Violet and Vuvu

Violet sang: "When does anger turn into violence? Automatons are full of anger, and they, devoid of life, slash and kill. Each of us carries an automaton within us, or two, or more. The automatons, they never sleep. They have never lived. But they form a part of us."

Vuvu then whispered: "Does violence clear away the anger that thickens, immeasurably thickens, our brains so much that we eagerly stop thinking? Yes, it does, and that is the problem."

I Love Chilli

I love chilli too much.

I love chilli too much.

I love chilli and chilli too much.

Cogito

I cannot be sure, ergo sum.

Why don't I have a job, Marionette?

Eating ice cream makes me happy. Most of the time.

Modes of Travel

As much as I love to travel,

Far and near,

I may still prefer a life of reading

To a month spent abroad,

Or to a year-long post across the sea,

Over mountainous terrain:

Reading is as good a mode of transportation as can be.

Isn't it?

Grandma said: "Good is not a word."

Chemicals Dua

What was I trying to say? Or rather, what was Quiti trying to say? I suppose she was trying to say that each chemical, even a chemical, has a life of its own. That chemicals are not simply chemicals. They undergo many changes, whether they like it or not; they bond and disband, dance and sleep. They have voices, faces, and feet. If I were a bag of chemicals, then I should be very content.

Chemicals

Quiti sang: "There are clouds, yonder, where my grandmother lives. Apple trees and orchards, they form a reddish cloud together. Blue storms and fire, a green one. High above the telephone poles, the sky rang. Then an emptiness came over me like a raincloud. Something fell, and I began to smell chemicals all around me. The chemicals seemed to be all around me. They swallowed and embraced me. They were my only friends, my jewels. They never came to see me; they always ambushed me. When I tried to hunt them down, they scattered back into their boxes on the Periodic Table. They were too small for me to see, and yet I was small enough for them. They tried to choke me at the same time as they nourished me, half-reluctantly, almost by accident. They said to me, 'You are just a bag of chemicals.' I couldn't say anything. I was too sleepy and dumb to say anything, and knew that the chemicals in my brain were inducing the sleepiness and my own stupidity.... I will not be defeated, I decided, but the hills, the verdant hills, all around sang to the chemicals, and the shifting sunlight seemed to nod in proud agreement, more often so than in disagreement. The sky was now a bright pink. 'Was it a sunset?' I asked. 'Maybe,' Drew answered. 'Perhaps my eyesight has deteriorated?' I asked again. This time, a goldfish answered, 'Perhaps, perhaps not.' Then I asked, 'Is the world coming to an end?' With no pause in between, I said, 'Decidedly not.' I then asked, 'Am I really just a bag of chemicals?' I had to answer this question myself. 'No, no!,' I said, hurriedly. 'I am not a bag of chemicals. Instead, I am a chemical of bags, or better yet, an alchemy of bags. Full of bags, I fly around like a chemical, sometimes sit underground for many years like a chemical, and jump, consume, and am consumed like a chemical, all very clumsily because of the weight of all the bags I carry, and because the alchemical processes in my heart slow me down, for better or for worse.' I may be a ghost. Or a monster."

One breath, two breaths. A breath-ful of chemicals is what tells a story and sings many a song in the evening air.