Sometimes I would just watch him drift away. 

And disappear into words he’d never tell me. 

Get lost in conversations in which I had no role.

But I always understood.

I understood that between the real world and his own, 

Between him and the oceans in his mind,

He would be searching for himself.

Looking for that elusive ‘unknown’ to make sense of his being; 

A being that refused to be personified through what has been seen

And what has been known alone. 

But needed ears that would listen to what was never said, 

and eyes clear enough to envision instead of see. 

A being made of dreams yet to be dreamt, and sins not yet born.

So when he says “huh” for the twelfth time 

because your words only danced around his ears. 

Do not get upset.

Just repeat.

He’ll hear you this time. 

Maybe even smile.  

Mostly at himself, but partially at you, 

because he’ll notice he’s being rude again. 

He’ll never say this out loud, 

because like always his words are just for him. His world, is never for you.

But that’s okay.

Because one day he’ll find himself between one world and the next, 

and he’ll reach for your arm to anchor him to a shore he can trust. 

A land in which for mere seconds he may stand without falling.

Where his body can lie still instead of float adrift at sea.

And he’ll smile just for you,

and he’ll say those hidden words with his deep voice. 

And they’ll dance around your ears, like children in the sun, 

and you’ll be glad that you repeated those thirteen times.

Cause it’ll be just right.

And then after that moment, he’ll go again; 

his words running home, 

the laughter in his melody fading in the air like a broken note. 

But it’ll be alright. Because you’ll feel it was worth the glimpse.

So as I speak, I’ll watch him drift away. 

He was never in my grip.

By: WerepupJeremy

Photography by: Melissa Cheng

It was hard to watch him fight for nothing in particular. 

To strive for no real goal. 

To watch him try his best in the day for a rest he would not get in the night. 

Not when his worries shone like stars in his darkened mind:
Endless and Multiplying.

It was hard to watch him try when I knew he would have to try again, 

to always try again. 

There was no prize. 

No victory song to sing in loud glee. 

No happy tears to shed because the journey would finally be complete. 

And he would finally be the winner. 

And I would be by his side, and our laughs would echo across galaxies, 

sharing the tale of his survival. 

Proclaiming through golden notes that he had won, and that the world could indeed be conquered. 

And that dreams which are chased could indeed be caught.

But this was not to be.

And the tears shed remained sad, 

and our song only remained a whisper of hopes that would not rise from their slumber.

Hopes that refused to be awoken from words to breathe their own life, 

To become real. 

Instead laughter remained trapped beneath sighs, 

Pulling themselves out our mouths with great force. 

Taunting us with a reality that refused to walk on the tips of its toes, 

Instead crashing down on the earth with great stomps and vigor, 

Reminding us how easily we are shaken. 

Reminding us of how easily we are thrown about by a world that refuses to be conquered- 

But challenges us to try as we bruise for its own pleasure. 

Our scars the scorecard of a game rigged to be lost.

The challenger receives no spoils. 

Just merely an invitation to try again.

And as the new day would dawn, so he would. 

Try again. 

Because tired bones never stop til they are returned to dust, 

and the will never out of reach til fingers are unable to grasp. 

And as hard as it was to watch him lose. 

It was even harder not to hope that one day he would win.

By: WerepupJeremy
Photography by: Melissa Cheng

I often wondered what would have happened. 

What would have changed if we knew then what we know now. 

If it would matter?

Would we have tread more cautiously down a familiar path?

More alert in our own suspicion

More conscious of our own expiration- the finality of our beings? 

Or would we have ran and ran more fearlessly, 

more carelessly to our own demise, on a road with no name, 

but vast promises. 

A Street with no signs but countless doors, 

all lit from above by a traitor or a friend. 

Would we have allowed ourselves to be fooled by the promises of a deceitful moon 

for gifts we knew it could not grant?

Gifts of lands, it’s rays have never shone; 

corners still plunged in darkness, but drawn by dreams of the young and the foolish.

I wonder, would we have battled our odds more courageously?

Or would we have surrendered with a smile? 

Knowing that the battle was not to be won but enjoyed along the way. 

That maybe losing was winning in that we would have been absolved of past lives 

Lives that didn’t meet their full potential. 

Lives of wrong dreams, that took right turns, to leave us with nothing.

