Author: oneseptembernight

What are we but ghosts?


“My father didn’t cry, but he said that seeing me on the floor like that was the most horrible thing that’s ever happened to him. Then he described how he’d made these tourniquets using some torn-up sheets from my bed and held me until the paramedics got there. He said he kept telling me how much he loved me, over and over, in case hearing it helped me stay alive.”

— Michael Thomas Ford’s Suicide Notes (p67)



They refer to it as the call of the void.

It is the feeling that slips in while standing at the edge of a cliff, or driving a car. There goes the mind that wonders, what if this body stumbles over a loose root, what happens if the foot brake is faulty in its functioning. What if one day, standing by the tarmac pavement, there is a crazed vehicle steering dangerous and there is no want to move aside.

There is no desire to let go of life itself, yet the hand is not clutched tight to save it as well. The emptiness that the darkness of nothing tries to fill. Continue running, this mind.

What if the glass walkway shatters at the act of the maniac. How long will one fall?

Hold a knife innocent chopping the onions, when it could be elsewhere far more sinister.

So many ways to go, but only one determines the end.

Everyone bleeds in red.


El Roi; the God who sees me.

Here when breath finds itself lost in a crowd, when feet melt into water and fall sideways. Watching these hands fail to grip the balloons of dreams and have them popping in the intensified air. This yarn of thought scrambled, disconsolate, eventually frayed. Crease all the papers into attempted perfect folds, run the life that never is.

Six feet under in the space I’m supposed to call home.

Flower on the wall, grown strange and peculiar. Remember to stand tall, raise the hand of one’s heart, even when it quivers interminably. Speak in words that don’t exist, for more so is none important. The dark and the shadows find shape in gentle light. The hand outstretched that never intrudes the bubble.

I know just the special little something for you, He whispers lovingly.

Look up and know.

El Roi; the God who sees me.


Talk to me about your monster. Does it like to come out to play at night, or claw into your back when you’re not looking? Some monsters, they know how to smile.

Not everyone learns to stop looking for the monster under their bed. I promise not to laugh, if you are one of them. Some will live in the crevices of our souls for always. Face the mirror, who do you see.

Monsters. Why do I keep going on about them? I do, for they are tangible creatures that lurk in the cracks of one’s mind. Here’s a read that realises that.

Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls is a read that has the ability to speak to the child in each of us. This I promise. It appears as a fancy children’s book, a piece of fiction inspired by Siobhan Dowd, but no. It is much more.

Depending on one’s definition, it can be considered as a horror story as reality has its many terrifying revelations. A monster in the night, a particular yew tree, uproots itself and meets Conor O’Malley. Initially frightened, he calms down upon recognising that it is not the same monster in his dreams.

This monster, the one that came walking at 12:07 will tell important stories, ones that will reveal the truth within the boy’s heart. Completed with beautiful illustrations, it is a written work that will take your heart away. It takes mine, a total surrender. I cannot say more lest I ruin it for the rest of you.

Talk to me about your monster. How tall does it stand, does it have wings or does it look like you and me. By the end of this read, you might want a monster to come calling for you.


Achluophobia; a fear most horribly misnamed for it isn’t the fear of darkness that fixates one in their footsteps, but the absence of light that paralyses.

There is a vast difference between the fear of something and nothing, though some may not be able to tell. While darkness may be a common nemesis to most, it is wronged to the worst extent if one actually thought about the matter properly. For this absence means that something became nothing, and that a number diminished into a nix, and the absence of light would inadvertently equate to the end of a shining source of brilliance. So while the fear of something is extremely understandable, it would be absolutely humane to fear the unknown; of subjects above our petty perimeter of knowledge.

In a world in which we are unable to stand alone due to such undying uncertainties, it is for reasons like these that we have the shadows sewed to the bottom of our feet during the day and the heavenly spread that bewitches one’s mind during nightfall, hours in which the light does not exist. But one thing remains clear is that fear, be it of nothing, something or even everything — companionship played and will always play a colossal role. For in the midst of great disquiet, of doubt, it is there the presence of another would ease that emotion, even if it’s only for a little while. Albeit the fact that such a presence is only temporal, one is never left completely alone and unescorted in the dark.

For what other reason then should silver stars exist?