If I had a night job, I would be able to take you out during the day.
Or maybe, it won't make a difference.
Friday, December 09, 2011
0
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
0
The Hang Man, and the Fear of Falling
The ride up was bumpy but smooth with occasional blinding lights, swaying, stopping on side track. I love the view, distant light in the city - swallowed by the dark, starless night. Your were already crying silently, masticating the pain, digesting every single reason you came up (out) with. You were quiet with occasional murmurs, which I couldn't make out. Low hindered voice, cracking through cold air. I guess colder nights are hardest, blowing random access memories; poking through strands of thoughts like new seeds efflorescence into life; one after another, questions that demand not answers, but closure.
Your bitter smile hinted exactly opposite what your words meant. I know. It's not so much of a memory that is waiting to be tucked into the basement of your head. I wish it was that easy for you. But, rather it felt like a new wound that was left pried open, and everything else that you had left was taken out of it. The charred remains left to burn, vanished in thick air. I empathize, and yet I feel silly (for you). You are lost deep down, but I can't tell you that, just because I am as lost as you (you lost me).
| Three perfectly aligned dots, and the straight line across.
Everything seemed different, the subtle tone between black and white, a lesser hue of grey. It blurs the line, as real as it could be fake, as wrong as it cold be right; fabricated truth to lie, or lying to tell the truth, nothing seemed relevant, for you it's just a changeable variable. And we walk, run, pause, chase then pause, nowhere to go, been to everywhere, familiar, yet you felt different. It's not what you yearn for, perhaps not as mesmerizing, or perhaps it's still raw. I tried to figure out what I don't understand, everything is changing, right before me. I grab the moving pieces, like three (or a million) dots, a line across, and they cease to exist.
I didn't know what to expect, but I was expecting something. Something beyond the sea, further than the edge of earth. Unaccustomed land, not that kind of ground you plant your footprints, certainly not the sky that could be reached (felt) with raised hands, eyes closed, the idea of zeitgeist of blue and yellow, and a red convertible. I lost grasp of what is real; even doubted your seemingly sincere presence. It's a pleasant discontent, a seemingly perfect solution to an uncomfortable problem; a coping stance that requires fearless leap of faith and generous forgiveness.
| The deaf and the uncomfortable silence.
The straw was green, and the drink was ice-cold-sweet. I finished it as if it was bitter, hot. Thirteen miles away, walkable even; one day later, I could not wait. I fear tomorrow, when you would finally worked out your direction, and decided that this is not what you want. And yet, it's these rush that keeps me going, pushing me further, to be loud, to be silent, to be out of reach, and to be close to you.
Cold air blazing above, soft pillows underneath; it was perfect. At least I think it was perfect. I thought I'd ask you, as if a simple explanation could justify a lifetime of heartache. I thought I'd tell you, as if forever was part of the plan. But I realize it was merely a blanket whisper, heard only in dreams, deep into dark, stale night.
Help me carry the fire, cut across the land, help me with the lights. Keep me alight for now, this road won't go on forever.
When the sun came, it's a brand new pain.
Friday, April 29, 2011
0
Friday, December 04, 2009
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.
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 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
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 21, 2009
6
It was only meant to be.
I think my blog is a rather accurate indication of just how busy my life gets. Amidst my unbelievably hectic working schedule, I’m here blogging because when I say I’m back, I really mean I’m back. But to be fair, I just nailed the Shell’s renovation project and “Bintulu Waterfront shoplots” project – YAWN, so I think it’s safe for me to murmur a very soft sigh of relieve that it’s finally over. There, I just said the ill-fated word. It’s not like I haven’t learnt the fact that it’s never over, I might as well just chill while I can. Though, I know I’m about to piss people off. There’s still so much work ahead of me. By the way, I’m really trying to hard sell myself these days, because I’m thinking about taking a leap of faith. Ahem. I don’t anything know yet, but I just might. I think it’s probably about time.
