More Than Your Numbers

Photograph by: Kyle Thompson

I don’t want to see you as the sum of the numbers that make up your life.

The likes on your selfies, the number of followers you have on Instagram,
how many girls you’ve kissed
or the number of times you’ve held a cigarette between your lips.

I want to know you for all the parts of you that don’t make sense,
for the mess of thoughts you are before the ink bleeds from your pen.
I want to hear all the things you hide
when your friends ask you if everything’s alright.

I want to touch that mark on your skin you got
one day when you thought you weren’t enough.
I want to feel the words she tattooed on your wayward heart
before she upped and left you in parts.

I don’t want you to strut your stats
(5o likes for a photo of your feet in blue waters)
and think that I care for your numbers.
I don’t care; I’ve never been good at maths.

No, I want to see that beautiful mess of a soul,
and lose myself in all the mysteries it holds.

A Human Paradox

Art by Len-Yan

He was a walking paradox.
Claimed he wanted to explore the world,
but loved to stay in, wearing his warmest socks.

Said he loathed humanity,
but longed for human company.

Could not stand even a breath in his direction,
but would love with breathless, burning passion.

Hated small talk,
but from deep conversations would never balk.

Said he didn’t care what they thought,
and yet an unanswered ‘Hello’ would leave him distraught.

He said he was fine,
and fooled me into not seeing all the signs.

He said he was fine,
but I shouldn’t have believed that line.

Because now he’s gone,
and I understand too late that he was lying all along.

‘Tis I, A Broken Clock

Photography Credits:

The broken clock fixed on the wall above the door stares down at me.

It really is  broken, has been for a while now. And I would appreciate it if the Universe stopped mocking me so blatantly. It’s cheap symbolism, this broken clock. (But then again, it seems cheap is all I can afford. All of the more complex artistry has been lost on me.)

This clock is stuck, always, on one point. And yet when you need the time, you still look to it and there’s that slight moment of realisation when you register the unmoving hands, the frozen picture.

“Oh, of course.”

But the greater irony is near impossible to ignore. (It helps that, over the years, I have spoken irony like a second language, or even as a language in a language.) I can see the midday sun smeared across the clock’s reflective surface. And soon enough, the afternoon sun will take its place. Then it will be the colours of twilight and midnight and dusk and then, again, the softness of breaking dawn.

Time is going on without me.

I am a broken clock, and the seasons, the people are passing me by. I will soon be obsolete.

I am recklessly trying to repair myself, but I know. I’ve run out of battery. Out of hope.

The symbolism is poor-quality if I can understand it. But guess what? I get it. I get the point. I’m a broken clock. Except, I’m also not.

A broken clock cannot repair itself. It has no Life, no Will, no Self. But I am human, and I am all that. I can find Hope again.

Maybe Ugly Doesn’t Exist

Illustration Source:

“You are beautiful because others are ugly.” is never something you hear people say. It’s a rule that does not apply — but somehow the opposite does?

Somehow, you can be ugly because others are beautiful. Because ‘others’ look and are a certain way and you don’t and— and that’s enough to make you ugly. What kind of Beauty is the Beauty you see and feel if it is this easy to discard someone as ugly? Beauty is not unattainable, it flows freely in everyone. Just look at the stars, how easy it is for them to be beautiful, for you to think they are beautiful. You just lift your head up and the black sky is alight with millions of these little twinkling things. And there is no question in your mind from the moment your eyes lift to that milky way that what you are seeing, what you are feeling is…beautiful.

Is Beauty really such a fragile concept that it cannot handle for more than one kind of Beauty without falling apart?

No. Beauty is strong, resilient exactly because it is so diverse. It only ever breaks down when you pervert it, when you try so subjugate it to meaningless rules and standards.

Beauty is wild, all-encompassing. And everything in all its dear imperfection is beautiful.

You are not ugly because others are beautiful— you could never be even if you tried. All on your own, you are beautiful. And that is not going to change, regardless of how others may be.