Drowning Among Insignificance

Like a midge within a whale.

Like a whale within an ocean.

Like an ocean within a universe.

A land composed of carbon and greed.

A land in which rules usurp basic need.

It is in this we live;

It is in this we perish.

It is true nature, blindness aside.

Through the finest of weather.

Through the loudest of days.

Through all existence, whatever the ways.

A life born;

A life ended.

Such is this world,

Amid its unforgiving reveries.

Murakami’s Beautiful Worlds

My favourite writer is absolutely, unequivocally Haruki Murakami. It is like with my favourite film, (500) Days of Summer – no other writer, nor no other film even manages to come close. It is a funny thing this. There’s a cavernous gap between these, and then the second bests. I’m mostly certain nothing will ever even come close. And maybe this is close-minded of me, or maybe I believe and see too much in one, singular thing. Yet, it is comforting to know that the meaning Murakami holds within me, is constant, it is reliable, and cosy.

Why do I adore Murakami so much? It’s a hard question that I suppose has no clear answer, probably like most things in life. Maybe if I looked deep and hard enough, it would be there, lurking in some corner of my mind. But why bother? The mysteriousness is part of the intrigue, the fun. And considering this is Murakami we’re talking about, it seems perfectly applicable, for he is the master of mystery and ambiguity.

The first book I read of his was Norwegian Wood, it wasn’t calculated at the time, I just found it on the shelf. Though, looking back, it’s the perfect, accessible place to start. Now, I’ve read the majority of them – Kafka on the Shore being my favourite, I can honestly say that the one moment picking that one book from the shelf, has been one of the most influential things in my life. Especially within my own writing.

When I read what I have written, I see him in there, little specks of his inspiration. Of course, I’m not fooled into thinking it is anywhere near as good, and neither am I anywhere near as talented as he is. But it is there. It’s strange how we… appropriate parts of another person: their writing style, their thought processes, their words, even to an extent, their ideas. In most cases, we do not realise it, maybe not until a later date, maybe not until we realise which parts of us are truly ourselves and which parts are benevolent pieces of others.

Murakami is among the very few people who have managed to make a mark on my world, and how I view the world, and how I write the world.

I get the feeling I need to write more about it, about him. But for now this is all I can find, all I can understand and transcribe into words.

-Chris ❤

For Ourselves

People, they sit and they watch.

Looking back, and towards the clocks.

Sitting, sleeping, not getting along.

In this world, this frail, frail place;

Masses, trying to keep the retched, insane pace.

And for what, gratification, social acceptance.

Abiding to rules set by our fake directors.

Thinking, thoughtlessely believing in what is said.

Characteristic of the utterly brain-dead.

But I do not blame, and I do not begrudge.

For it is all of humanity that swims in the sludge.

Oh, what can be done. And where is the light.

One that might shine on the unforgiving night.



Hoping For No End

Looking, and waiting for the words.

They don’t always appear.

They’re not always there.

But it is okay;

I cannot always live a life in fear.


I hope. I truly do.

Hoping there is no end, no discontinuation,

In what I have come to love

And what I always will.

Without… the world would be utterly bland.

Empty of what I have come to know.


In times before, I was something else.

Someone else.

Lurking in the depths of some dark place.

Invisible to even myself.


And so, I thank.

All that has happened,

And all that you’ve done.

Memories crafted, memories felt.

For it means more than most else.

Moonlit Land

Solace, a midnight’s walk.

Free of the sun’s glare,

It’s endless figurative talk.

Literal, that what I ask, it is all I dream.

Silvery landscapes, moonlight’s fickle haunt.

Lifelong passions, behind in the glow of day.

What else, what else;

Hides in the swell of the rolling stars.

Post-day, it is my pleasure.

In the emptiness of the dark.

Within the lieu of shadow,

Lies something else, something I take to heart.

Without voice; without face.

All I can do to not give up on this place.

All That’s Required

It’s about having something,

A well to draw from,

A life to put in, an experience to harbour.

Creating existence from a lived existence.

Of which I lack, of which I am empty.

The words come from an imagined place,

An imagined life; a created one.

It sounds simple, though it is anything but.

Finding meaning, finding soul… narrative,

It’s a life’s work, a heavy heave.

And for what, I ask myself?

Like anything, the answer eludes.

It is to be done; yet, to be done is all it is.

For that well, that well of reality;

Some day I wish for it to be full.

But until then, a world created isn’t so terrible.

A New World

Him, and him alone.

Wandering the streets of long ago.

Stranded in this world which he calls home.

Everything regarded as a potential foe.


It is in this he sees no humanity.

Seeking friends on this lonely day.

Resisting against the pull of insanity.

Wondering if a star might guide his way.


The owls, they shriek at night.

The crows caw throughout the day.

He thinks, do they even feel fright?

What about the creatures they soullessly slay?


For he remembers, he has killed a man.

It was in self defence, he relentlessly insists.

From this, and his past, he ran;

To join the fight and enlist.


He saw no hope in those dear men.

Those that life tainted to the very core.

Should he remember this again and again?

Or wish that he, himself, was no more…