on intellectual curiosity
i would like to think
that the world is mostly
an experiment conducted
by white mice.
you, me, your neighbor's best friend
we could all just be
tiny pieces of jigsaw
lost from different boxes.
is the colour you see
the colour that i see,
and is the mountain we know
a molehill for someone else?
if my life is indeed
written on a palm leaf,
does it say in BIG BOLD LETTERS
"don't panic"?
most importantly,
is the object of my
intllectual curiosity
curious at all
about me?
***
roots
creeping bougainvilleas in my house:
so wrapped up in each other,
you can't tell one from the other.
this only leads me to wonder:
how do trees fall in love?
what do they do when they get lonely?
***
parallel
it was when i was very young
that i learnt to keep my world
hidden inside my head.
first, it was just stories.
then, it was fantasies.
that i learnt to keep my world
hidden inside my head.
first, it was just stories.
then, it was fantasies.
