Beautiful bondage.

“I’m not a writer. I’m merely in bondage of the magic 

of words and the meaning 

they hold. 

I’m chained and bound to the mesmerising charm, 

of metaphors and rhymes, 

of twisted word-play 

and of simple quotes.

I’m only a victim of obsession 

and I’m only a helpless lover 

of everything that words are, 

the depth, the perspectives, 

and every little thing 

that leaves me in awe.

I’m simply in bondage, 

one that I don’t want to be delivered from. 

I’m a willing slave, I don’t want salvation from this beautiful burden 

of knowing and learning to express 

in a new way, with the same words, everyday. 

So when people ask my why

I don’t write everyday

I simply smile because 

my words are not my own.

They come from experiences.

The experiences I encounter 

in every little thing I do and I tell them this, 

“I only know one thing, that words 

are poetry, and poetry comes 

only from inspiration.

So the expectations of me, 

to write because I’m a writer, 

are unrealistic to me.

I cannot put my mind on paper

unless I have reason to.

Inspiration is the core of creation.”
Nothing else creates art. 

Art is not art, without a muse and so I will go onto the ends of the earth to find my muse 

and I will simply give ink to the musings of my wandering mind, 

until then, until I can,

I will not write 

but I will wait 

for my muse to come to me, 

or for me to find my muse.

-WANDERER // A r t & E x p e c t a t i o n 


Melito Saldanha 

His wandering eyes were nowhere close to where we were.I tried to find him back but he was too much into the wilderness finding his way on paper 

so I let him, 

I gifted him the silence he deserved for there was nothing more enticing than to watch his fingers dance a little on the pages syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat and the tune of his transitory lost mind,there was nothing more enticing than watching him unfold like a shriveled paper that kept a thousand secrets inside.

So I left him to his forest as he etched his name on every tree and left him to his musings until he was spent, and once he was, his tired eyes smiled through and he turned towards me the pages revealing all the secrets 

I thought he had but when I read what he had inked each word had a different story and every space between them resonated even more another tale, unheard of, and by the end of it, I only came to the realisation that he had no secret after all.

He was simply a mirror, 

reflecting himself in all truth, in time, and I realised I didn’t have to look for anything inside, because he had nothing to hide.

-WANDERER // My mirror.