A Container's Liquid.

"Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning." - Author Unknown.

I came along and decided to try...


Love is a liquid.
And you find it a container.
You’ll probably like it.
And you’ll probably not.
Maybe you’ll find another.
And maybe you won’t.
Perhaps you’ll wait a little.
Perhaps you’ll wait not at all.

Love is many things, nothing and some other things.
Yet most of all, it’s a search for a container.
Not the perfect one.
Not the best one.
But one that you like enough.
One that you trust enough.
How much is enough?
I don’t know.
Perchance one day you’ll tell me.
Or one day I’ll tell you.
Either way, it’s a container we seek to find.
And find we may never.
But seek we shall, at some point, in some time.

What’s in a container, you ask?
A liquid, I reply.

Tatters and Rags # 3.

I am very happy to announce that I have found the template of my dreams. *Strokes screen*. Ah, it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Isn’t it so lovely?

God bless the little genius that made it. May God give you wings too, so you can fly, ‘cause you’re awesome like that.

Hmm, so I really have nothing to talk about. Well, not nothing, but ideas are just fleeting, and it takes too much effort to piece them together.

*10 minutes later*.

Oh yes. I have found a rant: ‘Altruism’.

I want to find the guy that invented that word, and give him a sticker. Or beat him with a cane.

I can’t decide which at the moment, because he could either be the most sarcastic guy on the planet for always having the last laugh at such mockery of the human race, or he could be a serious dolt, with wannabe Gandhi genes. I really can’t decide which.

For the sake of flying unicorns in the planet next to ours, altruists do not exist. They simply can’t. It defies all that is distinctly characteristic of human nature. No one is selfless. No one. Unless you’re dead, in which case – you’re literally selfless.

Otherwise, there is no such a thing as a selfless human; it’s an oxymoron of the highest grade.

Humans are all selfish.

Alongside ‘human’, you’d expect the word ‘self-centeredness’ to appear – and it comes as no shock, to me at least.

Yes, we donate to the poor. But that’s driven by a need to obtain self-satisfaction, self- righteousness. It’s these accumulated drops of egoism that dilute the moronic concept of ‘altruism’. But they’re just drops you say – relative, it’s all altruism. It’s not. These drops define the nature of the act. That it is just as much for you – better yet, more for you, than it is for the poor man you donate to.

So you see, there is always a motive: it’s called self-benefit. Even if the self-benefit is something as ‘pure’ as ‘feeling good’. It’s still for you.

So I say we make a petition, and cross the word ‘altruism’ off from the dictionary, and cane the baboon that put it there. No sticker for him at all. Heh.

In and out of the blue, that’s all I’ll ever be to you.

So I've been on hiatus for like...a while.

But hey, it's my blog, so I can do whatever I want. Hmph.

Yeah, that's right. *sticks tongue out*. It's my stuff.

Anyway, so with the passing of that childish moment, I shall continue.


Its musical beats traveled ever so harmoniously together. A synchronized dance, really - never once did the beat falter, never once did the tune drop.

An invisible composer, one would think.

But the notion is then denied, as the perfection of its song registers.

It surrounds its victim; like a siren, ensnares, and latches on

But the melody is ever so soft, the tune ever so mystic.

It sings of wants not given into, records not yet played, and deeds not to be made.

It whispers of hope.

A crescendo.

It drums with the beat of a tomorrow - your tomorrow; my tomorrow; their tomorrow.

A tomorrow so artfully designed, in the separate clandestine layer of yearning of the billions.

A layer so thoroughly fortified. Yet its loudness, ever overwhelming, mocks those feeble safeguards.

Its loudness breaks the chains, crushes the locks, and rumples the ‘Do No Enter’ signs.

The music engulfing, takes over.

It laughs at how easy it is, to overpower; at how easy it is to unravel the holding back.

A decrescendo.

A lulling caress.

An invisible enticement calling out every so softly, and yet so lucidly.

Still, it holds on ‘till there’s nothing but the refrain; that jeering chorus, a constant reminder of the capitulation: ‘In and

out of the blue, that’s all I’ll ever be to you.’

But you knew that. Yet you gave in anyway, because you learned a long time ago, that there’s no escape. For it always takes over - always wins.

Tatters and Rags #2

Justin Beiber.

Justin who?

Justin Beiber?


Justin Beiber!



You mean the baby-faced mama’s blonde boy that came out of his own ass and wasn’t breastfed long enough?

JUSTIN BEIBER: What the shit is this?

JUSTIN BEIBER: A fatal Global issue.

JUSTIN BEIBER: The near end of the world.


Justin Beiber, I dismiss you.

Tatters and Rags #1

So, as you can see, yes, I did change my template again.

I can’t help it; I go all gaga when I see a new template.

And look, it’s all pretty, that you just want to caress it, in a very platonic way.

But I also like the previous on too :(

And therein lays my dilemma.

Which, my fellow readers, do you like best-est?

Apart from that…what was I going to say?

Oh yes. I’ve decided to make a category of posts called ‘Tatters and Rags’, where I would put together the splints and wisps of my thoughts to constitute an awesome filled ramble for you to read.

And so begins Tatters and Rags #1:

I am listening to sick guitar solos, and dying peacefully.

I swear, they are SO incredibly awesome, that you could just sink into them and wait for the apocalypse, with a 'no boredom guaranteed' warranty.

Sexiest shit ever, guitars. *Dreamy look*.

They own, in every possible way there is to own, and then some.

They own, like it’s nobody’s business.

They just own, okay?

So I’m currently happily Facebooking, and holyshit: they’re really all kinds of creatures in the vast space outside, called earth.

I mean nothing says variety like Facebook. Really.

You see them all.

The ones whom you might as well live with, because they insist on telling you what they are doing all the time.