I think the shop-lots are just plain dumb and people are getting clever with the names these days – “Open malls”, “Outdoor Mall” , “Shopping Village”. How fucking lame is that. The thing is no matter how interesting people try to name these shop-lots, it’s not going to make the concept any more exciting than it already is. The problem I have with these shop-lots is that the planning itself is a waste of space. It creates too much useless in-between spaces that will inevitably turn into smelly back alleys in the long run and finally when the whole place eventually runs down it creates another slum block in the city. If anything, it just doesn’t provide an otherwise appealing shopping environment at all. “Shopping Village” apparently. Are you fucking kidding me?
I was on my routine surfing today and I came across a rather interesting piece of article - 17 Jobs That Are Guaranteed to Get You Laid . Apparently - Architects are on the top of the list. Now I really don’t know what to make of it, but I do love the idea that architects are sexy beings. Take that, other jobschronic masturbators!
I was given two fish tanks couple of weeks ago, and it’s still lying around the car porch. I’m yet to clean it – and it’s so dirty it’s shameful. Then I will have to fill it with water and start all over the new-tank-cycle process before I can put any fish in. Longer story short – it’s a long process, and I have no time for it. - It sucks.
I was thinking of just leaving the tank outside, so I don’t have to move anything inside the house just to accommodate the new tank. Too much work. Mom said if I were to place the tank on that particular spot I picked, I’d have to paint the wall first; otherwise, I’d have to move the tank again if we decided to paint it just right before Chinese New Year, which would suck even more because people get cranky during spring cleaning. And I’m not about to move the fucking tank anywhere once it’s up and running because moving a 4 feet tank takes some real muscles and I ain’t got that. So really, the only viable option I can think of is really just leave the tank outside at the car porch and move my fish there. The good thing about this is that I won’t have to worry about the fish splashing water all over the place when she throws a tantrum every now and then. But again, since I don’t live in a posh neighborhood, people here have the tendency to steal things – pets included so it’s not entirely that safe to have the tank outside. I can’t decide.
By the way, I’ve committed a sin so big - I could never look myself in the mirror again, I’m ashamed of myself. Yesterday after dinner, mom told me there are cakes in the fridge and asked if I wanted any. So I asked what kind of cake. And she went on and dropped the shameful bomb at me – that her girlfriends at work bought her those delicious cakes because it was her birthday the day before.
and I was like SHIT !!!
I guess there’s no point I bitch and moan about how sorry I am right now. I’ll make it up to her, and when I say I will, damn right I will.
In the mean time – I’m off to get laid.
The architect’s style.
Damn right I am.
* * * * * *
I think the shop-lots are just plain dumb and people are getting clever with the names these days – “Open malls”, “Outdoor Mall” , “Shopping Village”. How fucking lame is that. The thing is no matter how interesting people try to name these shop-lots, it’s not going to make the concept any more exciting than it already is. The problem I have with these shop-lots is that the planning itself is a waste of space. It creates too much useless in-between spaces that will inevitably turn into smelly back alleys in the long run and finally when the whole place eventually runs down it creates another slum block in the city. If anything, it just doesn’t provide an otherwise appealing shopping environment at all. “Shopping Village” apparently. Are you fucking kidding me?
I was on my routine surfing today and I came across a rather interesting piece of article - 17 Jobs That Are Guaranteed to Get You Laid . Apparently - Architects are on the top of the list. Now I really don’t know what to make of it, but I do love the idea that architects are sexy beings. Take that, other jobs
* * * * * *
I was given two fish tanks couple of weeks ago, and it’s still lying around the car porch. I’m yet to clean it – and it’s so dirty it’s shameful. Then I will have to fill it with water and start all over the new-tank-cycle process before I can put any fish in. Longer story short – it’s a long process, and I have no time for it. - It sucks.