Would ambition have meant nothing to her this time around?

The informed time around.

Or would his hope be wasted yet again, as it always was 

in some more powerful unknown that refused to be seen?

Would we, if permitted,be found for once by the sun?

Or would we, tired, continue to wander around……

Lost.

By:  WerepupJeremy
Photography by: Melissa Cheng

I've spent so much time being nothing. Feeling nothing, yet seeing all my dreams not come true. So I was ready to change that. I had reached my turning point; the realization. The great irony I silently narrated all along was now finally stated, publicly stated and if I was to be a cliché, I was going to be a good one. But I now questioned just which cliché I would be? You see I came to realize that some people are meant to puzzle, to be abstract and different and make people think; to inspire with only the sheer complexity of their beauty, or their mind or their story.  

And some people aren’t.

You see,  some people are that indie band,  that band who plays the best music you’ve ever heard, who writes all their own songs, and whose lyrics make you feel the most. That band you quote in your Facebook status, and get 10 likes and feel cool, because everyone thinks it’s original, cause they’ve never heard that song before, but you never really tell them cause it’s your little secret. And sometimes you mutter their name in a discussion about ‘real music’, but never too loudly because you don’t want them to be revealed cause they’re yours. Some people are that indie band. But some people aren’t. Some people instead, are mainstream. Some people are pop stars. Everyone knows them. Everyone seems to hate them yet we buy all their albums or at least someone, some where’s buying all their singles and we know all their songs. Everyone has an opinion, yet we can all concretely agree on who wore it better. Everyone pretends to not care. But we all do,if only peripherally. They are talentless, we say, with or without an audience, yet we sing their songs at the top of our lungs as we drive in our cars, or wash ourselves  in our showers.

Some people are pop stars but some people aren’t.

Some people are that foreign film, in that language you never heard of, but confuse it for another language until you Wikipedia it and find out you were wrong. That film where most of your effort was spent keeping up with the subtitles, yet you cry at the climax and applaud at the end, and tweet that it was the best movie you’ve ever seen. Some people are that foreign film. But some people aren’t. Some people instead are that blockbuster. That big budget picture where more effort was spent getting that six pack than rehearsing their lines, not that the dialogue said much to begin with, and if we’re honest we really don’t mind because as we watch we’re all just really waiting on that tank to explode. It won’t win any awards, except maybe for sound editing, cause making things go boom is an art in itself, but at least two thirds of your friends will know at least one fourth of the cast and five sixth of the plot without even watching one eighth of the film so there’ll be some healthy debate, at that weekly catch up you dread going to, although you always have the best time.

Some people are that blockbuster, but some people aren’t.

 You see I’ve come to realize that some people are the great American novel, timeless, classic, and provocative. Well, as provocative as you can be, being written several decades ago; our literature teacher’s kind of book. You know the standard to which we proclaim all contemporary work as inferior although you can’t really recall truly enjoying reading them. You also can’t recall the last three chapters because you didn’t finish them. You know the endings so it’s fine. Or so you would justify it. Some people I realized were the Great American novel, but I also realized some people aren’t. Some people, instead, are this week’s issue of US Weekly or People, current and swiftly becoming not even that. Dated, detached, yet we revel in every second, because despite our best efforts we all kind of want to know whether tribal prints are hot or not; because we can’t really tell for ourselves. And we get more enjoyment out of speculating that this actress’ picture is photo shopped (because we all know it is, I mean who looks like that in real life? Um No one!) than we care to admit.

I came to realize that some people are sometimes inherently’ greater’ than others,  somehow more than others, complex and fascinating, while others are less, less complex and less fascinating. Simple yet appreciated. I came to realize that life wasn’t a case of right or wrong or even of winners or losers, it was about acceptance, allowing oneself to be content in being more or less.  I came to realize that this life, our life, may be one of irony. 

The story was already written, life is simply a matter of how committed we are to telling it word for word.

By: WerepupJeremy

*Photography provided by the impeccable Melissa Cheng!

