tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37624407274480491592011-12-09T22:27:15.857+09:30Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. DoctorowOceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.comBlogger1091100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-90289325185641267522011-12-02T22:07:00.001+09:302011-12-02T22:10:35.282+09:30

Sol finds the phone number on the side of a post box in a suburb he doesn’t often visit. He posts a letter there on the day only because he is passing through. Letters were not a great passion of his, yet he still knows a meagre few who prefer their correspondence written in ink and memories, not pixels and digits. The thought of recording himself would sometimes make him smile, mostly because he

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-58322817190671220432011-08-29T22:25:00.001+09:302011-08-29T22:25:55.842+09:30

A spark in the dark begins it. The stolen lighter flares and goes out, flares again with the flip of a thumb. Tongue between lips he worries what she thinks of him, not even man enough to start a fire on a cold night in the middle of that bushland. The middle of nowhere really. Just a clearing with a random mass of rocks arranged in the middle. Someone else’s little construction he’s claimed as

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-70913552494915941512011-08-28T21:38:00.000+09:302011-08-28T21:38:13.076+09:30

There’s salt on my fingertips, and in the seams of my clothes. I can still remember what the beach felt like, that breeze coming off the breakers, a slipstream direct from the sea. When I try to sleep now, all I can hear is the ocean, like my ears are my very own seashell, echoing out into the silence of this winter. Or maybe, that’s just my heartbeat, whooshing past in my ears, a wave of blood,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-44071892271891735612011-08-19T21:37:00.002+09:302011-08-19T21:39:03.475+09:30

Drip...            Drip...                         Drip...                                      Drip...                                                     A puddle, a river.  The steady flows weighs it down and pushes the liquid forward, forward. Drip...            Drip...                         Drip...                                                        It pools.  There’s no incline here,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-8544752886476738232011-05-26T22:54:00.002+09:302011-12-09T22:27:15.878+09:30

I lost my heart yesterday. Left, accidentally I think, on the last bus heading out of town and to the horizon. I thought the bus was empty, but then at the back I saw a time traveller, lost halfway to yesterday. She was crying, and her tears were like tiny universes caressing her cheeks, glittering and leaving only trails of stardust where her sorrow used to be. I wanted to catch one of those

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-29679798885077806482011-04-15T21:31:00.000+09:302011-04-15T22:30:48.488+09:30

You are beautiful like nightmares are beautiful Because the next day everything seems better And those memories are just that Shadowed in corners and easily forgotten The screams that woke you from your slumber They’re still there But you barely believe they’re yours Looking in the mirror with your mouth open Trying to see where they came from The chasm of your soul But you’re still beautiful

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-6809820943433406932011-04-14T21:30:00.003+09:302011-04-14T21:30:47.410+09:30

There is something here made of glass It is us We here All of us are made of glass Collected together from tiny molecules Like star dust and crystals Melted in the furnace until you can’t see the Cracks But we can Or at least we feel them under our skin They rub against our bones Push against our flesh Time passes We feel the cracks widen and suck us down Down into their darkness Their depths We

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-77712033595516503042011-04-13T22:16:00.000+09:302011-04-13T22:16:14.707+09:30

J The women’s business Secrets held in jars in tins Yours to mine and back M Bad jokes, black humour I’ll race you to the finish We are still the same S Inside is madness But if we keep our mouths shut Nobody will know ALL Minds out of gutters But nothing is off limits Laugh until we cry Obviously I went haiku crazy with my bad haiku. Oh well, it's the thought...

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-51883442930714213702011-04-13T22:02:00.002+09:302011-04-13T22:20:02.494+09:30

Tears, memories and unanswered questions. This is what you left behind. We looked for you everywhere. Searching hearts, homes and histories For some trace of you Some sign Where are you going? (The sevenling is my newly discovered poetry form. Google for more info.)

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-74559743221703219512011-04-12T21:32:00.002+09:302011-04-12T21:32:51.149+09:30

When I die I want your hands on my eyes Hold them closed so my spirit doesn’t boomerang back Into my body When I die I want to just go like I’m meant to Nobody lives forever after all. When I die I want your hands on my eyes They might be shaking but I won’t notice anyway I’m already gone But I’ll still take those tears, that sob and that whisper There’s a part of me that knows that’s goodbye

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-84301955816026241862011-04-11T12:00:00.001+09:302011-04-19T19:14:29.242+09:30

This is a dress fit for a princess But she must be mad And have no concept of beauty At least that surface beauty But below the skin she will be a masterpiece of muscle A tantalising, titillating tale of tissue An outrageous oracle of organs. In this dress she will dance a devil’s jig on the roof of a church Screaming pagan curses to the sky She will spin and cause a hurricane of splinters Drill

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-84137146089587158832011-04-10T19:35:00.003+09:302011-04-10T19:37:17.133+09:30

The summer Levi heard about Ray Lewis going missing was a good mango summer. That was one of the only things he remembered about it really. Watching the news and the broadcasts and listening on the radio as he stood, elbow deep in mango pulp and stickiness. The knife, blade gleaming, slicing through the skin as though it were the softest thing in the world, sun kissed and just perfectly coloured.

