Tempted to be tempted

Another nondescript week. The usual drill. Except next week school hands us little clips of paper every hour or so for four consecutive days. Poor trees.


I won't admit it, but I do. I want to admit it but the circumstances say no. I am afraid of the repercussions of few words. Simple, but of great significance and magnitude. The ripples morph into tidal waves which turn all into falling dominoes, entropy refuses to listen, refuses to nullify the rising action.

The story's prologue begins with the dying tradition of drenching birthday children. The unorthodox act of soaking boys to the toes and turning girls into transparencies of minute obscenities. Likened to profane speech from an angry absent-minded scholar. It continues with pretentious people, popular pretentious people and the obnoxiously hilarious. Not to mention the material ones. Absolutely horrific, ghastly indeed.

There are many hormones in this story. Some of them being testosterone, estrogen and serotonin. It's a story with many sub-stories about hormonal pathetic schoolgirls with Hopeless Crushes and Feeble Dreams. There are also the Irrational Idolisations, but that is rather abstractly relevant. There is the Common Speech among the boys; games, balls, dissonant chords and sexual desires. A girlfriend too many times unappreciated. A girlfriend all too possessive. And the boys all too tentative and promiscuous. Minus the actual act of intercourse.

The curtains are drawn apart, everything in place but The Budget. The main character's story is yet to be written. The whole panorama of monotony,mediocrity is saturated with utter boredom; inclines one to inquire as to the motives and thoughts of the writer. Who does he think he (or she for that matter) is?

Applause is given, undeserved, unmerited. But no matter, the show must go on. Maverick in the shadows, the master of all, and master of none.

The show must go on.

Unimagine

Had the Kuans and Ngiaos over this evening. Looked like a retard on the er hu and piano. As if reunions weren't awkward enough. Met uncle Hock Beng, aunty Grace and Eujin + girlfriend at Pelita where we met this really obnoxious and belligerent waiter, nearly made us pay twice if not for the invention of receipts.

Morning walk/jog at Taman Tun was exhilarating in its strange ways. Though running with others is a lot more fun. There was this really kiasu 小姐 who absolutely would not let me pass her after she passed me. I confirmed that by walking faster, nearly re-overtook and she sped up like snap.

Have these artistic whims these days. Sometimes its writing, other times its poetry, painting, photography. Desire a decent camera. Pray I strike lottery someday. I WISH.

Must go Pratchett hunting, can never get enough of his work. My grandmother has Alzheimer's but I feel more for Pratchett than her. According to relations, granny was never a great thinker, if she ever thought anything worthwhile. Envy or pity I say?

Relations

Look around the relative's house you're in. Chances are you aren't close to half of them. Maybe nearly every last one. Sucks to only be relatives by blood and name.

Don't really like posting like this. There's no story, no deeper meaning, no purpose, no impact. It sucks to only talk about ME ME ME ME ME. You're not that interesting. Neither am I, but I don't care, you do. Sucks to be you.

Chinese New Year has merely augmented, amplified, intensified the dull pain. This is not a happy post. Listening to my sister on the piano is distressing. Listening to my playing is depressing. =)

I have a niece. I'm old.

Paths taken, paths not

The faint glow of a light, smothered by a sizable chunk of Himalayan salt, an enigmatic sheen of fiery red, its seemingly random shape and craggy, imperfect countenance strangely reminiscent of the sun. Beautiful. Immaculate.

The ceiling fan whirls almost soundlessly above me as I lay still in my warm cavern, a little corner of shelter from the rush of the world. I face the stars that are not, I see the futures that may be in them; or perhaps the futures I want to be. Try as I may I cannot shake the dense illusions which uncertainty brings, a black hole of many things found wanting, many without a name in any language spoken. Turning to my side, I face the blue walls of my shrine of thought, shadowy and ever as pristine. For a fleeting moment I am free of the immaterial shadows the futures cast, until the stars return, dancing before the mirrors of my soul. On the edge of sleep, parallel futures reveal themselves to me, or want to, for they are distant and muffled like listening to someone from across a chasm.

