Scribbles.

Goodbye.

2006-11-04T00:07:00.000+08:00

Let's not make this as bad as it has to be.
I've said what i had to say here.
I've cherished what i had.
I've decided that this is to be the last one.
Number hundred and fourteen.
Our last bow.
No need for a forever goodbye, friends.
We've found somewhere else.
We can't stay any longer here.
I will miss you.
I will miss you.
You.
You.

This is the last post.

Goodbye.

For the most sparkling Y.

2006-10-25T19:56:00.000+08:00

There was this night,

Under the empty sky,

Where three stars shone their brightest

And a fourth not so far away from their hearts.

A night where they were their own stars.

One of endless depth, sparkle, and grace.

Spanning their chemical memories until they will run dry.

That patch of grass was too lowly for you.

A bed of gold silk and linen should have graced your gentle back.

A brother.

A sister.

A friend.

Sunshine partner.

Chefs together.

Fellow fire-starter.

Di.

Our Y.

One and only.

From your dearest M.

Further and further until there was nothing but the start of everything.

2006-10-16T20:04:00.000+08:00

Why was it hard?

Hard.

Difficult.

Tough.

Was it because of change?

We all change, don't we?

Don't we?

Change.

Transformation.

Metamorphosis.

Who,

What do we become?

I dived deep this evening.

I took a single breath.
All life and trust.
Then i went under.
Deep.

It was dank.

Musty.

Old.

When I could go on no more.

Further and further until there was nothing but the start of everything.

There I found.

The bubbling still spring at the very floor of the salty sea.

Bubbling.

Belching.

Bursting.

The heart of the ocean.

It was still alive.

The origin for the birth of everything that ever was.

Then.

From the bottom of reason.

I gazed above at the immense distance travelled.

Oh, how different and alien it looked then.

No starlight collected in my eye.

Though the lidless eye of the moon peered.

From the highest heavens to the lowest depths.

So mournfully.

Intensely.

Gravely.

Movingly.

There was something disparate about the surface and from down below.

Something altered.

Incomparable.

So then I realised.

The vast gulf between.

Metre for metre.

Day for day.

Hour for hour.
My breath ran out.
Dark circles.
Sliding to the sublime.
Shifting.
Swirling.
It all collapses.
The dizzy weight.
Heavy.
Heavy.
Drowning.
It drowns me.
There is no atmosphere.
I lose my sight.
All around filters into coffee dark.
Already, I start to hear the raucous voices from past hauntings.
Cacophonous.
Jarring.
Discordant.
Laughter.
I can hear the laughter again.
The laughter closing in on me.
The laughter.
Laugh.
Laugh.
Laugh.
That was the beginning of the endings.

A peek over our shoulders.

2006-10-10T11:35:00.000+08:00

Time to look back for awhile.
We all need that sometimes, don't we?

This is something Forest did.

2006-10-05T21:55:00.000+08:00

I'm listening to this tune playing over and over again in my head.

Like a spoilt recorder?

It won't stop because you won't.

You never ever did for long.

It's funny how old songs come back from hiding in the darker parts of your mind which you throw thoughts away into.

You think you've gotten rid of them forever, haven't you?

It's haunting how the lyrics slam straight into a perfect jig-saw puzzle of reality, right from the first word.
You can't have been more mistaken.

It's cold, cold, cold.

I'm on a lookout.

The name of the song?

It is named after something Forest did.

Scribbles in the dark.

2006-10-03T10:40:00.000+08:00

Peckish for something that's worth of reading, are you?
Think that a slice of a poet's pie would satisfy?
Here it is, to relish, on it's very own silver dish:
Www.musepoetica.blogspot.com.
For something before and after a heavy lunch,
Light and mellow, yet delightful.
Colours from the mind belonging to one called persona.

Paying your sins.

2006-09-30T20:01:00.000+08:00

No, this does not happen at the Imperial War Musuem.
Nor does it happen on board a flight to Dubai.

This is about retribution, revelation, and redemption.
It is the assured fact of how "What comes around, goes around".
The universal "What goes up, must come down".
Which altogether relates to "Facing the music",
Because with every little fib or indecency or time "To play hob",
We have to eventually "Pay our sins".
That's right, pay our sins.
Whether they be the size of apples or cities or even if they be as everyday as window-frames.
We have to get what we give.

No, this does not happen at the Imperial War Musuem.
Nor does it happen on board a flight to Dubai.

Or along some common corridor.

I assure you.

There will be no more rain.

2006-09-14T18:03:00.000+08:00

Where did the blue sky go?
It's over me right now.
Why is it so cold?
Don't have my jacket over me, gonna go fetch it.
Why does it always rain on me?
Won't be raining anymore, i tell you, it won't.
Won't be like Phillip.

...

A summer in another's skin.

This is one of the plainest and most mundane days. At twelve noon, you think solitude as a necessary detachment that is almost as fun as playing Jenga on alone. You fix lunch and while you eat your sandwich, because you could not bother to switch on the fan, you suckle the mosquitoes which are feeding your future children. When you've had your fill of food, you think that the quiet has inspired you so you sit yourself down on the reclining chair to pen some poetry. Poetry about an absent father who is absent not because he wants to be but because he has to be. After the minute hand on the living room's clock turns three hundred and sixty degrees, you have a poem which sounds juvenile but then again, you think to yourself, it is the persona of a child and you want it to sound like that, you really do. It seems slightly too short but you decide that you would rather it be embodied with a subtle, jarring quality that comes mainly within the small allowance of a six short lines. After penning your today's magnum opus, the blistering calm weather outside and the unexpected blooming of the small white flowers on the bushy-looking tree with no name coaxes you into believing that the time is nowhere less perfect for an afternoon nap. Goodness, you think, what a beautiful summer.

...

There it is, as promised.

Gone fishing? Not quite, actually.

2006-09-09T13:26:00.000+08:00

The blogger which resides in this little corner of the WWW has decided to step back for awhile and take his life into his own hands for once. This same person has also promised to be back with two or three titles (strictly) when he does. Not quite like going for fishing, certainly, but somewhat like encapsulating the spirit and soul of it.

All broken up and dancing, someday some might say stand by me and sway.

2006-08-27T15:13:00.000+08:00

"When you're shining around the world,

It's hard to imagine that you're thinking of me,

Thinking of all the things we've seen.

I should have known,

Familiar voices drown like stones."

"Some might say,

That sunshine follows thunder,

Go and tell it to the man who cannot shine."

"Don't you know that cold and wind and rain don't know,

They only seem to come and go away"

All broken up and dancing,

Someday

Some might say

Stand by me

Sway.

I had a couple of drinks.

2006-08-26T20:13:00.000+08:00

One more for love:
"There is certainly uncertainty in all our eyes."

Thankyou, piggie.
For the things you do.

Growing out of myself
And into something else
Better ripened than what
I am.

Are those croaks the sound of mating frogs, i hear outside the window?
How queer.

Apples and fudge.

2006-08-11T14:04:00.000+08:00

Cold fruit and warm syrup.
Delicious.
Sweet flesh and thick sauce.
Juicy.
Sensual cinnammon and chocolate.

Smile, smile!

2006-08-03T21:26:00.000+08:00

Inside here, it's all rotting down.
We're all growing colder and older.
I stand here like your clown.

