how?

how do i live through every day?
my eyes are blind, my heart's gone 'stray?
what is my name? it's been so long,
my legs too heavy to carry on.

how do i wake from 'ternal sleep?
a slumber of nightmares that make me weep?
and 'tween them sporadic ungazing stares, from you, my dear, my star of flares.
how does this body heal through such pain?
from canc'r'd sun and acid rain?
'tis easy compared to flightless stairs, to beggars who peddle most worthless wares.
how doting love in sins mayhap?
that prays to God with lips so chap'd,
where 'doth' and 'wherefore' destined pairs; goodbye, enough of careless cares.

how do i live through every day?
how do you under starless nights?
come now whatever demons may,
june and july, for this one's plights.

how cares he not for endless smiles?
and you not, too, for wasted whiles?
how ragg'd poet writes in prose,
and lets go now while no one knows!

my life as a soldier of fortune

my youth was so full of ignorance. and this is not something that is new or exciting. it's neither unforseen nor unwanted. but, i'd like to point out a particular naivety that has come to light in the past 3 or 4 years - that i used to do things for idealism. that's not a misstated concept, i did not do things idealistically, but i did things for idealism. what does that even mean, you ask? let us take some examples and see if this concept can be... conceptualised.

1. i used to want to do a job because i loved it. now i just need the money. lots and lots and lots of money. it's a bit too late for that, but what i want is more important in this conceptualisation that what i'm able to achieve.

2. i used to want to eat because it sustained me, it tasted exquisite, it was worth eating. now i'm just fracking hungry.

3. i used to want to love because i loved this person, this divine being, this heart of purity and flesh of ambrosia. now i just love because everyone's doing it. and because you can't love with just love alone.

4. i used to want to live because life was worth living; that the succulent taste of life was double rainbows and cats and cheeseburgers. now, wtf is this, i don't even...

5. i used to want to write because words are melodic and true and faithful and sweet, sweet release. now i write because, if i don't, the darkness of the world sits upon my chest like an imp with ball and chain.

6. i used to want to play because it was joyful and relaxing and exuberance of the flesh. now i want to play because, what else is there to do?

i hope this has exemplified how someone may do things because of idealisms (but not any more).

paradiso

a humming din reverbs this night,
that timid souls may falter flight;
when weary strangers come accost,
and with dawn draws paradise lost.

i want to get ahold of paradise lost. also, given time, 100 years of solitude. where do i find the time? oh yes, the dodos have it!

my dear alice

some years ago, i played a (at the time, little known) game known as american mc gee's: alice. it's basically a very macabre and twisted version of alice in wonderland. you can read about it more here, in which post i have made all the appropriate links (and shall not bother with in this post, thence).

anyway, a couple of weeks ago. guess. what. i. stumbled. across. oh. mai. gawd.

hells yeah. i'm totally getting this game some time soon. or someone could get it for me for my birthday. i'll probably post all about it when i've played the game, but for the inquisitive, here's the official website (go to the american portal, it's way better).

you can tell i'm so excited. like rebecca black on friday. because the giddiness is practically oozing out your monitors and if you listen closely to your speakers, you can hear me giggling like a little girl on the other side. just like that girl. in wonderland. tee hee. except with less crazy and more happy.

in which forgetfulness is key

i had the most amazing dream last night. i woke up in the middle of it and (heard this before, folks) it was so vivid. then i forget.

i had an idea i penned down in a single sentence. to write and rhyme and make in art. then i forget.

i have a million things on my to do list, each one more important than the previous. then i forget.

i read from tongues i do not speak, i read from authors i keep wanting to read. i make a list somewhere of books that i need to read before the day is done, before the year is out. i lose these scraps of paper, and then... then i forget.

every day i think of a red rose, and how fermina of such heart is... ineffable. but against all my will, and sometimes more. of this i cannot forget.

he is number four

go forth, valiant, trusty steed,
gallop now a steady flight;
and of the time, pray, pay no heed,
descend silently into the night.

and with you take these souls of babes, their ribcage oft'n skinless bared,
while stomachs bloat with gaseous falter - breath from neighing nostrils flared.

thy brother mare, of taint sanguine,
ride templar thrown from wild thrashing;
spew gushing blood from kin of mine,
good for absolutely nothing.

