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I’m peccable not impeccable
prone to making mistakes
to falling down
and getting up
                                                              ­                      i keep to myself
                                                          ­                         i’ll hide behind the scenes
                                                          ­                        i don’t always like to talk
                                                            ­                       always preferring to listen to anything you want to say
my life is dances to a rhythm
known only to myself
there is a routine (home-work home) in the chaos
everything else gets fit in somehow
                                      
                                                                ­                                   you’d never even notice me in a crowd
                                                           ­                                       certainly not the life of the party
                                                           ­                                       you’d never even miss me
                                                              ­                                    i was hardly there in the first place
there is never a plan
just an agreement with myself
to cross every bridge when I come to it
my plans are too messy to be reliable
                                                        ­                                          you won’t find anyone who knows me really
                                                          ­                                      difficult to be understood
                                                      ­                                         but eager to understand
                                                      ­                                         to lend a helping hand
i live mostly inside my own head
making up stories as i go along
open to every kind of ending
always exploring some new idea
                                                                ­                                      my inner world is what charges my batteries
                                                       ­                                               its here that everything comes alive
                                                           ­                                            where electric stuff happens
                                                         ­                                              and possibilities come pouring out

                                      I live for the people and the things that matter to me
                                      for my inner light that guides me
                                    between what I am and what I do
                                       i insist on integrity
                                                       ­ 
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   09.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
http://www.myersbriggs.org/my-mbti-personality-type/mbti-basics/the-16-mbti-types.asp#INFP
JDK  Jan 2015
INFP
JDK Jan 2015
"My dear friend,
how have you been doing?"

Not so good man - think I'm losing it.
I'm goin' off the deep end.


Relax.
Take a deep breath.

((. . .))

"What are you doing this weekend?"
Jessie  Jan 2016
For Duke
Jessie Jan 2016
Page 1 The first time I met Duke, I was tripping on shrooms. In fact, it was the first time I dabbled in psychedelics as well-- just don’t underestimate me in the marijuana department. The moment I can recall vividly comprised of the walk from the music hall which brought us to underneath the Moody Towers residential buildings, where there is wind and benches. A square of dirt rests behind the two benches facing one another; the distance apart from the benches being just far away enough to notice the gap of distance when conversing with someone on the other side. There was a main square of dirt, consisting of hundreds of butts twirled within the earth, scraggly weeds, and one relatively low sitting, yet ominous tree. This tree often glowed during the segments of the day in which the sun found itself to gazing down on the towers and its delinquent inhabitants. On many occasion during these occurrences you could find me, or perhaps Duke, basking in the serenity of the simplicity of the slivers of light breaking free through the emerald green mass of the tree. On this particular night I’m recalling, it was nighttime, causing the yellow of porch lights to dim the other color palettes. Except the sky was royal purple, and the grass in the distant hillside was writhing and crawling and breathing-- according to the mushrooms. Half of the bodies there that night were standing, half sitting, and there couldn’t have been more than a dozen of us. Here is this person in my indirect line of sight, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint the gender, but cute regardless. My guess of girl pursuing boyhood turned out to be correct. Small, almost delicate frame like mine, only he attempted to conceal his when I had long ago grown out of that. With a plaid button down and the collar poking outside of his oversized dark casual suit blazer. It was tied off with baggy khaki pants and clunky black sneakers similar to the ones the chefs in the cafeteria wear with a sense of longevity.
Page 2 His hair took inspiration from the typical pubescent teenage boy, straight and shaggy, and nearly covering the ears and eyes with a combination of strips of platinum blonde, ***** blonde, and light brown wisps. His almond shaped almond colored eyes were framed with black, square and thick glasses, but they seemed to help compensate for size with the natural petiteness of his face. Pink snakebites resided beneath his bottom lip, emphasizing the common nature of his lips that often formed a tight line, even when speaking. I only saw him from a distance that night. We didn’t introduce ourselves to each other until the next day, at that same location. There were less people now, and I was no longer in an altered state of mind. Well, to be honest, I still most likely was, but it certainly wasn’t shrooms. I don’t remember who began the introduction first, but I know his was accompanied with an abundance of compliments on my outfit and level of cuteness. As masculine as his mind was, he could still have an appreciation for the arts, for unique style, as any natural born writer would be so inclined. So there, underneath moody, I met him, within a social circle so new to me yet so familiar within the ebb and flow in the air of cigarette smoke, sometimes so pungently thick and keen against the tide of stimulating conversation. I felt a sense of belonging new to me.
Page 3 And there again and again, I saw him. The central station of our friends. There I slowly got to know him. I learned he lived about an hour away from Houston, he was a creative writing major, he was a freshman just like me and lived in the same building as me. We were both INFP’s on that Meyers-Briggs personality test. I had never met another INFP. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more his general profile seemed familiar to me. And then I remembered. RoomSync, an app the university had us use to select a random roommate. I remember considering someone’s profile that possessed all the qualities of Duke, before my current roommate reached out to me, unfortunately. Duke might have been my roommate in another reality-- remember the Multiverse Theory. I wonder if that would have even changed anything. But that thought process is futile. Once, in the initial stages, Duke had been rambling about modern horror and the author of the fight club, and where the two converge with the product of a gruesome short story. Not many accepted Duke’s invitation to read the short story, but I volunteered. But that is when I remember the beginning of Duke’s admiration for fight club. The concept of it. In fact, one of the first nights, I remember vividly as the Fight Club Night. Where Duke insisted on starting up our own Smircle fight club sometime, what what better time to do so, he thought, then right at that moment with his buddy Otis while drunk on ****** life and four lokos and *****? They were both at least eight shots deep in their sorrows when they ended up disappearing for what seemed to the rest of us like mere seconds. When we found them, we had ventured that way due to the need and ability to smoke a bowl behind the dumpster a few steps nearby. And when we found them, only one was standing. In the recounting later, Duke had apparently taken a nasty blow to the stomach after slamming a few hits in himself.
Page 4 As he lay there, sprawled face-down on the pavement, disoriented and disheveled, for a solid eight minutes at least until he determined he wasn’t going to puke. The remainder of the night was spent accompanying the rest of the group with Otis, forever refusing to let go of the moral dilemma that had just been established by this pseudo-fight club on which it is incorrect on all accounts to punch a drunk person in the stomach, because they are, in fact, drunk. This might appear annoying after a while, but the radical and lively energy that would radiate from the banter of Duke and Otis made this situation anything but.