“It happened months ago. So maybe I should just get over it. “

This is what Melissa said to me, as I sat, at the foot of her bed; my body slumped over, my eyes, the windows to a broken soul, darkened by the memory of my trauma. It was gearing up to be another dreadful Friday night in. The 8^th Friday night to be exact, in which my tears like bullets would assault her lap, as she massages my hair, straining desperately to find  new words of comfort in a limited language to console her fallen friend.  Her 'friendly' suggestion was her strike; her stance to no longer share the burden of my ordeal, she had had enough. And I couldn’t even blame her. 

I too wished that my rape could be a phase. I wished I could wake up and forget about his hands, giant and dark, wrapped firmly around my waist, prohibiting my movement. But instead I am haunted by his rough grip. The skillful manner in which, through sheer brute strength, he claimed my body as his own.  Conquered a territory already inhabited. I wish I  could forget about his lips, his big, dry, black lips, as they stabbed my body with unwanted kisses, as his coarse long tongue like that of a serpent’s slowly licked my shoulder; my shivering, the reaction to his poison in my spine. I wish I could forget him, as he calmly spoke my name, as if he had earned the right to address his victim by name.  His voice deep and steady, absent to the danger and damage he so easily committed.  I wish I could wake up and not want to die, to not want to burn my skin off to return his property. To be free of his lingering smell, the odour of a sick man who took my innocence, just because he could. I wish I could breathe again. To truly breathe, and for once not violently gasp for air, as I feel him inside me though my body demurs. To inhale without the sounds of his moans, amplified by the force of my tears, and to exhale without screaming;  without screaming, for help, or for mercy or for death.

He had raped more than just my body. He had raped the air from my life; my ability to breathe. And unfortunately that wasn’t something I could just get over.

I don’t think Melissa really understood what had happened to me that night. She doesn’t understand how my image of a just world collapsed under the weight of my attack. I don’t think I properly explained it her. I don’t even think I can, because I don’t know why it happened.  I don’t know why he knew I’d be alone. Why he even knew my name. I don’t understand what gave him the right to invade me, to take ownership of my body. What gave him the authority to decide that is what I wanted and that I would ‘like it’. Why was the blood rushing to his dick, stronger than the strength of my no?  Of my please?  Of my stop?

Why was I his victim? Why did he make me his victim? 

I cannot find the answer.

 I try to look for the permission I gave to destroy me in my clothing. Had my shorts been too short? My boobs too big? I don’t know why I feel I must be blamed. But I must have done something to deserve it. I feel as if I must have earned my tears, like gold stars on a classroom chart, as if i must take ownership of my own victimhood. So I look at my interactions.  Was I too flirty? Too fun?  I didn’t even know him! Had I advertised myself to the world as accessible then try to go back on my claim when the customer came for his purchase?

I can’t accept that.

I can’t accept that so I cry every night on her lap, as I try to find the answers in between my tears, my struggle, nothing more to her than another Friday night in. But still I couldn't blame her. This wasn’t her cross to bear.

So without a word I Left her room, I would not sentence her to another Friday night in. not chain her to a hopeless cause. Not punish her for being my best friend.  As I left I could hear the noise of the campus all around me.  It was alive with laughter. It was mocking my survival. Ever since that night, I had loathed the noise. I blamed the noise more than I blamed him. I seem to blame everything more than I blamed him.  I often wonder what would have happened if the place had been still. If only it had not been so alive. Would my flatmates have heard the foreign knock on my door of an uninvited guest? Would the neighbours have heard my screams? Would they have helped?  Would I have been saved by some faceless stranger because I was too weak, too fragile, and too hopeless to save myself?

I’ll never know.

 Instead I’ll always remember the noise of people making memories, which I long to forget. I will remember the tone of blurred voices all around me, celebrating my demise. I will remember the stares that followed, the accusing eyes which hold no comfort. As I walk back to my room I can still hear the whispers of passing strangers, mocking my survival. They don’t want to know why I no longer stand straight or brush my kinky brown hair or oil my long legs.  These things no longer matter me.  They don’t want to know why my colourful array of jean shorts has been traded in favour of long black garments. They don’t know about my scars.  I don’t want them to know that my body is not mine.

As I reach the end of the corridor I stop at my door.  I have not returned since that night. I cannot willingly pass through the portal of my troubles in which the demons of a darker day lay waiting on the other side. I am petrified by fear, by my own memories. This could no longer be my home.

He had taken my home from me as well. 