Post number hundred.

2006-08-03T19:10:00.000+08:00

Hooray.
This is post number hundred.
Haven't been feeling quite well of late.
Matters of the heart and such.
Schoolwork has also gotten me down in the doldrums.
Am starting to wonder about my existence.
Questions like what my being on this plane is for.
Just something to ponder about, day in and out.
Where my priorities lie.
What Serene/Selene is doing now.
If she's doing fine at that little ambiguous countryside of hers.
Whether the staff at kiehl's are doing better than last heard.
If my editor has gotten her sweetheart yet.
Where the purple parachutes have gone to.
Who we really are.
Who are you?
Are you true?

Hey Jude!

2006-07-27T21:01:00.000+08:00

"Take a sad song and make it better!"

The tinkerbox.

2006-07-24T21:46:00.000+08:00

Oscar and Donna.

Protagonist and antagonist.

Oscar and Gerrad.

Protagonist and antagonist.

Donna and Gerrad.

Antagonists.

The tinkerbox plays Greensleeves.

Picnic.

2006-07-09T21:19:00.000+08:00

Stay.

I sat where we sat.

I read where we read.

I sat on the swings we swung on.

I had nothing to eat where we ate.

(Not even pistachio shells.)

I saw the roof beams where you bumped your head.

(I kissed where it hurt like hell.)

I could not play the tunes we played.

It was quiet.

I tried to laugh like we did,

I could not.

Dear,

2006-07-06T20:45:00.000+08:00

I want to say this much,

"And if I could be who you wanted

If I could be who you wanted

All the time, all the time."

-michael.

Now,

Picture this.

An ice cream scoop,

In the shape of a heart.

Ahoy!

2006-06-27T22:34:00.000+08:00

"Oh! Here! Here! You can hide under this rock! Its quite dim and smelly under there but I think you're desperate enough."
"Have you gone mad? Under that tiny nook?"
"No, no, not in the very least of it! I'm quite sure that this might work!"
"Oh my. I think you might have had a tad too much to drink at the party."

Poor boy Danny.

2006-06-27T21:11:00.000+08:00

Nobody thought that They would be gathering in the cramped church pews for a funeral again that week. This time it was Danny's father, the middle-aged cart-driver. Danny's old man broke his neck after his boot was caught in the legstrap of his ride. Service that day was sordid, sullen and stiff with muffled sobs. Before his final blessing was mumbled and he was carried out of the church for the first and last time, his young child, Danny, walked out first. Some of Them noticed and They kept silent for the better.

When They got out of the oaken doors, They shook their heads as they caught sight of Danny with his face buried in his lap sitting in front of Marge's tree of funeral charms. Even from behind, the wind carried his whimpers, They could hear. Marge the artist frowned a sad look. Poor boy Danny was weeping because his father had no medals or ribbons for the tree. Danny's inner eyes could see what the rest could not, the golden silver strung around in his young heart. But his old man still had nothing for the tree.

Michael's morning.

2006-06-27T10:26:00.000+08:00

It is six minutes to half-past ten right this very moment I'm having my breakfast. Have you ever wondered why breakfast is aptly named breakfast? When I was about two heads shorter than I am right now, a teacher told me that breakfast was breakfast simply because it was the breaking of the long fast we would have had through the night. Perfectly encapsulated blandly in one word - breakfast. How queer. But then there are other morning quirks like bad breath, fuzzy tongue and pillow drool. If I remember correctly, an uncle whom I am quite fond of once propped his head on a hard stool and quite successfully began to drool a small pool of saliva as he was snoring.

My phone just rang.

Twelve at the Starbucks we were at yesterday and bring along King Lear.

I have about an hour and less than half to reach there.

Who wants hear about a tasteless morning breakfast anyway?

Back.

2006-06-18T22:04:00.000+08:00

There is not much left to say.

I left my heart in england.

No persistence to type my every experience.

Please visit my friend Emmanuel's

Www.manbo.blogspot.com

Gone.

2006-06-02T21:13:00.000+08:00

Be back in two weeks.

Hello, good morning, had your breakfast yet?

2006-05-28T11:58:00.000+08:00

Maybe you'll find the flowers in the dumpster.

"Sweetheart, you just killed the hopeless romantic in me."

Happy third anniversary.

Funeral charms.

2006-05-27T07:19:00.000+08:00

Old Aunt Mag died last Wednesday. She was almost about eighty-two. Many medals and merits, she had, on her proud regalia. One and only female veteran. Oldest, too.

At her wake, there were more than many. Everyone came to pay her their solemn silence and a drop of pathetic tear or two. They said, "There was so much she had already done, it's better now she's gone."

Her earthly laurels hung in medals resting in her open casket. Little light glinted off their golden faces. Susie, who was Aunt Mag's daughter and curator of the village's art gallery, adjusted to a standing posture as she walked with as much dignity allowed.

They saw, quite clearly, Susie reaching into her mother's coffin. Then, in either appall or wonder, for some, she tore off the gleaming medals and ribbons, off aunt Mag's chest.

It was not strange that They kept quiet as Susie debased aunt Mag's stature; Susie was her daughter and They respected her.
It was not quite in practice, though, as she ran through the aisle, her back to the altar.

Susie took all the laurels of the old woman and she hung them on the bare branches of a young oak. Flashing circles of gold and silver reflecting the sunlight in such grandeur; Ribbons with their unbound ends dancing to the every whim of the breeze. "Funeral charms", she explained, "For the world to see what my mother has achieved.".

Funeral charms hanging on a tree outside a church.

They all nodded and approved to Susie's strange new art piece.

But They began to laugh, anyway, when They saw the majestic semblance of Susie's work to a Christmas tree.

So, you see, there was this art show last week.

2006-05-24T01:01:00.000+08:00

They had a small gallery where they displayed portraits and landscapes by the young artists. They were dabbling the theme of the show with sunset glows of blue and yellow, sparkled with a drizzle of gold. They had old Aunt Mag to stand by the reception table. They served little cucumber sandwiches with just about enough butter to keep the bread together. They drank cheap wine from little plastic cups and fizzy pop for those who didn't. They were all standing around and with their mouths in carefully measured gaps, paying their shares in soft 'ooh's and 'ahh's. They all heard from painters and poets, "I'm glad you enjoyed it as much as I did.". They stood around a little longer for slight expressive appreciation and the pause effect. They were feeling quite tired but still as always, polite. They talked about what was Who and Who were They.

Cold tea laced with cigarette butts.

2006-05-23T01:28:00.000+08:00

It's one and still ringing with stupid alarms and incessant calls to work.

It's May and as always prosaic and dreary with daylight rumblings as ever.

It's cold and no one is awake and my tea is laced with cigarette butts.

It's sunless and my back is against the roof and I'm milking my eyes with astral lights.

Number One.

2006-05-18T00:00:00.000+08:00

Clean slate.
Roll, roll, roll,
The ivory of my thoughts.
This is the first.

Who's at the door?

2006-05-02T23:12:00.000+08:00

Knock, knock.

Its life's mechanics.

We're here to fix your creaks and cranks.

Knock, knock.

Hello?

Hello?

Please open up.

Open up.

Open.

Open your eyes.

Back to those better days.

2006-05-01T22:13:00.000+08:00

"We can all be better people."

...