I was thinking of just leaving the tank outside, so I don’t have to move anything inside the house just to accommodate the new tank. Too much work. Mom said if I were to place the tank on that particular spot I picked, I’d have to paint the wall first; otherwise, I’d have to move the tank again if we decided to paint it just right before Chinese New Year, which would suck even more because people get cranky during spring cleaning. And I’m not about to move the fucking tank anywhere once it’s up and running because moving a 4 feet tank takes some real muscles and I ain’t got that. So really, the only viable option I can think of is really just leave the tank outside at the car porch and move my fish there. The good thing about this is that I won’t have to worry about the fish splashing water all over the place when she throws a tantrum every now and then. But again, since I don’t live in a posh neighborhood, people here have the tendency to steal things – pets included so it’s not entirely that safe to have the tank outside. I can’t decide.
By the way, I’ve committed a sin so big - I could never look myself in the mirror again, I’m ashamed of myself. Yesterday after dinner, mom told me there are cakes in the fridge and asked if I wanted any. So I asked what kind of cake. And she went on and dropped the shameful bomb at me – that her girlfriends at work bought her those delicious cakes because it was her birthday the day before.
and I was like SHIT !!!
I guess there’s no point I bitch and moan about how sorry I am right now. I’ll make it up to her, and when I say I will, damn right I will.
In the mean time – I’m off to get laid.
The architect’s style.
Damn right I am.
Monday, August 10, 2009
2
I Haze U
I was going to be just a tad insightful tonight but I decided not to because the haze is so bad that my sight is compromised. So much for my attempt at making funnies. No. This has nothing to do with the haze, yuck, although I must say the air taste a little horrible these days. Yes, the haze is so dense it’s literally tangible and chocking up my lungs. It’s not exactly the kind of air I’d want to breathe all day. Oh, think about the people around me. They have been thinking exactly the same thing for years. Isn’t it great now that everyone’s a second hand smoker? People really should stop whining about those who smoke. But I digress.
I don’t get much work done these days. It’s funny because I’m literally swamped at work it’s driving me bonkers and yet I don’t get much done. When I say done, I meant getting things completed without having the hassle of following up at another time. Seriously, I do a lot, more than I ever had in my entire career. Like WHOA. But apparently, not enough to complete, and I am eminently depressed by it. It seemed like I’m engaging in some desultory tasks, one minute I’m doing this, just one step away from completing it, I get thrown another that requires immediate attention. I stopped, and I move on, then I get thrown another one, then some time during that, I’d have to go back and catch up with the earlier projects.
It’s confusing I know, and seriously, if one task takes at least a day to complete, three tasks would then require at least three days to complete, and that made me wonder just how many tomorrow can one have in one day because I get asked to do three different things in a day that is needed tomorrow. And if one would put a little effort in using common sense, they’d probably realize that it’s entirely impossible unless I have three tomorrows at a same time. Very interesting theory (Inner inner monologue). Some people really love to push it. That’s some world class stupid right there.
Oh, just forget everything. I’m one cranky bitch fighting off the mid-life crisis, and I’m only 25. Ever wonder why they call it premature?
Enough already.
I don’t get much work done these days. It’s funny because I’m literally swamped at work it’s driving me bonkers and yet I don’t get much done. When I say done, I meant getting things completed without having the hassle of following up at another time. Seriously, I do a lot, more than I ever had in my entire career. Like WHOA. But apparently, not enough to complete, and I am eminently depressed by it. It seemed like I’m engaging in some desultory tasks, one minute I’m doing this, just one step away from completing it, I get thrown another that requires immediate attention. I stopped, and I move on, then I get thrown another one, then some time during that, I’d have to go back and catch up with the earlier projects.
It’s confusing I know, and seriously, if one task takes at least a day to complete, three tasks would then require at least three days to complete, and that made me wonder just how many tomorrow can one have in one day because I get asked to do three different things in a day that is needed tomorrow. And if one would put a little effort in using common sense, they’d probably realize that it’s entirely impossible unless I have three tomorrows at a same time. Very interesting theory (Inner inner monologue). Some people really love to push it. That’s some world class stupid right there.
