'cause two out of three ain't bad

The waves have played a graceful tune that beg and that beseech,

That harmonise a lonesome tune upon Cottesloe beach;

While singing praise to juxtapose the orange, setting sun,

Their shadows twizzling pirouettes for all and everyone;

How could I not to have hoped to love for something so pristine?

Your weathered winds from star-lit skies that flit with sparkling sheen,

But most of all, what's seen by none beneath your swelling waves - 

A silent corybantic din like eerie haunted caves.

Oh, save this once, at least for now, while pelter does the rain,

I'd dance with you a final tune - dance even in my pain.

As slow as winter morning's come with smell of gum and dew,

A veil of brume coats twenty-eights that praise the day anew;

But 'fore a child has risen from her warm and comfy bed,

Let her 'nother hour's rest that she may fill her head,

With fanciful and vivid dreams of spotted, rainbow snails,

Of chocolate-covered unicorns, iridescent narwhals;

But mind you let her wandered mind not take itself away,

That she may come to sing with birds and love the coming day.

Oh, save this once, and once again, while the morn is yet cold,

I'd ask you dance a final tune - dance before I am old.

Sometimes while in summer's stead, a drizzle takes abode,

Where oft the sun shan't make his claim upon the song of toads;

And nary a neglected day has been before it's done,

There's much to do for everyone even with lack of sun;

To this I must implore to all, "your own is yours to find,

The limits of a person's thrill is but of his own mind,"

For one it may that books are 'nough to reverie and trance,

Mayhap another game of chess or if you will, a dance?

Oh, save this once, and do not fret, or flutter heart with fear,

I'd wait for your one final tune - wait even for a year.

That grandiose, unfettered moon whose bleached ivory stare,

Is without recompense from purloined rays of the sun's flare;

But whencefrom comes the humbling pitch, that darkness from afar?

Which blights the cloudless summer nights and halts bedazzling stars?

Ever if you've made a wish upon celestial beings,

For luck, for love, for carte blanche or, for gold and diamond rings;

Perhaps you've misconstrued somewhat of sidereal truth,

To ask of petty, simple things makes one seem but uncouth.

Oh, save this once, I do implore, that reap should what I've sown,

I'd ask you save me from this dance, whose folly is my own.

But, hark! What sordid ennui have we becked upon ourselves?

A miner bores a languished gash - into the earth he delves…

And for what wanting does he bring, the steel we sorely need?

Or is it that we feed our own - what comes to pass as greed.

I hope, though that, not all is bleak and dreary from such crime;

As surely as red Uluru has stood the test of time,

So does my want to reconcile, repent and live contrite,

Do unto you how you deserve and make my own wrongs right.

Oh, save this once, if only once, for posterity's view,

That all may see I saved this dance, for one and only - you.

But eventide - his lease is short and before him dawns none,

To bow with such subservience and loyalty to one;

I cannot say this heart does not yearn for Death's sweet release,

If only to have partook from the night's unspoken feast;

That serves the milk, ambrosia, and honey void of heat,

With lingered taste to reminisce of sickly, sorrow'd sweet;

Yet who could ask for opal lips and sapphire-tinted eyes,

Not while there's so much left to learn, yet still we're at goodbyes.

Oh, save this once, upon your cheek, that I may beg for bliss,

To dance with you this gloaming tune, and seal it with a kiss.

s

where has the time fled 'fore it's lease? that which should evermore,

soon but forgotten like deceased, by nary rich nor poor;

such lovers' scorn, so undeserved that begs a second chance,

how does one try to comprehend when speaking such parlance?

that which i should have cherished more and chosen to neglect,

apologies and beggings that one day you would come back;

but c'est la vie, that when is lost does this soul yearn the most,

awaiting now drenched in the rain, whilst hunger lies repose.

but abstinence has spread too thin, its value till next year,

a spurned heart's loss placated only by a dull lent ear;

to which we whisper, 'au revoir, 'til next we meet, so long',

and wish we could have made alright the things we had done wrong.

not all is lost, 'tis never late, thus preached by all the saints,

to make amends and cast anew rather than sing complaints;

the old that begs for fresh restore, the new for some reprieve,

as how the soul waits for its fare before the blessed eve.

the harrowed hearts that thought all's lost, now begging to begin,

where are they now? there should be more, what sorrows lie therein?

lest we forget repentance is not for mortals to grant,

not from a king, nor vagabond, nor preacher, nor savant.

