Monday, March 26, 2007
Blue eyes blue
A great man once said,'Every man's memory is his private literature'.
I'd retort that statement with enough conviction to shake this ol' earth.
My private literature is more than just that. No, she hasn't got blue eyes, but I promise you, there are the most beautiful pair of eyes I've seen in a long time. It is not the eyes per se; for to lay down a judgement based merely on size or looks is severely depthless. Or even severely insulting if I may suggest. Truth to be told, it is everything but the eyes when one looks back in hindsight. It probably is the sheer and utter power of the gaze, the gaze that pierces me so deeply you just hunger for more, more, and even more. A gaze that speaks words, phrases, sentences, even letters I so long to hear.
On a note more than just a side one, yesterday was a good day. Been long, so long Ivan. But it was a good day.
And then she asked me why he was willing to spend this precious ammo on her but he just smiled to himself coyly, and said nothing. But he was just being another Leonidas, cause all he wanted to say was, "Sugar, that's cause you're my precious".
And then another great man once said,
"When I am with you, I stay up all night.
When you're not here, I can't get to sleep.
Praise God for these two insomnias!
And the difference between them."
What the fuck, how am I supposed to retort this one?
posted@9:24 AM
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
But is that alright?
Be forewarned: By reading beyond this line, you are engaging yourself in mind-numbing, aethist, emotionally unstable writings that calls for a mind that is more than just resilient, but also one that possesses strong DISCERNING POWER. For truth or lie, fact or fiction, literal or hyperbole, the artist leaves you to judge. The artist also sincerely hopes that, just like most his works of words painted on electronic media than on canvas, you will enjoy them as much as you always did. Lastly, it has to be strongly emphasised that this artist does not require any form of sympathy, empathy of any sorts with regards to his writings. There should be no questions asked in real or virtual life with regards to anything written in this post, and this blog in extension. It his private space, and by respecting it, you will find nothing else but peace at the end of the road. Hopefully.Leave me out with the waste,
This is not what I do.
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you.
It's the wrong time,
For somebody new.
It's a small crime,
But I've got no excuse.
Tuesday. Early day. Bad day. Last day.
Sat on the bus, thought about you, and tasted tears that have yet to fall since more than half a dozen months back.
I used to tell myself that life was just a 4 letter word. Like everything else, everything loses its value the minute you look into it hard enough. Life in itself, is intrinsically meaningless. And in this God-less world where we are left to fend for ourselves, life is more than meaningless. Life becomes absurd. And how tragic have man become (myself included), that we can only look back at our fragmented past that probably never was, and laugh to ourselves, thinking, "I don't even know why the fuck I cried for!"
Maybe you did then, but you probably didn't. You only cried because you thought there was some spark of light waiting to be ignited. You only cried because you thought there might be something waiting for you to respond to. There has to be no doubt about the absurdity of the human conditon and Man in general in the light of the aforementioned.
But who the fuck is to say that there is any doubt in that genuine, flawless, taintless sense of pain you felt when you shed your tears. I remember, I remember. I remember how it felt like divine punishment, for the pain was more than just existing. The iron fist twisted the sinews of my heart, loosening it only at the ebb of my heartbeat and the occasional hint of a mental breakdown.
Such, dear reader, is the highly understated, yet power, of the human capacity to feel, or even to love. While I've been a master of the former, I'll lament and lick my salt-tinged wounds till I see the latter at the end of the road.
posted@9:52 AM
