III: Greater Good

Where the luminance bounce in the inner linings, something lightens, whether the understanding of old acquaintances, be it the new found connections, that shadows that brought the edges deeper than it already is, completely tucked behind, diminishes with the yielding light, into the darkness. Never to be found. In the stark silence, a quiet click was so loud, then it came, out of no where, the cacophony of of voices, talking, occasionally laughing in a language I could not understand. Strange distinctions, strange familiarities, unknown connections.

Since October skies ceased, days had been inconsistent, dreams of random nightmares, haunting in sequences. Sleep is scarce, remaining leftovers are satisfaction spent seeking that path that lapse between both worlds, sometimes drifting, unknowingly into the state of unconsciousness, always with a grin. But I refrained, and resisted the transition, often too much. A visceral reaction, to be in control, to subdue that intensity into stillness. Expected, but uninviting. Impossible almost.

Then, If I'm alive, still resisting the form of transformation between various states of consciousness, can you perhaps see now, even when everything is basked in darkness, for night is best to see with not your eyes, but senses, when all else fails; truth emerged with touch and thoughts, the greatest things of all. For during the night, I remember things which I would've otherwise left behind, tucked away by the ethereal noise.

[Being] With you ticked me off, in a way i could hardly understand, Like fire daggers striking in snow covered forest. The truth with you in an ambiguous thing, like a game without rules, word roams without directions, strayed off the path, into wilderness. To understand your mind, I would only dwell in it, to know your thoughts, I'd almost reverse my role, to play beneath a foreign mask, out in the merciless sun. Somehow, I managed, saw what you saw, just fragments, but it was more than enough to piece everything together. The power of memories, one you always seemed to discard (overlook). It was terrifying.

But it seems I find every possible reason, every possible excuse to question you intentions, to question everything that seemed too good. Incomprehensible, at least for me, always hoping to find a clean shirt tucked underneath the filthy laundry. But it did paid off, almost every single time, it appears when you are least expecting it, hits it right home. Perhaps, all this while, you wanted me to tell you everything is okay, or acted as if it were okay. I would, and I have told you that I'm all good, despite everything on the inside suggests otherwise. But I couldn't tell you everything because there are to many things to begin with sometimes I'm just drowned it it.

More than often your naivety, to the point of innocent, ignorance is a blessing I am envious of, because everyone who sees, with their eyes that is, could not possibly be happy about the way things had turned up. And why would anyone be? With you, it's different. You happiness is a result of inept definition of the world according to you, where it does not involve seeing or feeling; ignorance. Where no grief dwells, no regrets felt, not sorry for everything. Why would you?

At this point, you might be thinking, this was all about me, perhaps seeking some sort of remorse, or it was about you, where it all started. But it really isn't.

Neither both.

There is no hostility, there is no hatred, no regrets, with much love.

The anomalies of intentions, no random efforts.

It's all part of the greater good.

I,II

II: The First Thing We Saw, Far, Far Away | The Length of Truth

The clouds gaped and folded, closed across the moon. The night passes by, as the world seemed to disappear all together into the stale, soporific air. The rain finally stopped, as if to make way for the cold lightnings, no sounds, just constant flashes of harsh, blinding lights against the canvas of pure darkness. And you awoke, out of darkness that was not sleep, not dream, but something beyond the comforting sight, magnificent, pointing steadily towards the promise. In that stroke of light, the cradle of a future emerged, vaguely on the hindsight. Hope stretched far across the sea, drawing the outline of the past, dark silhouettes are now gone, the sea, visible glimmering waves, vanishes into a thin line, touching the sky above.

I remember the truth, like the warm and humid September nights, sublime agony and a million dotted lines the sweat once trickled. The vine grew after the rain, snakes up the barren land, within the gaps that split open like fresh wound. Rooted freshly at the tip of the ground, drawing moisture, dissipates heat, a container where the inevitable occurs. How many nights spent, watching the trees shiver in the midnight breeze? The perfect stillness, an after image of the future, captured in the thin glow.