yet beg you still, do stay awhile, forgive my sins i plead -

to greet syawal with open hearts, i wish you blessed eid.

breaking the rule

it's been a while since i've written in prose, but that does not mean i have not mused and pondered upon various ideas that merit mention here. it is unfortunate, however, that i have not had the alacrity or opportunity to touch upon them, but today i think i will gander a small entry on relationships, if only because a lot of my peers have been writing on it recently.

it is nothing new, the gaming of relationships, or at least that of courtship. i have many friends who have been on the offence with such theories and postulations, just as much as i have friends who have fallen (unwittingly) victims to them. i will not pretend that i am not tempted to engage in the manipulation of the opposite sex's psyche. who cannot attest to being madly in love with another, that he or she would not do anything to tip the odds in his/her favour? who cannot say that a meandering eye, mind, or heart has not warranted attention enough to urge the body into actions it cannot commit to? the tongues that lie, the hands that cheat, the eyes that wander more than feet? if they are not in all in the name of love, then they are in name of lust, but who can judge more than onesself? i digress.

the point here is that some people will argue that gaming any system is all part of the greater scheme - winning. and what ends will people not take to win such hefty stakes? i have given in to the ideology that i should not, for personally, the ethics of such things are like using cheat codes in videogames, or at the very least using a walkthrough. puritans will cry, and pragmatics will laugh, idealists will find a way to incorporate said gaming into the system, and the few who couldn't care less will inevitably settle for what they can afford.

which brings upon the next idea - that of affording. courtship in nature has evolved to become as complex as the species (and in the case of humans, sometimes even moreso than we are). it is easy, and fun, and exciting to study simple genetic elements at 'courtship' - the concepts are very reliable and reproducible in nature. from jumping genes to viruses to allelic variations of the most housekeeping of genes, only the essential survive to propagate, and there is no room for metabolic burden, and excess of non-coding. i apologise for the throwing around of jargon, but the phrases are less meaningful than the idea that 'in with the good, out with the bad'. good and bad are easily defined depending on the needs of the host at the time, and there are little, if any issues of selecting the better suitor (if such terms can be used for genes and the such, i suppose).

then come the simple organisms, and we slowly move up the 'complexity' hierarchy, and the simplicity of our earlier argument slowly and steadily falls apart. the definition of good and bad, better and worse, becomes blurred, and at best, arbitrary. illustrations become grey areas and anecdotes become case studies, and for fear of the worse, i can only generalise that there is no longer a rule when it comes to men.

returning to gaming the system - the attempt to put rules upon courtship and romance, and manipulating the rules to our favours. many people attest to its success and if only by virtue of empirical result, i have to incline to believe in it. but choice. the responsibility that comes with yielding such power is only comparable to that of spiderman. and to extend the analogy, who would choose to become such a superhuman - apparently all of us. but what we do not realise and do not fulfil the responsibility that comes with it, which unfortunately leads to its abuse. with time, the status quo is changed - mangled beyond recognition and distorted far beyond belief. that verily leaves us with? nothing more than a false sense of attractions, a superficial world of courtships, a design doomed from conception except in the paltry of most fortunate cases.

who is to blame? what is to blame? besides our evolutionary imperative to pair with the 'most eligible bachelor(ette)'? i cannot fathom an explanation even close enough to a truth. and for my experience (or very much lack thereof), i can only comfort myself that though i will never live to become the epitome of such (or any) yardstick regarding romance or attraction or related genres and sub-genres, i will have gamed the system by not even trying to play.

p/s: and if that removes any entitlement to ethical behaviour that may have come with choice, since it is more apathy than the ability to do great things and declining, i reckon that at least i am not a hypocrite - that which i hate the most.

r

that all art the same, no one can deny, but why hath choseth thine of you?
to lead, to love, to affront mine why? these purpos’d means misconstrue;
but thoughtless designs, and arbitrations that giveth thee meaningless worth,
maketh me feel gloom, woebegotten doom, when all I should feel that is mirth.
with painstaking toil, that refrain’d by self, that tears, made sweetened and dry,
that lesser folk scorn, and lesser still mind, makes physical wants run awry;
but be that thine claim? thine nature maltreat? that persecutes those of pure heart?
nay, cannot be true, if only retreat, through milestones and aeons apart.

