The sky was painted in shades of light blue blended amongst touches of reflection and introspection as thoughts refused to let go. As

clouds sporadically set semblances of their existence into transient open spaces in a sun that fell halfway past an afternoon. As

they flew above us consuming spaces left untaken by the madness that perpetuated in the spaces we kept hidden. As

we realized that we are only a reflection of Is brought together and eyes that stare into a distance we will never reach. As

we realize that we will never have open skies.

That we will never fly.

That we are set.

That we are exactly what we are.

And that most times:

That that’s enough.
© Hudson Biko

Photograph by Leonard von Bibra


Samuel Zeller.jpg

The numbers trickle

like rain

on window panes

On summer mornings


the disappearance

of tranquility

and rationality

In worlds moving

across computer screens

like words typed

at 200 over the limit

per minute

Opening scars

left unfilled

by likes

and open mics

On Sunday nights

in bars

that barred

the entrance

of those who had words

poured hard

out of mouths

that could

never control

their role

in societies

we called ourselves

Like words

that stood

dead wood


they controlled



© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Samuel Zeller


Inspired by the Daily Prompt: Meddle

You’re Allowed To Stand Still

Alex Iby.jpg

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

Photograph: Alex Iby

Previously published by Thought Catalog at www.thoughtcatalog.com.