Oh, just forget everything. I’m one cranky bitch fighting off the mid-life crisis, and I’m only 25. Ever wonder why they call it premature?
Enough already.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
7
Harder, Harder, Hard Times.
Hard times indeed.
I'm back again. Oh the irony.
I’ve done it too many times, I’ve had enough really. No, I meant the come back posts.
Isn't it sort of official that I have period every two or three months? I'd think so. I stopped blogging completely, in which normally I would just write something on draft every now and then, I was off every single IM's that I was on, I was off Facebook and Flickr, and I don't know why, I just did.
Just the other day, I was thinking about writing up a final piece, an exit statement that I'm finally shutting down this blog. I contemplated, and it was fascinating to me that I've been writing quite a significant amount of insignificant shit on and off for the past four years, so I've receded to the fact that indeed I do love blogging, very much, and that I should give it another shot, only because I know better that I’d get this itch to blog every now and then, when life gets a little too much. Hell to the no. Yes. I'm that sentimental. Go figure.
I've been doing a lot, at the same time felt incredibly insipid at achieving nothing. Yes, I was lost, not anymore, because I pretty much live in lost now. That's funny. I moved to a new office recently. Exciting, though secretly I was hoping that I moved to a new job instead. That would be heaven. No really, the new office ain’t that shabby at all, the place is nicely renovated, it's close to a shopping mall, and the idea of being able to just walk downstairs and grab a nice cup of coffee while enjoying my cigarette sounds just fine to me. Sadly, all this has nothing to do with work, I know. Isn't it so obvious now that work has been so dreadful that I'm practically inert to what is actually happening around me. I get orders, I get my job done. I can't remember exactly which part about architecture that I enjoyed so much to begin with. Gosh, I miss uni days.
Things seemed to have gone through a rapid change lately, so it seems, my life anyways. My best friend finally got the job and moved to KL a month ago, and that seemed to change how things would otherwise roll around here. Then, Bin moved to Kuching and is probably living happily ever after. I was sick most of the time in the last two months; I've been to the dentist, in which he decided I should get one of my molars crowned. Gosh, jealous yet? I got my molar crowned! I totally feel like a royalty now. It burned a hole in my pocket to get crowned, mind you. Shortly after that, my lower left eyelid got infected. My eyelid was swollen and the only way to fix that is to make a small incision to drain out the abscess. It was traumatizing and I'm trying very hard to forget that very incident looking at the tip of the needle approaching my eye while my head being held forcefully by the horrible old nurse to keep me from moving. All I can say is I never let the doctor finish his job because the pain was simply too overwhelming. And to my defense, it was done without any painkiller nor anesthesia. Thank god it's healing now, just a tiny little spot left, only visible to the narcissistic self, otherwise, it's barely noticeable. Eventually, I blame all mishaps on karma. No, it has nothing to do with me taking care of my health, it's all karma.
And so here it is, a clean slate, a fresh start - the blog and hopefully my miserable life.
No. Actually, I just got very lazy.
I'm back again. Oh the irony.
I’ve done it too many times, I’ve had enough really. No, I meant the come back posts.
Isn't it sort of official that I have period every two or three months? I'd think so. I stopped blogging completely, in which normally I would just write something on draft every now and then, I was off every single IM's that I was on, I was off Facebook and Flickr, and I don't know why, I just did.
Just the other day, I was thinking about writing up a final piece, an exit statement that I'm finally shutting down this blog. I contemplated, and it was fascinating to me that I've been writing quite a significant amount of insignificant shit on and off for the past four years, so I've receded to the fact that indeed I do love blogging, very much, and that I should give it another shot, only because I know better that I’d get this itch to blog every now and then, when life gets a little too much. Hell to the no. Yes. I'm that sentimental. Go figure.