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-37133402637528459472011-04-10T19:12:00.002+09:302011-04-10T19:13:13.612+09:30

‘We are the sea,’ she used to say to him as they would sit on the beach at sunrise or sunset and listen to the waves, or the bird calls, or both. And just as the world was spinning he would wrap his arms around her and feel like a treasure hunter pulling a relic from underneath the layers of their existence. She was an antique human, not born of this world. She never belonged here and walked

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-71913247270904847092011-01-28T16:54:00.002+09:302011-02-02T15:36:47.126+09:30

With a magic marker I could cast the spell of drunken late night facial hair and rarely plucked eyebrows...on women. I could give you an eyepatch and a murderer's scar on your cheek and set you free on the wild waters of the ocean on a boat made of beer cans and bad intentions and maybe you'd make it, but maybe you wouldn't and your soul would have to wander those waves for a lifetime and a day

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-85101896194294908722011-01-28T08:21:00.000+09:302011-10-03T18:39:11.794+09:30

“This is going to be epic,” Jonno yells, his voice barely reaching Tony as they stand at the club’s entrance. People flow into it in droves and sound flows out, waves of it. Tony can hear the noise run down the street. It barrels through the busy roads filled with motorcycles and sleazy drug peddlers. It bounces off the open drains and through the stores selling cheap knock offs. He is caught up

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-21832777705377506742010-12-17T16:22:00.003+09:302011-01-24T21:11:16.481+09:30

Tonight we will sit by the phone and wait for the call that signals the end. And as the night trickles on we’ll scream at the stars and cry at the moon but it will do us no good because that’s how it is. Tonight we will sit by the phone and wait for the call that signals the breath and comes at the last. And we’ll hope it goes slow or we’ll hope it goes fast. And we’ll want them to hold on for

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-31755603877042072112010-10-26T18:20:00.005+09:302010-10-26T22:16:12.755+09:30

The first time it happened she thought it was just one of those things. A crazy dream that’s so real you can touch it, grab it with both hands and hold it close to your heart for as long as the night will let you. But when the morning came she could still sense it, the sun’s warmth, the feeling of clouds at her fingertips and the pockets of hot air rushing past against her skin. After the third

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-9572133080850063972010-10-25T21:27:00.001+09:302010-10-25T21:27:16.990+09:30

The first mistake he made was his entry. In the front door swaying with the creaking floor boards, a murderer’s dance, because he thought nobody would expect that. The second mistake was his attitude. Casual, because he’d been here before, so many times it had become like a ritual of violence, the knife wounds, bloody tears and those screams in the darkness that nobody ever heard. The third

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-71470068981513444722010-09-09T18:22:00.003+09:302010-09-09T20:23:38.563+09:30

“One more,” says the shadowed man, and he downs his drink like a lightning bolt to the brain, slams the glass on the bar and stares. The barman doesn’t say a word, because he knows the look and knows the white knuckled grip lost men have around bar glasses like lifesavers in stormy seas. “One more,” the shadowed man repeats, and repeats again, and still the barman says nothing but holds the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-44200050830609280552010-09-09T18:16:00.002+09:302010-09-09T18:16:40.642+09:30

The morning after they ran away from home, Abby and Danger had cake for breakfast. It was squished into abstract art from Danger’s pocket and when he whipped it out and they unwrapped it from a plastic cage Abby said it tasted like freedom, but Danger thought it was more like wet grass and cold park benches. That day, with the sickly sweet taste of new horizons stuck between their teeth, they sat

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-69085267432587320552010-08-16T23:34:00.002+09:302010-09-10T14:26:09.375+09:30

When Grace was five years old she fell in love with a boy who thought he was Superman. He refused to wear anything that wasn’t red or blue or white, even though at five white so quickly became brown with the dirt of learning to walk like a man. By the time he was ten he held himself straighter than the gum tree in the park, which they would sit under to talk about the flying and the line between

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-65420237322542315862010-08-16T23:33:00.002+09:302010-08-16T23:33:32.529+09:30

She has never heard the sound a note makes bouncing off her ear drums, nor had the incessant annoyance of a tune ingrained in her mind, so she doesn’t understand music. But she can dance, to songs unknown, perhaps only the beating of her heart in that void of silence. Her hands make silent beats on wooden tables as she mimics my movements, but fails to see their purpose. I have never known

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-88929283955963170572010-08-07T14:32:00.002+09:302010-08-07T14:32:45.164+09:30

In the morning, Lisa sat on the beach and ate papaya swimming in lime juice while listening to people argue about the price of fish. She didn’t understand exactly what they were saying, but their language was so alien it sounded like a song, and every now and then the fisherman would brandish the bloody half of a swordfish he seemed so eager to sell. The scent of fish blood wafted over to her

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-41870860897662788782010-07-11T01:14:00.003+09:302010-07-11T01:18:26.937+09:30

We called him the Captain. Despite having neither ship nor crew, he held himself like a lantern on the far horizon and I could so easily imagine his hands balancing a compass to guide his vessel through the night. His step was cautious and slow, like at any moment he expected the ground beneath his feet to pitch and roll on some invisible wave, and there was a smell about him, so different than

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-4905039703144486182010-07-04T00:18:00.002+09:302010-07-04T00:18:32.550+09:30