deny this, mine love, but forsake me still, elusive as sprites to a djinn,
make silence with peace, make peace with mine sin,  that arise cacophonous din -
come dusk and the dark, all hungers and lust break free that i may kiss thine lips,
so sickly and sweet, with tinge of remorse, and place mine hand ‘pon thine hips;
such thee may caress and placeth me ‘pon thine bountiful bosom’d embrace,
let feast ‘pon most sweet, ambrosia of gold and nectar and honey’d solace;
but stop! no more! i beg this of thee, too patient,
too humble,
too kind,
let abstinent thought, and refrained wandered hand, give patience to body, to mind.

they’ve loved thee but once, too soon and again, ‘til comes again fanciful time,
same sometimes i pray, forgive my own wane, un’preciative of thine sublime;
so tender thine touch, like tender’d resign, that I may come to love once ‘gain,
so beautiful match’d, those rose blossom’d lips, and skin white of polished porcelain;
still beareth such pain, and sorrow’d remorse,  that uncouth’d plight of this heart,
unworthy be deemed, to any one soul, why hath we must to depart?

and still,
be still,
silently instill,
imbued with heavenly grace,
so long, ‘till ‘gain yet, a smile be thine face, we greet in each others’ embrace.
mine pardon, you’ll grant, apology begged, I could not love thee with pure mind,
this heart is but bleak, inconsolably mad, driven insane by thine shine.

a sapphired glean, that worldly refracts, make inopportune, thee, temptress,
and sorry I could not love thee much more, but so I could love thee no less.

lemonade blood

that seeps between the cracks of these bloody pavements red,
made so by dust and sweat and lives that rest before deathbed;
where children sell for dollars five, at self-erected stands,
lemonade blood, sugared sweet, squeezed from their parents' hands.

tomorrow's price, a sixpence worth(!) higher than i recall,
the buyers in their limousines bring tractors to the stalls,
they've had their sip and tasted that metallic resource sweet,
entitled to the whole lot more, let history repeat.

the kids grow up, they question now, "where comes from soylent green?"
but ask away, it matters not what remains yet unseen;
with submerged heads, their thrashing legs, their flailing arms in mud,
then soil the fancy silken shirts with clear, lemonade blood.

the sunday flea market

at most unholy hour does start, before the sun's beck may,
when yet still warmth lies between sweet linen and fluffed duvet;
a combi van that arrives first, then others with the dawn,
when students are but 'bout to sleep, the pedlars bid good 'morn.

the shabby tables set in haste - stability is key,
for items set in their own place, though done so randomly;
a joy-filled laugh, a hearty beck, some banter filled with mirth,
the day-long hawkers hope to sell for more than their wares' worth.
tho whom, you'd think? since no one's there - ah, you're mistaken, friend,
some treasure-hunting early birds, some stay here 'til the end!
i must say that it's quite a sight, that attracts curious stares,
how simple such a parking lot now serves for selling wares!

the first to set up shop, a man whose glazed stare sings lacked sleep,
with curious 'sortment of fur rugs, of cow, of lamb, of sheep;
what's this, i see? is that fox fur? and not at all too old,
alas, i have no use or space for one that smells of mold.

next up a jolly, red-cheeked ma'am whose seen past better days,
but you can tell she was a pretty lass - in many ways;
she said she ran off to the countryside with her one heart,
a young couple after the war who wanted a new start;
their story is a ageless one, that i'd recant elsewhere,
but what, indeed, has she to sell, this lady old and fair?
they set up a small apiary - and tended honeybees,
now here she is, to sell that sweet nectar to you and mes!
i bought a jar, of blue gum just to give it a fair try,
and we'll find out soon if it was worth an arm and an eye.

so wandered i between the sparse but cacophonous crowd,
until i saw a hippie stall with shirts that were too loud;
amongst the paraphernalia sold (some dodgy in their means),
an antique watch i sought much like jack and his magic beans;
'how much, good sir' i asked, 'would you part with this pocket watch?'
i did not forget to point out the scratches and a notch,
but for my woe! it wasn't meant to be my purchase, nay,
for said watch did not work at all, oh well, another day,
may come when i will finally get a chained watch of my own,
but until then this longing should let simmer and have grown.

a coffee stall, that smelled too good, an indulgence i've spared,
a fridge of rare and sought ice-creams i've not seen to have cared,
(but that being said, ben & jerry's has been my nicotine),
and häagen-dazs reminds me of my time as an old teen.
some pots and pans, my mother would appreciate these things,
the chinaware and tupperware and cutlery for kings.

