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.