It's not over for me, you know.
I came across our old photographs just an hour ago and our smiling faces have fixated themselves on my mind.
I remember that letter I wrote and handed to you at that little corner-side cafe.
You wanted to keep it in your wallet but it was oversized so I had to fold it up for you.
In case it happens to stroll down your memory lane of thought, you should know that I still hold true, right this moment, to what it says even if its hard to see.
It does not matter much whether you read this or not.
Whatever I write now stays here, much like relics from any grandparent's treasure chest.
Ancient, you will find it someday.
But not today, it still shines your smile now.
...

"It's true. Oh, so true."

Blossoms on vined tiles.

2006-04-23T23:07:00.000+08:00

So I'm sitting on the spoilt moss-green oak chair I've had since seven years ago and the silence all around me is ringing in my ears. The only two noises which break the unbearable quiet is the drip-drop of the leaking tap in the bathroom, which has been like that since we bought over the place, and when I can think of something to write, the scritch-scratching of sharpened lead my pencil makes against the rough, yellow recycled paper. My surrounding atmosphere is completely placid and dismal. This unwholesome prosaic lifestyle runs its way the same track everyday until a certain package from my sister arrives. My sister is an artist and lives far enough to send me a copy of any work she's done recently. She mails her stuff almost weekly and some of them are quirky. The last time, she glued a little dead bee to the bottom of a tiny crystal jar so that it was lying on its back with its itsy-bitsy legs all sticking out, and sent it with a card which said, "This is as pure as it gets". I didn't understand what she meant, and I probably won't ever. She could be ambiguous when she wanted to.

The package for this week is resting itself comfortably on the edge of my drawing table, its small and the soft foam I felt from the outside wrapping just now tells me that there is something fragile inside. As I liberate myself from the excruciating self-imposed patience, I can't help but notice how the soft brown envelope matches the cheap table wood. When I am finally rid of the foam, duct tape and scrunched-up paper bits, I am left with a prettily painted tile with patterns of blossoms and grape vines in my hand. It didn't come with a note. Though it resembles something I saw before at a sunday art market long ago, the brushwork was perfect. It doesn't seem quite so but I suppose she couldn't have meant anything else except a dazzling display of her blatantly obvious genious.

Smoke it out.

2006-04-19T20:04:00.000+08:00

"If you could only see yourself as others see."

The weather has been perfectly foul of late.

Recent musings:
The longest road home.
When yesterday walked away.

...

You know you're stuck fast with nowhere to go when you begin to make small inconsequential thoughts about the quirks of everyday life. Like how a ride home on the bus seems to take forever, and when you check your wristwatch, you realize the minute hand has only moved from three to six. Or how your shoelaces manage to unwork itself every time you tie it, even for double knots.

"At times like this, you need a cigarette and a place to sit while watching the world unfold itself for you."
"You constantly need a cigarette for every occasion. You're addicted."

She sent a postcard.

2006-04-11T18:59:00.000+08:00

No. Not cigarettes or alcohol this time. A postcard was all I got. From a quaint and quiescent township. The picture was a fading photograph of some ambiguous-looking countryside. On the back it said simply,
"It's great over here. Will be back soon or never. Don't worry, someone else will come along."

My dear, you just killed the artist.
Knock, knock, little monster.

The truth is without words.

2006-04-06T21:12:00.000+08:00

Hiding in this shoebox of memories.
My cousin claims the perfect cure to this conundrum.
I believe him.
We all would, when we're desperate.

"You are distasteful."

"Disgusting, loathsome."

"Where is she?"

"Tell me! I implore you!"

"Where is Serene?"

"Bring her back, you fool!"

"Bring her back to me!"

Cut and paste.

Just wish hard enough.

2006-04-04T06:42:00.000+08:00

I'm lying to myself so you don't have to.

...

Ask her to come back if you see her.
Say it's already april and winter should be over.
My head has been vacant for awhile.

Nine-thirty outside Kiehl's.

2006-03-30T18:47:00.000+08:00

Crawled to you to seek solace from unrequited attention.
So you said nine-thirty outside Kiehl's.

Brought back pictures we took from yesterday's station.
Gave me what I delved for and more.
Shuffling feet, a million sounds along the windows outside.

Until leaving in sight of some slight digression.
When you asked if nine-thirty was all right,
I said perhaps not tonight, my dear, then.

Now I crawl back to seek solace from unrequited attention.
I hope it's still nine-thirty outside Kiehl's tonight.

...

Dry and up high.

Do something easy today.

2006-03-24T13:33:00.000+08:00

Do you really have to go?

Do you really have to go?

Do you really have to go?

We don't really have much of a choice.

All these words have no real intention.

Marble pieces on black and white squares.

Oh, all is right for me.

Seafoam Green

2006-03-23T20:00:00.000+08:00

This night walk reopens old wounds.
Malignant thoughts loom within.
This is so saturnine, I think to myself.
So perk up, boy. No one answers.

Sand between my toes.
Surf suds in my hair.
I have a penguin for a pet.
Goodnight, says The Sandman.

East-west.
Dish-dash.
Mish-mash.
Balderdash.

This desperation for change is wearing me thin.

2006-03-19T21:12:00.000+08:00

My persistence for the lack of proper language has given way.

Watch me go coconuts.

"Hey! You dingbat!"

"So how do I survive this life?"

Blow me away.

This is poppycock.

"A storm is coming."

"Papa!"

"Your hands are cold."

This is making up for lost time.

Why Sophie loved Paul.

2006-03-09T20:03:00.000+08:00

He and the Sea.

The honest truth.

When yesterday walked away.

...

All up and coming.

...

Why Sophie loved paul?

It was the love philtre.

Because of this dull ache.

2006-03-06T21:16:00.000+08:00

I won't retrack the words I wrote,
Or the things I said.
They come from a living, feeling organ,
Most would call my heart.
If it means anything to you at all,
Then let this be your trophy.
This certificate to show how you in all,
Captured, captivated my unworthy heart,
And tore out my living, feeling organ.
Erased the things I said,
Wiped off the things I wrote.

...

I don't care for much,
I wanna have control.

The endless sunshine of the spotless mind.

2006-02-26T12:07:00.000+08:00

"JOEL : I really should go. I really need to catch my ride.

I didn't want to go. I was too nervous. I thought, maybe you were a nut. But you were exciting. You called from upstairs.

CLEMENTINE : So go.

JOEL : I did. I walked out the door. I felt like I was a scared little kid. I thought you knew that about me. I ran back to the bonfire, trying to outrun my humiliation. You said, "so go" with such disdain.

CLEMENTINE : What if you stay this time?

JOEL : I walked out the door. There's no more memory.

CLEMENTINE : Come back and make up a good-bye at least. Let's pretend we had one.

Clementine comes downstairs, vague and robotic, making her way through the decaying environment.

CLEMENTINE : Bye, Joel.

JOEL : I love you.

She smiles. They kiss. It fades.

CLEMENTINE : Meet me in Montauk. I --

EXT. BEACH - NIGHT

Joel finds himself hurrying back to the bonfire. This scene, too, is disintegrating. It dries up and Joel is just standing there on a faded beach at night, the bonfire frozen in the distance like a photograph.

INT. CAR - NIGHT

Joel sits in the back seat, Rob and Carrie are in the front.

CARRIE : Did you have fun?