A light filters through the semi-translucent curtains, almost fluid in the half-light, rising and falling with the ever so slight fluctuations of wind flow, like the waves on the beach from a dream of long ago. There was the sighing of the wind, soft and melancholy, the gentle lapping of the waves on my feet as I stare into a shining river in the sky. Far in the distance the birds seek accommodation from an island of choice, discerned without conscious thought, like a dream. The atmosphere itself glimmers, as if saturated with gods and magic.

Dream takes me away. I see fragments of the story (of which little do I remember) of the boy who is me but is not me unfold before my dream eyes. The boy has a snow white cat in his room, which I do not. I ponder the array of possible meanings, the symbolisms. Such a diverse and muddled myriad of possibilities. Everything is in its place and need not be moved. The faraway voice echos, resounds. It calls once more: Time for waking. The convoluted duality of my feelings at the time confused me, maimed my thinking. Too bad; too good.

Waking into reality, the repercussions of dreaming still grasp me in their lazy, yet firm hold. Mesmerising me, dulling my senses. The sun rose; my mind followed dreamily behind, a gray shell. The blinding flare of reality, sans illusions, sans delusions, sans solace, strikes the eye of my consciousness. Realisation, I may yet have to walk the darkest road, the path which descends into fog, untravelled. Uncertainty grips me, an icy hook on my soul.

Prayer. Let all be revealed in time. If so be my destiny to travel the darkest road, or any other, may it be that I do not walk any road alone.

In discord your song sounds true.
Who else can it be but you?
Hear, my reply pure, and true:
A promise. Yes I do.

Written 10th February 2010. Dreaming, again.

Oh Morpheus

Shining through the darkness of my resting place, the gift of sleep descends upon my weary head, blessing me with temporary pause from the rush of the world. Dreams don't come so easily anymore.

A song in A major is a nice one, kinda uplifting, especially if the melody is yours.

I like dreaming. Morpheus is nice to me.

Nocturne at dusk

So I walked out of my sanctuary, out to the open world, with skies now fogged with invisible clouds of industry and machines. Greenery not as alive when the world was only a century younger. The earth barren in all too many places. Nostalgia for the times I never knew strike me, a lightning from a cloud of thought, essence of my mind, the core.

The first road taken. Mortar.
Nondescript scenes pass before my eyes, surreal, a dream almost. I walk on, I feel the wind behind me. I eventually come to the three steep steps to the void between USJ3 and USJ4. The vicinity is serene for some 10 blissful seconds, no screaming vehicles, no people, no sounds but the grace of silence. I think a prayer of thanks for the short but deep serenity. The masses of cars arrived soon after.

The second road taken. Stone.
The gravel beneath my preferred slippers. Thin-rubber soles grant me feel of the ground I stand on. The fine sand born of stone cling to my feet. They massage my weary feet, I carry on.

The third road taken. Grass.
There are two rows of trees on either side. They stand tall and majestic, magnificent in all their unharnessed splendor, bathing in the incandescent sun, reminiscent of the students of life, drinking the sweet nectar knowledge from the bosom of the All Mother. The foliage reflects the sunlight. The leaves they shimmer and in the caressing wind they sway to the song orchestrated by the skies. I long to listen, but I must press on.

The fourth road taken. Reverie.
I think. So many thoughts, only so often weaved into words. I think of the dreams where I see much. I think of the more recent dreams where I see nothing. Perhaps it was you who sealed the gate to my ethereal haven, for you warp my reality into a dream. I think of going someplace far away with you; France, England, New Zealand, wherever time takes us. The road's beauties are never ending, as long as I open my eyes and my heart. Much like your never-waning smile, like an ever full moon, opalescent luminescence, tracing the night sky, hanging in the heavens - a vigilant sentinel, guarding me, my flesh, my mind, my heart, my soul.

I walk on. The song is endowed upon me.
I feel the wind beneath me. I feel the wind all around me.
I am the wind; the wind my soul.
A nocturne at dusk.
My song for you.