I've been doing a lot, at the same time felt incredibly insipid at achieving nothing. Yes, I was lost, not anymore, because I pretty much live in lost now. That's funny. I moved to a new office recently. Exciting, though secretly I was hoping that I moved to a new job instead. That would be heaven. No really, the new office ain’t that shabby at all, the place is nicely renovated, it's close to a shopping mall, and the idea of being able to just walk downstairs and grab a nice cup of coffee while enjoying my cigarette sounds just fine to me. Sadly, all this has nothing to do with work, I know. Isn't it so obvious now that work has been so dreadful that I'm practically inert to what is actually happening around me. I get orders, I get my job done. I can't remember exactly which part about architecture that I enjoyed so much to begin with. Gosh, I miss uni days.
Things seemed to have gone through a rapid change lately, so it seems, my life anyways. My best friend finally got the job and moved to KL a month ago, and that seemed to change how things would otherwise roll around here. Then, Bin moved to Kuching and is probably living happily ever after. I was sick most of the time in the last two months; I've been to the dentist, in which he decided I should get one of my molars crowned. Gosh, jealous yet? I got my molar crowned! I totally feel like a royalty now. It burned a hole in my pocket to get crowned, mind you. Shortly after that, my lower left eyelid got infected. My eyelid was swollen and the only way to fix that is to make a small incision to drain out the abscess. It was traumatizing and I'm trying very hard to forget that very incident looking at the tip of the needle approaching my eye while my head being held forcefully by the horrible old nurse to keep me from moving. All I can say is I never let the doctor finish his job because the pain was simply too overwhelming. And to my defense, it was done without any painkiller nor anesthesia. Thank god it's healing now, just a tiny little spot left, only visible to the narcissistic self, otherwise, it's barely noticeable. Eventually, I blame all mishaps on karma. No, it has nothing to do with me taking care of my health, it's all karma.
And so here it is, a clean slate, a fresh start - the blog and hopefully my miserable life.
No. Actually, I just got very lazy.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
3
Friday, March 27, 2009
4
..and so it is.
Finally called it off.
And to the act of desertion, of which no one is to blame entirely for all things to fall apart, I know I had it coming, knew it all to well. I'm not too sure if it'd hit me totally just yet, I am feeling strangely calm and composed, or which at least, I'd expect myself to throw a tantrum, or at least I thought I would feel my heart pumping so hard that it would just literally jump out of my skin. But non of it.
Gosh, one year and I am standing right there to see the bane of it, and yet there is so little I could do to save it. Honestly though, I almost feel like I've shed an unbearable weight off my shoulder, finally being able to catch a breather from the feeling of living on the edge, almost every minute of it. But soon as I've finally said this, I could feel one forging just right about now, slowly creeping onto my shoulder again. I hated the process, it sucked, and it hurts like hell. It's almost like when you feel that you are just about to get out of a dark tunnel and into the light, only to find yourself at the beginning of another one.
Really, I am so afraid to go to bed tonight because I know that as soon as I close my eyes, depression is going to find it's way into me and it's going to plague my entire system the next day. It might have given me nightmares too, or I'd wake up to a train-wreck. I'm not too sure, but I am definitely not anticipating the possibility of waking up in piles of relationship debris, and there is so much to clean up when there's work to be done, when there's life to live on. Ah, there goes again, the process of putting up a fake smile for everyone like life is perfectly beautiful, when in reality I just wished everyone would just fuck the hell out of my face. Perfect.
And so it hurts, and it hurts deeper, and it gets better, and then it gets worst again, but seriously, just how bad can it get? I am yet to find out. But now, I need to keep moving - to just keep moving and leave it behind a little at a time.
All I know, when a heart's broken, carrying on bravely is the easiest thing to do.
After all, it's just another chronicles of a broken Beaker.
And to the act of desertion, of which no one is to blame entirely for all things to fall apart, I know I had it coming, knew it all to well. I'm not too sure if it'd hit me totally just yet, I am feeling strangely calm and composed, or which at least, I'd expect myself to throw a tantrum, or at least I thought I would feel my heart pumping so hard that it would just literally jump out of my skin. But non of it.
