Carpe Diem.

Tatters and Rags 4

2011-05-28T09:53:00.000-07:00

I don’t have excuses. Frankly I just stayed away. ‘Cause I was pretending to be too busy.
People do that sometimes, you know.

Anyway.
Shitty shitty luck is the topic of the evening.

Even though Word insists I 'delete repeated word' (yes: I type my blog posts on Word first, then copy and paste them onto the new post thingy –you can’t judge), I think the reptition does not stem from redundancy - but from necessity.

Because I’ve got shitty luck galore. Yes, that much. You’d think the universe would be more caring and share my shitty shitty luck with more people so that there’s balance.

I laugh as I even type that out. It’s quite blasphemous, the idea that the universe cares.

But then one day, I bump right into someone with shittier lucky than mine, and I can’t very well complain. Reason doesn’t let me.
Reason understands chance. It does. It purrs at the numbers, and the rarity of combinations. Faith though, dispels notions of luck – they don’t add up in faith ... counting units? No, they all scream 'destiny'.

Personally, I’d like to think luck is every human’s friction with earth. Luck is the reaction to everyone’s choice making and being.

So I’ve made a lot of crappy choice – I tsk myself, really.

Or maybe, the Earth doesn't rub right with my being? :O. Now that is total ruin.

A Container's Liquid.

2010-09-04T08:50:00.000-07:00

"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.

2010-06-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-02T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-03T09:12:00.000-08:00

Justin Beiber.

Justin who?

Justin Beiber?

Huh?

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.

AAAAAHHH!

Justin Beiber, I dismiss you.

Tatters and Rags #1

2010-02-26T04:50:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-12T06:06:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

- 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.

The Turning of A Decade.

2009-12-31T12:10:00.000-08:00

Being the last day of 2009, and whatnot, I thought I should write something. Just so that it would show up on my archives.

And you know...
Just to sort of make it look like I am an ever fervent blogger. *Rolls eyes*. As if.

And I really really want to say something meaningful.
But meaningful seems so hard right now.

Nevertheless, I shall try.

So 365 days passed, just like that.
Just like last year this time, another set of 365 days passed.
And it seems every year we re-sit this scenario, and we feel burdened by the weight of all those days.

To be honest?
I don’t feel in the least burdened.
I just want to sleep.
Pounding headache.
Too bad sleep is ever elusive these days.

Anyway, as I sit here, typing ever so meticulously, I can’t help but noticed the soreness of my fingers from replying to the overflow of “Happy New Year” messages, and wait for it: the phone calls =/

Ahh, now that that’s all dispensed with… I feel my inner calm resurfacing.

So where was I?
Yes, 365 days...
Can you imagine?
Three hundred and sixty five days.
300 + 60 + 5

That’s like … a lot of days.

Yet, we’ve managed to plow through them, in hopes of plowing through a new set of 365 days.
So, honestly? I think 2009, and I come up blank.
And then I think 2009 again, and small things come into focus.
Those small things that make it ever so defined in its commonness.
It’s funny how I find myself at a different predicament than the one I predicted I would be in. Not better, not worse, just different.
And I guess that’s what makes reality much different from our most analytic predictions.

Here’s to new predictions.
Here’s to new joy.
Here’s to new despair.
Here’s to new events.
Here’s to new ice cream flavors.
Here’s to new awesome people that we'll meet.
Here’s to new inspiration.

Here’s to a new year....2010.

P.S I’m so going to have such a hard time writing the date. I can see it clearly: ‘Girl attacks paper: 2010, not so easy to write.’

The Collector.

2009-12-14T14:06:00.000-08:00

"A sour Skittle for your thoughts?" he asked.

"I don't like sour Skittles", she replied.

"They're quite amazing you know," he countered.

"I find them vile, and evil".

He arched his right brow, demanding an explanation.

"They're sour, yet sweet, thought bittersweet would be the wrong word to use, and the minute they enter your mouth, you escape your own shell for minute, and focus all your energy on getting over that sour paralysis they seem to ignite," she explained.

"Wow, sour Skittles analysis?" he murmured.

"And you want in on my thoughts".

"Please, by all means share those. I will not judge", he bargained.

"It wouldn't matter if you did, and I think you know that, just as well", she uttered with a smirk.

"Sadly, that is true. Still, on a more serious note...those thoughts?"

"The many words unsaid", she stated at last.

"What about them?"

"There's the said.
Selectively constructed verbalizations.
And then, there's the unsaid.
A disparaging mess."

She paused.
And he sucked on another Skittle.
She looked at him - so very unaffected by the its tangy taste.

"Do go on... a disparaging mess?"

"Within every person, resides the said and the unsaid.
The said at times brings much relief, for it frees and rescues the soul, in a timely, yet miniscule manner.
The unsaid, is a constantly-procreating particle of lead. And one day, it becomes a sheet of lead, and then a block of lead ...

Now, hypothetically speaking, if there was an 'unsaid words' collector - he would be the most engaged man* around.
Every minute, he would transport buckets of unsaid words to his small corner, and start fitting the interconnecting parts; start penetrating the thick layers of enigma obstructing the bigger picture.

He would see what she can't see.
He would see what you can't see.
He would see what they can't see.

He would finally understand - make sense of the jumbles, and the odds and ends.

And within his reach, would lay the key to everything. To everyone's souls.
Now, that's ultimate power."

He looked at her in masked awe.

She silently implored him to reply.

He ignored that urge.

There was too much unsaid.
There was too much to unchain.

Better keep the way it is, held by bare threads - yet held all the same.

She laughed sardonically. "Look at us, having a heart-to-heart about the 'unsaid words' collected, when he's no more real than Tinker Bell herself. It's okay, I wasn't really expecting much of a reply anyway. It seems the fruitless 'said', is all we have. I'd explain more, but you wouldn't begin to grasp the gist of it."