The ones that keep forcing you to be exploited to disgusting lamenting romance songs sung by hillbilly High school dropout bimbos.

The retards with the ‘gangsta’ statuses: ‘Ama go bang bang, aiight?’.

Pft, you should go die die, aiigh?

And the corny couples that keep writing disgusting stuff, all overfilled with hearts and gay endearing words, that could make honey melt.

Sheesh, just ‘cause you signed up for stickiness a-la- carte, doesn’t mean we have to endure it too, yeah?

And they’re all such small people, they should do themselves a favor and just die, you know?

It’s for the better of the planet, and things beyond the planet, even. Heh.

But no, they continue living anyway. Because even if you did tell them that they suck more than Lady Gaga’s hair, hell entire 'iconic' figure soaked in neon pink paint, and then decorated with yellow glitter, they would still exist, if for nothing else than to plague you.

Lady Gaga should die too, did I mention that?

She’s like a cross section between a small time Chinese noodle -seller and a Korean French-wannabe. ‘Ga ga oh la la.’

I tell you, the world is not okay.

The world will never be okay.

A Temporary Keeping.

There is not much you get to keep in life. There is not much that you can really call yours.

But it’s those few things that you do, in fact get to keep, that maintain your hold on them ever so strong, your grip ever so tight, and your will to never let go, ever so focused.

Yet as time passes, you start to ponder, if even those keep-able things can ever really be yours: if they’re worth keeping after all. Because as the clock hands make their daily rounds in such casual airs, you come to realize that maybe you keep nothing.

Maybe all you do is borrow, and it becomes a temporary ‘keep’.

Yes, that must be it.
It would explain why things go, why others stay.

Maybe life is a sign out sheet.
I sign you out.
I sign it out.

Then at the due date, we all return to our places in the shelf, until something else comes along; until someone else comes along:

And it becomes the start of a new temporary keeping...

Circles, Loops and Cycles.

- Can I ask you something?
- Ask away.
- Why?
- I don’t know.
- How?
- I have no clue.
- When?
- Never.
- Where?
- No where.
- I don’t like this.
- What?
- Nothing.
- Evasive are we?
- Maybe.
- Such shrewish behavior.
- I do beg you pardon?
- You asked.
- You failed to reply.
- Oh, but I did reply.
- No you didn’t.
- I’m sure that mono-syllabic jumble is hardly considered a reply.
- I see, replies have standards.
- Of course they do.
- A reply is an answer to a question, last I checked.
- Yes, but a proper reply to a question.
- Proper by whose terms?
- The person asking the question.
- That makes utterly no sense.
- Oh, and in your backwards world, it is the person answering who deems a reply proper?
- Obviously. You ask, so I answer with whatever way I deem proper.
- Rubbish.
- You sound a tab bit British for my taste.
- You have trashy written all over you from where I’m standing.
- Touche. Still, you’re digressing.
- I was doing no such thing.
- I refuse to be belittled to saying ‘was to’.
- In the same manner I refuse to say ‘was not’.
- The end?
- No.
- That’s quite the monosyllabic answer you’ve got there.
- Yes, but you asked.
- And you answered.
- Does it leave you satisfied?
- Ah, that’s an entirely different matter.
- From whose stance?
- I believe the person answering the question.
- So then, you agree there is a proper answer.
- No.
- Then?
- There is a satisfactory answer.
- Yes, the proper answer.
- No, the more appealing answer to your individual is the satisfactory answer.
- And that would make it the proper answer.
- On the contrary, that would simply make it the most satisfactory.
- A proper answer is hardly a satisfactory answer.
- A proper answer is categorized by it’s degree of providing satisfaction.
- Am I dead?
- …No.
- Is that the proper answer.
- Yes.
- Is that the most satisfying answer, to you?
- No.
- You’d rather I was dead?
- From where I’m standing, oh very much so.
- Why you ungrateful piece of ish.
- I’d choose my words more carefully, say since I’m not making any attempts on your life.
- As if you could.
- My tongue is scissor sharp.
- Sadly, that is not a weapon.
- By whose principles?
- Mine.
- And since when are those of any importance?
- You see, there is your fatal flaw.
- In your eyes.
- Of course. I vouch for only this pair of eyes.
- Such perceptive eyes they are.
- How you flatter me.
- Just tell me what my fatal flaw is.
- You’re eyeless.
- You’re looking at my eyes right now.
- Don’t be obtuse.
- Do I add a tally to the “How Many Times I’ve Been Insulted” count?
- You have one?
- I deem that question not worth an answer.
- I rather thought you did myself, but fine, we shall leave you bathing in denial as of yet.
- You’re digressing.
- Eyeless.
- Elaborate.
- Your feeling won’t get hurt?
- I’m looking for something very sharp.
- What about that tongue of yours?
- I need something slightly sharper for what I have in mind.
- I shiver.
- I don’t like this banter.
- Ah, but I think you do.
- What happened to not vouching for anyone but yourself.
- I said I vouch for what I see. And I see that you are enjoying this.
- Now, you are proving to be quite eyeless.
- See, it did hurt your feelings.
- I don’t give you that kind of hold on my feelings.
- I see.
- You do?
- Yes, quite.
- So why is it then that I’m eyeless?
- Because you think a proper answer is a satisfactory one.
- That hardly supports your empty claim.
- A proper answer is seldom a satisfactory one. At a time where they are one and the same – it’s a rare joyous time. Sometimes the proper answers that we seek we’ve heard a hundred and one times over. Yet it is our reluctance to accept them, that keeps us repeatedly asking, and always wondering in circles, loops and cycles.
- Imparting wisdom are we?
- You asked away.
- I did.
- Why?
- I don’t know.
- How?
- I have no clue.
- When?
- Never.
- Where?
- No where.