Archive for the ‘Introspective prose’ Category

Sometimes you get addicted to the idea of being a spook, a passerby, a sojourner: drifting through the pages of life like a redundant letter without getting assimilated into any permanent narrative – friendly enough not to be a creep but translucent enough to be looked past and forgotten. It gives you the god-like perspective of a narrator/observer: detached and ephemeral enough to observe the subtle nuances of human behavior—the expedient nature of adulthood and the rampant double standards.

I am a runner. I’ve always been a runner. I’m addicted to running. I’ve never belonged anywhere. I am too empathetic, I care too much. Being a spook is the only way I can move along the world without absorbing all the sorrow that comes from an empathetic connection. I even long to run away from myself. Je suis d’ailleurs, Alcest sang. But I also long for a deeper intimacy with that one soul, that intimacy that transcends mortal inadequacies. The truth is, this world provides nothing like solace for a soul like mine, a Steppenwolf. The more I live, the more confusing it gets as the world strips you of all those illusions that buoyed you through childhood. Where will I stand in the dust of a done life?

© David2018



Love stoned

Posted: April 28, 2017 in Introspective prose

she thinks she walks around on tiny feet
but no matter how she tries, her shoes are always big
she smiles and waves, a beautiful soul i’ll ever meet
a meek sheep with a lion heart, stuck in a world of filthy pigs


she holds herself when all others crawl
a day without her is a monotonous bore
and yet she doesn’t know it, she is blind to her glow
i’ll forever be infatuated, around her i’ll hang even more…

A singular madness

Posted: June 30, 2016 in Introspective prose

dark thoughts and black clouds

The shine in my eyes has faded, a subtle glint left where a brilliance used to sit. My laughter has gone from a bellow to a soft chuckle, and my smile refuses to reach my eyes. I’m tired, exhausted really. Nothing comes easy, with pain and rage being the exception. I struggle against myself to put these few words down, strewn across the page in a rush as if I may run out of time. Ah time, the fleeting moments slipping by merely to remind me that they are gone forever. A morose and melancholy madness plays across my mind, pumping a singular kind of crazy through my veins. I retract back into myself, going into the mass graves of my imagination to sift through ashes of war. Hoping to salvage whatever scraps of ideas or creativity I can find from a time before the conflict. The internal struggle rages…

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Guys Like Us

Posted: August 13, 2015 in Introspective prose

When your life is dark, light is just a fleeting memory that lingers mockingly. And so against all advice not to, you hold to the past—you hold on to memory. Letting go means losing all the light, it means losing all hope. For the past holds all truth in this cornucopia of chaotic madness. The past reminds you that nomatter how trite and futile this life is, there are ghosts that will forever understand you—ghosts that once danced merrily in the vast plains of your lonely heart—ghosts you let down once but never more.

And so you hold on to your amorphous ghosts; pale spirits devoid of all memories yet still better companions to the ones you now have. Even though they are just figments of your own guilty conscience, you hold on to them nonetheless. They are the core and they are the roof, without them you’re just a wisp of shadow.

There is no virtue in letting go, this a proven fact. You might try hard to shout in out to all shrinks and people who think they know better but they never will understand. Letting go severs all compunctious sentiments and you realize, when the time comes, that letting go was never one of your quiddites.

Why move on when you can linger in utopian memories? Why let go of the beautiful faces and warm smiles that gave life to your heart? Why burn bridges to the few people who helped you hang on to your sanity when your whole world was topsy-turvy — people who knew the right words to selflessly motivate you for the greater good? There is no reason to let go. Instead you have every reason to hold on to the memories (meager as they may be) and let them be a beam of hope as you swing into the unknown future. Let them be a beacon as you wonder into the mystic.

The past may be obdurate but the future is relentless. It waits fully armed and it drains us of all happy thoughts. The future is full of longings and regrets and yet we look forward to it. All we do is hope, all we do is pray. We pray to all known entities for we are not even sure of the right deities. Simple and insufferable idiots as we might be, we pray not for riches or gold at the end of the rainbow; we pray instead that after all has been said and done, we’ll still be holding on to our wits—we’ll still be holding on to our marbles. This is our essence, Guys like us, this is our threnody.

Life goes on and we leave the people we once were behind. It’s the continuous river of time and we’re just mere silt caught in the undercurrent. Rivers flow into seas and seas into oceans, and yet we get tangled early downstream. It’s the rhythm of life, you just have to take what you can.

David Phiri 2015