'Why are you writing?'
the mirror asked one day.
My brows furrowed
as I stared at it.
There was an alien there
grinning at me
celebrating the anonymity
his words committed.
He did not came from a spaceship
or a shooting star,
the extra-terretrial being
formed like steam
probably from his mother's boiling kettle.
He did not announced invasion
nor preached sentences as he came.
He just jumbled empty words,
sinking words,
alien words,
to everything he feels.
He is a tourist
in this grotesque land
where answers and meanings
are different from each other.
He is experimenting,
wondering and hurting,
almost trying everything,
searching for splinters
that can enter his skin.
He is searching for that boy
in the mirror---
that alien twin creature
he thought he knew too well.
But as they stared at each other,
the boy just grinned
celebrating his anonymity.
So until he find that boy's name,
the alien
will continue writing.