Gosh, one year and I am standing right there to see the bane of it, and yet there is so little I could do to save it. Honestly though, I almost feel like I've shed an unbearable weight off my shoulder, finally being able to catch a breather from the feeling of living on the edge, almost every minute of it. But soon as I've finally said this, I could feel one forging just right about now, slowly creeping onto my shoulder again. I hated the process, it sucked, and it hurts like hell. It's almost like when you feel that you are just about to get out of a dark tunnel and into the light, only to find yourself at the beginning of another one.
Really, I am so afraid to go to bed tonight because I know that as soon as I close my eyes, depression is going to find it's way into me and it's going to plague my entire system the next day. It might have given me nightmares too, or I'd wake up to a train-wreck. I'm not too sure, but I am definitely not anticipating the possibility of waking up in piles of relationship debris, and there is so much to clean up when there's work to be done, when there's life to live on. Ah, there goes again, the process of putting up a fake smile for everyone like life is perfectly beautiful, when in reality I just wished everyone would just fuck the hell out of my face. Perfect.
And so it hurts, and it hurts deeper, and it gets better, and then it gets worst again, but seriously, just how bad can it get? I am yet to find out. But now, I need to keep moving - to just keep moving and leave it behind a little at a time.
All I know, when a heart's broken, carrying on bravely is the easiest thing to do.
After all, it's just another chronicles of a broken Beaker.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
2
...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.
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.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
5
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 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.
Friday, October 03, 2008
3
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
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.
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.
Friday, September 19, 2008
4
Hour Glass.
I'm back. Again. Oh crap.
So much to say, so little to utter. Which is it?
It actually felt a little peculiar, sitting here at this time trying to think about things to say, although over my hiatus, I’ve collected enough blogging material to last for the rest of year. I feel guilty for some reason for abandoning the blog over and over again, at some point I was actually considering calling it quit and shut the whole damn thing. And yet, such irony, I found myself sitting still for almost an hour trying to come out with something to write as my mind went totally blank on me. I've forgotten how to write. My fingers dabbing the keyboards, I was trying my best to familiarize my words. The way it used to be. The way things should be.
Six months, gosh. What have I done? I’ve been fermenting. Dust would've settled over broken pieces of glass, and I was naive enough to think that time would actually fix things. I’m pretty exhausted myself trying to pick up pieces and putting them back together to be honest.
I agree that my inconsistency, in the most fundamental way has a lot to do with me constantly being in a state of discontent about things that went on around me. Don’t get me wrong. I do believe that there are briefs moments when life seemed full of promising possibilities, and if I ever felt so optimistic about life, it would’ve been at some point in the past six months.
Much like a long trip down dreamland, where life seemed possible of endless joy and happiness. Dreams, they are free. That’s the best thing about it. It does not require truth nor beliefs, all you need is a little bit of imagination and determination, you would be living well off in wonderland. And yet the worst part about it? Dreams, they live in murky waters. It’s and assumption and desire far fetched from reality. It feeds itself on dissatisfaction in the real world. And often times it blinds us from seeing past the surface. At some point, those undefined possibilities would eventually turn into unanswered questions. Being too comfortable in some situations is often a sign of things falling apart.
Having that said, I’m contemplating over and over again whether I was being too comfortable with where I am right now. But the growing contentment would only be immolated by the abstraction of unimaginable destruction. I’ve gone through changes, good and bad, but like they say, all changes are good changes. I do believe so. And now changes have brought me down, sinking further into my own mess. Which is good, it’s good in a sense I’m checking myself back into reality rehab.
I'm back for now, though I'm very skeptical how far I would endure before things would start to bend around the corners. As far as I know, I'm broken beyond repair, and yet I find myself drawn to the idea of disjointed and fractures. The beauty to this is within the broken piece. You won't break something that is already broken. Would you?