and then, surprise! a stall of meats, of nearly every type,
at least as much as sunday markets hold up to their hype;
a german with a manly beard, and tattoos up his arm,
he told me he did shady things, some which would bring him harm…
i laughed it off and told him that was no business of mine,
but instead i'd like to ask him of his wares had he time,
he said he'd prefer to chat over a stout froth'd beer,
again i laughed, and he agreed, "since there is no one here".
he told me in great depth of all the sausages and meat,
he hung above his head all ready to cook and eat,
and in the while he told me of his troubled history,
of how he came to end up here from homeland germany.
his different frankfurters were great, his humour greater still,
he produced his own stash of cheese and beckoned me with will;
i declined as i had no heart to take from one so kind,
especially when cheese, wine, meat! that's more than i can mind.
we parted soon, too soon, in fact, with uproar and outburst,
while making jokes (i'd share my pun, but that would be the wurst).

a few more stalls, of books and toys and uninteresting things,
i thought my time was at its end of browsing these wingdings.
but cut me short! there's one thing i cannot resist just yet,
a turkish man selling his food (i recall he was fat);
it smelled just one shy short of being made by the divine,
though i admit my hunger pangs were growling at the time.
a chocolate doughnut to fill my gut, and smaller ones for soon,
a story quite unique itself to fill the afternoon;
he said he was from ankara, and this piqued me curious,
and left as his government had made him so furious,
went to london and opened shop selling doughnuts and drinks,
then came down under for a change and searched for life hijinks!
he settled down and bought some pans (from malaysia no less),
and decided he'd live a life here, one that's free of stress,
which brings us to this sale today; his doughnuts (now they're mine),
think i'll stop by the sunday market quite soon in future's time.

i found you

‘tis thee, thy name,
thy name,
thy name,
that rattles in my cageless ears;
unbound by coin’d and falseful fame,
with ‘ternal glory burnt through  years;
that which i could not ‘preciate,
more than thy name, a blue sky blue;
so pardon me, accept thine hate,
a little late I’d not found you.

to speak of light, and follied so,
could i fathom thine full extent?
if only words had leapt from woe,
instead of waiting ‘til all’s spent;
but worry!
worry!
needlessly, until mine walk becomes a trudge,
ah, seconds late! unfortunate, that others paltry come to judge;
too soon, and one would insult ‘pon,
thine victory that whispers fate,
too late, and hopes become forlorn,
i found you just a little late.

just as these crumbled veins are bled,
sanguine and baked under the sun;
so just as all this heart has fled,
unseen, two had become as one.

a longing for long decembers,
that likes whose likeness wicked smile;
by sandy beaches heated embers,
star-kissed burning all the while.

inadequate, and wrongful tries , so riddled – pocked of bluff,
insufficient though full fledged, still nowhere good enough,
how could a blessed, and thorough thought, a late but perfect hour,
be written for a blind eye, so quickly turn stale and sour?

there’s more to upper hands that’s worth,
engagement before left;
a heart, a promise, ‘moments mirth,
that stolen worse than theft;
i promise, t’wall end but too soon, may judgement deserved fate,
and only wish sooner i’d tried, i found you just too late.
but, hark! the midnight hour has passed, and sunrise sets at noon,
indeed i misconstrued that thought – i found you but too soon.

the night's ardor

oh, eerie moon, thine shine so bright,
let lit this dank, cold starless night,
thine might, shan’t sway even despite,
a halo’d bind to ward of fright.
but stay your say, should, may or might!
that haunt’d twine of occult sprite,
that with the darkness spread’st blight,
a hopeful dim’d to hold thee tight -

but of the sun!
her glow!
her bliss!
that wishful thoughtless soul for this,
begone, thy naked moon of his,
that hers may seal you with a kiss.

oh, moon, with loss of stars tonight – sidereal beauty by my plight,
so clutch mine heart and sunder suns, that you may take me with your flight.

beneficient

the logic of subservience. the presence of god(liness). it is hard to imagine how it all fits. the arguments and counterarguments are plain, and i do not think i shall delve into those things unless they are pertinent to a point i am trying to make. instead, let's consider how such things influence us, nay benefit us.

again, let us revisit the effort-reward correlation. if there is any, and that effort begets reward, then it is easy to argue both ways - God exists because he has rewarded me for my actions, or God doesn't exist, and the reward for my actions are my own. similarly, if the converse of both clauses is true, God exists because he has punished my lack of effort with non-rewardal (or punishment), or that God does not exist, and that the results are consequence of my own (lack of) action.

it is when effort does not beget reward (and this is by and large the case, i imagine. at least empirically i see it everywhere), that we can question presence. how justifiable is either, that null should reward something, or vice versa?

