I Am The Night


Does it know us, living and breathing as creatures, as humans? Image // Dave Jackson

Written by Juwan Cross

I stare into the night

It stares back

We speak without words

A sense of understanding

A welcoming feeling

A sky I’ve never seen

Presents a familiar feeling

It asks, “Who are you?”

But who am I?

A reflection

I am the night.


New contributor Juwan’s poem really spoke to us. It’s so sparse, yet strangely so close to home, and that’s why we loved it. Maybe you’ve had this very interaction with the night or the moon itself, the stars twinkling, and you wonder just who you are in this incredible universe. We’ve all been there, and we’re all just as scared as each other. Juwan says his inspiration for his piece was via a friend saying he was the opposite of what she expected, a little darker and mysterious. If you liked Juwan’s poem, let us know by leaving a like or a comment in the section below. 

This Is Not An Eloquent Post

Written by Rivers of Tarmac


This isn’t eloquent either. Image // CC EVA Foam Numbers

This is not an eloquent post. This is not a grand speech. This is not an important issue. This is not huge. This is not special. But this is real.

This is me, more or less. Sometimes more, often less. I am living and I am breathing. My heart is beating my cells are dying. My hair is growing, my nails are growing. My wisdom teeth are coming through. I am a human being. I eat and sleep and blog, though not always in that order. I laugh and cry. I hide in dark rooms with the blankets over my head. I scream into pillows and scratch myself. I read books and draw pictures. I send long meaningful texts and get “k” in reply. I tell terrible jokes. I cheat at monopoly and argue with my siblings. I offer condolences and tea when things go wrong. I fail to use correct grammar. I make mistakes. I lose things. I lose people.

I quote song lyrics at everyone; all of the time. I make people cry.

I fall in love.

Numbers are important. The time, the date. The bus service. The number of sunsets I’ve seen. The number of years I’ve survived. The number of the scales and the number of kisses on a text. The number of friends and the number of miles. The number of scars. The number of mistakes. The difference between one and two. The difference between one and two million. The number of people on the planet. The number of people who can make my day with a glance. The number of times I’ve smiled.

This is me and I am you. You understand me and you understand numbers. You understand science and you understand maths. You understand poets and musicians, artists both. You understand scars. You understand rivers and mountains and trees. You understand beggars and you understand kings. You understand me. We understand each other. We do not understand love, or life, or the universe.

The universe is huge. Quasars are huge and numbers are huge and galaxies are huge. And love, laughter, fear, and tears are all huge. We are huge. We are stars. We are the stars and the smiles, the laughter and the regrets, and the pain and the kisses, the butterflies too. We are real.

This is not an eloquent post. This is nothing at all. This is an idea. This is you. This is us. This is me.

And I am, irrevocably, alive.

Rivers’ stream of consciousness writing is seen as a dedication to life. She makes use of a specific technique here and it’s incredibly poignant to bringing out the most in her words. In her narrative, she begins small and speaks of the insignificant things that won’t change the grand course of the universe. But then her thoughts get larger and they begin to encompass the entire world in one small chunk. Running out of built-up steam in the end and closing at the correct moment. We love it. If you enjoyed Rivers’ piece, make sure you check out ‘A Boy Who Fell In Love‘. 


Written by Lilith

The author wrote this as a response to 35.1 by Bobartles, fearing that his first person narrative didn’t do him justice. While we think this piece works fine as a stand alone, she’d like to request that you read 35.1 first for a spot of context.

Love keeps the winter from freezing us all to death. Image courtesy of laura-makabresku on deviantart.

It’s cold, shit, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this cold before. The draft clings to my thighs and I regret not dressing more warmly for January, but it’s too late for that so I clench my legs together, wishing for heat. I cradle my coffee in both unsteady hands and try to stop crying.

I look back at the screen. “It’s cold,” I read aloud. “I don’t notice.” I try to envision the narrator; a man so jaded and dead inside that he can’t comprehend every eddy of cool air snaking across his skin, creeping through his clothes. I know I’m meant to think he can’t feel it because he’s so cold on the inside, but something about it strikes me as wrong. Cold isn’t like that. It creeps in, not out.

I know you better than you think, dear narrator. I know your smile. My shaking hands still as I consider you, and a tiny twinge of warmth makes its way through my body. I sip my coffee, feeling a little more like myself.

How can I possibly tell you that you aren’t this person? I imagine you in his place, standing on the bridge with the harsh winter wind ripping through your immovable body, feeling nothing at all. I see myself at your side, my hand creeping into yours as you stare down at the traffic below.

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Parnassus Park

Written by Lost in a Dream

Even stone angels wear away in time...

Even stone angels wear away in time…

A neat row of marble statues either side of the path,
They certainly looked impressive under the street lights.
Symmetrical and complete.
Smooth marble so glossy I could almost see my reflection.

Yet, when I look into their eyes I can feel no story,
Just an empty, soulless stare.
I held their hands and tried to make a connection.
But I found them cold and hard.

Away from path, hidden among the undergrowth,
Their contemporaries gather:
A collection of stone angels
Sinking in the mud.
Their features rugged and incomplete.

In the knot of shrubbery,
With half-formed wings,
An incomplete angel offers a rugged hand.

Through the angel’s abrasive hands,
The sculptor carves his pain.
I could feel it, experience it.

It spoke more than a volume of polished prose.

If you enjoyed this beautiful poem by Lost in a Dream you’ll be pleased to hear that she has several more published in Inkblots! Here is a link to one of our favourites; “Masquerade“.


Written by Rob

We all like our personal space, but there’s a real bond between us too.
Image Courtesy of lifeandhorses.com

Normally, we’re just too strong to entertain the idea. Although we like our personal space, and every one of us moves independently, there’s a real bond between us too. You can see it clearly at the edge of the group. No-one wants to be at the edge but, obviously, some of us have to. Anyone finding themselves at the edge tries to fight their way back into the throng. This causes quite a bit of tension.

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The Paper is a Stage

Written by Dice

Inspired: The Page is a Stage

There are many things to impress us in this world. The tall mountains that defy time herself and that let us stand and witness the shape of our world. From the rolling hills, the blistering deserts, the icy plains and the tropical forest to name but a few of the delights of this world.

There are many things to amaze us in this world. The great winding rivers who challenge the solid rock to block their route to the endless oceans, oceans that can make you dream of far off worlds. The oceans made the early dreamers dream, what could be beyond the impassable ocean, too large and too deep to cross. Of course today’s dreamers need not dream what is on the other side of the tiny oceans, it is but a boat, plane or a television away. But there is a new ocean, one where we may only paddle near the shores of our home.

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