Tag: prose

  • it is beautiful, it is sad

    It is unbearably beautiful, and it is unbearably sad. I am sitting on a bench in a quiet corner of the botanical gardens, and I am trying to pinpoint, once again, this emotion that has been a constant thrum throughout my life. People drift by, and I can almost feel time, its inevitable essence, flow…


  • Shrapnel

    It’s been about five, six years. I’m still picking his shrapnel out of my bones, I’m still learning how to walk again without a limp; I’m still training myself to forgive and to understand and not to flinch. I can romanticise it, of course I can, weave it into my story, make it floral and…