taint of blood and sin of flesh, be gone and sound horns of retreat,
for in one's victory war cries, sings eulogy of kin's defeat.

but hark! who goes there, callous fiend?
with unarmed hand, and sorrow'd fame;
and wreak stench of rot and gangrene,
verily, oh, death is thy name.

let your disciple do your bid, and flay our souls from bodies lie,
that even aeons come to pass, that deathless beings even may die.

despair, thee, mortal, hope does no more,
a fourth is come, dressed sickly white;
but what lust has this equine for?
blanch'd hooves upon whose mount takes flight?

with submissive fault faith demise'd, let havoc loose to end's degree,
mayhap hope persists insomuch, a lamb to save us from brothers three.

that's just the way it is

this is me,
looking at you;
falling in love,
or love misconstrue.

this is me,
gazing through eyes;
like depths of an ocean,
that soulless demise.

this is me,
realised now;
i misplaced a thought,
so i take a bow.

this is me,
fumbling retreat;
while dropping my heart,
that's now at your feet.

this is me,
crying in shame;
as passer-bys smile,
'oh god, that is lame'.

this is me,
in ignorance, bliss;
fatefully that's just the way it is!

it all makes sense

i don't understand.

tick tock

life's old clock, doth tick too fast,
whilst seconds gone that nev'r last;
a grandfather now tells and bell tolls,
like bowling balls upon eventless black holes.

hush, silence now, and list'n well,
hath this stopwatch not pray and tell?
of sorrow'd times filled with regret,
breed condescending love beget.

and falt'r with thy heavy heart,
like burning stars from far apart;
count years in which light doth traverse,
with burden'd betterment oft for worse.

now gravitate towards all that you impart,
tick-tock, repeat, for that was false start;
expand at expense of expanseless dark void,
of stellar proportions much like brandon boyd.

falter, falter, falter again, time seeps between fingers that cannot withhold,
reject, reject, rejection, my friend, for thou art forever alone and are old;
(forever thou art alone - an arsehole).
tick tock still goeth this clock.

every fracking day!

every day, a little bit, again i die inside,
every day, just that much more, my soul does run and hide;
every day, now and again, this mind is sorrowful,
it thinks of mundane repeatings and laughs at pity's fool.

for what is life, this everyday, if not that of motions gone through?
if not for person's emotions, on which imprint unto?
what is our being, if left distilled, in beakers and on shelves?
of quirky, orbiting atoms, and imminent ourselves?
but then, why should we think of things existential in nature,
when at the crux of everyday is being now and here?

again to sleep, with haunting dreams, and shallow sane descents,
again to rise, for present whims that daily decadents;
again to pass a slumbered wake of putrid, tasteless sounds,
again a day to turn anew, much like merry-go-rounds.

every day, an inch closer,
every week, if you prefer,
every month that passes now, remains that of a sinless slur;
every year, now gone - begone,
every time, that is forlorn,
every threshold reached for love and every hatred-leading scorn.

oh, let this hollow carcass lie, another day thus passes by,
along the roads that pave this way, that lead us more and more astray;
a wish for may,
and spring today,
where loves portray,
with much dismay,
this bitter heart of moulded clay;
it breaks that much more every day!

steampunk, woo!

trash talking

i apologise profusely for the recent strew of posts which have come during a very depressing time in my life. it always seems that when i see that little spark of light at the end of the tunnel, it's only a freight train coming my way. but, that is no real excuse for being perpetually depressed. especially over another person! oh, how dreary!

in any case, today we visit some more detached things: trash.

something i've found quite interesting is the types of trash people throw out. they say you can tell a lot of things of a person from his/her trash, and that one man's trash is another man's treasure. i like to believe that most of this is true, but for most part, trash is simply a by-product of cultural upbringing. how is this even related, you may ask? well, let's see...

