‘Ben’ is the closest the reader will get to finding the real name of Maya Desdemona, one of my many aliases. It is in this category where you shall find my creative products.
I have never understood the concept of 'belonging'.
How could any thing,
Or being of this planet be assigned to anything?
Who would decide that?
What would it mean to that person?
I have noticed that it often becomes a part of their personality,
But what is its relevance?
What is this 'belonging' to begin with?
– Maya Desdemona
Pessoa once wrote
In his Book of Disquiet,
That "Only the imprisoned,
With the fascination
Of someone watching ants,
Would pay such attention
To one shifting ray of sunlight."
At first I begged to differ,
Stating my reasoning
That great poets were never once caged,
But the more I thought on the matter
The clearer it seemed to me,
That the only cage holding such a poet
Is one of his own decree.
– Maya Desdemona
Your mechanical typing
Truly resembles clockwork.
Although I am aware
That you are, at present,
Heartlessly and mindlessly at work,
I cannot help but compare you to clockwork.
The many gears of your mind are turning,
Your hands continually typing,
Your soul is now nonexistent,
And your heart seems to have failing power.
Such a lively person so lifeless,
Can even strike something called pity,
Yet I know you well,
And can only cackle at your half-heartedness.
But my, What is this?
It seems my laughter has raised your spirits,
And now you happily chat with me,
While your work lays forgotten.
– Maya Desdemona
I am here,
Though my mind is anywhere but.
That mind refuses to be caged
In the tight confines of the cranium,
And freely roams the world.
The tragedies of Old
And comedies that are new
Are where you will find mine,
Forever seeking entertainment.
Oftentimes I wonder
Why it leaves me behind.
Take me with you, dear mind,
Don't leave the flesh behind on this planet.
Yet the mind will forever only watch,
Never feel the emotions that
It travels Fact and Fiction to see.
I suppose,
In this sense,
A closed cage is better than
Never feeling what one sees.
– Maya Desdemona
All it takes
To ruin the peace of
One who does not know war
Is the greed of One individual.
– Maya Desdemona
I suppose the reason I find the human mind the most rotten of all is only because it is the only one I know and understand.
There could be something way more malicious, but a human being would never know, for one can only truly communicate with other humans.
...
How terrifying.
– Maya Desdemona
I passed by a small lake,
Devoid of even a single ripple,
And saw it reflect everything beside it with perfect clarity.
To me, it seemed more truthful than
Any mirror I had ever gazed upon.
I saw it for but a fleeting moment,
But that simple glance showed me an entire world around it.
– Maya Desdemona
Forget the old sirens,
Who tempted the sailors
With melodies and riches of old,
A more powerful one has taken their place.
For my bed so sweetly lulls me
With the warm embrace of sleep,
To wake up from such ecstasy,
Is a heartbreaking deed.
– Maya Desdemona
I was out on a stroll,
Now usual, I suppose,
Yet today I found,
Another most curious view.
It was high up,
A rather peculiar looking cloud,
And it took looking twice,
For my mind to make a discernable shape.
In all its abstract beauty,
I could see a bird
Flying out of a cloud of smoke
At least, that is what I perceived.
Twenty minutes later,
Is when my curious sight
Comes to the corner of my eye.
I noticed that a bird was struck down.
It was not a natural death,
Far from it, really,
A few stray cats in the locality
Had caught it while hunting.
And upon looking at its dismembered corpse,
Hanging from a kitten's mouth,
I could only feel
That I had seen that bird before.
– Maya Desdemona
Amongst the overflow of chatter between the unruly pigeons,
The call of an Eagle is so distinct.
In a mundane stroll devoid of much to think,
It heralds, finally, some excitement to the mind.
It spreads its majestic wings
Of span greater than most winged beasts,
It has made itself ruler of these skies
By circling around its land and pride.
More often than not,
I can hear its call,
Yet not see its figure,
For it is above the clouds.
It screeches across its clear skies,
And glides over building and tree alike,
It seems to be hunting,
Chasing its luck like throwing dice,
Yet doesn't seem to find prey tonight.
And today, it might go to its nest
Without much in beak, but a few scraps.
After all, it is truly a miracle
That food can still be considered available.
Its life in this urban landscape,
Is a struggle through which it must persist,
Yet nature will not go astray,
And these eagles will find their way.
– Maya Desdemona
Luminousis 