: this valley is not singular.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

This is one of my earlier works—just after "Blue," "Candle Knight," and "En Guarde!", all from last year.

There's an allusion to Alfred Lloyd Tennyson's "The Eagle" poem, which was the first piece of work that kickstarted my whole literary analysis career in secondary school; thus, it's symbolic for the beginning of (my) growth. There's also a Sisyphus allusion in the second paragraph.

This work perhaps isn't as stellar as my more recent ones ("Faucet" is the newest), but I suppose we can see my imagery and structure usage skills in their toddler development stage. I don't think all the devices are as unified as some of my newer pieces (to be tagged under the name "Refuge" once it's out!), but it's nice to look back at how far I've come.

[inkandomen]

Sometimes, rather than with shining awe or burgeoning curiosity, I view the complexity of human beings with a draining bitterness.

Let me, for just a moment, allow myself to be wholly furious at you for what you did. Let me do that without recalling the bright side of your moon, or your spring and summers, or the sweet tinge hidden within your sourest fruits. Let me live in a white-black world, a systematically patterned one—not a jumbled and blurred monochromatic, colored, nor flavored one.

Why must we be built of contradictions? Of such ugly dissonance? How can you be both the bravest and most cowardly I've ever known?

I do not wish to encourage stereotyping; I value empathy highly; I find beauty in nuance. Yet sometimes (this I think with a leaden heart and biting regret—I know it's unprincipled), I just want to return and regress, to crayons and clear lines.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Old writing after someone childishly angered another person, leaving other people (me among few) to clean up their triggered mess.

Most of my posts for the time being will be older stuff—want to get them out before I publish the newer works.

[inkandomen]

Social media is simultaneously Heaven's treat and the deepest of Hells. It is something I am eternally bound to—an artifact that renders freedom illusionary and unattainable. Like a cursed pebble, I find myself unable to detach; I always ultimately roll back no matter how far I toss it away.

[inkandomen]

Blue

There's something in the deeply rich blues minutes after dusk that makes the world feel estranged. Vibrant, striking, and exotic, the kinds that predominate Van Gogh's starry night. It's a collage of fantastical shades dreamt up, a trick conjured by the haziness of sunset that seems to slow time too. No doubt these blues would be found in all those seemingly unnatural wallpapers of nature's phenomena—each a fragile moment of wonder caught by the mechanical shift of shutters, for dull eyes to descry. Here, through these eyes of mine, the sky looks surreal, too brilliant a sapphire. Unsettlingly beautiful. Like an extra in a movie frame, I feel blurred. Caught in a 4k Ultra-HD photograph I should play no part in. The sky's colors glare too bright for my world, and jarringly so.

It's distorting. Psychedelic, almost. My heart slows, loudens, and beats in syncopation. I am removed thrice to timezones running ten times faster. In this liminal space, I am a fallen autumn leaf, suffocated by snow and infinitesimal in the shadows of an elephantine elm tree. A time traveller decades from home—a flat ébauche amidst colorful bursts of acrylic paintings. Such a brazen blue gradient…I feel antique, as though I do not belong in this moment.

Then the sky fades saturnine. A darker, less saturated hue. Starless, dreary. Never more unalike Van Gogh's magical painting. Time quickens. All gears click, shift, resume. I am no longer a wanderer in a picturesque land. Blood flows. My heart drums. My joints bend as I hold my hand out in wonder.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Notes: The sky's blue really did seem strangely vivid that eve, hence (as though tranced) I felt compelled to write. It was so peculiar. I literally stared for 10 indefinitely stretched seconds, mouth almost agape at that rich blue. It was like...I had been briefly smuggled into another dimension where some magical transition was taking place. (And I suppose a transition was literally happening, since…it was post-sunset.)

This is one of my more older pieces. Oldest on this account thus far with the exception of the gloomy G10/11 piece. I have to say—compared to my newer pieces—the wondrous tone it has feels emotionally younger, which makes it a refreshing read.