The fool within us slowly stepping into murky waters, to strangle truth, to bend and twist, as if to drown it with force, every limbs, every strengths, every muscles conjured. The truth is undeniable, it is a great power that is able, and must exist on it's own without binding to any sort of beliefs and definitions., despite individual perceptions. The absolute is the same for everyone, regardless place, time or culture. With you, however, the truth is an ominous thing, your voice that promises that same thing, darted from that point of origin, torn and beaten up, long lost, confounded.

The perfect stillness outside is now gone, the whistling wind seeps through the window pane, the fluttering curtain fabric, the notion is clear. Through the window glass. A dozen trees strummed by strong merciless wind, sand and tiny pebbles flew, carried by angry ghosts. Loose pores sinks deeper, skeletons revealed. Destruction, deadly - just when normal life felt almost possible, when the world held some kind of meaning, when order finally fell into place - even some strange loveliness, it haunts, consuming it's own debris, to fortify and manifest it own existence, finally exploding brighter than ever.

I admire the length you go, just to obscure, or even manipulate the truth when you know it better, it finds it's way out eventually. Regardless the great lies you made up, or the layers of beliefs you stacked up upon, it takes the form of time, shaping it existence. The infusion of boundless chaos, injected upon controlled order, the world according to you.

That glimpse - not the imposing dark figures, not the towers raising steadily ahead, but that blistering light into the future. The wonderful feeling to be caught up in hope and deadly expectations. One step forward, to dive below, everything falls into perspective.

The first thing we saw, far, far away, nothing mere than unfulfilled fantasies. That little dream, as wide as night, deeply rooted in our vulnerability, filling all inadequacies with made up realities.

Hence we landed,

feet on flames.

Burnt into ashes,

in the light of day.

I

I : Well-Worn Shoe | The Foundations of Truth

It was rather accommodating, though it tends to get dirtier in one of these nights than any other, and every time, I’d scorn as if I never understood. Often in this light I’d be awake starring out in the dark. And it is darker in one of these nights than any other and every time, I’d wail just a little, just enough to shed a little of its weight. It is often vague, and when I’m lucky, it reflects vivid light and reveals an image. I’d stare as if I’ve seen it before. The familiarity is unmistakable, although I cannot begin to fathom the reflections of what it is; supposedly real. I’m only guessing.

Towers raising still and solid above the earthly rock, thunder blares and streaks followed by rains pouring in bucketfuls. Many nights since then have become a ritual of guessing, a million riveting thoughts penetrating its wall, eventually feeling unsatisfied, confounded. It is extremely easy to be confined by everything that is beyond us, taunted by a shadow of cosmic proportions. A wronged journey could send towers crumbling from above the earthly rock, imminently shattering every foundations of truth, revealing the barren ground it once stood.

There, your figure emerged behind the pillars, standing at the edge of the top of your tower, so high it vanishes into the clouds, swallowed by the moonless sky, and yet your shadow, dark against dark, outlined only by intermittent strikes of lighting. But you, your hands clad in silver lining that glows and sparkles, rested firmly on the pillars, stood still and proud looking down, smirk on your face, unshaken by the blares and flames of neighboring towers, crashing down, burnt to ashes and red hot glowing rocks.

I wish I were you, I wish I were exactly like you, so I could penetrate your thick mind, so I could read everything that’s hidden so well in the basement of your thoughts. I wish we traded shoes, just so you could feel the ground underneath your feet, stumble and fall because of the untied lace, hurt and bleed, just so I could understand how hard it must have been to walk tall and proud, all alone, dismissing the most innocent gaze, even, even hidden underneath that shield.

Your foundations are of immaculate artistry, however strong yet brittle, never fails, even under the enormous weight it held upon, constructed upon layers of confidence, perpetuates a truth that lies, to fill a void with gaps, defiance of sanctity, everything imagined.

My well worn shoes, they brought me close, so close to you – just like the first thing we saw for the very first time, far, far away.

Just a glimpse, it was strangely reassuring.