1. food. i've found this most prevalent (and thus best exemplified) by the way people prepare their food. most asians tend to prepare their food from scratch (although i notice a changing trend in this, now that instant foods are more abundant and cheap), and so a lot of their food waste is 'wet trash'. you know, eggshells, potato peel, fruit skins, cat tails. stuff like that. westerners are more likely to eat out (and even when they dine at home, they usually buy partially-prepared stuff, like insta-mash and 3-minute spaghetti and meatballs), and so a lot of their waste is 'dry trash'. more tin cans and cardboard boxes. milk cartons and plastic containers. of course, there's going to be a bit of both in everyone's bins, but if you observe trash collection day, you might find this to be true. it kinda blurs in multicultural areas so, i dunno.

2. quantity of trash i don't know why, but young people have way more trash than old people. maybe there's a slight bias in that the young people i observe do live in bachelor(ette) groups, whereas older people have families (which are smaller than the bachelor(ette) groups, and i assume kids don't really generate that much trash. but then, it still doesn't really fit for me. maybe teens to young adults eat more? and waste more? who knows.

3. tidiness of trash (bins). this is just something that boils down to how neat people are, i guess. and, by far, i've noticed that westerners keep their trash cans well in order. no spillage of liquids around the bins, no overflowing bins, and even then, the plastic bags are neatly put in a pile beside the trash bins. asian people just tend to chuck the bags wherever. i mean, it's not as clear-cut as that, especially if you live in an are where trash collection is frequent enough such that you don't need to worry about this becoming a piling problem (pun intended). and maybe the messiness and smell does relate to the contents of the trash, like we were talking about earlier e.g. 'wet trash' vs. 'dry trash'. but, eh, i don't think it's really that hard to keep things in order just for good practice. i don't think it really effects many people, and even the garbage collectors are not callous as to leave stuff in spite when you don't really keep your trash in order. it does prevent the wild ravens from becoming too-dependent on humans, though, and my eco-friendly cousin would like to talk to you about that.

hmm, writing on this new computer makes my ramblings seem so much shorter because the font is so small and screen is so huge! (btw, i have a 15' macbook pro now, yay!). so i guess i'll sign off for now, even though i have a few more points i wanted to 'breeze through'. again, i apologise that my recent posts are a bit out of the way, even for me (not that anyone would notice). i blame my muse (or, i guess now, lack thereof).

on emotion

romance is the work of the devil, and love is his sardonic laughter. late into the nights as we cuddle up in bed, a duvet the substitute for what warmth another body may supply to fend off the biting winter chills, we hear this laughter - hollow, resonating, mocking and eternally piercing. we hear it when we're alone, we hear it in the presence of others, we hear it when we're tired and we hear it when we're lying there unable to catch a breath of sleep, even when the very strength of our wakingness has far left our bodies and our spirits are already deep in slumber before our eyes could even shut.

for love, in any measure or extent, is what jeers at us as we lie there, slowly absorbing the banality of existence. the meaninglessness of being, if it were not for that significant heat sink, upon which our toes pander a measly attempt at intimacy, which is only a guise for annoyance in the form of warmth and personal space.

do you know that feeling when you are in love, or at most, when you are newly in love? the feeling where everything is beautiful and sweet and tasteful and perfection? the feeling where nothing could wrong you and you could do no wrong? the exact inverse of this feeling is the emotion of love when you find out one of many things; that your love is unrequited, that your love cannot be, that your love is futile, that your love is laughable, etc. but, the zenith of this dark, pitiless emotion is when all these antonyms of love and intimacy coalesce and form a realisation that all that you have held dear in ideology is a blatant lie. and even more sarcastically, that the lie was concocted by none other than yourself - fed to an ego that is blind and naive. and that, is what the work of the devil fruits in, also known as the failure of romance.

sometimes, i regret that hopeless romanticism is abundant in my life. in one's life. in anyone's life. not just for himself (or myself), but also for passion, for ideals, for another person, and for love in itself. sometimes i regret it so much because it leads to nothing more than contemplation, and nothing less than heartbreak. but on other occasions, i am happy that this holds true, for what other than human fallacy is a better representation for all that we hold dear - the human condition?

naive, indeed. maybe one day i will have realised what emotion really is, and when i finally do, i will compare and contrast it to this concept of hopeless romanticism. i only pray that i will come out the victor when all is not lost. but if i should ever have to live a lie in order to live a life, then i cannot fathom something more worthy of lying for than life in itself.

and that, is what drives an (the) emotion.