With that, she selected a green Skittle from his packet, popped it in her mouth, and let its sour-numbing effect take over - and in that little while she didn't think, for she didn't have to.

He started to say something, and then stopped. He stared at her walking way, becoming more and more distant.

'I understand' he wanted to say.

Many a day when he would dream of being that very same man.
Yet the much unsaid outweighed his understanding, and so he said nothing.
Nothing at all.

*Note: 'man' here is derived from mankind, and not the other constituents of the population.

Line Of Best Fit.

2009-11-22T05:56:00.000-08:00

I don’t need to constantly speak of my greatness. My essence whispers it loud and clear.

I don’t constantly need to huddle in large crowds. My presence is all I need.

I don't feel the need to make myself apparent. I'm a kaleidoscope of a being, all on my own.

I simply stand out.

And you don’t.

While that may kill you -

It makes me smile in return.

And when you see that smile.

A part of you dies.

But I’m still smiling.

Because you’re no one.

While, me: I’m my own light, my own darkness and everything in between.

I Hear No Footsteps Approaching.

2009-10-17T06:21:00.000-07:00

Dearest Fortress,

It’s sad how no one approaches your solid walls - walls whose solid stand is proof of their long existence. No one ever dares to give you even the slightest gentle push. They see you from afar, and plot to shatter you. And when they smell the enigma you radiate, they hover and try to break you, to see what’s inside. Then, when all fails, they turn and look for something more feasible.

What happened to the thrill of being on unfamiliar ground?
Whatever happened to challenging that inner security shell, some work a lifetime to build?

All those people out there, yet I hear no footsteps.

I find it sadder that out of all those people, most of them are a waste of space. People have become so common that you can substitute one for the other.

Why?
What happened to that sense of individualism?
What happened to being your own self?
What happened to having your own walls?

People pale every hour, fortress: they become hollow blocks of solidity. They integrate themselves into the masses, removing all their walls, but forget that they are an individual unit within these masses.
But you fortress, stand alone, away from the crowd.

It leaves me engulfed in sadness - all these masses.
It leaves me craving something original.
It leaves me longing to savor something new and refreshing.
Something to take away this ever tedious aftertaste.

Yet again, I feel it’s just me that’s craving. The rest seem happy enough with the replicated commonness out there.
I understand it’s much easier to handle ‘normal’.
It’s much easier to understand ‘normal’.
Because ‘normal’ is ‘normal’, and will always be.
But ‘normal’ is predictably dull.
It’s seamlessly replaceable.
There is little to lose, and nothing to gain with ‘normal’.

But you’re not normal, fortress.

And I am forever your captive. For I built you, strong and standing still, and then locked myself deep within.
Sometimes I wonder if I was right to make you look so intimidating, that you drive everything away. But when despair hits, and you absorb it all, I know I need you just as you are
Sometimes I wonder if I was right to lock myself in, and not just wait by the door, for someone to knock. But when I see rocks flying at your windows, I know that I need to stay deep inside.
Sometimes I wonder what it would sound like if someone ever knocked on the door?
Or maybe climbed the windows, and crawled inside?

I hear no footsteps approaching, fortress.
None have approached in a long time.

And that leaves me sad.
Why does no one approach, fortress?
___________________________________________________________________

If you think you can answer any of the questions above, please do!

To you, Self.

2009-10-02T06:49:00.000-07:00

A while I know. Swamped, I swear :(

For the muse in an onesie: Yes, inspiration did hit at that moment :P and,

Chubby cheeks <3:> Msn remains better!

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dearest self,

Here I am, again.

Just me.

The present you.

In this very defining moment.

I write to all of you self.

From this defining moment.

To that past ‘you’, to the present ‘you’, and to the enigmatic future ‘you’.

I write to you all.

United in this moment, yet set apart in the infinite wave of time.

To all of you I write this-

It is my most profound wish for me to meet you Self. Not this present ‘you’ that I know, but all of you. You self, are segmented across time, and never whole for me to see. Could you try Self, time set aside, to give me just a glimpse of your entirety: a complete converged image, with all details in the correct place?

Is it too much to ask, to see you all- past, present and future? It seems so.

And that leaves me here to contemplate and question the reality of things, and the outcomes such realities trigger.

It is at this point in my contemplations that I feel the need to apologize to you Self.

I’m sorry that at times you were shunned and overruled. Those were the times where I let superficial want take over, while your voice forever muted.

I’m sorry for all the unnecessary internal wounds, you now bear as scars.

I’m sorry for my disorientated states, where I left you an unfamiliar observer of my whirling.

I’m sorry, the list is so long, that I cannot seem to recall all the things I should be sorry for.

Sad, isn’t self, being reduced to this?

No? You don’t think so. Well, I do.

But I promise you, I have learned much from those failings.

I learned to love you more than all.

I learned that you are all.

And I’m just sorry it took me this long to come to realize such.

Self, there comes a point in time, where insanity borders, and with its doubts baffles the mind. And at those times, it’s rather easy to erase limits, drop any borders and let loose.

What’s the worst that could happen, Self?

My soul would suffocate and die?

No, it would eventually learn to feed off the chaos, and the world would continue spinning its same cycle.

And then there are points in time, where reality hits at full force, and all comes to a nerve-wracking halt. The facts are all spewed like the whips of a leather lash. And denial becomes an ever taunting sin.

It’s then that your importance grows self.

It’s then where you come to find me, and push me forward, out of the void and into the lucid clearing.

Thank you Self, for always being there.

Every time, anytime and all the time.

Because as I look around, I see no one here but you, Self.

The rest are all residents of discontinuous scenery.

All but you, Self.