...and the Things We Know

They finally sent someone to repair the flush in the toilet at my office that stopped functioning ever since I started working there - which I thought was ironic enough since we are moving into a new office in about a month. But before it got fixed, the only way to flush is to manually turn the valve and let the water fill up every time we had to use the toilet. And having developed the habit of doing so for the past two years, now, even after it has been fixed for almost two weeks, funnily enough, I find myself reaching out trying to turn the valve every single time I use the toilet.

And having said that, does it in some sense justifies how our conscious and subconscious minds interact, and how it sometimes influences our behavior that we are truly not aware of, or is it merely just a end-product of a certain habit that we've adapted. We understood that our mind tends to interpret very different things than our heart does (metaphorically speaking), and most of the time, it sways one subject matter into two very opposite directions, two very contradicting truth. It takes either one to makes sense, one that justifies our reactions, and one that we often give in that reflects our decisions.

It's something like two minds doing thinking on a parallel platform – but specifically ones of opposing qualities that manifests on our actions that is significantly different from what we have in mind. Often we tends to consciously define things practically with our mind, that process of making sense, process of understanding a very complicated equation and we are very good at that. Given there isn’t a definite truth available, we tend to analyze it and settle on one conclusion that we would happily agree to, followed by a by-product of contradicting realization, if that make any sense at all - it happen to all of us.

It still hurts badly, even after five years, every time I am reminded of the incident discovering Mark’s death. And sometimes it can be extremely scary trying to figure out what you didn’t know. We tend to fabricate, from all the information available, the most viable truth so we could once and for all put a question to rest and find a piece of mind. But none of us knew exactly why. There weren’t any signs of if coming, or had it been so subtly eluded it escapes the slightest ignorance, or even if his last words “I’ll probably ring you” could be the sign, I really should really be looking into ironies of all things.

Solving puzzles, one way or another does ratify my experience of both ends. Puzzles deals with missing information from given information, and all the collected missing bits would, in the end, form a complete picture – and we all are truly aware of that, regardless how it’s being solved, there will be a definite answer. While some can get extremely difficult and frustrating, I do find it positively motivating to complete the puzzles, and even if I can’t, I would just put it away because the answer is certainly not going any where.

But dealing with real life problems is a completely different story – that involves all sorts of information darting in from all sorts of scenarios and it really isn’t funny when it’s one of those that don’t have a definite answer. And it made me wonder endlessly into chains of thoughts, even to the core of all things that seemed related, but still, I couldn’t make sense of it all – just how strangely everything played out. As much as I understand that no matter how deep I try to figure it out, there won’t be a definite answer, I find myself, subconsciously playing things out in the back of my head interminably, trying to think it over and over again, my mind reasoning my doubts, and my heart contradicts the facts – until it hurts so bad that the last option available is to give in and let it fade as time passes.

Too often, this is where I fail when my mind gives in – most of the time I let my heart win, when all the frustration is kicking in and finding answers to no avail. But honestly, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea. Isn’t it what people say, always listen to your heart, - which I find that amazingly true. If you listen closely, you heart can tell you everything that you needed to know, and it drives you to do the most extraordinary unthinkable things, but there is also the risk of getting everything completely wrong.

And right now I am at the point where I could no longer tell right or wrong apart, everything seemed to have sunk into murky water, when truth doesn’t matter anymore. And so I waited, aimlessly pondering into the night, doing absolutely nothing but hoping time would eventually clear thing up for me. I had to stop. It's getting far too complicated. Yet it seems so simple.

For I have chosen darkness

Soft rains drizzles, subtly crafting lovely strands of translucent white, bristling in the air against the darkened background. The moon is swallowed by the sheer darkness, not by clouds not by mist. It’s the omens of terror, and yet my mind is contently settled underneath the visible void.

The scent of the night is almost tangible. Orexia must have fallen into the hands of ghostly silhouettes again. Nothing visible, nothing heard. It was darkness beyond the flickering lights. Am I so lost in your dimension, taken aback by your stubborn ruminations? Please, grant me an empty bottle, let the rain trickle up tonight, and then let the sun frizzles it dry and empty tomorrow.