[inkandomen]

Vengeance

Well we could bow our heads a hundred times, recite apologies rewritten by a thousand words, but what can they do to a dead and barren land, that once was ravaged by a flaming wrath then soaked in blood spilt by own kind?

A promise? Oath? A gentle caress? So would you kill, then weep, then strike again?

Unless we take the burning pyre and light an arrowhead to aim, the voices' chants would cease to rest— from wounds that fester, weep, and grieve all mirthless, stained by callous hate —instead of flowers form vengeful wraiths.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Notes: I couldn't think of a better title... Not much of a poet as I dabble in prose more, so this was fun! Not fully satisfactory for me as I didn't tinker much with meter, rhyme, etc.

[inkandomen]

I need a hug from somebody I don’t know. Someone who won’t care to ask or inquire; someone who knows nothing of what I’m going through. Just a simple hug, then we part ways—lines never to intersect again.

Not submerged in, but not displayed out either. Tucked away like a bottled message, inconspicuously placed on the sidewalk for someone else to pick up and disregard. This burden—it’ll be lifted off me, and no one shall have to shoulder it again.

A wishful solution, though impossible.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

A Grade 10 piece I dug up while sifting for something else. The mood of my grade 10 writing sure was sombre...

[inkandomen]

Two choices: you either explode or implode. Inert as I wish to be, my wars always ultimately turn inwards nearing the darkest hour. Lethargic, yet sleepless, and in this sleeplessness, there returns that irrepressible, instinctive urge to dismantle. Mindlessly, I suffer my hands to collapse all that they built. No truer words have and had ever been: your worst enemy is you.

[inkandomen]

Irritation. It boiled up rapidly, seething as it did. A malignant ticking time bomb nesting by my pulsating heart, bearing a small flame that grew with each light up of the screen, devouring at my carefully coiled patience. A flame that drove my fingers flying across the screen in a wild frenzy, each tap punctuated with unease and frustration.

…

They wouldn't stop, but instead incessantly rushed forth, like tidal waves relentlessly battering a rocky shore as alphabets and emojis and notifications all barged forth and piled and walled up and razed the screen into a furious, wind-whirling blur of uninvited messages.

----------------------------

I think this piece was written for the same event "En Guarde!" was created. "En Guarde!" is the one I went away and had fun with~

[inkandomen]

Shrouded by bouquets

Lips of lavender, and so cool to the touch—in your scent doth I wonder how sweet your dreams now must be. Lighter than moonshine, your porcelain hands lay cradled within the smothering petals of amethyst hyacinths. As if the world were too glaring for your delicate eyes, you're shielded by plain sheets like a spring bud beneath snow.

Were you happiest, then, when you chose to step into clouds?

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Notes: A bit of elegiac prose-poetry writing~ The "step into clouds" part was inspired by OMORI! :)

Light talk on a few devices:

Flower symbolism here: lavenders can mean tranquillity and purple hyacinths are generally for apologies; both can be funeral flowers. Through ethereal imagery, there is some foreshadowing of death, e.g. the lips being "lavender [coloured]" and "cool," and the skin being "lighter than moonshine" (abnormally pale).

Interpretations vary though, so you could take it as if the character were just asleep!

[inkandomen]

Music exists; therefore I am

Plink. Plink. It's the sound of my finger flicking partially filled glass cups. The rainbow of pitches created is mesmerizing; the airy quality of each delicate, lucid ring carrying within it the promise of magic and myths. Gentle ripples dimple the tranquil water surface with each sweet chime. Dazed, in a trance almost, I continue the cycle of flicking and listening, relishing each crystal ping! my hands create.