You have my endless love and gratitude, Self.

I am forever yours.

A Small Price To Pay.

2009-09-09T15:23:00.000-07:00

For the first time, in a long time to come, the path in front of her came into focus.
The past became a vague blemish of gray.
And the air was forever tranquil.

She tried to dress in black, but found herself attracted to those brighter shades - to those yellows and reds.

A vibrant outside.

Her mind deduced she was better off.
Her eyes magnified indifference.
Her body felt forever light.
Her conscience numbed, retreating inwards.

Her inner self breathed its last words: “Rest in peace”, and then spoke no more.

A still inside.

They clashed - stillness and vibrancy.

She smiled and frowned throughout it all. It was all the same.

They clashed again – vibrancy and stillness.

She chuckled and wept throughout it all. It was all the same.

A small price to pay, she thought.

****

“What’s wrong?” a familiar voice asked.
“My heart died,” she replied.
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.” the voice said.
“I’m not. ‘tis not loss, but a great gain,” she claimed.
“I see. Might I inquire as to how it died?” the voice implored.
She shrugged, “the autopsy report declared its cause of death to be ‘over freezing’.”

****

Yes, her heart died.
And in its place lay a black veil in silence, recollecting memories of a colorful inside.

Yet, her outside is forever vibrant.
Her body forever light.
And the air forever tranquil.

A small price to pay indeed.

The Boxer Effect.

2009-09-02T13:45:00.000-07:00

Why hello fellow earthlings that are way too cool to be on earth.

About time for that new planet to appear and whisk us all away with its magical forces, eh?

Anyway.

So I was sitting in my overrated, life-sucking, death-advancing, sanity-stripping, soul-deteriorating, time and space –consuming eleven o’clock class.

The walls are white, the tables are white. The ceiling is white. The tiles are white. The professor’s hair is white. Surprisingly though, the chairs are black. Talk about spur of the moment. Heh.

My location? Second row to the right.

Why?

'Cause I always sit in the middle row, 'cause I'm cool like that.

Nah. Its ‘cause in the third row, I wouldn’t think twice about falling asleep - to hell with decorum.

And first row. Well, first row is divided into two parts.

First row left is saved for that special class of people who nod when the professor is talking and smile when he cracks a joke that is lame’s long lost ancestor and think no one can see them. Little do they know.

First row right is saved for the imbeciles enough to show up very late.

Such detail, you say.
I like detail, so sue me. Hmph!

The row in front of me fills out to be an all testosterone infested row.

So I sit, well more like wiggle around in my chair, to try and find that comfort zone. It doesn’t work, and I end up squirming like I have to pee the whole way through class. It’s not my fault the chairs are so hard!

I think they should adopt beanie bags, and screw ass-flattening chairs!

The lecture starts, and I can hear bits and pieces….

Then fifteen minutes into it, my brain and ears just give way… and my eyes starts absorbing petty detail like how many lights there are in the classroom (12) and how many dots on each tile of the ceiling (45).

I then look in front of me, and I’m blinded by an entire row of boxers surfacing to inhale fresh air. All colors, and sizes. I'm assuming boxers have one standard look/shape. If not, well...I don’t know ;( . Anyway... so a whole row of boxers! Imagine that.

If I was any different, I’d blush and look away. Sadly, I’m not.

Instead, I realized that pubescent boys or ‘men’ (I believe that’s what they go by these days, correct me if I’m wrong), find, with great zeal, the concept of a shred of their boxers flowing out a very capital sex on stick idea.

Apparently their asses need to breathe? Meh.

And then, I get this idea, and it makes me all jumpy.

I’ll share I’ll share- I swear.

Here goes:

Imagine they have jokes (yes, little Timmy ones included), or little puzzles at the back of each pair of boxers?

I for one, would find myself forever entertained!

I mean, the boxer sticks out anyway...so it's just efficient use of material!

As a result, when you look at someone's boxers you are no longer disgusted, but want to fixate them till you can coherently read the puzzle/joke.

And if they’ve got the right goods, in the correct proportions, you can check out their ass sans getting caught in flagrante delicto, and maybe ask them for the answer?

And thus concludes the Boxer Effect :)

In Passing, One Day.

2009-08-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

She saw the earth in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The earth pondered, and then replied: "To remain still in one segment of time, and never progress. To be left behind - a traveler in my own land."

She saw the sun in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The sun immediately answered: "A state of numbness, that no ray of warmth can ever penetrate through its shell of stillness. A state where heat is a solace beyond my reach."

She saw the moon in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The moon heavily sighed and then said: "An ever encompassing darkness, where in exists no hope. It would wrap around you stealthily, till you are both one."

She saw the rain in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The rain shivered, and with a far away look responded: "A dusty dryness so palpable, limiting all tactile sensory."

She saw herself in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
Herself fixated her, and asked her to follow.

They stepped in front of a glass pane, and herself pointed at the face staring back.

The empty dark brown eyes.
The straight mouth.
The taut skin.

Her face. Her.

She lifted her hand, and an identical hand lifted across the glass pane.

Herself looked at her and whispered: "And now you know my greatest fear". And with that, Herself faded into the crowds.

She turned to the glass pane and stared momentarily, swallowed by two, familiar yet so alien dark brown pits.

A Native Tongue.

2009-08-20T06:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, its been a while.

But I really have been busy.

Enjoy.

Carpe Diem

;)

____________________.

"One loves with their heart," he proclaimed."Give me your heart and I'll give you mine."

A layer of silence settled down and thickened. Nothing was said. Yet, she spoke in a native tongue - that of silence.

One loves with their heart?

The vital organ of life - that heart?

Give me your heart and I'll give you mine...

That heart serves only one purpose - that of keeping your temporary body alive. A body that acts as a medium in which we 'live'.