My taxi driver, with no more intense questioning than that of his wellbeing, tells me in a confessional tone I’ve always associated with candles and churches that he was once a preman, a thug. I like the way the Indonesian word slips off the tongue on a boat made of rolled Rs and the sinister edge it has like the crushed bones of the arms he used to break when loans weren’t met. “I broke them in

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-73026144892586263722010-06-29T12:37:00.002+09:302010-06-29T16:23:44.686+09:30

If you peek in between the layers of that nightmare over there, past the line of fantasy and into the illusion from which all deceptions are born, you will find Dr. Ramsey. He lives there, where the water falls up but people grow down, eventually embedding their tired bodies into the purple ground, feet first so when the earth claims their skulls, grass grows through follicles, reaching for the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-60312344069616432992010-05-25T11:59:00.001+09:302010-05-25T11:59:51.079+09:30

A woman, over there, ten steps, ten metres. I can smell her. Perfume like blossoms,the blossoms on the grass at the park andthe sound of children screaming, running kites across the lawns. Screaming bloody.Blood drips heavy across hands,can’t be washed out,can’t be scrubbed for trying.Hours and hours…that kitchen sink… she hummed, washed vegetables,                                    a pot, a

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-59608770025501897652010-05-25T10:51:00.002+09:302010-05-25T10:51:54.532+09:30

Sometimes, when I’m a long way from home, I can live off nothing but dry toast and nightmares. I count the stars painted on the clouds, there is safety here, a practiced art of ascension. I don’t sleep anymore, but I think a lot about time. I watch the sunrise and the sunset and see how beautiful insomnia can be. My head is full of forests laden with lost pocket watches. I am living Dali’s dreams.

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-38610325215394571632010-05-12T14:29:00.000+09:302010-05-12T14:29:43.363+09:30

Surfers Paradise may very well have been an undiscovered stretch of coast once, frequented by massive prehistoric reptiles warming their cold blood on the sand. But since the development rush those reptiles have been replaced by large, pink mammals that beach themselves on these pale shores to roast. The waves break angrily on the sand, resenting the rise of these buildings and their rush

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-59055582921166388422010-05-12T14:26:00.002+09:302010-05-12T14:26:51.451+09:30

If you consumed the Parap Markets, I imagine it would taste like my childhood. It’s in the flavours of spicy beef curry that burnt delicious holes into plastic and tongues, until I felt Malaysia rush through my veins. And it’s in fights over fruit ice-cream to nourishing hot mouths, when sticky hands slipped to spoon in the last morsels of perfection. But it’s also be in the way I would secretly

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-86592760438315481562010-05-01T22:39:00.002+09:302010-05-07T13:58:13.104+09:30

You can see the sound shake the walls, Dance music and booty calls. Expanding in this space, We move with it, We chase. We are the slave, To drum and bass. Writhing bodies fill the floor, You are not who you were before. A rising urge we can’t control, Flashing lights will fill the soul. Every room has a heart, There’s chaos here, And art. So with the dawn, We shall depart. But not now as moon

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-46063657760243212872010-04-29T19:16:00.001+09:302010-04-29T19:17:03.821+09:30

We scattered his ashes on a beach in Berry. The wind, like it was privy to our purpose, blew a gale for the horizon like a highway. And I saw him. A shadow. A hint of some immortal soul in the shapes his ashes made on their way into the water. This man, once six feet tall, a tower, but shrinking as my memory grew to replace him. He was always tall to me. Even bent over facing final days he seemed

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-75077936878595796422010-04-13T22:25:00.004+09:302010-04-29T19:17:52.248+09:30

My mother told me once that her family is descended from gypsies, so wanderlust was woven in her blood. She left home at seventeen, was married at twenty-one, then divorced, then married again, and then divorced and so on. She told me that love was one of those things that will just up and leave sometimes, and you have to follow it. So she went after it, all over the world. I found a photo of her

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-33290932889547027532010-04-09T12:20:00.001+09:302010-04-09T19:15:04.595+09:30

When science opened her ears up, opened her brain to the sound, she cried. She cried and then cried more for hearing it. For days she sat in city malls with her eyes closed and lived life in other people’s decibels. She didn’t sleep for weeks, instead sat by busy road sides and listened to the cars go by. Finally hearing that whoosh. That sound of being so close to the slipstream your skin moves.

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-50328121182738549012010-03-28T22:12:00.003+09:302010-03-28T22:15:46.983+09:30

Roland has a special key that unlocks a secret door. This door will take you to nowhere. But not the nowhere you know. See, this nowhere is actually somewhere and everywhere, while still being nowhere. That’s just how things work sometimes. Roland keeps this key in a special place. Like most special places, it is secret and safe. If you were to ask Roland where it is he would tell you it is

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-24108082013798278832010-03-24T20:11:00.001+09:302010-03-24T20:12:04.262+09:30

I was going to write a story about the sun, but when I looked to the sky it burned my eyes. I was going to write a story about the moon, but when I looked up, it wasn't there. I was going to write a story about the stars, but the clouds hid them from my view. I was going to write a story about the shapes in the sky, but they were sewn together with thunder and lightning. I was going to write a

