Drowning Isn't the Best Solution

Freyja Griffin one day realized that she was born to die. But then, everyone else is too. So she decided to make do with her life

Wednesday, September 17, 2008


This morning was the second morning I woke up with a bitter taste left on my lips
The dreams tailing up my last two dawns were not the best of kind
I was chased up, chased down,
once by zombies,
once by thieves and robbers,
present in both the strong urge to protect the invaluables:
first it was my life,
second it was an unidentified object of insurmountable preciousness
But it was last night I was betrayed

On my way to work,
not lulled by the dim noise of traffic,
in the back of my head was a riot of questions
Why these dreams
Why now of the time of the year
Why now of the time of my life
Why these dreams

Dreams are often quite funny things to explore, implore, best and worse made a subject out of your usual behavior

What are men without their dreams?
One afternoon few years ago I watched my pets napped and suddenly doubted the privilege of dreams for men alone
Yet from experience, dreams offer a hefty explanations for things which left lurking in the darkest part of the mind

My mind

I had often been accused of losing it,
or for not having any

So why these worries
and why these dreams?


Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Old Enough, Not Young Enough

Our Foggy Love by ~swagmanshutter on deviantART

It failed to rain despite of the dark hanging in the East sky. Naturally it was hard hot, humid, and disappointing. A wisp of rain did come later in the afternoon, but it went after a minute, and we were already tangled in the awkward parts of the bed to even notice or even wanting to celebrate. The moment we stirred to catch a droplet of the rain, it had subdued and left us, again hot, humid, disappointed and exhausted.

Deciding to sit at the back porch, there was a silent agreement not to complain about the stalled rain and our wasted effort. Our bare skin rubbed next to each other in the minimal comfort of the old cheese-holed couch. There was wind. It forced sleep as it caressed the eyelids. The dogs resorted to the same old spot they always laid on. My head was very light.

Everything in the house is relatively old. The kitchen is relatively new but the appliances set about and in it were old. The garden is relatively new, but the grass already grew tired, dying. The dogs had grown a habit of digging the earth in the flowerbed without apparent reasons. The earth is never new, the digging is also ancient.

I’m relatively new. I hadn’t spent enough time in the house to make me no longer new.

We were new. This is undisputable.

We had the silent equivalent of a loud row at dawn because he failed to show up at the required time, and when he did show up he was drunk, although not drunk enough to laugh about it. He blamed me not calling. I blamed him for not listening. We made up before the sun came up.

“Do you ever get jealous? When it comes to me, I mean.”

“Jealousy wastes my time. I have enough to think about right now, I don’t need to add it up with jealousy.” He didn’t even stop to contemplate. I didn’t pause to analyze this. But…

Suddenly I felt really old. His moves were old. I felt we really are old enough, old enough for almost anything. Of course, I didn’t say what’s in my mind. He didn’t say anything either.

We got up and left the house under the watch of the dogs for our dose of air-conditioned room with decent coffee. Along the way I stared jealously at our hands not holding. In my head I can hear myself saying, “Do you think it’s because I’m not young enough for you?”

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