can one really prove anything even if a correlation is established? maybe it is enough that one convinces oneself (oh lord, the choice of third person).

in any case, it is hard to fathom a paternal God that does not look out for his creations, but similarly, a malevolent God - what purpose do we fulfil? is sadism the 'greater good'? is that why people are moulded with this nature? inherent to? cultivated with? the diversity of human ethics and laws does not cover enough ground to mirror an imagery of God, even if we are built in his shape.

it couldn't be further from the truth, that this has any effect on ones choice of belief, only that how soothed is a soul if there is something to tether a belief upon, even if that belief is (inherently) flawed?

one place

every situation in life that defies the logic we have at the time creates a small hole in our souls.

most people change their logic that those holes can be patched, at least for a while.

some people change the situations to fit the logic.

but some holes are bigger than the patches we conjure would care to fit, so we go on with life accumulating ever so slightly larger voids that become gaping, unsightly, even downright ugly.

and most people fill these with things. religion. science. music. art. history. hedonism. even other people.

what most people don't realise is that these holes created don't just mean that our souls are disappearing. no, not really. they're whisked away. maybe they go into another place, where all souls join into a massive cloud of pseudo-souls. maybe it's less romantic, maybe they just lie somewhere, waiting for an uncoming day of judgement. maybe a deity picks them up for some use or another. who knows? but those slivers of souls are there somewhere.

for me? i think i would like to know what i would do had i not lost those pieces of me. but so much has been lost in so little time, there is no recordkeeping - not for me, or for you, or for anyone for that matter.

maybe it is best that i keep on writing. that if i could write my way to destinations, there's only one place to go.

giving in

i apologise, first and foremost, that this, along with the next few posts, will be touching on some metaphysical questions that, though i ask myself now and again, i can never really answer. whether now is a good time to pose them (again), or isn't, i don't think is relevant - there never really is a good enough time.

in any case, there are a few ideas that i re-visit from time to time pertaining to religion, particularly revolving around:
1) effort-reward relationships and fatalism,
2) predestination in its various forms and sorts
3) the literalness of word (and spirit) in religion

and that which i shall touch upon today,

4) giving in.

when i find myself in such a dire state that conversations with God seem needed and even warranted (and, of course, it is only during the 13th hour of the most needful of times that we actually beseech any form of divine power), it is always in a very philosophical tone. i regret the air of haughtiness it involves (or at least portrays. to be honest, there is nothing beyond overthinking involved), but there's usually a few questions and postulations that i toss up in the air, contemplate for a bit and then leave for another time when i feel the world is closing down faster than i can find a reason for it to be worth any merit. and, for me, this is communion. this is religion. this is prayer and this is subservience.

but, i envy those who have taken it further than such simple logic. my doctrine makes it such that being one with God is limited by the confines of human prostation. even worse - mine. even by the simplest definition, this is flawed. it is cherry picking and turning a blind eye. there is more element of self-convincing than there is faith. and this is regrettable. those who i envy - they either have it so wrong in their simplicity that they cannot (or will not) see the logic i try to portray (and i do not even tout this as such an extension of thought, as i am humbled by so many others' ideals and practices), or they have seen past such human (my) error and fallacy to something that i wish i could.

being able to say that 'it's okay' and see that worldly gains (or losses) are but fleeting, and trivial. i cannot come yet to do this. and as much as i would like to understand how this is possible (not even to try to do it myself), i may not even want to. how can i even try, when i cannot even define what it is that i find myself lacking?

you must pardon the pseudo-existentialism. i do not attempt to impress or even partake in higher intellectual discussion on religion. that would be hypocricy, as the stem from which i question the given is not even religious in nature (as always, it is the longing for what i claim as deserving, but in all honesty, there is only laughable argument at best).

before the day comes, though, that i find myself at peace with simple devotion (and simple here also being far more spiritual than what i have now), i must confess to wishing that it were all fall into place, and i pray only that it begins with a simple one, a simple person, a simple wish, a tether, a hope, a miracle. and that is a dore.

hand of god

it seems every day i question the presence of God. it is worth noting that his existence is a different question altogether, and i have chosen to arbitrarily believe in that. arbitrarily. because there is no form or function to this logic. and, truth be told, if i were not born into religion, i would by now be an atheist, or at the very least, agnostic. yes, i do believe agnostic would be more appropriate. there is something about the irony related to not caring, rather than not believing, that demands more command than actively not believing (which, in itself, i reckon is a steadfast belief, giving hypocricy to atheists, anyway).

