yours, mine, eh.

some undertakings are harder than others. but none are as hard as yours.

to this i am blind but plainly see, that the world does not revolve around me; neither does it around you, nor he, nor she, nor them. specs of dust carry the same weight that we do.

to that, i am deaf because i turn such ear, but that is not because i do not hear the rushing of wind as an eternity passes by every time i realise that to hear, one must live in absolute silence.

and to fare further away from the senses, one has to live free - free of emotion, free of fright, free of all inhibitions that make one reluctant and unable to act. and this is such a hard undertaking.

some undertakings are harder than others. but none are as hard as yours.

via experience

languages are one of those things that you can pick up easily but can only master through constant and prolonged use. just like how a native speaker of a language can differentiate between regional accents, so can he tell when a non-native (non-fluent) speaker is butchering the language. much like i do. much like illegal immigrants do. much like pretentious posers in cowboy boots and overly-warm sweatshirts. ahem, i digress.

languages are also one of those things that, with failure to continually exercise, it falls into decrepit decay and slowly ebbs away, leaving one with fumbled gestures and stuttered words. it's like a literary muscle which suffers from the withdrawal effects of a proverbial steroid, leaving us hapless in the absence of injections of farfetched words and uncommonly-used phrases.

so how, pray tell - how does one improve on a language by shortcuts and improvised lies? by turning on the subtitles to movies when one should be listening for nuances in speech? by not looking up alien words or culturally placing exotic phrases? by dismissing education for ignorance?

i don't pretend to know the answers, being a speaker of foreign languages. i don't pretend to know how one would attempt to answer these questions, being a writer of foreign tongues. all i do pretend to do, is write. and speak. but not so much that i'm a pretentious poser in cowboy boots and overly-warm sweatshirts.

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.