The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

(Creative writing: 2016)

“If you’re sick of everyone falling for you, stop being so bloody perfect then,” she’d screamed at me, a sheer projection of inadequacy.

*      *     *     *    *

I know that feeling, I was young once, and I remember that insecurity. I also remember the effort it took to outgrow those feelings of “never being enough”, and while part of it was conscious effort to always improve every aspect that was within my control, the other part of it was simply to give it time…to give myself time.

I’d wanted to say that. I knew it was the right thing to say. But the right thing to say would’ve resulted in me having to explain myself, and then talk about my life story or how I came to that realization. It would be insulting, if anything, considering I’ve been writing about my journey for years. You don’t read it, then you ask me questions I’ve already answered countless times, in multiple ways.

Instead, you come at me with these projections and I’m shielded by my own experiences…ones I was never shy about, ones I’ve blasted expressively for years.

Calling me perfect, as if that’s not offensive. As if I’d had everything handed to me and never had to work a day in my life. As if…

Sure, you have the right to feel what you want to feel. You have to express whatever you want.

I also have the right to simply say “Ok, glad you got that out your system now. Was I supposed to do something about it?”

No, darling. I’m not.

It’s that same damn thing you do, every single time you want me to tell you how I feel, knowing that you’re not going to do anything about it. Well, I’m not either. And if the best action is inaction to let things fall into place, then so be it. But I’m not playing your games and I’m not running circles chasing typhoons.

And no, I’m not walking away. What from, anyway? A shadow? A fragment of a memory? An unfinished reality that was never made?

No, darling. Running is your thing, and fighting is mine.

It’s what we do. I’ve accepted that, over time. It’s taken long enough.

I still miss you, but I can’t hold onto what never existed, darling. Much as you wanted to exist, you chose not to, and I suppose that’s what hurts the most…is that at the end of the day, much as you wanted to choose me…you couldn’t. You chose…you

That’s okay, though. I’ve learned to live without you; it’s you who has to live with you.

And for your sake, I sincerely hope you find yourself to be as enjoyable as I found you…If anything…I hope you find you.

I hope you let yourself be found.


I love you, always.


One day, our paths will cross again
One day, our worlds will merge
Day after day
Readying the way
Until the stars emerge

From behind the clouds
That sheltered you in the crowd
You hid from the spotlight —
sunlight and moonlight

But our journey is the same
Our destination is nigh
I took a train
And you, the night flight

We took a different route
Leading to the same airport
A transition point is where we met
Yet “Hello” and “goodbye” was all you sought

I remember you, my love
But the memories weren’t enough
I had to pave a way to ready
Myself for thee

So one day, my dearest,
We shall meet again
In the forest or a desert
City streets or beach
Mountain peaks, ocean deeps
Rooftops atop old bookshops

One day, you and I will meet again
But maybe not today.


And when we meet again my dear
She will be nothing like you…


I fear.



Don’t swipe left.
Just, write.

They say.
Write, now.
Right now.

I wrote my heart away
Bled the ink onto the pages
Turned them until the end cover
When there was nothing to discover
Except enjoying and experiencing
Life and light…

…no longer…
running from the shadows
of where I was once hidden
Grief stricken, never guilt ridden
Good riddance

To whatever was unnecessary
But if we hadn’t been so relentlessly
in pursuit of the selves we’d try to retain
Then why, oh why,
did you refrain from taking just one more step
to meet me

(less than)





To you, my darling,

To you, my love,

To you, my sweetheart,

To you, my dearest,

To you, my beloved,
We need to talk.

I love vous.


(Creative writing: Polyamory)

You’re in pain.

Not because I changed
Not because I walked away
but because you had to face
the demons crawling out of your grave
Incepting their way
into your unrefined space
of a place.





























(True story, biographical.)











So how do I know that I am at peace?



Balanced, and equal.

Within myself.


(Re-blog from )

Write until all that remains is love; Love always remains.

Write until the clouds shift, until the sun comes out to play. Write until there is no more anger, no more pain, no more fear, no more anxiety, no more excuses, no more boundaries. Write, and write, and write, until all that remains…is Love.

It’s explosive. Love is beautiful.

It’s all the good, the bad, the scary, the sad, wrapped up and bundled into a giant confusing package.

But amidst all the confusion and turmoil, there is that steadfast, security that sometimes feels like a literal rock. A rock that, no matter how hard it is pushed, the one pushing only ricochets because it is so much stronger than any human.

That rock, is Love.

Love itself is strong,  much stronger than humans are sometimes capable. Humans fall short of Love itself — if Love were to stand alone, it could be much like the Himalayas with ambivalent directions pointing left, right, centre, when all you had to do was keep going up; or deep as the Grand Canyon with a bunch of trampolines in case one does “accidentally fall in Love”.

But the journey to Love is sometimes treacherous; ask any adventurer or explorer. Getting stuck in potholes, sinking in quicksand; frost bite, rope burn, to name a few. It’s the journey that is the adventure. Love is free of cost, but not free of journey. It is not a state in which one can teleport; it is a “destination” that one reaches.

To a writer, writing is that journey. It is that path one writes, scribbling lines paving the way to the heart of a writer. It is the concoction of words concatenating the thoughts, the feels, the warm embraces. It is the bridges we cross and walk around in circles trying to find our ways around the place, trying to write out the steps to the destination.

Love heals.

To write, is to love.
To love, is to heal.
To write, is to heal to love.

Write until all that remains is love.

All. That. Remains.

Is love.


Writing is immortality. It is that flux between turning memories and fantasy into reality.

You get inspired, you fall in love with that feeling, you want to keep that spark alive, so you write. You write about what inspires you, you write about who inspires you. You write, and write, and write, until you realize the only thing surreal about what is written is that the encryptions are your reality transformed into the physical entity of writing.

There is a person behind the words.
There is a story within those words.
There is soul inside the poetry.
There is feeling in reality.

What is unwritten is only ever unfinished, and what is unfinished needs to be written. What needs to be written will be lived, and what was lived is thusly transcribed.

Write, darling, for it is your immortality.

I write, darling, for it is my immortality.

It is our immortality.

Write, darling, just write.

Until there is nothing left to say except the raw, wild, unfiltered, unencumbered, relentless, limitless feeling of what humans have come to call “inspiration”.

Write, darling, for it is immortality.

Just. Write.





But she always loved what she wrote. Always.

And through writing, she always, always loved.


To write, and to love.


And I wanted her to write with me.

To write,
is to love.

To be writing,
is to be love.


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