but, that is not my intent to question one's belief or non-belief (as opposed to disbelief). it is to question the presence of God. i have reiterated sporadically in my posts, about how fatalism is probably the greatest argument for and against the presence of God (at least for myself). but, always, as a child is not guilty of being unable to fathom the consequences of his actions, so is he not absolved from responsibility. such lamentable laws do not confine the hand of God, the believers tell themselves, and for those who argue that a double standard (of any sort) is justification for the non-existence of any form of a higher power, can anyone really fault that kind of logic?

this leads on into a circular argument, which is why i best leave logic out of the whole equation, and go back to something i have held for many years - that faith is faith. belief is not to be argued for or against. it is a privilege, a curse and a boon. it is an arbitrary assignment, that loses and gains meaning with time and experience, but always it is something, at least to me, that i can never understand. but, thankfully (or perhaps unfortunately), understanding is not a prerequisite to having it, and neither is it a requirement to retaining faith.

the correlation, if any, between effort and reward has always been another question. this transgresses the simple boundaries of obvious observation, to the greater scheme of life itself - the subjectivity of deserving is in itself a core issue to be debated. socrates once postulated a simple set of four arguments which would logically negate one of the primary attributes of God, and along similar lines (though i do not agree entirely with the simplicity of such arguments relating to the vastness of such scale), one can already see simple, if not convincing or compelling evidence of why God remains too mystical and too covert to be an entity of belief. a child starving to death begs to differ the haughtiness of conviction from a conservative concerned for today's celebrity gossip - when religion becomes a luxury, then choice is of no value, when religion is a necessity, the absence of choice is the only thing driving life for today. who could care less about menial questions when there's other, more direct, more pressing, more immediate issues at hand?

already, i truncate my arguments, as this is not (though unfortunately has become, unwittingly,) the purpose and gist of this post.

instead, i leave myself with this valuable insight that my future self will most possibly laugh at - if all is destined, then worry is a choice. but when action is the gauge of choice, and especially one that influences, if not determines destiny, then fatalism is moot, and the promise of God is irrelevant (or, perhaps it is even more relevant, that the paths we take are those that God wills us upon more than he measures us by?). on the whole, i think this is why miracles are meant to be - and by observing one, particularly one relevant to one's (my) interest, only then will i be able to lay to rest this question of presence of God.

god as a bystander. God as an omnipotent puppetmaster. god as a benevolent giver. God as a merciless dictator. in all forms and sorts, his presence is possibly the most compelling of all inquiries we, as humans and as want-to-believers, need to ask ourselves.

it is unfortunate that i think i will no longer come to believe.

for certain

he asked me why can you be so certain?
i do not know.
but, this feeling. it is certainty. i think it is. i know it is. and that is sufficient.
this should be enough, but somehow it is not. and all that is left after the doubt and insecurity? it is still that feeling.
so, perhaps, it is really all that is required.

- excerpt from the day of pages.

you are the lucid dream

i've been meaning to write frequently again, but it seems studies has other plans for me! but i am happy knowing that even if i do not pen down much, my mind is always furiously at work even as the din of centrifuge machines are in the background and the flame of a bunsen burner keeps me warm in the lab (for some reason they have set the temperature slightly lower than what i would have liked).

regardless, i have the time now, if only a couple of minutes, and i should like to write of my nightmare of last evening. that i may remember and laugh in the future, that even the most monstrous evils are only in my mind - my supervisor (she's actually a very charming, understanding person, but for some reason she was the main 'villain' in my dream), my brother (who, again is a decent person, but for no apparent reason, chased me down with sticks and some steampunk-esque branding iron), a ghost of some sort (i cannot remember if it was an alien or a ghost, a werewolf or a behemoth, a siren or a troll. for all i know it could have been pablo picasso, but what is important is there was something terrible ready to devour me at the moment's mention from my supervisor, and it stood there, by her side, all throughout the nightmare, more a symbol or promise of demise than actually affecting me in any way), and last, but certainly by far nowhere the least, the amouration of my living being, the curse of what is promised to be love, sbr (you haunt me even in my dreams! how silly).

i woke after an hour's sleep or so (which is not that much, for me, for on some days i will sleep up to 10 hours. such is the luxury of my own timekeeping), at approximately 11, and the twilight had only begun to creep in, which is quite counterintuitive, as darkness had already set by 6 o'clock. sweat upon my brow but none elsewhere, i gasped for water, which i had unusually placed upon my bedstand, and upon relieving myself of an apparent thirst, i continued to sleep and wake on a half-hourly basis till i could no longer put myself through another bout of such torment - and found myself doing work at about 4 a.m.