That heart is not really mine.

How can I give you something I do not own?

The only thing anyone really owns is their soul.

Still, what if you love someone with your heart, then when you no longer ‘live’, does that mean you no longer love them?

What if you give someone your heart, and they 'break' it, do you die?

What if you want your heart back, but I want to keep it forever? What then? Do you die as well?

What if my heart has a mind of its own, and doesn't want to come back to me? Do I die?

But if its not this literal, then what heart do you figuratively refer to?

What, then, do you really give someone you love?

Emotions?

Promises?

Hope?

Yet, emotions, grow, change, shrink, fade and disappear.

Promises eventually become empty words.

And hope is scarce and indefinite- a glimpse of what could be.

So when we speak of the heart do we refer to the design that we've subconsciously sketched and associate with compassion? Are we talking about that 'heart'?

Where is this 'heart'?

Is it palpable?

Is it active?

Is it warm?

Do I have one?

Oh 'heart' of mine, do you hear me?

Everyone has a heart. But does everyone have a 'heart'?

In the same way, not everyone has compassion.

Am I compassionate?

Do I deserve compassion?

Then again, if you loved someone with your soul - does it last forever?

It can't be eternal? Can it?

Surely the need to strive forward will cancel its perpetual state.

Does a soul have a 'heart'?

Is that where you are, oh 'heart'?

How do you love with your soul?

Do you give your soul?

But my soul is me.

I can't give you me.

I can only give myself me.

But she spoke in a native tongue- that of silence.

Heed the silence and its message, he did not.

Hear its whisper, he could not.

Thus, he waited.

And she finally replied: "I'm afraid I can't take your heart: I don't have space enough for two. I can't give you my own for I've yet to find what that really is."

Maybe Is No Certainly.

2009-08-14T04:51:00.001-07:00

Maybe you can bring me back, you say.

Maybe you can save my lost soul.

Maybe you can bring out that shy me.

Maybe you can please my inner child.

Maybe you can help my battered self.

Maybe you can restore my beliefs.

Maybe you can attempt to revive those parts I put six feet under.

Maybe you can make everything all well again.

Maybe you can aid me in getting through this, you assure me.

Maybe you can help me and I'll make it.

Maybe you can try your hardest.

Maybe you can let me dream again, you plead.

Maybe you can bring back my innocence.

Maybe you can dim the past.

Maybe you can open my eyes.

Maybe you can bring me back, you say yet again.

But then again, maybe you can't, I say at last.

Because 'Maybe' is no certainly.

'Maybe' is that hidden hope.

'Maybe' is for the children of tomorrow.

I believe in now.

'Cause that's all I have.

'Maybe' is no certainly.

And so 'Maybe' isn't for me.

So in Sync.

2009-08-13T07:54:00.000-07:00

Hello there. *waves*

Before you judge the title I tell you this: No I'm not recruiting for a new boy band. I swear!

Moving on.

So, the other day I was out with a group of friends. And one of my friend's brother says something dirty. And mind you, it was subtle - he really wasn't holding a sign that says: "Perverted stuff, coming up".

The minute it came out of his mouth, an entire circuit of fluorescent tube lights just went on in my brain. DING DING DING.

It's not that I have a dirty mind - honest to God - I can just totally pick up on the perverted stuff. They're sort of transmitted at the same frequency that my brain picks up.

Wow. That frequency stuff, brought back to life a complete moving diorama of my physics class. *chants "I'm a survivor, I'm gonna make it"* Phew.

Anyway. That incident got me thinking about how my brain became so in sync with the perverseness.

And today, I have made a great discovery.

Warning: If you do not wish to take a walk down memory lane - close window now.

My, My. You're still here? You brave soul.

Just keep in mind that just 'cause you had Lasik surgery doesn't mean we can't remember the pair of wheels on your face back in the old days ;)

So...

Remember back in the third grade, when you used to carry your
a) Scooby-doo/TMNT/Tom & Jerry lunch box if you were cool.
b) Barbie if you were dosed with extra X chromosomes.
c) Power Rangers/Batman if you were a mama's boy or a dyke.

proudly and walk to the dingy school bus and sit according to your level of coolness?

(How this was determined escapes me at the moment.)

Oh come on, you must be able to recall this sort of stuff!

There were all these other kids with you.

And there was Billy.

You see Billy, but Billy is so far away. (Mind you, Billy can be a girl too, as in my case)

Now. Billy was that kid at the back of bus - the one radiating out raw coolness.

And Billy was all-knowing back then.

The one with the big saucy mouth the million and two innuendos.

Everyone has at least one memory of Billy.

For Billy taught you all.

Your mom remembers Billy.

Because you asked her if what Billy said what true.

She probably denied it, blushed a profuse hue of red, and you were grounded for no reason at all.

'She lies,' Billy told you.

And lie she did.

But Billy told you the truth.

Billy took away your innocence.

Billly made your eyes pop.

Billy changed your life.

After that, you became officially synced.

Courtesy of Billy and Sons.

Remember that Billy?

Yeah *nods*, me too.

I wonder where Billy is now?

Hmm...

My theory?

Your parents probably paid Billy to teach you all that stuff, so they wouldn't have to do it themselves AND they got to punish you regardless :)

As for Billy…well Billy's training his/her kid. After all, somebody's got to keep the family business running.

------------------
P.S

Before I wrote all this down, I called my favorite cousin.
And told him all about Billy and my theory.
After literally 10 minutes of him laughing at me, he goes: "Yeah. I miss my being Billy days."

Well, no shocker there.
Really.
I couldn't even pretend.

*sigh*.

The Secret of The World.

2009-08-12T04:12:00.000-07:00

The secret of the world lies not buried deep within its bowels.