With no other place to go I begin to walk aimlessly around the darkened college campus. I no longer worry about my safety. It had already been taken. In the dark, the campus takes it true form. The buildings are opaque and unwelcoming. They do not care if I survive.  All around me I hear the shuffling noises of devils in the bushes, waiting to strike, getting louder with every step. There is no peace to be found on these grounds. Not for me.  There are stories that this campus, once a plantation, remains haunted by those cheated of their freedom. I now believe it to be true as I now walk amongst the ghosts who cannot forgive; a victim of a private slavery that robbed me of my freedom to grow. On this burial ground of my dreams, the air feels crisp but melancholy, as though it shares my pain, but I do not feel consoled. I can see the dark grey clouds that decorate the starless night. Though they appear heavy and engorged I know it won’t rain. They refuse to cry for me.

 I find no comfort in this place, as it allowed my comfort to be taken. I blame this campus, more than I blame him. It didn’t help me. Why did the thunder not roar or the lightning strike, or spirits arrive to scare him away? Why did it not rain to keep him at home? To keep him away. Why was it not dark enough for him to go to another room, to go to another girl?

 I stop this thought.

I stop myself. I begin to walk faster, to walk further. I know there is no peace to be found, not here on his plantation. But I cannot stand still. My memories must not find me vulnerable.

In all my walking, I grow tired, but I know this does not mean that I can sleep. As I momentarily stop at a wooden bench, I no longer feel the will to go on. My eyes begin to slowly close; my mind for once shuts off. I suddenly can hear the soft sound of the ocean. I feel the calm of the sea, everything is still for once.  In my brief moment of solitude I know where I must go, where I can find peace. This calm however, does not persist. Soon I find myself screaming though no one is around to hear. My breath is shallow, my heart is racing but for a second I could breathe again. Breathe like how I had forgotten. But it didn’t last.  Once again I cannot inhale without the sounds of his moans, amplified by the force of my tears; I cannot exhale without screaming; without screaming, for help, or for mercy or for death.

I did not sleep that night, though I stopped walking. I remained awake as I waited for morning, trying not to think about him and what he has done to me. As the sun rises the campus puts on its mask. Kissed with light, the buildings feign a protective demeanour. But I know the truth. I know they do not care if I survive. Now bathed by the rays of sun, the grounds smile at me as I begin to move. The bushes once filled with the noise of demons now alive with the songs of birds to welcome the morning.  I am disgusted by the perfidy.

I swiftly make my way towards Irvine gate. I have decided to end it all. And I know where i must go.

 As it is early the bus stop is empty. I almost feel happy to not have to count the glares of strangers, just this once. I am excited to not see their stares in my death; Judging me for my defeat. A few minutes pass but I don’t have to wait for long. Soon my bus arrives. It is empty just as I like it.

As I step on the abandoned bus, the corpulent driver pays me no attention, as his chubby fingers take my fare. This suits me fine. I wish not be noticed. Now on the bus, I begin my journey downtown to the Jamaican epicentre of garbage both human and material. In the fallen city I hope to find a friend. Once a place full of the potential and passion of its people, it now stands in ruins, the joke of a country. The broken homes and dreams, are stained with the toxic of its reputation, as the city caricaturized for its vulgar vendors, try to sell rotten fruits and counterfeit goods to uninterested bystanders, their voices strained from speaking over the blaring sirens of the infamous police cars constantly patrolling the crime infested streets. Streets that overflow with trash as though it were a gallant river made of waste. It’s a tragedy I know well.  I too have fallen from grace.

My journey takes no time.  Comfortably seated in the deserted bus I dream of my death and soon I am in the heart of the rat hole. The place I have chosen to end my life. The morning sun is now out in full force. But I feel no warmth. My body is cold. It is already dead.  Around me I can hear the noise of the people; a different noise. It is the colourful sounds of the Jamaican patois, spoken by an amalgam of one face, spread across multiple bodies, blurred figures of unremarkable features, all haggard by a similar struggle.  For once they don’t mock me. They are concerned with their own battles. As I leave the bus. I immediately walk to my destination. I briefly close my eyes. I can hear the ocean.