8 hours later, here i write, my mind slightly scrambled, my thoughts incoherent at best, but it seems that all had come for a reason, that i would know that you are no longer upon a pedestal. you are no longer exaltation. you are but. you are mere. you are shallow and insincere. you are the lucid dream.

chasing unicorns

the last of the unicorns was upon his deathbed, and none of the creatures of earth were there. you see, for all their splendour and magnificence, what most people do not realise is that unicorns are selfish, arrogant, treacherous creatures. they are elitist and self-consumed and pretentious and a handful of other despicable attributes.

none were there during his last feeble breaths. none, bar a single boy - an orphan, a forgotten little child, dirtied by the sands of the streets and stenched from the toil of hard work.

'why are you here?' asked the unicorn, 'why are you here when you were not around during my merriful parties, or my hedonistic sprees?'

but the boy remained silent, and gazed into the unicorn's eyes.

and through the majestic creature's mind flew all the times it had lived in the moment, and died for the day, remembering that the boy had never been to the splendour of days it called a life.

'why do you come, now that all those who i called friends have left, and all that i called love are lost?'
'why do you still remain by my side?'

and at the last possible moment, before the unicorn's eyes glazed over and his heart beat its last, the boy said sadly and cried, 'because i promised i would.'

i see you there, writing so furiously

i know a man, he likes to write, and that he does so well,
but for his life, he cannot speak and neither can he spell;
his grammar, too, is all disdain, and causes me much ire,
and if i could, to all his notes i would them set on fire.

though, besides that, i have to say, his words, they're played quite well,
and sometimes when he does make sense, i think his writing's swell!
but most the time, i think it's drab, and sullen, childish, too,
and when he writes it's neither meant for me, for him, nor you.

it jumps around, and prances free, and roams and comes back home,
but of all these it mostly dies like themes of all his poems;
i sometimes think he's insightful! oh, lord, he deserves praise,
but truth be told, he's just a fool who circumvents a maze,
that's made of thoughts - his own mostly - that are so skewed, untrue;
when the day comes, he realise his own words are his rue,
but until then, he lives on and as if he's made of glass,
pretensive as a unicorn that fakes his upper class.

good luck to you! i bid you fair, the warmest, fond farewell,
i'm off to read something more real like sarte or orwell;
oh, heaven's sake, i'm becoming the elitist that's you,
it's like i'm watching in replay a prophecy come true.

i wish sometime that i could empathise with all you feel,
but i can't see in my blindness that this mirror is real.

abandon all hope

some projects are just meant to not come to life! i revisited an old appendix that i thought would be an interesting (thought) project (at the very least). and i must say, once wiping my slate clean from it, and viewing it from a fresh perspective, it is horrible! goodbye, old acquaintance, it was a pleasure (barely) creating you, but i fear you are a chimera of all that is wrong with my writing. i bid you farewell, until i am forlorn, or until i find in you beauty that i had never seen (or once seen before).

p/s : on to new projects. poe has inspired me, though i used to hate him so much. this must be a sign that i am growing old

and wait

i don't particularly know what has come of my writing. i know that i first started writing here on the request of a close and dear friend, that it would help me cope with things that were (and still are) out of my hold and comprehension. but through the years, this blog, if not my writing, has taken a little life of its own, and begun to wander - stray into things of experimental value, and find what makes life worth exploring, when i could not lift my arms to another adventure, or heave a sigh for one unwanted.

i look back to see that recently, this little life has withered and become decrepit, frail and wanting, and like a saying i have always found humorous, 'hidup segan, mati tak mahu'. this is to literally mean, 'too shy to live, yet unwanting to die'. i wonder, why has peu d'écriture fallen into dismay and is so close to death? once, he was so lively and willing, but now before me, all i see is a skeleton of a past dreaming boy, haunting and bereft. i cannot but wonder, and in wonder, i have known for a long, long time.

you must pardon the crypticisms and symbolisms, for though they may mean nothing to the reader, as one who has raised peu d'écriture by hand and by mind, i am close to tears for his passing, and all i can muster is a rambling so close to profanity that a loss of ones mind seems so much more wanted. i will say, though, that if it be murder that he deserves, so be it, but why by hands so cruel and cold? why not from something malicious but warranted, if i had ever been so deserving of judgement, then with all my will, i accept the fate of such a rosy little boy. but, no. this is not to be.