It does not roam the skies, nor wander amongst us.

The secret of the world is not found in an hidden truth.

It does not make any sound.

The secret of the world is not heavily guarded.

It does not wish to remain a secret any longer.

The secret of the world offers little - yet to some it is all.

***

And one day the world breathed its secret:

"My secret lies in an ultimate balance - a balance between letting go and holding on."

It went unheard. A forever dying echo.

But you hear it now.

And you now know the world's secret.

Boredom, Amongst Other Things.

2009-08-09T09:07:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is boredom the new swine flu?

I'm dead serious when I say that boredom is an epidemic as old as time.

It infects you slowly until you become an inert chunk of matter lying about.

So I guess you have, by now, concluded that I am overly bored.

I feel like a chicken nugget.

And the oil they fry the nuggets in, is the boredom.

So I'm frying in boredom.

Does that even make sense?

I fail to care at the moment.

It's not like I have nothing to do.No. I have shitloads on top of shitloads. In fact, if you collected all the shit at the zoo from all the animals and piled it up it would amount to no where near the pile of shitload I have to do.

And still I don't do them.

I procrastinate in buckets.

No not buckets - barrels. Giant big ass barrels.

Yeah, I'm just really bored. Did I mention that? Because if I didn't - well, I'm so friggin' bored, I could not only watch a Teletubbies episode, but show genuine interest AND overlook all the homosexual underplay.

Really.

But I will not, courtesy of the shred of sanity I am clutching on to.

Everything bores me.

And Puhleeze - wipe that ''ungrateful piece of meat' glare off your face, because if you made it this far into the post then I've got news for ya: you're just as goddman bored.

Yeah. Anyway. That was me exploring my boredomeness. I know, I know - not a real word.

Do I care?

Nah.

Do you care?

Nah.

P.S I'm on my phone. Excuse the retarded spaces out of no where.

If Only For A While.

2009-08-08T05:30:00.000-07:00

A small capture of human nature.
Maybe you can relate, and maybe you can't.

Carpe Diem ;)
_________________________________________________________________

Climbing the stairs two at a time, she made it to her room.

She changed into more comfortable clothes, and threw herself down on the bed, closing her eyes in attempt to yield to the enticing whispers of sleep.

Ah, yes. That ever elusive sleep. The last she indulged in sleep was quite sometime back. If only she could count the hours of stolen slumber and sleep them all in one go.

A knock penetrated through her last thoughts and echoed within the confines of her head.

"Yes?" she answered drowsily.
"You're sleeping?" her mother asked in all inquisitiveness.
"Mhm, I'm drained," she explained.
"Before you sleep, go pray first."
"Yeah, okay," she let that demand blur by, as if unimportant.

After her mother left the room, she got up, went to get her prayer things and prayer carpet. She arranged them in such a manner where it would look like she prayed, and fully gave in to those tempting whispers.

While she still resided in the realm of sleep, her mother came back in once again to be greeted by the orchestrated prayer scene. Her chest swelled of pride as she said more to herself than anything else, "Mashalla 3a binti," and then quietly left.

She woke up a while later, feeling less drained, yet not fully restored. Still, some sleep was better than none. Following a lifetime tradition, she gathered the sustenance of her life, or the 'goods' as she liked to call them from the kitchen storage. They consisted of deceptive neglected masses of cholesterol disguised as Lays Salt and Vinegar, Skittles, and Reese's cups. But who could ever resist them? Evil, yet blissful.

She turned on her laptop, watched as the msn icons twirled together harmoniously before loading her contacts. It was a waste time more than anything, she knew - but it was a habit. An old habit. Old habits don't really ever die.

The first 'ding' came, alerting her that she had one pending conversation. Many dings later, juggling Facebook and blogging in between, she had had enough conversations to open her own version of Communications Central.

Her father came in to check on her, having just flown home, and asked if she prayed. Again, she pointed to the set up carpet and praying things from earlier.

"I'm very proud of you, my eldest," his voice full of love. "You work hard, and with your prayer, Allah y3een, you'll see."

She smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek and expressed her love for him. With that, he left. And once again, she was alone in her room to do her work. Oh, and she not only did it, but she excelled at it too. True, her time management could have been better, but she got it done regardless.

At 2:00 in the morning, she called it a night.

And thus ends her day, only to be replayed again tomorrow, and the day after...

*****

She woke up one morning to be welcomed by the day of her first final.
She showered, and dressed.
She had her morning latte, drinking along a healthy dose of nervousness with it.

And then she remembered that today was one of those couple of days during the year- one day of those few.

She headed back upstairs, and found her praying things set up as habit dictates them to look as if she prayed. She faced her carpet and began to pray for her success and triumph.

Yes, today was one day of those few. A day where old habits die - if only for a small while.

Just A Stop.

2009-08-04T06:54:00.000-07:00

Since I completely trashed my last post with my rambelings, I'll give this one a break.

I found no better way to convey what I want to say than through this short dialogue.

Some things are meant to be but stops, to discover a little more about who you are and move on to put your mark else where. Moreover, happiness, completion and what not, does not lie in another individual. Actually, they lie within ourselves. Sometimes our interaction with others is a way we subconsiously communicate to the self- a call to look beyond the superficial image and claim our own happiness.

In the end, life is all about self discovery. The people you meet, and the places you go, are but littles of peices of yourself, either yet unfound or yet to be understood.

Carpe Diem ;)

_________________________________________________________________

"No No No. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen".

"But it’s the way it happened nonetheless."

"It was great. It was supposed to grow, and develop and become something nice."

"Well, it didn't grow. It ended instead."

"Ugh. Aren't you mad, sad, frustrated?"

"Should I be?"

"Yes. Yes you should be. It was perfect. It was supposed to last."

