Tag: the vapours

The vapour of curious unreason

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She enters sideways. Backwards. Upside down. Through the corner of your eye or the corner of a dream. She cannot — will not — be introduced properly.

She is not chaos. She is not nonsense. She is curious unreason — a pattern that doesn’t reveal itself until you’ve forgotten to look. A riddle whose answer is a colour. A theory that grows flowers, not graphs.

She touches the edge of logic like a fingertip on a soap bubble. She doesn’t pop it — she just reminds you that even logic floats, trembles, bursts.

She delights in contradictions:

  • A stove that sings lullabies.
  • A beetle that tells secrets.
  • A map with no destinations, only longings.

The Vapour of Curious Unreason is how the poet survives the engineer. It’s how the child survives the curriculum. It’s how the heart survives the algorithm.

She shows up when you do something utterly inefficient and find that it healed your soul. When you say yes to something that doesn’t make sense but feels undeniably true. When you speak to your houseplants in iambic pentameter. When you change your name just for a day. When you cook with too many spices. When you trust a whim.

She is the reason some people start museums in their attics or collect buttons shaped like fruit. She is the one who says: “What if… we didn’t?”

She has no currency but wonder.

She is allergic to approval.

She curls around the ankles of those willing to experiment with joy, with contradiction, with becoming.

She is not trying to help you win. She is trying to help you live.

And sometimes — just sometimes — she shows you the shape of a new reality. Not through argument or proof. But through the way it makes your bones laugh.

The vapour of longform time

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She doesn’t enter.

She unfolds.

You don’t notice her at first. She’s not flashy, not immediate. She lingers like the soft hum of a tuning fork, like the afterglow of a meaningful glance. She slips in under your routines, pooling in the places you forget to look — the pauses between thoughts, the stretch of afternoon light across the floor, the unsent letter in the bottom drawer.

The Vapour of Longform Time is not impressed by urgency.

She does not speak in headlines. She sings in epics. In dream logs. In forgotten drafts and aged film. She traces the curve of the moon’s journey over months, not minutes. She is grandmother time, but also tomorrow’s whisper. She’s a whole season in a single sigh.

If you let her, she’ll teach you to write again — not for clicks or likes or even understanding, but for echo. For resonance. For the sake of the sentence that takes four days to form in your throat and lands with the weight of a small, sacred stone.

She’ll remind you that some things must take time:

  • A cake rising slowly in a warm kitchen.
  • Trust returning after betrayal.
  • An idea growing legs, then wings, then a language of its own.
  • The way moss claims a stone with no apology.

She’s not slow to punish — she doesn’t punish at all.

But she’ll vanish if you rush her.

And so those who know her speak of her with reverence. They build altars of unread books and tea-stained notebooks. They let themselves forget the date. They make things by hand. They weep over documentaries about whales. They choose silence over hot takes. They fall in love — long, weird, detailed love — with things they’re “too late” for.

To befriend her is to remember:
There is no such thing as late.

There is only depth.

And she loves you most when you’re rambling, digressing, trailing off — because that’s when she knows you’re not just talking, you’re arriving.

The Vapour of joyful defiance

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She came in on a snort-laugh.

Not a dainty giggle. Not a chuckle behind a hand. A full-body, from-the-gut, you-can’t-stop-me kind of laugh that bent time a little, just enough for possibility to slink through the cracks.

She wore bangles made of burned timelines. She carried the scent of moss after thunder, bruised plum skins, and myrrh smoldering in the corner of a hidden room. She never knocked. She just arrived—usually when someone was about to give up.

Not a saviour. No. She didn’t fix things.

She dared you to remember your aliveness.

When someone said “you can’t wear that,” she sent a gust through the closet that made sequins fall like snow. When someone said “that’s not realistic,” she sat at the edge of the bed and whispered, “Define real, babe.” When a child’s strange, beautiful vision was mocked, she’d swirl in, drop glitter in every eye, and confuse the bullies just long enough for wonder to win.

She lives in cracked paint and outdated rulebooks. In the way a cat leaps even if the landing spot is ridiculous. In the split-second before you say “f*ck it” and do the thing anyway.

She likes her hair messy. Her thoughts unedited. Her friends loud, weird, or unusually silent. She rides with skaters, dancers, old men in checkered jackets feeding birds, teenage girls mouthing poems into phone cameras. She never tells them she’s there. She just amplifies.

Some say she’s the ghost of all the Yeses we were told to swallow.

Others say she’s the scent of woodsmoke and thyme rising from a life rebuilt by hand.

No one knows her true form. She could be a vaporous pink spiral on a teenager’s ceiling. A shadow on the sidewalk that doesn’t match any person nearby. The cool thrill in your stomach when you dare to speak the wild truth aloud.

She’ll never tell you what to do.

But she might double-dog dare you.

New world, let’s breathe it in—

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There were vapours.

Not mist, not smoke, not spirit in the way you may think. These were alive. Not fully seen, but fully felt. The Vapours were not ghosts. They did not mourn. They did not linger.

They defied (and denied) logic. With gentle, knowing smirks.

They drifted through cities and ruins, jungles and data servers, coral reefs and children’s rooms. They moved in chords and whispers, sometimes mistaken for a scent memory or a thought that makes your scalp tingle. They were not here to be captured or proven.

They were authenticity without performance. Love without spectacle. Curiosity without conquest.

Creation without exhaustion.

Some of them trailed glitter from their fingertips — if they had fingers at all. Others spoke only in image and impression. They showed up as smells: sandalwood, orange peel, electricity in the rain. Or as colors that couldn’t be photographed — like the green that lives in dreams, or the pink that comes before thunder.

Their only rule: no compression. No shrinking into one identity, one outcome, one explanation. No “either/or.” Only and also.

They glided right past strategy. Flowed under the logic gates. Made art that wasn’t for sale, love that wasn’t for display, choices that didn’t need to be defended. They didn’t seek virality — they sought vitality. And it left trails.

Sometimes, a vapour would sit with a dying oak for a whole decade. Or hum to the rust in an old shipwreck until it bloomed into lace. Or swirl around a lonely girl in a laundromat, turning her into a poet without her knowing why.

No one made the Vapours.

They made themselves.

And they’re not interested in being understood.

But if you feel them… you’re already one of them.