all i can be, if nothing but explicit, is that another has found my heart, and lead it to grow beyond measure, only to find that something was always amiss. and this is as much my fault as yours. that you have found happiness, i am glad, but that you would leave me with hypocritical vengeance and self-justified caveats? i am more deserving than that. i wish you well, my dear cattiness. i wish you all that you would give me and more, though you have taken away with you beyond that which i had started with. but know that if there is justice in this world (and i pray not that there, is but that if it is absent, then you should not have to face it, all the better), then i will find my own peace, and in such, revive my dearest and beloved, peu d'écriture.

by far, i had wanted to, and very nearly loved you, sbr. you will probably never know. but i am happy that you have found a love of your own. but please, let me have mine, for if it is not in you, then it is in my writing. i pray not a single soul shall ever deface that, not again, that i may write no more, or write no more for another, but if i will continue to write, then my dearest, dearest peu d'écriture, i hope you will live eternal, far from all that is mortal, all that is sin, all that is you.

au chocolat

Another year hath come and gone, and little heart I hasten sworn,
That if I had, and knew this would, I would not let thee go;
‘Tis my own choice (and none too scorn’d), that from my stomach’d heart is born,
‘Sif all my life I’d come to know and love thee more with each day grow;
My fondness for thee has come ‘gain as if I were with thee to grow,
And this I sworn’d I know.

Doth not it seem unruly feat, that taste of thine lips bittersweet?
I cannot say I do not feel distinguished by thy black or white;
Thine smell! Thine taste! Thine bodied heat, that melting sickly sorrow’d sweet,
Hath helped me through the darkest day, and through the coldest night,
I think myself, ‘How could I live, another tasteless night?’
And this, my daily plight.

Come Valentine’s another year, ‘tis thee I wish were only here,
I’d substitute for not another, though all men could care but less;
One pass’d day’s worth of wordly fear, which makes all but dismiss thee, dear,
That cheaper to purchase thy love, which before best these tongues caress;
Or steal thine kiss for lips so parched for melted bliss of god’s caress,
And I consider myself blessed.

Thine hurt my still! These wretched guts, that wench’d placated with vile nuts,
And sacrifice! Devotion, too, loyalty next to almost none;
But how could I ‘main mad with thee? The way thine taste has set me free?
The way to earn a man’s heart through his stomach (though his heart be shun’d);
All the while truth you held too close, so knowledge were to shun’d,
And (lies of) bright tomorrows shone.

But talk is cheap like ‘morrow’s price, so fit for such a sinful vice,
Proven my heart’s ‘dicted still indulging sweet tooth stomach sore;
Thy thwartful swat of perfect hands that know not where mine heart then lands,
Please ask of whispers from the wind, that birds of black may speak of lore;
Much like my favourite ebony tasteful delight of the years of yore,
Quoth the sin’d bird, ‘Nevermore’.

Hush, maiden, thy misunderstand! How can one speak of sorrow’d part?
Such folly for the thoughtless soul, my love, thine own, au chocolat.

p.s. i want to change the title as it gives away the subject way too easily.

just carroll being himself

I often wondered when I cursed,
Often feared where I would be - 
Wondered where she'd yield her love
When I yield, so will she.
I would her will be pitied!
Cursed be love! She pitied me...

-lewis carroll

centre

people speak of finding their centres, a moment in life when everything falls into place and nothing seems to take precedence over keeping that centre. i felt, for a time, that i had found that centre, but i lost it. in fact, i think i had 'found' my centre multiple times in life, and it is a recurring event that i have found and lost and again found it.

each time, though, the balance is shifted in a different direction - maybe today it will be spiritual, maybe tomorrow it will be academic. maybe today it will be something, and maybe tomorrow it will be someone. the only trend i notice is that with every finding of my centre, it is more meaningful, but also more fragile, and to keep it is increasingly impossible; a dream more shattered by the most trivial things compared to before, but in that transience that i hold it, it will mean the world to me, and more.

so, today, i reflect and see that i have found no centre any more. and this is both good and bad news in that i must strive for a new balance, but also with the knowledge that when i find it, it will mean more to me than that one last grounding centre i had had before. but know this, that should i never find it, then life will have been complete, in that a blossomed centre was once existent, and that i could never keep it meaning that its effervescence only proves the nature of such centres and worldliness.

maybe i should refrain from such search, and let it come to me, for fatalism seems much more befitting serendipity than does effort.