"Perfect was far from what it was. And last, it did not".

"Fine. He was perfect"

"No. He has his flaws."

"Okay. You were perfect for each other."

"Apparently, life doesn't agree with you on that point."

"I don't care about life. Do you agree with me on that point?"

"No, sadly I don't either."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because he resurrects an old part of me that drags me farther away from the me I want to be."

"Yeah, but it's all you in the end you know - past and present. Besides, everything else was fine."

"Maybe. But only because you couldn't see the invisible barriers."

"Barriers are nothing, if not made to make it all harder. But you overcome them."

"What if I secretly don't want to? Because they provide a rare comfort as opposed to vulnerability?"

"Shouldn't you be feeling crushed?"

"Not really, no."

"I know I would be."

"No one has that kind of power over me. It's lethal."

"Then how are you feeling?"

"A part of my mind mourns the loss of a worthy adversary.It will wear black for along while. But a bigger part of my mind claims its needto make new footprints along a fresh path."

"So this was all just a place where you left footprints?"

"I guess"

"I fail to understand. You finally meet someone you can bond with on that high up plane. And when it's over. You're okay."

"I'm not okay. I'm just aware that it has happened and is no longer happening."

"Listen, things don't just 'happen' like that. You were fine, happy for a while. It should of continued being happy."

"Things always 'happen' just like that. A mere action, a spoken word or a perception can change larger outcomes."

"Look just tell me really, what happened?"

"It's simple really. I am who I am, right? Yet, I am not enough of who I want to be. Me and him was just another way for me to find out more about the person that I am, as opposed to the one that I want to be . And when I found out all I needed to know, then that just marked the end."

"You know I hate when you go all philosophical on my ass."

"No. I'm saying he was just a stop, as nice of a stop as it was - he wasn't my destination. Just a stop."

"Like a bus?"

"Ugh. You have a very skilled way of just killing everything."

"And you have a very skilled way of just being numb. Feel a little."

"I try feel enough. Not more, not less. Just enough to keep me going."

"Uhuh. Brick"

"I beg to differ."

"Block of steel."

"Dropping topic."

A True Liberation.

2009-07-29T10:02:00.000-07:00

Hello =)

I'm worried :/.

Everything is falling!

And no I don’t mean that in the "the whole world is going to end because I can’t live without him, and she backstabbed me, and they want my popularity and my heel snapped and my make up is ruined and I can't find anything to wear and the whole world is going to end just because " sense.
*rolls eyes at the excess of melodrama and the fact that some people out there do use this when referring to the phrase ‘everything is falling’*. Oww, eyeball burn (?).

What I really mean is that everything is falling- literally!
I think I have one of those accelerated aging hormones :S.

I swear, every time I shower, I shed hair like a dog! It just scares me :(. And every time I see the hair fall shampoo ads, I go and buy the shampoo, to find out its worse than the previous one. *Sigh*. The stupid things I do.

And my nails! They just grow too fast and chip off.
I tell ya! Everything is falling off!

Leaving my sad case of nails aside, but not the topic of nails - I shudder in disgust whenever I see a guy with a long ass pinkie nail, and the rest of his nails are nicely trimmed. It's nasty. 'Cause every time I see that nail, and it’s just that one nail, I imagine it being scratched across a chalkboard. *goosebumps*. Wow, overuse of 'nail' much? Meh.

Anyway. Way too much oversharing. The above is of zero relation to the actual post. So just forget about all that. Yes, yes, the nails, the hair and the hormones.

Below, are my thoughts on a matter that has intrigued me of the late.
Hope it makes sense.

Carpe Diem ;)

_________________________________________________________________

We exit, suspended in time and space. We occupy. We breathe.

That's what the human being is.

Yet the human being lives in his mind, not his heart. A mind composed of both the conscious and the subconscious. He lives in his consciousness, where his thoughts and feelings act as a silent guide.

His consciousness and subconcsiousness work together, side by side.

The consciousness in its acute sense of awareness, is where he is most alert.

The subconscious is where the rationality of things pales - a part of the mind yet unknown. It's where his memories recollect.

Together, they form the greatest optical illusion of all time. One that cannot be matched.

An illusion where his desires and realties combat. Where his ignorance sometimes prevails.Where his quest for his personal truth begins and ends. Where his affections arise. Where his morals, or lack of are engrained. Where his dreams float and his goals are formed. Where his ambitions are pursued, and his failures and sucesses are reflected upon. Where his affections grow.

It's his inner security.

It's his greatest prison.

Invisible bars that cage him in, allowing him to retreat in his shell, restricted to his own pleas and cravings. To select and bestow his affection to those 'special' few.

Its where his personal bias resides and nourishes.

****

We all self indulge in our illusions. They make the world a prettier place. But pretty is nothing when compared to the purity of things. To the clarity and correctness which we overlook. A purity shielded by our perception.

To seek true freedom, is not to be legal. Nor to be accepted in society. Nor to be allowed to walk the earth as one pleases. Nor does it lie in being able to say what comes to mind.

No. True freedom lies in the liberation of the mind. It lies in stepping outside of the bars, penetrating the illusion and seeing our suspension in time and space as a whole - a chance to experience one's self with in a system. A system known to us as 'the universe'. A system of which we are a part, but nothing without.

Agreed. Such freedom is asymptotic in its very nature. But we can get very close.

An Early Ultimatum.

2009-07-20T06:09:00.000-07:00

So I was sent to my room, after being scolded for apparently not having any sense of direction, to develop a vision and plan ahead.

Nothing is wrong with my vision: wait until my series download, and then watch them. Oh, and make it through Uni alive.