Joel nods glumly.

Carrie continues to talk, but her voice goes under as Joel studies the faded husks of memories, piled like refuse outside the moving car window. He sees dried-out version of previous interactions with Clementine playing out in loops. He looks back and sees the memory of his ride home from the beach with Rob and Carrie. It, too, is decaying. Soon all has crumbled into dust. Everything goes black."

Black, black, black.
Meet me at Montauk.

Oh heart, how terrible your death!

2006-02-21T23:09:00.000+08:00

The new bag in the colours of your skirt,
I'll carry the memory of you on my back.
Dull autumn shades in the summer,
With you for the stripes and straps.

Ich bin defekt.
Für den bin ich wirklich jetzt gebrochen.

I am not perfect.
But no one is.

Here there and everywhere in my life.

2006-02-21T10:17:00.000+08:00

"But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you

And these memories lose their meaning

When I think of love as something new.

Though I know I'll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I'll often stop and think about them.

In my life I love you more."

...

I'm back now.

It's been a long hiatus!

I suppose it's been about a few weeks.

Have got some drafts of writing now.

Thank God.

I'll try to post them soon.

...

"Here, making each day of the year

Changing my life with a wave of her hand.

Nobody can deny that there's something there."

"There, running my hands through her hair

Both of us thinking how good it can be.

Someone is speaking but she doesn't know he's there."

Go let it out.

2006-02-09T10:06:00.000+08:00

Bitter bile behind my parched lips,
Taste a lot like last night's chips.
Stretch, yawn and laze away
While sporadric thoughts stray.

Dreams that occur more than twice,
Seem like the genuine rendition
Except it comes across in a slice.
Much like a dietitian's nutrition.

Now, it appears to rain.
So from where I sit and stare,
No curse and swear,
Watched the rainwater swirl down the drain.

The old sandman must be comically sick,
To mock me with such reveries so slick.
A maquis product out of his sieve
With delirious reason to make me sink.

...

Pick, pick, pick.
Pick, pick, pick.
Pick, pick, pick.
Pick the pieces.
Carry on.

Heart cramp.

2006-02-08T08:58:00.000+08:00

"In my mind.
And nailed into my heels.
All the time.
Killing what I feel.
Everything i touch,
Turns stone."

...

Perhaps now, I'll be able to start working on my writing again.
This must be some long hiatus.
Life is unfair.
Life is good.
This is not a comparison, anyway.
Hello there!
You must be the new guy!

...

Twist, turn and twirl in the sun.
Your hair, it's everywhere.
It'll be difficult to forget,
Even more so to wait.
When you nailed in your final words,
You drove your point right through me.
Out the other side,
You and I both will laugh at the irony.
Of how like last time,
It replays all over.
Like a broken VCR player.
The same tune runs through my insides.
I hope you're happy that
You are everyone from behind.

...

Now, I hope that you'll be happy.
Don't worry, in all honesty and truth,
There's no sarcasm.
Though I still cannot comprehend this situation,
It is nothing new to me, at least.

Wie bitte?

2006-02-01T20:43:00.000+08:00

Wie bitte?

Pardon me?

Don't let the curtains close for me.

Empty, really.

How should i end the story?

How does he escape?

Just kill him.

Step back to yesterday.

2006-01-29T22:20:00.000+08:00

"Standing in the middle of yesterday.

Where it all went wrong,

Where we made mistakes.

I'm sorrry for the things I forgot to say.

But it won't be long,

And it will be okay."

...

Right.

Here's the website i posted my old stories.

If you've read them already,

Then don't go,

It's still as stagnant as ever.

Here: http://www.fictionpress.com/~michaelralph

...

"I'm gonna make it up to you,

Make it up to you."

Knock, knock.

2006-01-25T20:03:00.000+08:00

Knock, knock.
`
Who's at the door?
`
Green-eyed monster.
`
Green-eyed monster who?
`
Green-eyed monster who wants to eat your heart out.
`
Oh, welcome in. It's been awhile, hasn't it? So would you like tea or coffee with that? Or whatever it was you had it with last time?
...
"This is stupid."

With abit of luck, we don't need to give a flying fuck!

2006-01-23T20:39:00.001+08:00

You're a book of unfinished poems.

Beautiful and unadultered,

In every sense of the word.

Falling leaves poetry behind.

While colour takes a walk in the park,

Take my hand and let's head for a ride.

Watch everydays stroll along by.

Your head on my shoulder;

Your hand in mine;

We'll laugh all the troubles of the world,

Away, away, away.

Suppose it's just a point of view,

Almost every nightly anyway.

"I've dropped all the pieces, I'm gonna pick it all up again."

Why does it always rain on me?

2006-01-19T20:15:00.000+08:00

Dry of any invigoration.

My creativity fuel tanks are empty,

And the muse petrol attendant is doing everything except filling it up.

"A green plastic watering can,

For a fake chinese rubber plant,

In the fake plastic earth."

There, there.

It isn't so bad, is it?

"Just cos' you feel it,

Doesn't mean it's there."

Long road down to Neverwhere.

2006-01-12T12:38:00.000+08:00

It is almost twelve when I wake,
But it is deceiving through the permeable panes.
It is almost eight from my take,
By lands shrouded in miserable rains.

From where I'm lying I can hear:
The splatter of a leaking sky,
On a cracked concrete pavement.
The gloom weather casting
A sombre glow,
On unpainted walls surrounding us.

As sporadic thoughts run wild,
Around that racetrack most
Would call that
Stuff between your ears,
I watch the Grey fade away with
The sun.

Old Jupiter ceases to mumble

His spell of plummeting cats and dogs

And allows warm rays to seep through

His tenebrous clouds,

Making daylight perhaps more,

If not, convincing;

I watch as she diminishes,

Along with her pinkish cheeks,

Proportional to the increscent strength

Of light.

...

Until she's not there anymore,

When I'll just have to wait

till tonight.

...

Oh, Serene.

Ne'er will I forget.

...

My muse;

"If I don't make it, note that I loved you all along."

Can't see me.

You showed me Mars through your telescope.

2006-01-10T20:31:00.000+08:00

"Well, you sang your songs and you made us laugh,
So we captured you in a photograph,
And when the stars came out your mother called your name,
But when the morning comes we'll get together again."

I've removed my stories from here already.
I'll be posting them on a writing web community.
I'll put up the address the next time I post should you wish to read them.

"I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Black eyed angels swimming with me.
A moon full of stars and astral cars.
All the figures I used to see.
All my lovers were there with me.
All my past and futures.
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat."
...
I'm in love with the something that I can't see.

Overdose of nothing alcoholic.

2006-01-05T19:33:00.000+08:00

"I want two tall black-straights, please."
"That'll be six eighty for two talls without the works, thank you."

And then your world becomes what you see from inside a kaleidoscope.

Colours are more vivid.
Ideas start oozing from everywhere.
Affliction just floats away.

It's peculiar, perfect and phantasmagorical;
Only, it's just five hours later your head feels detached.

Your eyes are out of their sockets.
Your skull throbs with implosions of agony.
Your ears ring at the slightest of sounds.

And in little but two hours later,
You want another.

And another.
And another.
And another.
And then you just waste away.

You go back to the bar and you ask the bald guy for the usual.
But he says to you, "Sorry, I'm gonna have to cut you off, bud."