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-33505268815296336292010-03-23T22:31:00.004+09:302011-01-28T17:04:01.600+09:30

Charlie has a dragon living under his bed that looks like Death. Charlie knows what Death looks like because in the hospital, on Easter Sunday, when Charlie’s grandpa took his last breath, there was a shimmery light that bounced off the walls and fell out the window. Charlie’s mother said it was just a refraction of the light, but Charlie didn’t know what that meant. Plus it looked like Death,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-1491994762482707392010-03-23T22:13:00.001+09:302010-03-23T22:33:07.684+09:30

There’s a tree in Molly’s garden. It’s taller than she can see and wider than she can throw her arms around, but she hopes one day her skinny limbs will encompass it. Molly likes to think that, when she hugs this tree and gets bark scrapes on her belly, she can rest her ear against its skin and feel it breathe. Sometimes she likes to think she can hear it talk. “That tree talks you know,” she

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-33438410130181396202010-03-19T12:46:00.002+09:302010-03-19T19:17:20.613+09:30

There are strange particles in the air. I can see them. They look like dust, but I know they are something different. I can smell them too. They do not smell like mould and old houses, they smell like the past. They smell like the dawn and the night. Like babies and coffins. I can smell them all around me. I can taste them. They taste like your first birthday cake, your last kiss. They taste

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-16135422072305767612010-03-11T23:09:00.004+09:302010-03-11T23:09:54.382+09:30

I can see the sound shake the walls. It permeates this space, and we move with it. Slaves after masters. You can’t stand immobile. Even distancing yourself from this mass of movement is impossible. Everywhere is the dance floor. The flashing lights leave me hypnotised and I can see the walls move. This place is breathing. It lives because we do. We are so young, have so much life that it spills

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-38154088631971589882010-02-09T09:39:00.002+09:302010-02-09T09:39:52.174+09:30

My hands do not look like my own hands. They did once but do no longer. I stare at them now with eyes trapped in these prisons called order. They say there is no order without chaos. I say there is no order, only chaos, masked and renamed. Order being the pseudonym, the last resort or the disillusioned, disenfranchised youth of a world where you can look at your hands, and notice they don’t look

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-11797113630511145252010-02-09T09:25:00.000+09:302010-02-09T09:25:16.983+09:30

“Why does it hurt so much?” “Hurt where?” “Everywhere.” “Well, if you asked a doctor I guess he would say that it doesn’t really hurt. It’s just your head that makes you think it does.” “And if I asked you?” He sighed heavily, dragging his eyes over to meet hers, red and distant, but waiting. “If you asked me, I’d say it hurts because your heart is hurting. It hurts because a part of yourself,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-17369655803531638102010-01-18T13:00:00.001+09:302010-01-18T13:00:34.075+09:30

We drag its structure from all corners. We collect it days in advance from mosquito infested mangroves and childhood parks. We crane our necks to trees, just wishing they would drop something suitable. Please, we beg silently, we will make it something beautiful. The firewood we pile into our chariot, already laden with family and food. We begin our trek to the beach. Our beach, small and hidden

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-72687032092880384232010-01-12T20:21:00.001+09:302010-01-18T13:18:51.971+09:30

They say all the great ones had inside them the seeds of insanity. For years it may lay dormant, but one day, a sight or a sound would bring it into being. The seeds would hatch and wind their roots throughout the mind. But these were not joyous hatchings. For insanity is a cruel plant, burning without thought to consequence where ever a tendril of its body should tread. And as it digs itself

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-73928813602779443262010-01-12T20:20:00.000+09:302010-01-12T20:38:10.423+09:30

In his shadowy, lover’s voice he told her once she was like a hermit in her own head. Her laugh was neither acknowledging nor dismissing, but deep down she knew the truth. That night, she dreamt of the inside of her mind, like a cave filled with clay coloured paintings of her fantasies. The fire and smoke filled her den of thoughts, permeating into every corner with its ideas and possibilities.

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-87287937801642610822010-01-12T20:18:00.000+09:302010-01-12T20:42:20.528+09:30

We will all deal with death in different ways. He will jog, run, sprint, lift weights and sweat until his breath is heavy and heaving, and he feels alive. She will sit in that chair, and smoke, and consider the years in her life, and the life in her years. They will hug their children, and not say a word, and bathe in the sound of their voices, their innocence, their life. I will sit and stare at

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-20534948995075144202010-01-12T20:15:00.000+09:302010-01-12T20:41:10.287+09:30

He was a wanted man and the world was his hiding place. He would go where no others had gone and see things as no one else had ever seen them. In the end, there was little left of him. So a part of nature and the world around him the he ceased to exist as a part of society. His friends forgot his name and his family buried him in the past, left to photo albums and the dust of time. His shadow

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-2633752271401454982010-01-12T20:08:00.002+09:302010-01-12T20:08:59.443+09:30

My tomato plant was dying. It had yielded one, tiny tomato - blood red like a heart - which I had, in my overwhelming excitement, plucked. After all, it was just hanging there. Contrasting the leaves, reaching out to touch me. “Take me,” it whispered, or seemed, at least in my mind to say, “Take me.” But now my tomato plant reaches nowhere. I water it religiously, pray to it, sing to it, will