Beneath my fingers, white and black keys lie parallel to carol royally rich notes that rebound around the room, with warmth. These chords, this rhythm, this harmony—it's all but an infinitesimal fragment of the world's most gorgeous language, the absolute zenith of beauty; the instrument beneath my hands is a voice box I command for expression. Each note echoes a word, sentence, memory deep from within the chambers of my beating heart; every bar is a million yearnings and emotions and thoughts compressed. My very soul unravels as I play, laid out and adorned in this wonder for all to hearken. I am defined by the melody: the staves are my skeleton, the scales my flesh, the naturals and flats and sharps bursts of my life's colors; this entire piece is the very marrow of me. That crescendo! Those acciacaturas! This quaver and tempo and time signature! Can you hear me?

Thump. My head slumps against the window as the car rolls onward. Cool, the glass is, and comfortingly so. Accompanied by the soothing sound of rushing rain, I lay calm, in peace, as the sounds wash over like erasure. Tap. Tap. Languidly, I poke at the glass as though it were a fishbowl. Down, and down, and down, the raindrops scurry in uneven patterns, some twisting, taking sharp turns, while others jarringly stop-start. My eyes trace the raindrop races, placing imaginary bets against nobody in particular. The raindrops, under gravity's unforgiving, relentless drag, must slither down to crash and collide, either to become an engulfer, bulldozer, reaper, or devoured. They are built of water corpses. I am drowning in the rain's white noise.

Crkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkrkkrkrkrkrk... Clattering, cacophonic sounds reverberate around the room like the rattle of a buzzsaw as its teeth grind and snarl and whirr to deadly life. Quickly, swiftly, rapidly, my hands skid, dart, dash, though time crunches faster, hounding close on my trail. My fingers dance across the keys in a strange, maddening, flurrying whirlwind, the beat too fast and uneven for a ballet, waltz, or tango, and lacking the enthusiasm of jazz, funk, or tap. Oh, the wildness to each movement! I am witnessing—no! living a desperate escape, as something nefarious rains down cursed spears upon the keyboard. I am thoughtless, blind, and defeaned; like a marionette, my hands weave and fold mechanically, intangible strings jolting my muscles far before I even comprehend the movement. Numb is what my hands feel, yet they, possessed, plunder and plough, jolting up only to be wrenched down in surrender by gravity.

Beneath my fingers, black keys with white letters lie orderly in rows upon rows, producing sounds not unlike the frenzied clashing of teeth and shatter of glass on road. These sharp unvaried clicks, this arrythmic, atonal clangour—it's all utterly monotonous, strokes of grey upon grey, each tap yet another indistinguishable droplet plummeting in torrential rain. This moment feels– no, is timeless, stretching on infinitely.

Music does not exist without time.

I, whose arteries and capillaries used to pulse and roar beside rhythm, whose alveoli moved in accordance with fluctuating dynamics and tempo, from largo to allegro to rubato, whose every sarcomere and myofilament—tropomyosin, troponin, and the many more!—were built upon the various musical textures...can no longer define myself.

An indeterminate.

Crkcrkcrkcrkcrkcrk... The clackering continues incessantly, and with it I, blurred out of reality, who no longer is, am towed along.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Notes

Inspired partly by Robert Frost's poem, Out, Out—, which explores how adulthood drains youthful innocence (one of my interpretations). I was thinking about the transition from youthful innocence to ... whatever student life and/or adulthood seems to be (the negative aspects). I included more industrial language further down to portray the dehumanisation feeling some desk jobs can bring.

In all transparency, this was going to be scrapped since I couldn't figure out the fifth+ paragraphs, haha. The second paragraph had such a surprising transformation from one measly mediocre sentence. Hope you enjoyed the read~

[inkandomen]

Armour

The volcano is blistering, burning, and blazing more with each strike.

Plated armour? Chainmail? Dragon scaled? I am, usually. These defences aren't infallible though—dragon scales may be tough, but are ridden with vulnerable gaps for letters to strike; small holes in chainmail can't protect against the acidity of words; a plated armour is exhausting to wear forever; and none of these could ever truly block sound.