Your proposition was a formidable one, it was,really, an impeccable design. To my idle curiosity, would you have succumbed to my fears when I yield to your seamless powers? Now that the king has fallen, slain is the skin of the night left to rot. I’ve sunken much deeper over the discourse, and yet I’m still very much enthralled within the mystery of your existence.

Oh, your copious mercy is all that I beg for underneath my opulent faith. And yet you set me leap against the field of trees, blindfolded. I saw darkness from within, not trees that would stumble and take me down. I falter, but in darkness, to nothing and against nothing. I’m not frightened anymore. Questions left unanswered are the equations to the truth, ultimately everything that I doubted, and it’s slowly unfolding beyond me.

Do not call me upon your faith. I’ve buried them underneath that grave. In that deep trench, I thrive where no light penetrates. Yet as the sun rises, I cease to begin. I hailed my senses from within and devour the chaos of the day. Ah, let the splendid sun swallow my lifeless flesh, it’s the heart that’s still beating underneath the drape. I’m so sorry, for I have chosen darkness.

The Fabric of The City.

I declare wars on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with my own falseness, My own pitiful tears.
I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then 'melt into air'.
I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhoutte against the darkening sky. I cannot know your name. Nor you can know mine.
Tomorrow, we begin together the construction of a city.

- Lebbeus Woods, Manifesto

The eloquently lit street, blinded by hindsight, I found my cornea abruptly adjust to the harsh penetrating rays of low, south orbiting late evening sun. Curtain calls on September, days are equally long, equally hot and equally humid. The taxi court stay hidden behind rows of shop houses at its perimeter marking the historic threshold of the part of the town that hasn’t been touched. No, not at least until recently. Walls were being torn down; fences were erected along and across the street.

The chaos is drowning, the back of my shirt is damp, and the sweats are unforgiving. The stench of fish kept for hours ransacked the place like a terrible nightmare. And where I stood was an old man sitting on a cookie tin, leaning against brightly lit wall. A cigarette glued loosely between his lips as he held his lighter up and against the sun, casting a thin faint red strip on his lower eyelids. It was at least half-filled, and yet does not ignite. Clearly, he was more bothered by the fact that the lighter does not it up than the long stretch of roaring vehicles lining up beside him. Across the street was a young child in yellow shirt smartly tucked into his waistline height pants, excitedly engrossed in his partially melting and dripping ice-cream potong. That familiar gusto, just days ago I had the cravings for vanilla ice cream, and soon found myself eagerly devour the whole medium sized box, feeling absolutely satisfied. I missed that.



There’s a unique sense of disposal about this particular place, and if there was a more solid evident of history, it would be this part of the city. These two-story town houses, erected several decades ago used to grace this place picturesquely a striking images of colonial slum. Half of it was lost few years ago. New shops were then built on these blueprints, overshadowed by dark silhouettes of modernism; a large volume of the place’ historic identity was lost in the process, while everything remains the same, clueless and stagnant. The remaining half of it is now being torn down by massive tractors. One particular was left with standing awkwardly, only for the purpose of grid structuring, while the neighboring walls were all being brought down.

The scene ridiculed itself almost as in a war scene. Remnants scatter across the street, sculpted ornaments that used to grace the columns on the five foot way fell to pieces. Shreds of paper are thoroughly visible. Torn and paste, torn and paste over and over again. Blunt, rusty nails bent, thrown, sewerage filled with creased wrappers, paper cups and plastic bags. I marveled at the sheer delight to these rumbles, as if they were raped, over and over again. These are beautiful traces of history lost to the urgency of urbanism.

The city fabric is changing, paradigms are shifting, and the very nature of it would justify the paradox of urbanism. The process of urbanization must run in such to counter urban sprawl. It shall never move parallel or slower than the speed of sprawling. Young city should manifest itself as a testing ground for ideas and avant-garde experiments; it should provide a platform for immaculate urban planning, a loophole for creative solutions. Replacements are not necessary. It’s a static progression. Restoration provides a time-lag advantage for meticulous urban planning. A city’s plan isn’t laid out overnight, and planning shall not be made in haste, or it would suggest otherwise.



