People are like control panels.
All you need to do to get a desired response is to press the right buttons.
See, a good head doesn't trust a bad BOD-ee.
Nice guys and girls finish last.
But the rest never get to stop running.
You press my buttons; I press yours.
Only difference is you hurt more.
And you'll miss me.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
It's not okay
Why won't you take off the mask of deflection? Is it fear? Is it uncertainty?
Tomorrow I will no longer be able to bear it.
I don't think I can pass it off anymore.
Speaking to thin air and shadows tires me.
Conjuring immaterial solace and warmth saps my sanity.
Darkness tugs at my waist,
Still I resist.
Perhaps I should break away from you.
Then at least I will be free.
Alone, yes.
But at least
Free.
Tomorrow I will no longer be able to bear it.
I don't think I can pass it off anymore.
Speaking to thin air and shadows tires me.
Conjuring immaterial solace and warmth saps my sanity.
Darkness tugs at my waist,
Still I resist.
Perhaps I should break away from you.
Then at least I will be free.
Alone, yes.
But at least
Free.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
C'est Fous Reverie
The boy stares at the photo of his grandparents. A photo 53 years old; as old as Malaysia itself.
He smiles at the message inscribed at the back of the photo.
"To my dearest......"
The low light of dawn described his feeling perfectly; the overhead clouds drifted past in long, wispy streaks; the inconspicuous green tinges on both the western and eastern sky and the coolness of the morning breeze delivering the nostalgic scent of dew.
He sits up against the wall on his bed. The boy holds the fragments of a picture. He knows not the identity of the picture's portrayal; memory or destiny.
And he gazes out at the gradually rising sun. A swallow flies past the trees, and the clouds, and the sun, almost as if into another world.
He smiles at the message inscribed at the back of the photo.
"To my dearest......"
The low light of dawn described his feeling perfectly; the overhead clouds drifted past in long, wispy streaks; the inconspicuous green tinges on both the western and eastern sky and the coolness of the morning breeze delivering the nostalgic scent of dew.
He sits up against the wall on his bed. The boy holds the fragments of a picture. He knows not the identity of the picture's portrayal; memory or destiny.
And he gazes out at the gradually rising sun. A swallow flies past the trees, and the clouds, and the sun, almost as if into another world.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Stoicism
Am rather fazed these days. Maybe a little melancholic.
Ok, VERY.
Might be getting a DSLR, dunno when. Mother keeps changing her mind, with good reason.
Maybe I don't have much to blog about. I lead a rather dull life.
Finally working on 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea after finishing Neverwhere. But heck who else reads Neil Gaiman these days, you all want your mainstream books. Which isn't bad but is boring.
Jules Verne goes deep. I like.
Competition in the beginning of July. Mid terms in between now and then. Waste, waste, waste.
Ok, VERY.
Might be getting a DSLR, dunno when. Mother keeps changing her mind, with good reason.
Maybe I don't have much to blog about. I lead a rather dull life.
Finally working on 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea after finishing Neverwhere. But heck who else reads Neil Gaiman these days, you all want your mainstream books. Which isn't bad but is boring.
Jules Verne goes deep. I like.
Competition in the beginning of July. Mid terms in between now and then. Waste, waste, waste.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