Time. It doesn’t fix things; it dissipates little pieces of broken memories until it become too small for it to matter, small enough to slip away from our life.
So much to say, so little to utter. Which is it?
It actually felt a little peculiar, sitting here at this time trying to think about things to say, although over my hiatus, I’ve collected enough blogging material to last for the rest of year. I feel guilty for some reason for abandoning the blog over and over again, at some point I was actually considering calling it quit and shut the whole damn thing. And yet, such irony, I found myself sitting still for almost an hour trying to come out with something to write as my mind went totally blank on me. I've forgotten how to write. My fingers dabbing the keyboards, I was trying my best to familiarize my words. The way it used to be. The way things should be.
Six months, gosh. What have I done? I’ve been fermenting. Dust would've settled over broken pieces of glass, and I was naive enough to think that time would actually fix things. I’m pretty exhausted myself trying to pick up pieces and putting them back together to be honest.
I agree that my inconsistency, in the most fundamental way has a lot to do with me constantly being in a state of discontent about things that went on around me. Don’t get me wrong. I do believe that there are briefs moments when life seemed full of promising possibilities, and if I ever felt so optimistic about life, it would’ve been at some point in the past six months.
Much like a long trip down dreamland, where life seemed possible of endless joy and happiness. Dreams, they are free. That’s the best thing about it. It does not require truth nor beliefs, all you need is a little bit of imagination and determination, you would be living well off in wonderland. And yet the worst part about it? Dreams, they live in murky waters. It’s and assumption and desire far fetched from reality. It feeds itself on dissatisfaction in the real world. And often times it blinds us from seeing past the surface. At some point, those undefined possibilities would eventually turn into unanswered questions. Being too comfortable in some situations is often a sign of things falling apart.
Having that said, I’m contemplating over and over again whether I was being too comfortable with where I am right now. But the growing contentment would only be immolated by the abstraction of unimaginable destruction. I’ve gone through changes, good and bad, but like they say, all changes are good changes. I do believe so. And now changes have brought me down, sinking further into my own mess. Which is good, it’s good in a sense I’m checking myself back into reality rehab.
I'm back for now, though I'm very skeptical how far I would endure before things would start to bend around the corners. As far as I know, I'm broken beyond repair, and yet I find myself drawn to the idea of disjointed and fractures. The beauty to this is within the broken piece. You won't break something that is already broken. Would you?
Time. It doesn’t fix things; it dissipates little pieces of broken memories until it become too small for it to matter, small enough to slip away from our life.
Friday, March 28, 2008
6
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.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
4
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…..
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…..
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
8
Saturday, February 02, 2008
6
One, Two, and Three.
It's Broken Beaker's 3rd Birthday.
Holy fuck, I've been keeping this damn blog up for 3 years now. That's pretty amazing I must say.
Friday, January 18, 2008
0
KARMA IS A FUCKING BITCH
I feel like I have been stalked.
Tonight, while I was at a friend's birthday dinner, someone decided to send me some anonymous text messages, and the content of it went pretty ugly, which at some point in the text exchange it involved some mother-fucking and father-fucking, and I find myself seriously bugged by this mysterious textathone the entire night.
First of all I hated it when people send me random messages and not disclosing themselves. I am not saying I get these messages all the time, in fact it had only happened once a year or something like that and I usually get over it pretty quickly. The thing about it is that it's actually quite scary when that person that sent you those random messages sort of know a little about you and they make damn sure in the text that you know they know you so that it lingers and fucks with your mind a little. It's like someone who has been so horny but hasn't got laid like in a million years decided to get off by mind-fucking you, and then cum all over your brain. It's weird and it's my problem too because I love to mind fuck people too,which then you could probably tell how much fun I have been having with my hand lately and karma has this sort of crazy way of getting back at me.