And there I stood, unfazed, rather dismayed as I silently weave an ongoing fabric out of the inhabitations and the place’ status quo. It was almost dusk then as the sun is slowly settling in, casting harsh shadows almost tangible, swallowing sharp visible edges, the long lines of vehicle are now gone, dark silhouettes pacing across the street, trespassing the fence to their vehicle. Slams door shut and drove away. Dwellers retreat upon ascending the steep fourteen steps stairs, otherwise loiter around five-foot-way, or behind that covered alley. Street lamps are flickering. The energy, the vibe and the chaos seemed to have gone down with the sun, nevertheless it was engaging.

2 x 4

My predicament would not hold true, if the moon hasn't exploded the night before, had the sky filled with dark, dense clouds, moving swiftly as the wind blows. Chasers traverse across the highway like lifeless flesh, succumbed to the ephemera of darkness.

Oh it's the tantrum in Orexia again. The invisible walls would falter come night falls as miasma of fears emerged into the thin air like a contagious virus, as fire burns, hatred grieves the wall, it was bedlam.

Spreading across the forlorn shore are the faint traces of your existence, as if you had been walking in the air, caressing the ground so softly with the tip of your shoes. Scrapping palm tress and the sound of bushes reassured the inscrutable occurrences, the growing feeling of guilt and uncertainties, so disturbingly abstruse, so disturbingly real.

Maybe, Tomorrow,

I have a journal hidden under the desk for almost two years now.

I always chose to leave empty the first page before I start writing, thought I don’t exactly know why but I always did, so much as I would leave empty the first page of a new exercise book, so much I would leave empty the first page of a new drawing pad, much like how I would leave empty the part about me to people around me. It’s a gesture, it’s like the only thing that I could control, and what is going to happen beyond that blank page would be an arcanum waiting to unfold itself. Though I’m not sure, I’m not sure…

I don’t keep journals anymore.

Like, ever since I realize the whole point of keeping a personal record is a form of addiction and crave for nothing but self-pity. I don’t have a lot of time for self – pity because I think I’ve had enough of myself and I am constantly wondering how people put up with me everyday. I have always thought I’m paranoid. If you read my journals, you would know. I would write my entries so detailed down to every single bit of information but in such a vaguely manner so that if someone happen to stumble upon my journal and read it, they would have no idea what it was about.

I think I am emotionally inert when it comes to the relationship department. The idea of closure to me is like a ticking time bomb and I would be the detonator that sets if off. It freaks me out all the time. I carry a past with me that I am not willing to share with people even those closest to me because it would’ve made me vulnerable. No. It’s not okay. But what worries me the most is the idea that I would drive someone I cared so much away if I won’t be able to share everything.

I am missing someone terribly right now, yes.

I hate to admit that because I find it hard to digest all the things that have happened at the speed things are moving right now, and most of it, I hate to think that I’m missing someone for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes, it’s hard to put your mind on things that turned out too good to be true. It can be good, I think it’s a good thing, and I wanted it to be good but my prescient at work is telling me this would probably end up in a self-destructive heart-breaking way. Honesty, I hope that things would work out because it would finally give me something to look forward to.

I am ideally romantic, (behold your nausea, not the candle-light-dinner-romanticism, but you never know what I am capable of.) That said, it’s probably the perfectionist inside me that has gotten the best of me. I have a beau ideal inside my head of how things should work out, stubbornly adhering to my very own idée fixe that is, at times further from the reality. So when things start to turn out a little off the meme, I would get paranoid, distract and lost. And because of that it would only be legit if I were slightly delusional. That is also why I am a naturally talented cynical pessimist who doesn’t believe in miracles. I cannot be optimistic when I don’t know how things are going. I hate to start something, because I don’t know where I would end up and I know as soon as I embark upon the ride, I would start thinking about the terminus more that I would have been enjoying the process. It isn’t like airplane rides where it takes you from point A to point B with interstice of nothing but air and clouds.