Find your own high.

...

Put the good ones on my shoulder,
I drove the other ones away.

Hey there, elegant stranger.

2006-01-03T19:47:00.000+08:00

You and yourself.

Cornerside cafe.
Nine forty-five.

One of my best mornings.
You just watch the world go by.
Nobody cares if you're sixteen or sixty.

Keep writing and writing.
Well, if you have that much ideas, anyway.
When you spend your ever-dwindling allowance to buy your seat,
You start enjoying straight black coffee more.

...

' She drinks her warm coffee, thin and bitter tasting, like most of her life and everything else related. Nothing comes to her mind still. "What i need", Marie thinks hard, "is a cigarette." '

Cigarettes, coffee, pen and paper.

2006-01-02T21:00:00.000+08:00

Light up.
Take a puff.
Burn your insides.

Spend your last four fifty,
On an Irish Creme latte.
Add numbers to your sleepless nights.

Deep blue runs,
Within transparent veins.
Twist and twirl magic.

Bleaching trees.
From evergreen to white.
Choose: Plain or Ruled.

Waltz together to make beautiful,
Any music, science or poetry.
Just add a little persistence.

...

Shall i publish all our resolutions?

The time is twelve fifteen minus five hours. I'm unable to type anything on my post, so this might just be the longest title ever. Check comments.

2005-12-12T08:25:00.000+08:00

Dying in the sun.

2005-11-21T17:40:00.000+08:00

Smoke a cigarette.
Let the haze settle on your manuscript.

It's over.

Now, i'm even more determined than ever to get my work done.
Even if i don't succeed, i'll blaze away in my first glorious attempt.

Words fail me.
Words flood me.

Anyway, how much can you drink before your brain rots?

Like dying in the sun,
Like dying in the sun,
Like dying.

Chords, chords, and parts of everything else.

2005-09-05T18:37:00.000+08:00

While i sit and type, the fans are humming and buzzing away.

NO!

I'll make it.

You'll make it too.

But we won't make it,

Not for now, anyway.

"I'm cuddling close,

To blankets and sheets.

But you're not alone,

and you're not discreet.

Make sure I know who's taking you home."

I'm reading your note over again.

There isn't a word i can't comprehend.

Except where you signed,

I will love you and always.

Finding neverland.

2005-08-31T21:30:00.000+08:00

Back a long while ago, i was pondering how i could mean so much to someone whom i didn't care alot about. I was probably very, very naive then. To the extent that it disgusts me. Irksome.
~
But right now, i know that it is only right you hold the one you love most in your arms. That warm, eternal embrace, that would never seem to let go. The almost perfect union of two people. Locked in arms, unadultered.

Everything good and wonderful hardly lasts forever, they say. I would be lying if i said that i didn't miss you. Or if i said that i was over you. Because while you're out there with everyone else, i'm wishing you back.

One grande-sized mug of bitter bile coming up.

Life is like a banana split,

Sometimes there's chocolate,

Sometimes there's strawberry,

But what we all really want is the moschino.

Timetosavetheearth,people.

Skipthespaces.

Givethetreesasecondchance.

Made to heal.

2005-08-09T01:23:00.000+08:00

"I gave up on you,

And your exercise,

And the world that i knew.

Then,

I fell back on you,

Cause i need more time,

And i need an excuse."

I depend on you,

For the wings of life,

And the air that you move.

And,

I defended you,

For this one last time,

And the nerves you abuse."

- Made to heal,Our Lady Peace.

I'm still in the middle of yesterday,

Dusty scrawlings on the old church pews.

What happens if you close your eyes for the night and you don't open them the next morning?

Take death for example.

Help yourself to another shandy.

2005-08-02T16:37:00.000+08:00

The world is your oyster,

You can do anything you want to.

Buzz.

Hum.

Drone.

Buzz.

Hum.

Sigh.

Buzz.

Hum.

Drone.

Buzz.

Hum.

Die.

It's getting fucking dark and lucky nowadays.

The four-leaf clover on my forehead is getting very prominent.

Spiritual machines.

2005-07-24T21:29:00.000+08:00

The truth is,

No matter how much we love someone,

We would shirk away from the blood that collects around their unmoving bodies.

We live our lives as if in front of a photographer.

Scenes from our life like photo shoots.

How he shouts out orders to feel what we do.

Give me malice.

Flash.

Give me love, baby.

Flash.

Give me spite.

Flash.

You have my attention.

2005-07-14T22:03:00.000+08:00

"Quiet now, your voice seems miles away.
Yet somehow, I hear your song resound,
A little bit softer each day.
And from my tired heart, a little bit farther away.

~
You have my attention,
Like you’ve had all the while.
Since that first day when you made my heart smile,
With loving eyes and tired sighs that flow.
You have my attention,
Like a shout through an empty sanctuary.
Speak but a whisper."

I'm not blind.

Because august evenings bring solemn warnings,
To remember to kiss the ones you love goodnight.

Big yellow taxi.

2005-07-13T18:01:00.000+08:00

"Listen late last night, i heard the screen door slam.

And a big yellow taxi, took my girl away."

You don't know what you've got till it's all gone.

You lurk in the depths of my mind.

2005-07-12T19:39:00.000+08:00

I dreamt about you again,

Late last night.

Lying next to you,

I could smell your hair and how it felt.

Luxurious.

How awfully vivid it seemed,

My back against your own.

Naive,

As if it could go on forever.

"Only call me Love,

Just once more."

And so, when i woke in cold sweat,

Without you at my side,

I slighted a frown.

Perhaps i could get used to this silence,

This bleak, sinister place,

Where mirth comes solely from your nightly visits.

Your presence is sorely missed.

Sunday morning.

2005-07-10T16:30:00.000+08:00

How i spent thirty bucks in one sunday morning:

Breakfast. - $5
2 Drinks. - $5
Muse's "Origin Of Symmetry" album - $20

Whitewash.

2005-07-07T20:39:00.000+08:00

I lie to myself so you won't have to anymore.

Father of lies. / I hope you choke on every word.

2005-07-05T20:32:00.000+08:00

Have you ever told a lie that just kept growing?

From one single lousy fib; so small, scrawny and shallow.

Snowballed into something unknowingly monstrous; malicious with unforeseen repercussions.

Everyday inspirations from ourselves,

Turn the beautiful,

Ugly.

Simple words.

Words you could count with a single hand.

Metamorphed into an obscene fabrication.

Like a twisted tree with its black branches reaching out toward the endless sky,

It was once but this tiny seedling before.

Enter me.

I have lied The Father Of Lies.

Just once.

And i have much to regret.

So take me away,

I'm guilty as charged.

But wait,

Don't lock me up for long.

Don't keep me waiting forever.

I won't lie again,

Like before.

The point of a gun was the only law Liberty understood.

When it came to shooting straight and fast.

He was mighty good.

Whitewash.

2005-07-02T11:03:00.000+08:00

Hail to thee,
Blithe spirit.
Once marred and blackened by lies and malign.
Now shimmering and whole by whitewash.

Sing me to sleep.