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-66637470640343924742009-12-29T14:44:00.000+09:302009-12-29T14:44:35.890+09:30

David had never been out on Halloween before, but now he followed a ball of light so brilliant it pierced his iris and struck the back of his skull like a bolt of lightning while his tiny feet moved silently along the steaming roads. Not wanting to be left behind he broke into a run and chased the light like a happy fool until it stopped in front of a house and, before he could just to catch it,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-85211273136790414052009-12-26T19:15:00.005+09:302010-01-18T13:19:15.160+09:30

When Death calls on you, black cloak rustling in silent breezes, you stand at a fork in the road. You can go. You will hold your hand out like a child following parents long ago. Death will not take it. His fingers will instead remain hidden in the volumes of his shroud. But as he walks, you will follow regardless, pulled by the tides of a thousand oceans. Death will take you to a field that

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Hamish has a butterfly in a jar. The jar seems impossibly big in his small boy hands, with tiny knuckle wrinkles, and bitten fingernails soaked in dirt. Hamish keeps the jar and the butterfly by his bed, and when he can’t sleep for his parent’s yelling, he looks at its wings fluttering in the moonlight. The butterfly’s wings are blue, red and transparent, so that sometimes, when Hamish squints,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-17136513497426342232009-12-26T18:33:00.000+09:302009-12-26T18:34:11.902+09:30

Before her eyes held the wrinkles of time, and her hair faded raven black to silver, Elizabeth played the piano. Her stiff hands still hold the music, notes like leaves, chords like sweet fruits that grow through ears and into souls. As time moves, and Death glides up her garden path, Elizabeth's hands find familiar keys, feeling the warmth rise to her fingertips, pressing sounds through the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-62050750352852916932008-11-03T18:46:00.004+09:302009-05-25T12:14:03.002+09:30

I am officially a part of the National Novel Writing Month, even though it's International because it's all over the world. Regardless, I am behind on my quota, so I have given a prayer to the Dark Gods Of Literature. Would you like to hear it? I couldn't bare to deprive you, here it is!To the Darkest of Dark Writing Gods, Who Hide In The Shadowed Spaces of My Keyboard And Inside The Carbon

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-27679059240640654162008-10-19T21:35:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:43:18.313+09:30

Inside a busy shopping mall, with bustling, consuming hamsters all around me, I fought my way towards grimy tables with a fragrant felafel in one hand, and my musical escape in the other. In all the chaos I almost missed him, standing still and silent as a sentinel beside the crepe café. His thick tinted glasses reflected a hundred cautious but curious eyes while his stick sat still at his side,

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-24526613525254261202008-10-19T21:28:00.003+09:302009-05-25T13:42:58.932+09:30

It's Friday night and we're wild and free.School's out for the weekend.With wild eyes together weShall claim this night and tendTo hearts soon on the mend.It's Friday night and the lights are out.They fill the midnight sky.With wild eyes and songs to shoutWe'll claim this night and cryJust wishing we could fly.It's Friday night and there's food to eat.The spices fill out hearts.With wild eyes and

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-62863574035432758722008-09-13T12:50:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:42:34.275+09:30

She was the quiet, studious type until that night when the drinks came out. The first few beers left her stable but then they wandered into the kitchen to create colourful concoctions without thought to flavour or even effect. Down went the drinks and out came the secrets, the fears, the hopes and the dreams of this girl he would never see the same again. "Everyone thinks I'm perfect but I'll

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-20050432031464161952008-08-31T17:34:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:43:40.889+09:30

In the essence of my soul I am a dreamer.Born and bred a hippy child by parents who were willing, and wanting, to give me a life outside the square of what was normal.For a time I detested that they had labelled me with a name that screamed of smoking campfires with burn out pots, backpack adventures across the sunburnt land and brightly coloured tie-dye revealed at music festivals and

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-83318813930887499542008-08-31T17:31:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:43:57.135+09:30

I am my brother’s keeper.He is young and in his youth he sees me, not so much as old or wise, but as a type of guide until the point at which he thinks he can steer himself.I see him as a seed, much like the ones he planted in his veggie patch the other day and sat, patient and silent, to see if he could watch them grow.In the same way I have sat to watch him grow and with the same patience I

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-58421884156269476592008-08-30T18:09:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:44:11.244+09:30

There was a rainbow outside the mental hospital today, a natural entertainment for the patients hidden inside."Red, like the blood of our husband smeared all over the kitchen floor and the knife in our hand," recalled the multiple personality patient."Orange and Yellow, like the pretty, burning houses in my neighbourhood," giggled the pyromaniac."Green, like infection and disease," shuddered the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-74768774013481317602008-04-23T18:51:00.010+09:302009-05-25T13:44:39.915+09:30

Dreamer, Dreamer, Dreamer...Your words are never meaner,As you scorn the things I care about,And all that I hold dear.But you don't see beyond my skin.You can't hear my words above all this din.So I keep on dreaming,As you look on and stare.Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming...So I can keep from screaming.And I won't be a realist,Or live inside the square.Do not give me white walls,Or black funerals

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-32989089490751179422008-04-23T18:22:00.006+09:302009-05-25T13:45:24.955+09:30

This is a poem written in conjunction with four other poets at a poetry workshop. Each poet wrote a few lines based on the last line of the previous poet. Thanks to Finn, Andrew, Kurt and Adam for their work.I wish I didn't have to shout Screaming just to live a pennies drop awaySo close yet so far awayIt's just not close enough to graspThe reach of life deceives us all, what shadow do you cast?