As I make my way down the street, I am slightly taken aback by the madness of my surrounding, the clutter of the environment. Everyone seems to be out today trying to hustle; to make a living. If only they knew I would be leaving them today.  Not that I think they would care. Around me I watch the resident woman as they make their way through the crowds with ease. Their heads are covered and their tattered dresses sweep the sidewalk. As they glide down the walkway their steps are light and lyrical. It is clear they know the streets well , you see them glide over potholes, how they effortlessly follow the curvature of the street. They know the dips in the sidewalk, every crack is memorized. I am surprised by the fluidity of their movement on the busy road,  I am entertained by their dance as they dodge the discarded garbage and sewage water that ‘adorns’ the ill-treated roads; impressed with their untrained grace as they manoeuvre through the streets like ballerinas.

 I however do not know this dance and though impressed I cannot learn as I am distracted by the noises, and I trip over the cracks. I stumble at the collision with unexpected bends and find my feet covered by the sidewalk trash. There is too much going on around me. I am blinded by the revolving door of similar faces, their expressions all pained by some unknown torment. I am overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the city, the loud colours of barely there clothing, on humans and mannequins alike that invade my vision. I am afraid of the men that linger on the street like a festering wound of the city. I feel my body flinch as they make their heinous sounds to get my attention; I can taste the poison from their lips as they call out to me.  I then remember him. I become terrified of all the hands I see around me. All dark and big. I imagine that he is here. That he can see me. I walk faster I must make my way to the sea.

I walk for about 10 minutes. The streets are long.

I am tired but now I can see the sea in front of me. I can smell the salt water.  I begin to run to my salvation. In the possibility of my death I feel strangely alive.  I want to be bothered that I’m that pathetic girl who was unable to overcome her attack, that I am that weak, pathetic girl, who could not take it. Who could not live! But I am too excited. Death feels so near.

Now in front of me I am enchanted by my hope of escape painted in a vivid blue. The closer I move I can see the reflection of sun rays as they glisten on the waves. Oh how I long to be one of those lights as it dances upon the sea! To be one of those hopes adrift that never has to touch the shore.  There is no happiness for me here on land. There is no air.  So I wish to be one with the water. I wish to add a voice to its lullaby as my voice held no power here on land. I long to jump beneath the waves, where I can breathe and die, and smile. I long to be free of his smell, to be cleansed of his sins, to discard the body I no longer own.

Lost in my thoughts I, unconsciously move towards the edge of the dock. In the distance I can hear the incomprehensible chatter of street women in patois. Their voices sound animated, alive, so unconcerned with me.  I am happy. I know if I jump they will see. But for once I do not care. I know if I scream they will hear. But I won’t. Not again. I no longer wish to scream, or cry, or live this half-life.

I know what I want.

Without a second thought I step off the edge.  For once I do not see his face. I only hear the ocean. I smile as I descend under the water.  

I close my eyes and I breathe.

By WerepupJeremy

It’s Midnight and My eyes burn,

Red with the truth I can only speak when everyone I know is asleep.

Because my demons have always listened better than people.

They are fed by my prayers.

My hands are soaked with the dreams that hurt too much to keep inside,

So I empty my tank;

The pipes of my brain stained and rusted-

Screaming as every drop falls from my mind.

Hopefully for the last time.

And as I sit in my room, I’ll cry.

I’ll cry to forget the things I’ll hide come morning.

My feelings like fine china, placed in the back of the cupboard.

Come morning all my guests would have left.

But til then I’ll shed tears in mixed company.

Remembering every word that broke my heart

For old time’s sake.

As if I owed the past any more of my time.

It has already taken too much.

And in the corner of my room I am a king, dethroned,

A human without a being.

For to be is what I wish to be no longer.

As my hands wet, cannot grasp new lies.

Lies not solid enough to hold with bare heart or bare hands,

and my red eyes cannot see new days without strain.

Have I not already wasted too many dead wishes on waning stars?

Squandered too much ‘self’ on failed selfhood?

It is midnight and I am tired.

But my bed holds no rest.

It is a reservoir of moments gone, a sea alive

So do I toss and turn among the waves?

The force of the crash as strong as unhappy memories.

As clear as shards of glass, broken in my spine.

All my scars are signed by my own hand.

As if I own this body just to destroy it.

It is midnight. The lights are off.

I confess:

I have always craved my own malfunctioning.

By WerepupJeremy