About Her

The Subuh prayers hits the quiet night breaking the silence slowly. This is the type of feeling that would just creep in and suddenly blindsides you, changing the whole ambiance suddenly into a depiction of divine serenity. I guess it works everywhere from the chanting of the monks to the opening prayers of an old priest, solemn and yet embracing.

Anyways, the azan signals my night is up and I wasted most of it on stupid “what if” innuendos about our relationship. I must admit that whichever way I look at it I have only myself to blame. I knew that falling for her would be a humongous mistake…catastrophic to me.

Well, I got my head stuck so deep, now I’m eating out of her hand. Like how a taxidermist lures a squirrel to come to him right before he knocks it out cold. The best part is the squirrel won’t know when it gets knocked out.

I have good friends who told me to just wing it and take my chances with her but; I also had better friends saying I shouldn’t get involved however, hats off to my best friends who just refused to get involved my twisted little romance.

What do they know? I bet none of them ever felt this way. I bet none of them can comprehend the feeling I had when from under the spotlight, smack in the middle of the stage, I saw her sitting in the corner of the room, moments before my drummer kicked up a monster beat from Led Zeppelin.

They wouldn’t know what it was like singing their hearts out for that one particular person. How with every love song or when my band does it we like to call them rock ballads, in your heart you are just screaming, “This one’s for you, baby”, or how there’s no more tiredness when you go off stage just to see her smiling at you with beautiful eyes gleaming in pride and awe.

Need a woman gonna hold my hand
Won't tell me no lies, make me a happy man

Black Dog, 1971

This Time Around

I felt it even before I awoke. The gloominess arose slowly like the scent of cheap perfume on a woman; disturbing yet unavoidable. I refused to open my eyes. I feel it. I feel the sadness of a thousand deaths and I know I can’t hide in bed all day.

I open my eyes. The depression squeezes me; it smashes my heart as I get out of bed only to see a glimpse of happier times through a picture of us. We looked perfect. It was like a shot taken from a Hollywood movie. I had her in my arms with our faces cheek to cheek. We were just too perfect together. Nothing could ever bring us apart until that night…

My nostalgic trip down memory lane was cut short by a phone call. Mom called. She too sensed my depression. Well, with my attempted suicide a couple of years ago, Mom did not have to guess what kind of mood I woke up to today. Mom insisted I spend the day over at their place. The idea doesn’t sound half bad. A home cooked meal for a change. I assured her I was fine and will be coming after I finish doing my stuff.

As I stood in the bathroom I imagined how the bathroom used to smell. Rosewood, lemon grass and all other fancy scents she used to buy. I wept. I really couldn’t take it. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.

I walked out of the bathroom not even bothering to have the decency to cover myself in a towel. I had to find two of my best companions over these past eight years, Mr Jack Daniels and Mr Johnnie Walker. I have to admit that they have brought me through all my hard times.
I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. I was hoping to watch some kind of lonely man comedy but all I got was talk shows. I hate them. Oprah’s show is such a drag for me to watch with all the mushiness radiating. I took another gulp of scotch and looked to the left. My guitar lay there ever so patiently and still tuned ever so perfectly. I picked it up and strummed E Minor, arguably the saddest chord in the repertoire.

As I hit the chord, grey pearls of my past burst in my mind, transforming my funeral themed room to a sunny day with an old oak tree in the middle, a picnic basket with food so much even gluttons cannot eat. I swear I heard her voice again. It was an angelic voice, which could make hell seem cheerful, even if it was just for one second. The best part about all this was she was there vivid and real, I can smell the white musk perfume that stole my heart.


The nostalgia was shredded by the reminder alarm from my mobile. It’s been ringing fervently this day every year for me to go to the graveyard. I have never done it. Somehow, I blame myself for what happened. The regret I have burns deep inside me till this very second. I have gone to the deepest depths just to see her again. I’ll say that the Spirit of the Coin game doesn’t work, neither does paying some shaman to contact her. I’ve even tried to sell my soul at some crossroads, like the Robert Johnson legend, but the devil never came.

Bottle Cap

I finally made it...got a blog started. I know it's nothing much but when you've got trust issues, it's most probably better if I just let everyone know what is going on in my idle mind.

In no way is this blog thingy affiliated with drunkenness or intoxication of the bottle but maybe I plan to make this a blog sound like a man telling his stories to a bartender while downing some cheap compounded whiskey...like those guys we see so often in movies.

I would have never thought to start a blog. Therefore I proudly with a pinch of arrogance praise my own effort. Well...there was never much to really write about but lately i feel that maybe this is going to be one of the more creative front for me and also a brand new way to express myself.

nothing much.

ciao...

Darian Henry