Today’s Not Today

the wind blows
ticklish and firm
like how my mother used to
brush my hair and say,
“stop squirming”

I take a step outside
and immediately apologise
for almost tripping over
a cat
and I laugh as it turns its nose up at me
all the while saying, “pardon me, sir,
you have a good day, be careful now”

the rocks on the pavement
greet my feet like old friends
and they say, “long time no see”
and I skip merrily
leaving behind crunch, crunch, crunch

the azure canvas above
my head
swirls with white cotton candy
and smiles with a shine of
tame golden light

why is the world happy to see me?
why does it show me grace and beauty?
I stepped outside my dark room
and my dark house
out of my dark thoughts
intending to travel to
no man’s land
one last time
one last breath

but when I get to the bridge
a cyclist almost crashes
into me
and instead of getting cross
he says, “sorry, are you okay?”
and when he leaves
his bell still rings in my ears

and when I look down
the water is calm and it
dances with my face on its waves
and suddenly a lone drop
should have hardly disturbed it
but when it reaches the river
circles expand, larger and larger
than my terrible life
and it showed me
perhaps the world won’t be the same
if it never knew my name

so I wipe away the river
from my eyes
and I dance to the tune of
cars passing me by
and I say
“not today.”

Defamiliarization

Perception becomes habitual,
It becomes automatic.
And so life is reckoned as nothing.

I walked these halls each day, for years.
Shoes squeaking on linoleum floors,
Hearing distant echoes of laughter and screams.
I pried open the wooden door,
Always careful of its rusty hinges
And its makeshift lock,
Always careful not to
Scratch myself on the exposed nail.
It’s routine,
It’s a pattern,
It’s always in the afternoon.
It’s predictable.
And that is where I went wrong.

Art is a way of experiencing the artfulness
Of an object.
After we do something several times,
We begin to recognise it.
Art removes objects and experiences
From the automatism of perception.

Is it art then?
That experience
Of being torn inside out?
Is that art then,
In the form of a familiar faceless boy
Whose name I know but cannot say,
To teach me a lesson, far too early, far too soon?
With my pounding heart echoing defiance,
Still not loud enough for his ears?
Is that art, as I contemplated the
Colour of the toilet lid, warm eggshell grey.

Is that art?
As I felt myself change colour —
Violet, blue, green, red;
As I heard his chuckles in my ear,
A symphony that does not follow
The drumming in my chest,
Felt his fingers made of fire
On my ice-cold skin?
Is that art then,
That novel experience
Of staring at a toilet lid from above,
As pain ruptured below,
And a photograph of that stall
Embeds itself within?

Defamiliarization,
Is what they call it.
Defamiliarization,
They say, is a characteristic
Of art.

Is this art then?
Is my suffering beautiful?
Is my life not reckoned as nothing now?
Is my life something, at last?
Does it have any meaning?
Tell me —
Is this art?