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-1543403079285932632008-03-18T22:59:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:46:17.982+09:30

Once my father was sent an email,And in that email was an attachment,And in that attachment a photo,And in that photo,Was me…Only it wasn’t me,Because that photo was already 80 years old,And the girl was in it: dead and gone,But she still looks like me.It throws my mind into freewheeling flow,And I think a lot of things I didn’t want to know:Can’t help but wonder ‘bout this girl who looks like

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-56535305659173791562008-03-07T15:11:00.006+09:302009-05-25T13:46:41.238+09:30

When I was born I was safe in the arms of Love, And thank all the powers above, That's where I stayed, And in the arms of Love I was made. When I grew up I was exposed, No door to life ever closed. So I explored and I learned,And sometimes I got burned. In the arms of Love I was free, Those arms let me be me. Love never held too tight. Love sometimes let me fight. So I learned and I grew,But

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-90517217309524488522008-03-07T14:59:00.005+09:302009-05-25T13:47:00.858+09:30

Love me again like you loved me before,And we’ll link arms and dance on the shore.We’ll watch the sun sink over the ocean,For each other we’ll feel only devotion.Love me again like you loved me before,And we’ll laugh and joke on the living room floor.We’ll paint the walls in a beautiful hue,There will be nobody else, just me and you.Love me again like you loved me before,And we’ll both quit our

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-19215249728138306702008-03-07T13:10:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:47:26.657+09:30

I long for you, like birds long for the sky, Like butterflies long for the flowers, Like children long for spring. I long for you, with every beat of my heart, And every section of my soul. With every blink of my eyelashes, I long for you. So much do I long for you, That I would go to the farthest corner of the earth, To the darkest valley of the planet, To the highest point of the globe. So much

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-5831321448536182352008-01-19T13:33:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:48:23.712+09:30

Lo there do I see my father:And his father,My grandfatherAnd all the men before himRole models of these sonsThe strength of these families fighting valiantlyTo live in a world where they can be safeWhere their children will live protectedAnd happyLo there do I see my mother, my sisters and my brothers:Making up these familiesJokes and TearsLaughter and PainRaising children and keeping up

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-89320270023800883322007-12-19T21:42:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:49:06.733+09:30

I am from old bamboo chairs, from Coco Pops and Home Brand Nutella.I am from the "everyone is welcome" house. Never ending rooms full of sleeping people, a lawn that sings of happy gatherings and a smoking campfire never to be forgotten.I am from the coconut, papaya, jackfruit and mango trees. From that indestructible weed by the pool fence that, like our family, never disappears but always

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-822484948006068632007-11-29T18:42:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:49:25.331+09:30

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-88359657705363917712007-11-28T13:05:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:49:38.410+09:30

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-40814821971245052392007-10-07T14:30:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:50:06.902+09:30

He was a brown skinnedBlue eyedBaby“Half-caste” they said“Better watch it, they’ll take im away”“Them white men”“They’ll come and take im away to a home”“You’ll never see im again”He was a brown skinnedBlue eyedBabyHis mum said his father wasThe white station bossWith the blue eyesLike his ownThe boy never met himNo white man wanted a half caste sonHe was a brown skinnedBlue eyedBoyAnd he loved

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-21187379866827824982007-10-03T09:29:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:50:27.048+09:30

I was 12 years oldWhen my life changedA big jump, a leap with no faithInto the unknown“We’re moving” my mum saidWhat?Can you repeat that?Why?Why the change?But nobody listenedSo I stopped askingAnd said goodbyeAt least for nowTo the life that had been mineSince the startEarly morning plane flightAnd there I was, BaliThe smells smothered meThe sounds deafened meThe sights blinded meHow long would

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-73414491705255055972007-10-02T14:10:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:50:42.056+09:30

To be a person is to have a story to tellAnd that’s the truthBut does everyone know it?I read it at homeOn my shiny computer with high speed internetAnd I thoughtYeah, cool. That’s the truth.At the same time I was eating breakfastWhen I wasn’t even hungryThinking about going to schoolAnd knowing that on my way thereI would not be shotKnowing that the sound of dying screamsWould not echo on the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-39381804058303914012007-10-02T14:06:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:50:59.134+09:30

In the land of suburbiaThe houses look the sameWhite and cleanAnd on the roofsNot a dent or a scratch or any rust to be seenAnd the people line the streetsTo say goodbyeTo a little boy in a casketWho probably shouldn’t have diedHis face is a memoryOf that final dayAnd the people line the streetsTo wish him on his wayIn the land of the poorThere are no houses the sameBlack and oldThick rust on the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-84775006682199657312007-10-02T14:03:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:51:20.595+09:30