But then that's the thing with people, they never get confrontational. No one really ever go 'Hey you know what? I really hate you and your silly humongous ass and you know what I have been hating you all these years, there you have it' although I find that most people love phrasing 'If you've got something to say about me, you better say it right here in my face' without having to realize that the truth actually shrinks their balls. What most people would do is that they sneak behind your back and throw a big bitch-fest for you, and haven't we all done that ? oh, it was so much fun. Not that I enjoy confronting people, mind you. All I am saying is that I hated it when people starts going all psychological bullshit with me and fucking with my thoughts, I hated it when I couldn't find a solution to an answer, ultimately I hated it when something happened, I didn't know how it started or why it happened. It's like the kind of feeling you get in one of those pre-diarrhea moments when you feel like you need to shit real bad but it's just not quite there yet but it's getting there, but not quite. It fucking sucks.
I'm used to it though, it's just that it sucks to have let something like this ruined my entire night out and it sucks that I couldn't help myself to drop it and move on because every single thing people said about me bugs me. I wish I was one of those that doesn't give a fuck about what you said. I do, and I care a lot and that is why I am mentally fucked because imagine if 4 person said something bad about me in one day, my brain would've need to process 4 different incidents, 4 different things, sometimes when it's related, I just need to put it together to make sense but it's a lot of work to do. Like once in a while, people would come to me and say some really disparaging things about me, or my family or friends. Sometimes it ended pretty, sometimes it's sticky, and most of the time, I'll get over it. It's just how relationship works isn't it? While your having a wonderful relationship here, you are fucking up another relationship there at the same time.
Ah, how I hate dealing with all these mess.
Tonight, while I was at a friend's birthday dinner, someone decided to send me some anonymous text messages, and the content of it went pretty ugly, which at some point in the text exchange it involved some mother-fucking and father-fucking, and I find myself seriously bugged by this mysterious textathone the entire night.
First of all I hated it when people send me random messages and not disclosing themselves. I am not saying I get these messages all the time, in fact it had only happened once a year or something like that and I usually get over it pretty quickly. The thing about it is that it's actually quite scary when that person that sent you those random messages sort of know a little about you and they make damn sure in the text that you know they know you so that it lingers and fucks with your mind a little. It's like someone who has been so horny but hasn't got laid like in a million years decided to get off by mind-fucking you, and then cum all over your brain. It's weird and it's my problem too because I love to mind fuck people too,
But then that's the thing with people, they never get confrontational. No one really ever go 'Hey you know what? I really hate you and your silly humongous ass and you know what I have been hating you all these years, there you have it' although I find that most people love phrasing 'If you've got something to say about me, you better say it right here in my face' without having to realize that the truth actually shrinks their balls. What most people would do is that they sneak behind your back and throw a big bitch-fest for you, and haven't we all done that ? oh, it was so much fun. Not that I enjoy confronting people, mind you. All I am saying is that I hated it when people starts going all psychological bullshit with me and fucking with my thoughts, I hated it when I couldn't find a solution to an answer, ultimately I hated it when something happened, I didn't know how it started or why it happened. It's like the kind of feeling you get in one of those pre-diarrhea moments when you feel like you need to shit real bad but it's just not quite there yet but it's getting there, but not quite. It fucking sucks.
I'm used to it though, it's just that it sucks to have let something like this ruined my entire night out and it sucks that I couldn't help myself to drop it and move on because every single thing people said about me bugs me. I wish I was one of those that doesn't give a fuck about what you said. I do, and I care a lot and that is why I am mentally fucked because imagine if 4 person said something bad about me in one day, my brain would've need to process 4 different incidents, 4 different things, sometimes when it's related, I just need to put it together to make sense but it's a lot of work to do. Like once in a while, people would come to me and say some really disparaging things about me, or my family or friends. Sometimes it ended pretty, sometimes it's sticky, and most of the time, I'll get over it. It's just how relationship works isn't it? While your having a wonderful relationship here, you are fucking up another relationship there at the same time.
Ah, how I hate dealing with all these mess.
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