Behind the Words


As a child, I was preoccupied with the idea of “discovered” writing. I had been writing in diaries ever since I was six, and growing up, I was fascinated with the idea of a stranger reading it. The fascination turned into writing diary entries addressed to the reader, and every time I started on a fresh, new notebook, I’d write: “To you, dear reader, this is my mark in the world.”

It was nothing but some fancy sentiment for a nine-year-old then. Now, I think it was the beginning of awakening to what had pulled me to write in the first place.

I see initials carved into a tree with a heart locking it in. It’s not a testament of love, but a testament of fear: at the fact that the only thing constant in the world is change, that what and who you hold precious now will, inevitably, become obsolete.

Even in graffiti, even by children holding crayon and coal and chalk, inscribing ways of life and names on walls, and myself, feverishly writing miniscule details in journal entries, addressing the reader over and over; in love letters, where, as a romantic touch, I write that memories may fade but ink never will: there is an acknowledgement of the universal, centuries-old fear of demise and disintegration; of feeling like a mere spark in a bonfire; a speck in the world.

In whatever way, we write to cope, to commemorate, to prove: this is us. We exist. Let us tell you our stories. Let us carve our names into your skin.




All decisions unmade and paths not taken,
words unsaid and people unmet, doors
left open, skin untouched, hearts unbroken,
stories all unwritten and untold, shores
uncharted and places unexplored thrive
in parallel universes: where the
maybes and the perhaps can rest easy uncontrived. The odds are infinite; wrought

in time and space, and I try not to dwell
on the existence of another self –
happier elsewhere; without regret; held
by hands gentler; the future still undelved.


Poem made in tribute of the passing of the physicist Stephen Hawking.

Follow Eccenbelle on Instagram and Facebook!




I am cursed with such forgetful fingers.
All things I touch go unremembered –
duplicates of keys sit on my dresser;
I savor books and bathe in every word,
with hands pressing against spine and paper
in desperation. I fear and dread loss
and to be lost: pebbles and crumbs linger
on the paths I dared to take, all because
my memory cannot sit in one place.
Forgive me for pitiful excuses
(all things can go and be lost in a haze,
with you the lone exception; all wishes

can go ungranted, but the one where I
plead my mind not to forget you); lies

that I stutter and bumble through
for a slim chance of a touch; a slim chance
to memorize your being; a chance for you
to be the one to recall who we once
were, if I dare betray my own heart; my
own self and look upon you, years later,
in puzzlement. Remind me, and sigh
into a kiss, intertwine our fingers,
warm my hands with yours – bring me back to this

moment, when I loved and wrote and feared oblivion

Night excursions 


Walking at night is a developed habit of mine over the last couple of weeks. 

I like it because there is less noise and less people, but also because of how things transform. There’s something about the houses, which I normally would never spare a glance for more than a few seconds, and how eerie and tall they suddenly seem in the dark. They seem to breathe quietly, as fast asleep as their inhabitants. 

You get to know the neighborhood more. The burger joint near our place claims to be closed by midnight but remains open until one in the morning; another serves hot meals until God knows when with a large flatscreen TV on, and a person or two is usually stood in front of it, watching. A group of boys huddle about at ten in the evening near my apartment and play music. The old man who lives in front of us takes calls for about an hour outside. It’s always two brothers or a group of girls drinking at the next block, and while I’ve grumbled about the shops that close too early for my taste, I’ve discovered three that stayed open past nine PM, and one of them has a bench in front where people drink. There’s a rowdy group of friends that like to hang out and brings out a couch to the street. 

It’s quiet and calm. There are rare noises I hear: glass breaking, men muttering the combination of numbers for a karaoke song, jazz music being played by a man on the roof; the engine of a motorcycle rumbling as it passes by. The pavements glow orange beneath my feet and when I look above, I’m always lucky to get a scattering of stars. I remember the sky being full of them and my neck aching staring up, but even when few remain, it’s still as enthralling.

I’ve always loved walking – and it sounds ridiculous, but it makes me think and the faster the pace the faster the threads of thoughts in my head untangle and make themselves distinguishable and clear. I don’t know how many times I’ve intentionally come home late to read and walk. I’ve done how many kilometers when traffic was bad at night. It’s always the same wonder at my surroundings that strike me; the same wonder at my perpetual motion; the same wonder of having a destination no matter how aimless the journey may be.

uncertainly approximating distances 


i approximate the distance between us 
when i 
am lying on my bed – 
and you lying on yours, possibly, 
or sitting in a straight-backed chair, 
drinking coffee and overlooking the city:
where i am but a speck of the view, 
where i cannot be seen,
and i 
close my eyes 
feeling the miles 
stretch out before me – and
when i 
am sitting beside you, and
when i 
walk with you,
with my arms constantly brushing yours,
when i 
am close enough to feel your breath, where  maybe,
maybe, if i inched just a little bit closer, 
i’d see
how many centimeters there are to cover
til my skin touches yours,
until you look in my eyes, 
until you kiss me – maybe, just 
maybe then, 
i’d be close enough.
until there is no more distance 
to think of,
or to measure,
but of only how far
your heart feels
from what mine does.

Note: 17 days into trying to publish one post a day and I fall back to a poem I made last year to keep the streak up. Creativity gods, please help.

In frame: fall // 2017 drawing 



Let me make a home
     out of you. Show
me which step to your
     heart creaks along
the way, let me
     see the dust that has
gathered in the
     corners; in the rooms
abandoned. Tell
     me of the hour in
which the sun shines through
     the window and through
the cracks of the doors
     half-opened, and
spills onto the
     living room floor – a
golden pool of
     light that brightens up
the walls. Show me
     which secrets are
locked in the bedroom
     drawers. What hides
among skeletons
     in the closet;
what creatures we
     must fight in the dead
of night beneath
     your bed. Let me
join you in hiding
     places. And then, at
eve, underneath the
     blankets, on your side
of the bed, whisper
     to me what you
wish to dream of,
     let me hold you in
the cold.

In frame: depth // most recent drawing!