He saidA moment’s just a momentAnd you can’t buy or sell or own itCould be the best time of your lifeOr the time when you are most in strifeThe wonderful feeling of pain and joyWhen you welcome to the world a new baby boyAnd you feel you’ve finally filled the pitBut a moment’s still a momentAnd you can’t buy or sell or own itI took a sec to pause and think:So if a moments just a momentAnd you

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-35416192675323379742007-09-29T08:15:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:51:42.619+09:30

My first memory is a little hazy. So hazy in fact, that I sometimes wonder if what I am seeing is real, or just a realistic sort of dream. It plays a little like an old movie, but not in black and white. Yet the colours aren't real, they look grainy and faded.I'm in the water, it's cold and I can feel someone's arms around me, holding me up. The person holding me is gentle and their hands feel

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-20213530701573686962007-09-10T18:42:00.000+09:302007-09-10T18:44:41.228+09:30

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-77060983070195373342007-09-09T10:16:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:52:01.673+09:30

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-81902459951689343362007-09-04T17:49:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:52:25.127+09:30

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-69519570861471983172007-08-15T15:44:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:52:51.264+09:30

The dark and dingy room contained nothing more than a filthy table and some grungy chairs all of which were occupied. On one side of the room sat two uniformed police officers and on the other sat a dark haired, dark eyed woman.“This is your picture I assume?” said one of the coppers said holding out a photo of a dark haired child, “It must be because that’s your name on the back.”“It could be me

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-59282320471167511522007-07-28T11:31:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:53:10.830+09:30

A grimy child in a grimy street,He has no place in the city's beat.No socks, no shoes, his clothes all torn,He's been like this since he was born.It's a human river day and night,But nobody will spare a sight,For the little child at their feet,A grimy child in a grimy street.Day and night, night and day,But the sun spares not a ray,Neither will it share some heat,With a grimy child on a grimy

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-88427718167167399402007-07-28T10:41:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:53:49.130+09:30

Individualism... To be an individual... To be yourself... It's much harder than people think. Everybody wants to change you. To make you something better, something worse or just something. Something that you're not. To fight it is hard. It's almost impossible. We can't resist it all the time. The strength of our souls and out hearts does not seem to endure. We are tossed around on a sea of

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-54621003792389461502007-07-28T10:38:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:54:04.521+09:30

I bet that when you look at me,I can guess what it is you see:Just a teenage girl, no where to go,A human bottle of emotion and woe.That's cos I'm nobody you care about,You'll never want to help me out.Even if I lying on the street,To you I'm a part of the damn concrete."All the drugs" I hear you say,"That these teenagers take today"Then you'll walk off and never think,Of that teenager lying on

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-8896981795733182212007-07-28T10:23:00.008+09:302009-12-26T21:00:26.050+09:30

Hauntingly beautiful A spark to the imagination Sometimes just a burst of colour A flap of silent wings We never hear them But they are there Messengers? Watchers? Nobody knows A child's pleasure To sit all day In a sun lit field And watch And see And imagine their lives To what extent Will they last Forever is just a word They are just a thing Yet magic is all around Unexplainable Misunderstood

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-69327478905365938282007-07-28T10:19:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:55:31.267+09:30

Early in the morning the little girl rose from her bed and wandered to the window of her little room. It was nothing more than a closet really, a tiny closet in a tiny shack that she had lived in all her life. She knew nothing more than her dirty dangerous neighborhood where the sounds of gun shots rang out at all hours. Yet she felt something was wrong and even in her seven year old mind she

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-35505265201241573252007-06-11T11:27:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:56:15.554+09:30

When I was a young child, before the world died, I would sit on my grandfather’s lap and listen to his stories. I would stare up into his old, wrinkled face and watch as his mind drifted away. Sometimes he would look down at me and meet my eyes. When he did his eyes would twinkle like all the stars in the sky. He talked of the world before. He talked of the world from his time. He told me stories

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-46544678647362651192007-05-17T18:41:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:56:35.219+09:30

Living life to the full means... seeing each day as a new challengesmiling at everyone whether you're having a good day or notforgiving people when it's not such a big dealletting the little things gobeing the better person in an argumentradiating positive energy whenever and where ever you canbeing strong even when you think you're notlooking past the bad stuff in lifeseeing people's good

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-52203015979882671772007-05-16T14:51:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:56:59.954+09:30

Cole had always hated the hospital; from the first moment he had ever walked in the doors he had hated it. In truth whenever he was in a hospital he would get an uneasy feeling like he was being watched and quite often he would get unexplainable shivers up and down his spine.Maybe it was the horrible feeling of a completely sterile environment that made him uneasy, as Cole had never been the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-18463059971593960472007-05-15T15:35:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:57:30.125+09:30

It was a small town in the middle of nowhere. It blended into the blood red desert until all that set it apart was the shimmer of the tin roofs in the burning Australian sun. This town once had everything but now the water was dried up, and the people suffering. In a dry country like Australia, drought is a constant problem and when the water stops running very little can be done. So it was with

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-28915136930368141282007-04-20T19:18:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:57:46.019+09:30

Drifting in the heavens, my head is in a bookThe island of the gods slides away behind mePressed up against the window I take a final lookA lovely shining miracle, this is what I see A mosaic in the ocean of many coloured lightsTwinkling like the stars that grace the skyThe ones that skirt the windows of these flightsBali looks so different when looking down from high Gone are the rubbish dumps