As for planning ahead. Well I'll give you planning ahead:

1. Now it’s the uni.
2. Next its cats, romance novels and cookie dough ice cream. Maybe work.
3. And then, guess what? I'm getting married. And I'm doing it on my own terms too.
It can't be that hard. I mean, please: If I can live with the cats, I can live with the hubby too.

Marriage:
When- n/a
Where- Preferably on some set in Bollywood ;)
How -n/a
Who - TBA.

=).

This is me making provision for my future:

_________________________________________________________________

Hey Honey aka Hubby!

Wherever you are.

Whoever you might be.

I decided to write you.

Why you ask?

I'm late for everything. Late for applying to uni. Late to uni. Late to the airpor(I'm the person who's name you hear being called out in the speaker asking me to *hurry my ass up and get on the goddman plane*). I'm late growing my wisdom teeth (they haven't showed up yet). I'm late remembering birthdays.

So yeah.

I'm being early for once.

And I'm writing to you.

You know. Just so you're prepared.

And so I have the satisfaction of being early!

Weird, you say.

Mutually beneficial, I reply.

So yes. Hi there honey.

Oh, consider yourself lucky, 'cause 'honey' is all the endearment you're ever going to get from these lips of mine.

"Love" *snorts* - The only person I call love, is when I'm in a meeting with me, myself and I. They're the love.

"Baby" - If I call you that, then what I am going to call the baby we're going to procreate?

"My Other half" - *pfft*. I was born complete. The first half is me. The second half is me. A half and a half, well that makes a whole me =).

"My Soul Mate" - Lucky for you I don't believe in that crap, honey, because well that might mean when I marry you, and you're not my soul mate then I'll be miserable and blame you. And that won't be your cup tea. Hell, it won't even be close to your glass of guava juice.

"Dear" - That's what I plan on calling the baby when she/he grows up.

There, now that's all settled - and no hard feelings honey, all this is for our future happines, whenever that might be - we can get to the details.

Hmm. Yes. The details.

Honey, do me a favor. Go to www.dictionary.com and look up 'marry'. You'll get something like this:

"mar·ry [márree] - transitive verb- to join two people in marriage: to officiate at somebody's marriage ceremony and give legal sanction or a religious blessing to the marriage."

Now read that again honey.

And then make sure you never associate that with the word 'marry'. Ever. 'Cause guess what? This time the dictionary's wrong!

Here's what 'marry' really means and if I were you, I would start memorizing:

"mar·ry [márree] - transitive verb - to share your life with someone, making every single nano-second matter. They become your paparazzi and you in turn become theirs, just no where near as annoying. You don't expect anything out of them that you're not willing to do either. You treat them as your equal, in the full meaning of the word. And never ever give them the bullshit about the men women issue."

Commit that to memory honey.

Oh, and notice how I didn't change the 'transitive verb' part - that's because that's what it is. When and if its over honey, you'll just be another transition to go through. Don't for a second think my life will end with you. Save that idea for the 1000 episode Mexican soaps.

So where was I?

Oh yes- When I marry you, don’t for a second think you can go Macho on my ass. I'll just go all blowtorch on your balls =). I don't have any, but believe me; I can imagine it would kill. De-manned. Impotent for life. So think twice honey before you do something stupid like that. Your balls are on the line.

Speaking of balls honey, when we pro-create, I want you experienced honey, so you can take me high up to the seventh sky.

Oh, and honey try showing those balls of your to anyone else when I marry you, and guess what you'll be. Yup, you got it. A eunuch. Aka castrated human male. And I'll keep ‘em in a jar for you to look at. And when they shrivel up and die, remember that's what happens when you smother a rose in a jar too. And right again honey, I'm the rose and you're the jar. So don't smother me honey, I don't like it. I need my air and space, so don't take ‘em from me.

What's more, you have to get my dry sarcasm honey. Because it's a dry as saw dust right now, and I don't know what state it will be in when I marry you. But one thing's for sure - it'll only get drier :p

Also, honey, you can't tell me what to do, unless you want me telling what you do. That's what kids are for honey. Tell them what to do. I'll tell you a secret honey: they made disobedience and then they made me :P. So, I'll be in charge of what I do. Guide me- sure. Help me out- no problem. Give me your opinion -with arms wide open.

You don't have to love me honey, you just have to get me. Love alone is for fools. You just have to match me stroke for stroke every step of our time together- how ever long that might be - and throw back at me my caustic remarks with corrosive ones of your own. You have to neutralize me honey. That's all I'm asking. If you want to love me too, well I'll consider it a bonus, and you a paragon of generosity. And if that happens, then I'll negotiate with me, myself and I, and I'll try to give you a small corner of my heart. I can't promise you anything but a corner. And even that you'll probably have to work overtime to earn - extra nightshifts; p etc. Maybe you'll slowly work your way up. Who knows honey. Anything is possible. The Jonas Brothers are a hit band, and Hannah Montanna is not just your ordinary cowgirl - or so I'm told. See, I told you anything is possible.

And that little corner of my heart's got no warranty, honey. 'Cause once you damage it, you can't just go back and fix it. Damage it, and the Wrath of Con will be something bearable, by far.

So don't damage it honey. Take good care of it. It's that simple really.

But don't worry honey. This is just an early ultimatum - a life buoy if you must.

How considerate of me, you say.

I know, I reply.

Honey, its common sense. Handle me properly, and I'll give you wings. Fail to do so, and an early retirement to the underworld might not seem like such a bad idea.

That's all I really have to say for now, honey.

Thanks for listening honey.

Till we meet officially honey ;)

Bye Bye honey.

___________________________________________________________________

Future outlook: Promising? Yes? No? Meh. I tried.

Victim of My Imagination.

2009-07-18T10:12:00.000-07:00

Hey!

I drafted this right after "Cemetery Of Mistakes." but I couldn't publish it yet, because it was missing something elemental then.

