A Handpicked, Weekly Collection
Phones silenced
as reliance
dissipates
into
Calls made at
half-past
memory lane
at two am
As dependence
is deflected
away
from
Hearts that
remain guarded
and emotions
unwanted
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Erik Cid
Deviating
from pre-conceived
notions
of
identity
;
calling it growth.
© Hudson Biko
Photo by Tanalee Youngblood
Maybe our
scars only
heal enough
to stop
the bleeding
;
Maybe that’s
never enough.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Nikola Jelenkovic
in the curve of the moon.
in the rush of the lights.
in the loudness of the silence.
there are nights
that carry poems.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Tom Sodoge
on the sunniest of days
i find myself standing
at the precipice
of memories
i want to hold on to.
on the sunniest of days
my feet are lost
underneath a blanket
of sand sunkissed
by the passion of a
retreating sea
halfway past an afternoon.
on the sunniest days
it is me and you
finding glimpses of
sunsets in souls
that have always risen
but have never known
how to fall.
on the sunniest days
the darkest days
begin to fade away
and in their own way
those are the truest
moments of sunshine.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Lucas Silva Pinheiro Santos
It was an afternoon.
As we found ourselves
sitting in rooms
silenced by those
who seek sanity
and their own silence
,
By those
who seek
more
,
Partially empty.
devoid
from voids
of temporary
interactions
as silence
gave in to
bounds
of sound
as it began
to feel
like the
seals
were finally peeling
off
;
But
we should have
known better
,
tethering
on the precipice
of sound
isn’t really
escaping silence
,
All it ever does
is seal
u
s
in it
,
No matter how much we try to peel it off.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Caleb George
nightfall settles
into crevices
of blue
sky.
shadows
bleed. into
backdrops of
lightbulbs and
fleeting existence
- how many times do we stay when we don’t need to?
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by The How Photographer
We’re always going. From beds to coffee shops, to offices, places and spaces that constitute fragments of our sustenance. To crawling cars at half past four. To homes that take us back at the end of it. To dinner tables. To beds. To all of it. All over again.
Stuck in this constant grind. Moving towards our perceptions of success. Of satisfaction in a world that looks like it might move past us if we’re half past it. If we aren’t doing everything we think we’re meant to be doing. If we don’t get out of the bed to begin with.
And most times that’s part and parcel of our our own internal movement to something greater. Understanding and chasing our dreams and aspirations – even on the mornings we rather not.
But sometimes we can’t really do that.
Sometimes we can’t really go.
Maybe ‘can’t’ isn’t the right word. Because parts of us know that we have in the past. Because parts of us want to with every fibre that makes them, them. Because we’ve been told that the world doesn’t know the word “can’t” – that it moves on without us. That we can’t be left behind.
Maybe there is no right word that truly encapsulates those moments of apparent immobility. Because they feel exactly like that. Like drinking out of empty coffee mugs. Like the cars crawling. Like standing still in a world that moves past us.
But everything that surrounds us exists irrespective of us.
We are our own microcosm of a universe.
Made of everything that makes us. Of action and inaction. Of mobility and immobility. Of moments.
And in those moments when we stop to breathe, when we stand still to take in the world that surrounds and lives within us, we find our own little coffee shops.
Each facilitating parts of our own unique journey. Each making that next step that much greater. Each forming our own internal satisfaction.
Each and every one of them shaping our own microcosm of a universe. All over again.
Written By: Hudson Biko
Previously published by Thought Catalog at www.thoughtcatalog.com.