2005-06-29T23:00:00.000+08:00

Have you ever felt like hurling yourself out of the tenth floor just to know what it feels like to be a suicide?
That spike of adrenaline coursing through your flesh.
The sudden inner retch of your stomach as you pop out of the window your mother paid forty-odd dollars for.
That anticipated column of air which cushions your descend in futile effort.
The sound of many wasted years whizzing past your ears.
Whether you would really blackout from the pressure before the concrete pavement breaks your fall.
Or perhaps you could actually feel your bones disintegrate as they connect with earth.
Picture yourself lying in a pool of your very own blood.

Your precious life ebbing away.

Then you fade away forever.

Just another precocious child misled by his other peers to the average commoner.

Strong-willed enough to take the plunge out.

But gutless enough not to face reality.

This is truly ironic.

Yet all of us would tell others of our un-gutless-ness.

Again,

This would turn out to be equally ironic and even hypocritical.

We know we wouldn't take our own lives.

Well,

Not yet anyway.

I wonder how you're doing.

Just in case you don't trust me,

Your prolly's still in one good piece.

Lullaby.

It sings sweet as ever.

Lipservice.

2005-06-20T21:06:00.000+08:00

Sweet words poison.

With each word from your lips.

2005-06-20T20:57:00.000+08:00

Darling, go to sleep.

You keep me listening for you.

I'm sleeping with my eyes wide now.

Back when dad used to love mom.

2005-06-19T21:57:00.000+08:00

"You packed in the morning,

I stared out the window,

And i struggled for something to say.

You left in the rain without closing the door.

I didn't stand in your way."

Terribly sorry,

For miming you.

Your genius is exclusive,

But addictive also.

You're the one who reminds us to forget her.

Apologies.

Stab me, i'm computer illiterate.

2005-06-16T20:33:00.000+08:00

Love is what you make it to be.

The same way home is where you make it.

You're genuine.

I'm but a charlatan.

An emulator.

So sue me.

Har-Har.

Sometimes it's hard to place your words where you want them to be.

Contrast, they say.

Now i cast a spell on you,

Complicate your life.

Signed,

The Devil at the wishing well.

When will you start painting again, Misty?

You paint beautiful.

This is what happens when you don't arrange and catalogue your thoughts.

This bizarre dash of words only complicate.

In case you're wondering,

If your name is Theresa,

You probably won't understand a bit this.

No offence,

Really.

She told Michael the best joke today.

Brilliant Theresa.

I hate it when i realize that i can't change my blogskin because i'm computer illiterate.

Someone help,

Please.

Wrapping up now.

It's you i miss,

Dearest.

You know yourself.

I'm this close to forgetting you.

Please,

Don't make me.

Spirited away.

2005-06-09T21:35:00.000+08:00

Carve my name into your heart.

Let it bleed.

Let it hurt.

Let yourself never forget me.

Love is not selfish.

Love is not jealous.

So let this pass.

When everything fades.

My name will be left.

With our memories.

Our promises.

Dry your tears with love.

But slip away quietly.

You're still on my mind.

Hush.

If time and fate allow,

I'll meet you someday.

Some far-to-come day.

Look.

Can you see it?

That kite dancing in the wind.

It's without string.

Free.

Unbound.

Do you remember it's name?

You have it etched in your heart.

Is it still bleeding?

Does it still hurt?

Thank you for the venom.

2005-05-28T19:12:00.000+08:00

Can you bottle a little inspiration for me?

Or a pinch of illusional mirth?

Some brilliance in a vial?

I'll give you my five cents worth of venom.

Hello you.

It's been two years.

Happy anniversary.

Your strangely biological romance.

2005-05-27T12:22:00.000+08:00

Your romance.
Your heartache.
Your story.
Tell me about it.
Love's like that.

Good old days.

2005-05-16T22:17:00.000+08:00

Nausea.

Ostracism.

Duress.

That's what you get when you have flu.

Terrible, terrible flu.

Your head spins around and reality blurs.

Images form.

Wishful thinking.

Guilt.

Heartache.

Pain.

No.

This has nothing to do with you.

It's different.

It's just this flu.

This terrible flu.

I can't think proper thoughts with this on.

Sneezing fits.

Cosmic coughs.

My parched throat.

My empty ears.

I can't hear anything.

Deaf.

The crows screech.

The pastor preachs.

Leave me a shell.

An empty me.

Null of feelings.

Just a cover.

An image of a former me.

This queer little post here used to be from my old blog.

I had to do some minor editing, though.

Occasional error and some non-sequiturs.

Reflects well on what's happening now to me now anyway.

Wait until i blog about my results.

Whoo-ey.

Boy, oh boy.

Now, wouldn't you like to hear about how magnificently i flunked my examinations?

Oh.

I had to completely write off the last four lines of the post. ( up there. )

Utter bullshit, really.

I'll show you later next time.

The good old days are back.

Just my imagination.

2005-05-04T18:03:00.000+08:00

Just my imagination. - The Cranberries.

There was a game we used to play,
We would hit the town on Friday night,
And stay in bed until Sunday.
We used to be so free.
We were living for the love we had,
And living not for reality.

:
Just my imagination.
Just my imagination, it was,
Just my imagination.
Just my imagination, it was...

That was a time I used to pray.
I have always kept my faith in love,
It's the greatest thing from the man above.
The game I used to play.
I've always put my cards upon the table,
Never be said that I'd be unstable.

:
There is a game I like to play,
I like to hit the town on Friday night,
And stay in bed until Sunday.
We'll always be this free.
We will be living for the love we have,
Living not for reality.

It's not my imagination.
It's not my imagination, it was,
Not my imagination.
Not my imagination, it was...
:
Not my, (my imagination)
Not my, (my imagination)
Not my,
My imagination...

This song is old, about maybe a good six years?

Still strikes a chord in me though.

Beautiful.

Like the B52.

Triple orange goodness.

Smooth, rich, full cream.

I'm bloody Bailey-ed.

A tribute to a friend (with a prominent phagus, he said.),

Zac (Loo),

Who never failed to aid us in our perpetual thirst for:

Tequila sunrises, Gin & Tonics, Malibu Lemons, Whiskies, Shots, B52s,

And the list goes on...

Wine at the Borders Bistro.

2005-04-25T17:49:00.000+08:00

You.

You didn't tell me.

About something as important as such.

That night at the Borders Bistro,

Where you sat and watched her down that velvet poison.

Your eyes bristled with shameful tears.

Morose happenings.

Unavoidable.

It's what you make of it that matters.

Agony;

Affliction;

Torture;

Woe;

Just to name a few.

Your own cinderella,

You left at twelve sharp,

To her own denial and misery.

This newfound burden of yours,

Uncomparable to any i have.

And this i promise you;

That no millstone i bear shall impart whispers of lament,

Without your own in mind.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit;

For your undying charm.

That day you turned your back on me,

I never will forget.

Brutally honest bullshit.

2005-04-20T18:50:00.000+08:00

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me."

How brutally wrong.

Like fragments of a shattered mirror, they bury themselves into me.

Hate; spite; anger; loathe; disgust and such, mixed together.

If i may so honourably quote,

"Something, so much ordinary. Something, so much mundane."

Beautifully scribed, in my honest opinion.

Perfectly jig-sawed to fit too.

Well, what do you know?

'I love you' spells with eight letters; the same way 'bullshit' does.

Tut, tut.

Cherry jelly biscuit tarts.