If piercing, battering needles of torrential and punctuated acid rain were to close in on you from all sides, and the wind, turning tempest with each passing millisecond, joins this lethal assault with it's shrill screeching shrieking voice that incessantly hammers and heavily bludgeons your brain like a spiked mace thrown about recklessly in your skull, not to mention the creeping, sneaking, slithering vile thorned sentences that jab at and coil around your ankles, legs, and elbows tauntingly, how would you handle it?

I could only falter, then through the haze of pain draw upon weapons and shields and holler war cries. Now, I stand battered and bruised; my shield is tattered, scarred, and about to crumble; the fort in no better condition. With this lance, now irreparably bent half, I had tried to create just a sliver of space to breathe.

...

The volcano erupts, and all defences equipped—steel plates, chainmail, dragon scales—they burn, blister, blaze away, as I sink in this molten double fury, skin and muscles and bones liquefied to vapours of outrage and desolation.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ I dug this from WIPs somewhere, and I have no idea what this was about.

[inkandomen]

En Guarde!

En guarde!

Here's the spot my finger should hover, in a battle of speed to slam a button.

Prêts?

Oh, no, no, ...no. There's no space for asking such thing.

Allez!

Battles don't have much courtesy, and this is no exception.

That heavy lunging jeer from the left successfully parried; I stumble, stagger, sway; take three steps back, but they perform a balestra of diatribes; dodge and feint, yet there it comes—a vociferating tirade of counterattacks; parried again, though my muscles, and ligaments, and tendons quiver, and tremble, in vexation, and exhaustion; now they retreat four silent steps, silver saber nodding mockingly in their hand; then a scornful attaque au fleur to pressure my foil blade; what a cacophony! Displeasure! Tyrannical onslaught!; take a few steps back to the left and guard; they, too, shift backwards; a pause, too brief for any rest; my brain whirs and clutters in cracked gears; my vision feels aflame and my cheeks heated; Halte! Halte!— they run — Can't you see this is so pointless?— and execute — Are you seriously finding this thrilling? — a flèche, flèche!

My heart thumps alongside an imprecatory inner monologue I wish I had. I can't despise or dislike you; I'd be petty to do so. You're a friend I cherish, even if you occasionally somehow manage to bruise my patience at the right wrong angles.

Once all's cooled, then, as usual and always ... Je t'adore.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

This was an old vent I polished up for fun; the original was much shorter and less intense. It came about after a mini (harmless) squabble with a friend that left me feeling irritated.

[inkandomen]

Candle Knight

Unlit paper lanterns drift to the bank. People of all ages each cradle a candle, for the apricity it offers in this hiemal weather. Most shuffle past. Those lanterns—I could ignore them all, though my heart dictates otherwise. With the tender touch of my candle to each wick, they glow alive, incandescent and golden and warm against the chilly night. May your wishes be heard, your questions answered, and your fears allayed. Up, they float, swaying in delicate cadence, to join the thousands of others in graceful ascension.

My flame glows dimmer with each lantern I visit, yet for these wishes and questions and unspoken whispers, I would like to gladly spend it all.

It's beautiful. Ringed around ten thousand and more golden spots I stand, as they all freckle the vast, atramentous sky. Truly a sight of luxury.

Though what of the ignored lanterns, which huddle cold, ice water seeping to spoil the ink on their papers and parchments? They will achingly lie from dusk till daybreak, and in the sun's dawning light, be nothing greater than mushy tatters soused in sorrow. Dissolved and unheard voices, they soon will become, sweet whispers washed, blanched, bleached to blank.

My flame's long since gone out. Carelessness, overestimation, arrogance, the passersby hiss.

The bone-rattling cold mercilessly claws at me, and with its scythe pierces past skin to flesh to bone. I am left alone, shivering, in utter darkness, hunched alongside heaps of the neglected.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Major theme I began with in mind was neglect, and its dual sides. This stemmed from how I thought it'd be interesting to write of the White Knight (Saviour) syndrome, after conversations with a friend who brought it up more than once. In a way, I suppose this piece is about finding balance between care and neglect.