Page 5   And so were my first stories of Duke, and so it was for many stories to come. Our stay at this place began to feel more permanent as our bodies would steadily adjust to the ranging, sporadic temperatures outside and as our eyes took in absorbing the physical evidence of the seasons. As it was, at any time throughout the day, my route would take me down to our spot underneath Moody, where Duke might or might not be there himself, shmoozing around with cigarettes and doodles on pen and paper noteworthy of Tim Burton. I got to know Duke. He seemed to have mastered the skill in which I prided myself most in, and that is the warmth near him that urges someone near him to just open your heart and reveal your thoughts and secrets-- that blind trust. Duke had a way of getting to exactly what was on my mind. And in exchange of me sharing, out came the stories of Duke’s life, the sad, ****** up, abusive stories. I heard those the most, for they were also the most compelling, and most exciting, and ******* sometimes Duke could even make them funny.

These days, Moody feels empty. Just because of minus one.
This is a short story I wrote for a dear friend I met my first semester in college, and this dear friend committed suicide before Thanksgiving in 2015. The page numbers stand for the pages in which I wrote the original copy, on fragmented pieces of notebook paper. It’s a very rough draft, but I wanted to put it out into the world. You will be severely missed, forever and always, Duke.
Ryan  Aug 2021
INFP
Ryan Aug 2021
wrapped up in a two hour daydream
thinking of what the future might be
needing to tell others but neglecting,
the world doesn't need to see that part of me

remember that cute girl at the grocery store?
the one you didn't say anything to?
ok now roll that back and imagine..
because what else is there to do?

spiraling thoughts lose all purpose
can't talk to people, can't be alone
yet my happiness depends on making others happy
a skill i don't think i've yet honed

because my whole being is the epitome of empathy
if you don't care about yourself,
well, you're cared by me
such is the life of an INFP-T
not all who wander are lost, we're just INFPs!
blank  May 2022
Infp
blank May 2022
2 midlife crises
by the age of 22
july hearne Jun 2017
west london fire stories
burning up the day,
london fires burning down and out
before they burn away

daily all day robes
and a story i can't finish
i won't make it out, there's too much
i don't want to say

so late in the day
wasting life away
unheard singing
should probably count for something
maybe today, maybe today, maybe today
so late in the day

instant coffee,
INFP, unfinished story
cheap chinese burning debris
blazing away on the bbc
so late in the day, so late in the day, so late in the day
& the day becomes another day

must be so nice to be you
always voting for justin trudeau
all your better things to do,
all the better looking women you were born to pursue

london fires burn down and out
before they burn away
& the day becomes another day
maybe today, maybe today, maybe today
the cheap chinese cladding was rain proof,
even as it fell from as far up as the 24th floor

If only the cladding hadn’t been so flammable
or if the alarms would have worked
or if they hadn’t been told to stay put and die

then some other people donated their old clothes
that they didn’t want anymore
a lot of old used clothes that people had been meaning to get rid of
were donated

i read somewhere that it was supposedly environmentally friendly
eco-friendly, but toxic and flammable

but the fire was renewable energy
or unrenewable energy
depending on how you look at it

either way, the eco-friendly plastic cladding was rainproof.














& all the reasons i hate you
are sadly the reasons i still think thoughts of you
now these thoughts have turned into
thoughts of you
still too cool for Sixto Rodriguez
still editing "The Elements of Style"
still thinking thoughts of me
so past my prime
so past the time
of our short while

— The End —