2005-04-19T17:15:00.000+08:00

I was munching on some really tempting biscuit tarts (the ones with the fluffy pastry and a spot of berry jelly in the centre, delicious. I had three, if i recall correctly. Mmm.) while reading the papers last night and decided to put off my homework until about say, eight tonight? You know, it always starts like that, I'll be thinking along the lines of,

"I'm dead tired.
You're not bloody tired, you tard-head. You're tired just about everyday.
I think i'll take forty winks and wake up in half an hour to finish up my math.
Don't even think about having a single wink, you moron. Start making the Zs and next thing you smell, would be the bacon for breakfast. So get up and start cracking some brain cells.
Yeah, it does sound good. Mmm. All right, then. I'll have a nap.
Balls."

And the lines in black are my own thoughts too. It's amazing, how you can contrive a singularly bright and seemingly satisfying idea when the next milli/nanosecond, you think its utter bullshit and what's more is that it's totally contradicting to the original. It's like talking to a total opposite of yourself; like a devil and an angel on your shoulder, except that most of the time the latter doesn't want to be heard (by yourself, of course), and the former, listened to, too often (again, by yourself). For me, i just try to ignore the all-so-true obvious, be oblivious, and carry on to the original square two in order to avoid the taxing task of going all the way back to fucking square one to jump to step two prime, carry out step three prime and so forth.

Everytime i flip a mental coin to decide trivial stuff; like 'should i review my past week's history work or leave it for the next weekend?' or 'should i skip my homework and put it off for tomorrow night?' or 'do i want to watch some telly or help mum with the laundry?' kind of questions, it always seems like a double-headed one - and it doesn't take rocket science to decide which side is heads. I don't know.
It's so funny how our minds work sometimes.
Maybe it's just yours.
No.

Oh, when i said i had three biscuit tarts, i really meant four; no, five, six,...
Did i tell you they were absolutely addictive?

Canon in D, heart-shaped ten-dollar bills and the devil at the wishing well.

2005-04-18T22:02:00.000+08:00

"The roof had fallen in long ago, and an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the sacristy had once stood."

Yes, "The Devil at the wishing well" sounds familiar.

I swear, i'm gonna start writing normally!

Gone are the days of old; where i used to type non-sequiturs!

Behold!

No more silly-cow spacings or dumbarse quotes!

Bury the old, make way for the new!

Why?

Why am i punctuating half my sentences with exclaimation marks?

I don't know!

Why am i typing frightfully ancient and cliched "whose line was it anyway?"-sey kind of remarks?

I don't know that either!

Hooray for all non-sequiturs!

Screw.

This is so full of contradictions.

Imagine the shameless effrontery.

2005-04-06T19:44:00.000+08:00

I guess it's good sometimes to have your emotions back; after having them away for awhile.

Before you had all that bull, you'd wish you had them back; but at the back of your head you know what you would come to make of it.

Call it the foolishness of the blind or such; it caught me square.

Leave a bitter bile for taste; add a little scorn for good measure.

Like strawberries and cream; then souring up when you have too much.

Then when it's all gone; you'd wish you could shrivel up somewhere.

You've breathed through it all before; all this coquettish effrontery.

And you'll make it through again; however battered or worn.

So hello there,

Old friend; it's been awhile, hasn't it?

Green-eyed monster, you.

Like a feeble yellow life-float with miles of ocean around.

Just for all else out there who's not aware, i'm no blinking poet.

Please, i can't rhyme or the likes, for nuts.

A summer's disregard.

2005-03-28T21:16:00.000+08:00

I was seven when the princess died. Back then; sitting at my apartment in Miami i watched; on the tiny fourteen-inch screen, them pull her out of the wreck. I watched her life story, of lows and highs; i felt their grief. Somehow, before all that, i never heard her name before. Perhaps it was the naive child that i was. Candle in the wind. They played it at her wake. They got Elton to serenade. Most of what i remember, candle in the wind, it keeps running through my mind. Candle in the wind. Perhaps it was better, she passed on.

Drap thoughts.

2005-03-21T18:12:00.000+08:00

Before you criticise someone,

Walk in his shoes for a mile.

Then,

When he gets angry,

He'll be a mile away,

And barefoot too.

Just a thought.

Mmm.

I'll like to do some haiku.

Fleeting inspiration.

2005-03-19T19:14:00.000+08:00

I slighted a glance at the plastic in my hand; still a quart left.

Pondering; should i not waste drink and spoil my dinner?

Contemplating; would this be sin to save my whet but spill what's left?

I slighted a glance at the plastic in my hand; one last draw before dinner.

Ouch.

My hand's sore.

Yellow headlights.

2005-03-14T21:27:00.000+08:00

And so it begins; a week to quench my thirst for some rest, however undeserved it seems.

Life orchestrates around friends; but what if all that crumbles?; what and who will be left, to share the burden on your sweat-streaked shoulders and pick up the shattered fragments of what remains of your miserable life?

What happens if you don't even have a life, to start with?

What if nobody gives two blinks about you?

Ugh.

"But life isn't just a melange of pretty-looking colours and plastic moments.

There's more to it than you perceive it to have; think of all the nice, little birds and bees, all the lovely,

little flowers and the happy, little smiles.

All so lovely and pretty and happy and (above all else,) little."

Yeah, right.

Quelle surprise; for all those hippies.

Anyone who thinks life is just all that; must probably be malfunctioning somewhere.

It's disturbing to see how many people out there ignore the fact that life means so much more than the monotony of school and work. They pour their eyes out over texts and equations, day in and day out, oblivious that in until not many years to come, the expiry lies just behind their cereal box of life; mordant thought, uh?

"But even ugly death is beautiful; the devil used to work for God."

- Daryl

Yellow headlights blind my sight; shimmering within my dwindled eye.

Opal blotches splash on a bitumen sea; expiry looms in proximity.

Time; oh, oh, the longing for more.

Thanks courtney.

2005-03-07T19:40:00.000+08:00

Is your wine glass half-full?

Or is it half-empty?

I don't know,

Mine's always half-empty.

Isn't everyone else's too?

Thanks courtney,

For everthing.

The grass is much greener on the other side.

It always seems like it is, doesn't it?

I've got a migraine.

Goodnight world.

Whispers of the muse.

2005-02-28T23:50:00.000+08:00

The gentle evening sky was painted a vast azure bowl of calm, with dashes and dabs of creamy pearl, like an artist's brush on canvas. Looking to the seemingly unending eternity of space, i shuffled my feet along to granma's cottage. Searching for words, i shifted my gaze to the caramel sands that intruded the sidewalk, and stray pebbles that clattered away wherever i dragged my feet. Roll, roll, roll, the ivory of my thoughts.

Crossroads.

2005-02-19T22:06:00.000+08:00

Igotastarlastnightandiloveitalot.

Ipassedbylastnightandiregretitalot.

Myriad happenings.

2005-02-16T20:08:00.000+08:00

I walk back home on the dusty grey path, the rusty leaves covering the ground crunch musically beneath my unstarched footwear. The late afternoon sun is blazing for all it's worth and my exhausted body drags itself along. Every fibre in my soul is etched with fatigue. Automobiles whiz by, there is no serenity, no end to the constant traffic either. My weekdays are carbon-copies of the ones before. I look up to the little foliage sheltering me from the baking sun. The soft brown bark of the trees melt into my eyes. Across the busy road, other towers of moss-laden bark arc into the sky in radiant green streaks. Further up, the dreamy clouds roll along the endless plain of the sky. A fleeting breeze licks my baked back, lifting me up, invitingly. I feel light and without the burden of life, drifting momentarily into the endless sky beyond. I will regret returning to reality, chains of perception keep me earth-bound to all it's stress. Today, it is clear to me, that life is but mocking to some of us.