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-75105016240221322992007-04-20T19:07:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:58:02.201+09:30

The sun is shining, hot and brightIt's late afternoon, the days almost doneI'm sitting outside, coffee in handWatching the world go byI'm writing this too, funnily enoughI can't think of anythingTo write about but here I amWriting...I'm struggling in vainFumbling with the key to open the cageThe cage containing it allMy creativity and imaginationConstantly wondering whyIn the hell do I always

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-15764532478553237752007-04-10T18:49:00.002+09:302009-05-25T13:58:38.763+09:30

The cloudy sky reflects on the people in the streetYou stand there with your bags, looking kind of beatI hope you will not see the tear sliding down my cheekFor it's the last time I will see you and I don’t want to look weakThe dark clouds start to rumble and the rain begins to fallBut you and I just stand there like we don’t care at allYou finally seem to notice and lift your face up to the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-61227333092592823922007-04-02T20:19:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:59:03.431+09:30

First there is the emotionAn overwhelming feeling of painA sadness on the insideA soul that is screamingGasping for airA mind that is dyingAnd now one that is cryingTwo beautiful eyes well upSlowly, SilentlyA single tear slidesOut of the eye, over the cheekA tiny drop of waterSalty taste of despairBut not of defeatAnother tear is slidingFalling, droppingStopHit by a ray of lightA burst of

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-16783108719849855822007-04-02T20:08:00.000+09:302007-04-02T20:19:11.808+09:30

Every night when you go to sleepYou unlock a cage in your headYour mind, your imagination breaks freeIt flows from the cage in a rushTwirling, swirling, twistingAlways moving, rushing, flowingOut of the cage, free at lastAll the colours of the worldBright, beautiful and sparklingWhirling round and roundGreat excitement, a new adventureA dream…Where will you go tonight?Paris, Rome, Africa?Anywhere

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-81222286657303004872007-04-01T16:22:00.001+09:302009-05-25T13:59:50.385+09:30

Thunder rumbles, thunder growlsHere and there lightning flashesClouds gather, air coolsThe world seems to stopStillnessSilenceThen suddenlyThe monster is unleashedRain buckets down, everything is wetWater levels riseLand starts to floodWind whips all aroundLashing every obstacleIt seems as though it will never stopThe monster roarsRage, anger, hateThey are nothing compared to thisThunder shakes

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-66587348265380028682007-04-01T16:09:00.000+09:302007-04-01T17:02:45.895+09:30

Be still now my childrenThe sun has gone downThe moon is rising in the skyTo watch over you as you sleepBe still now my childrenFor everyone is asleepOther children lie in their bedsJourneying in their dreamsBe still now my childrenNight birds are on the huntThe night belongs only to themThey rule the skyBe still now my childrenSleep a little moreDawn will soon be comingA new day will be there

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-23770152215262522007-04-01T16:03:00.001+09:302009-05-25T14:00:16.268+09:30

What am I?I fly free above this earthI have no destination, I have only a journeyI am one with the skyMy voice is the whispering of the windMy spirit is part of the cloudsMy feelings and emotions make up the earthMy anger is the thunder, my screams the lightningMy tears the rainMy rage is the storms that devastateI am all power, I am the only powerMy happiness is the spring and the growth of the

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-9086908965993781312007-03-22T21:47:00.001+09:302009-05-25T14:00:35.607+09:30

The year is 2016, I am 25 years old. At this moment, I am standing in front of our family photos. My job is to sort through them. Ah, photos. Visual memories. Moments, forever frozen in time. Whatever. I bend down and pick up a loose photo, turn it over and smile. I remember this one. It was about 10 years ago actually. Boy, has everyone changed! I know it’s cliché but I feel my mind going back

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-44127822789123120642007-03-20T22:06:00.001+09:302009-05-25T14:00:54.243+09:30

Some things just are the way they areWho knows if that's what they must beSometimes despite everything that is said you just have to move on, you seeMaybe you've lost someone you loveIt doesn't mean they have diedSometimes people just grow apartAs with the ebb and flow of the tideMaybe you've decided that something must endFor better or for worseSometimes you need to make a decisionYou know you

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-86565993738102048352007-03-20T21:49:00.001+09:302009-05-25T14:01:05.027+09:30

I believe...in the strength of a familyin the bond between siblingsin the love of two peoplein the power of an individualand in the importance of beliefI believe...in the beauty of the earthin the magnificence of it's landsin the majesty of it's oceansin the diversity of it's peopleand in the variety of their beliefsI believe...in myselfin the people I lovein my imaginationin my dreams and

Oceana Setayshahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16384641819106691533noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3762440727448049159.post-36901611758912342112007-03-16T21:29:00.001+09:302009-05-25T14:01:25.793+09:30

What is silence? I asked myself this question just the other day as I saw reading a book and listening to the rain hammering the roof outside. Then suddenly, the rain stopped and the sun shone through my window. Suddenly I realised what silence is...It's that little moment of quiet that you look forward to or dread in your day. It's that little moment when your thoughts have full power and they

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