Oh, I am writing this, I’m not sure why, and I don’t know where I’m going with this. I hated the feeling. It had to go somewhere, it had to make sense. It’s not making sense, it’s not making sense, it’s not making any sense….. it’s not mak…..

The things they say about him.

Burning candles glow stillness, melted ire and let-downs. Quietly, you flipped your book full of words printed on the warm aesthetic of the brownish paper. Held firmly in your left hand and being read in dim flickering light. It's the mysteries of powerless, it's almost primal. Was it really this easy, and simple for you. How could you have remained so clam, in the moment of utter kerfuffle.

Do you have a reminder for me, perhaps the leaves of silvery green would fall, and yet the night before, had the outlines of shrubs and towering trees gathered underneath the ghostly shapes of high clouds dim and illuminating. Have I been here before? Perhaps it was the sense of your presence and that strange warm sense of commonality.

And every time I think about it, my palms would sweat and my heart would squabble. At times, I would leave everything in disguise. Little pieces of torn up promises scattered across forlorn memories, flown and warbles into the dark skies above. Many questions left unanswered, much like yesterdays crosswords, despondent of filling in today.

Would you still dazzle, in your little world, when blood smeared on your face, when the light goes off, would you think about me? Would you gaze in the sun looking for the spotless dream, tampered within it's shell, basked in despair, tarnished in your pain and mangled in your great fears.

I still dream of you all the time. It started and stopped, started and stopped, like an endless loop, it was always the same but different, much like how everything looked the same in vivid blurry. I still talk to you, but only in dreams. I would forget what I said, but I knew I did. I could only reach you in my dreams, and it's the only time I feel real, and the only chance to find what I am looking for. And a dream is just a dream, it's as close as I could get to you.

At 4:51am, you quietly flipped to a newly unread page.

At 4:52am, when I woke up, the dream was over, and you were gone.

And so were we.

I still think about you everyday, I really do. Baffled by our existence, ringing the common buzz, still, I never understood why had to moon rose before the sun went down. Still I never understood why did you leave before we even get there.

intangibleplace

R.I.P. Andrew, I miss you.

Let me in,
I shall walk
in dark
guide me,
with tears
and pain
I will see
hidden shadows
famished
in your silent thoughts
Lead me
into the bedlam
basked in
spits of disgrace
You said
control
tranquil shall come
steams of tears
rolled down
back into your rusted box
Unlock for me,
I too feel the same
forsaken
faiths and hopes
You had
too much
reconciliation
It means nothing
no more,
Fuel you heart
with anger
burning
your pain
silent screams
echoes
skin,
they lie
pores of joy
veiled
rotten rue
fear
they are real
look through
blindfolded eyes
Have you seen the other side?
show me
the intangible place
I shall follow
was it all worth it?
Tell me,
Why'd you lost it?
I want to know
if this is real
why did you let go?

Temptations.

The night craws beyond the thick clouds, moonlight penetrates trough the dense moist layers, diffused and scattered over the misty air. Street lamps shone harsh, shadows on the ground kept still, small drops of rain cripples the form of darkness, blurred edge and head zipped in the drain, body's upside down, the air would not suffice.

The streets, they are narrow, cars parked both sides, opposite faced. The streets, they are empty, doors sealed shut, windowpane rusts, and glazed with thick secrets too dark for the night. The trees, the cars, the buildings, the people and their thoughts ricochet and swirl. All the nasty stains, they will come out.

The ground I once stood, flutters, they crack, and they break. The lights on the street skimming voiceless souls. Silence dribbles in opulence, body stood still on the makeshift platform, minds wonders, too painful to bear, much like tiny red hot glowing needles penetrating the skull.

Nothing to worry about,

I realize I haven't intended to stay this long. Flashlight popped, bodies hurling back and forth. Underneath their feet, the earth vibrated a common joy, and above, white splotches of light, scatters, and they grow, on top of one another, hovering within one another. Arms were flailing widely, mouths chewing hate and spat them out one by one.

If friendship meant obligations, I'd rather not have one.