Panadol plus beer equals death.

2005-02-12T02:15:00.000+08:00

Well, that's what David told me, at least.

It's not true, is it?

Heh, amusing anyhow.

A panadol and a glass of coke will get you a high fever too. =)

Wonder what a panadol and detergent will do.

Just back from zac's place, a lil' liquor and curry.

( It's a bad combi. )

Argh.

I'm so jaded.

12th Febuary.

Flower of the day: Dew Plant.

Represents: Serenade.

When it comes, I'll be somewhere else.

2005-02-08T22:29:00.000+08:00

Ever wished for a pair of wings?

I have.

"How many hearts,

Does it take to break.

All of the bonds,

Young lovers make,

Hoping to find the next golden egg.

One that will shine through the nest of time."

- How many hearts, Travis.

What is this feeling, love?

2005-02-07T22:28:00.001+08:00

Have you ever wondered?

What is love?

Not a mother's love to her offspring.

Neither is it love from God.

What i mean is,

Love among our peers,

Teenagers.

What comes from this sort of love?

Relationships?

Girlfriends?

Boyfriends?

What are we to expect from this sort of love?

For us to feel wanted?

For the physical presence of another being?

For us to feel narcissistic;

That someone else out there 'digs' you?

For us to spend the rest of our lives with that someone?

Are we really that naive to believe we could last that long?

Don't we have other obligations and commitments?

Is love really that selfish?

Will someone else come along to take the place of your beloved?

Have you ever wondered?

Whether love was this superficial?
If there was more to this strange emotion;

Then just the young's naive thinking?

Whether at the end of every teenage love story,

Is just anguish?

"Nothing lasts when you're a teenager."

Said an everyday someone.

Anyone care to explain my troubles, as above.

And find a panacea for my heartache?

Let time bury me in the sands of past and gone.

2005-01-31T20:14:00.000+08:00

I got a new colour for my braces today. It was a crazy at the dental's cashier. There was this dotty, balding man cursing aloud at the dental's customer system, I didn't quite catch what he was complaining about but he used one or two profanities. Soon after, he contradicted himself, I don't need to explain. ( You know what barmy old men are like. ) Nevertheless, he left with an air of contempt. Tsk, pompous, eh?

Anyhow, I had to oblige many people with my brace colour. I was at a dilemma when the dentist asked for my opinion. So many people, so many colours. Argh.

I'm trying to look for a " Box car racer. " cd. Crackers. The songs are brilliant, I love the lyrics. Hmm. I'm bleeding tired, gonna catch an early night.

Flower of the day - Periwinkle.

Represents - Tender recollections.

Tsk.

Bittersweet Memories.

Let time bury me;

In the sands of past and gone.

Quote of the day:

" This world inside of me isn't all there is. I'm sorry. I don't want eternity. I don't care if it's finite. I'll live in a world that has it's limits. I'll live in the present... Then i'll give up this place to live in the present. "

- Kusanagi Kei, Onegai Teacher. ( In response to my previous quote. )

By the way, I choose orange. It's seasonal, and it means alittle something to someone, I promised awhile ago.

But you sweared you loved me more.

2005-01-30T20:22:00.000+08:00

" There is. "

This vacation's useless.

These white pills aren't kind.

I've given a lot of thought on this 13-hour drive.

I miss the grinding concrete where we sat past 8 or 9.

And slowly finished laughing in the glow of our headlights.

I've given a lot of thought to the nights we use to have.

The days have come and gone.

Our lives went by so fast.

I faintly remember breathing on your bedroom floor.

Where i laid and told you,

But you sweared you loved me more.

Do you care if i don't know what to say?

Will you sleep tonight or will you think of me?

Will i shake this off,

Pretend its all okay.

That there's someone out there who feels just like me.

There is.

Those notes you wrote me.

I've kept them all.

I've given a lot of thought of how to write you back this fall.

With every single letter in every single word.

There will be a hidden message about a boy that loves a girl.

Do you care if i don't know what to say?

Will you sleep tonight or will you think of me?

Will i shake this off,

Pretend its all okay.

That there's someone out there who feels just like me.

There is.

Do you care if i don't know what to say?

Will you sleep tonight or will you think of me?

Will i shake this off,

Pretend its all okay.

That there's someone out there who feels just like me.

Do you care if i don't know what to say?

Will you sleep tonight or will you think of me?

Will i shake this off,

Pretend its all okay.

That there's someone out there who feels just like me.

There is.

- Box Car Racer.

An angel struck.

2005-01-28T20:27:00.000+08:00

Most of you guys probably wouldn't understand my previous posts. I don't blame you, i don't either, sometimes. I started blogging like this about a couple of months earlier. The reason being, i was too hurt ( By what? I'll leave that for your imagination. ) to focus my thoughts on writing a proper entry. ( For reference, Www.ThePurpleParachute.blogspot.com, My old blog site. )

Thanks to a rewiring of my scrambled brain circuits, courtesy of a select group of friends who informed me of my fallacy, as well as my cousin, Daniel, I'm back on my formal tracks. After reading his very much enlightening blog posts, i've decided that there was more to blogging than uninspiring and incompetent entries. I don't promise to stop the random gibberish and nonsense, I'll just try jotting down most of my entries more relevant to the events around me. ( What can i say? I'm a sentimentalist. )

For now, I'm too drained to relate the day's events to you. I'll pull the covers over and grab a novel to feed my mind, perhaps with a warm mug of cocoa too. Come to think of it, I'll be too darned lazy to go through the trouble of preparing my cocoa, i'll leave that for some other time.

Goodbye for now, world.

Quote of the day :

" In the real world, there are some things that just don't have a correct answer. Things that you can't do anything about. There is no way that everyone can be happy, because happiness corrupts people. They get used to the happiness that they've found, and seek even more happiness. That's why I think people have the emotion called 'sadness'. Because they cannot understand happiness without sadness, even though they contradict each other.

I don't want a world that's full of contradictions like that. I'll come to a stop while I feel joy. I'm going to transcend reality, and go to a place I can be at peace. Not wanting anything, not feeling sadness... To stop existing. To halt existance itself. You will come to a standstill. "

- Kusanagi Kei's sister, Onegai Teacher.

( Ripped this from Daniel's Blog, thanks a bunch. )

P.S. - This Daniel is my cousin, not my schoolmate.

Symptoms of a barmy day.

2005-01-28T17:47:00.000+08:00

You know your day's screwed when :

You lose your voice.

Your head hurts.

It keeps raining.

You have trouble breaking into your own house.

You can't think of words to pen.

You can't spell;

Then you have to keep checking the dictionary.

( It sucks, really. )

Your thoughts are all dotty and random.

You see everything it shades of black and white.

Your throat feels as if you've eaten some glass.

You sound like a monkey.

You can't eat crackers, etc.

You can't have cold drinks.

Your head hurts somemore.

Hmm.

Drats.