But here it is today, in the way I think best expresses what I want to say.

Enjoy.

Carpe Diem ;)
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...A page from the journal of a once stupid, now wiser mind -

Entry # 137:

At first I liked your friend:

He wasn't hot; he was cute.
He wasn't well built, he was chubby.
He didn't have a rich baritone laugh: he blushed.
But he was who he was, and I was who I was, and I liked your friend.
I never told him. I don't know if he figured it out.
He wasn't my type, nor I his.
I was the girl with the glasses and the sharp tongue.
And he was the shy lazy boy who didn't care.
But I liked him anyway.

It wore away, just like every time.

And then I liked you:

You weren't hot: You were normal.
You weren't well built: You were average.
You didn't have a rich baritone laugh: you had a devil's guffaw
But you were who you were, and I was who I was, and I liked you.
I never told you. I don't know if you figured it out.
You weren't my type, nor I yours.
I was the girl with the glasses and the sharp tongue.
And you were the outgoing crazy boy who didn't care.
But I liked you anyway.

It wore away, just like every time. But it just took a while to fade.

*****

I sit here today and I conjure up those days:

You enjoyed my company, as much as I enjoyed yours.
You talked more, but I spoke more.
You laughed more, but I smiled more.
You took a lot, and I gave a lot.
You tried to give, but I refused to take much.

That imbalance was our downfall.

Yet because of me, you are the person that you are today.
And because of you, I am the person that I am today.

*****

I sit here and recall the misplaced humor - when you didn't get my quips and my dry sarcasm, and thus, I ended up explaining them all.

I sit here and remember when I tried to open up, but you failed to understand my line of thoughts.

I sit here and remember when I ignored you because you were no longer adequate.

I sit here and I'm reminded of how we talked about your infatuations with x, y and z - while I inwardly cringed with disappointment.

It's sad. All those years I silently liked you. All those times I tried to figure out if you liked me too - to this day, I'm not sure if you ever did. All those days I sat there and tried to replay and psychoanalyze every one of our moments together. To only see what I wanted to see each time around. All those hours I put aside to fantasize and dream.

Still, at he back of my mind, I knew that you weren't right.

Then , inevitably, you began to grown small - less important, less pleasing, less fun, less fulfilling.

And small you did become. 'Till you wouldn't do anymore. And discarded you were.
Insignificant. Ever-fading.

I know you wondered why, and you tried to come back - but I fought you more. And in the end, I got what I wanted.

I once liked you- but the 'you' that I once liked, was one of my own creation.

For that, forgive me, for I have wronged you.

The real 'you' was no more than a victim of my imagination.

*****

I was the girl with the glasses and the sharp tongue.
You were the outgoing crazy boy who didn't care.
And that imbalance was our downfall.

Cemetery of Mistakes.

2009-07-17T03:26:00.000-07:00

So far so good; still keeping away from the void! I really do enjoy writing these short pieces. They are, at the end of the day, mostly for me – to find some sort of closure, or to simply come to terms with all the different emotions that surround us – that keep us together, yet singularly apart.

Enjoy!

Carpe Diem ;)

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You called to say hi.
I didn't pick up.

You texted to tell me that you called to say hi.
I didn't text back.

You wrote on my Facebook wall to tell me that you called and texted to say hi.
I didn't write back.

You sent me an email to tell me that you called, texted and wrote on my wall to say hi.
I didn't reply.

You called again.
Still, I didn't pick up.

We both know why.

And just between you and I - let the rest of the world lay silent for a while and turn a blind eye - what you really wanted say is an audible 'hi', and an unspoken 'sorry'.

That pitiful plain 'sorry'.

What do you have to say 'sorry' for?

For trusting me? For all those times you came to me in pieces, and I put you back together? For needing me more than I needed you? For asking me those questions you couldn't answer alone? For giving you the answers you didn't want to, but had to hear? For pressing your brakes when you lost control? For listening when you wanted to speak? For the company of two, rather than the lonesomeness of one? For our endless adventures? For our philosophical roundabouts? For our vivacious laughter? For your understanding?

Why would you be ‘sorry’?

For pretending I didn't exist for a while? For not asking me what happened? For siding against me? For your greed for attention? For my pride and stubbornness? For my distance? For never confronting me? For my indifference at times? For my momentary naiveté? For never taking the time to understand? For never asking me to explain? For running away at the slightest sign of a storm? For being selfish in your own delight to mourn my loss? For being equals?

No, you don’t have anything to be ‘sorry’ about. Not at all.

You made a choice. And I made another.
Then they collided, and you chose you over me.
You chose your own happiness over my amity.
It was easier for you to turn a blind eye than care about what you left behind.
Ignorance was ever better than reality. And it always will be.
All of a sudden, I simply didn't matter.
And you turned to them, and I became nothing more than a figment of your past.
What's one person as opposed to many? - 'Nothing' you seem to have decided.
One small betrayal. It would cost nothing at all.

You have nothing to be ‘sorry’ for.
Give your 'sorry' to those much in need of it.
I don't. I never did.

If anything, I deserve this. Because deep inside, I made the greatest betrayal of all. I betrayed myself and let you in. I gave you a value that surpassed who you really are. I saw in you an illusionary real.

I let you see behind my broken smile. Little as that might be.

But unlike your precedents - you gave me the greatest gift of all.
Because now I know-
That I'll never have anyone but me;
That I'll never love anyone but me;
That I'll never hate anyone but me;
That I'll never make it without me.

No, you have nothing to be 'sorry' for.

*****

I reminisced the minute you called.
I forgave you the minute you texted.
I forgot you the minute you wrote on my wall.
I buried you the minute you emailed.
And by the time you called again, you ceased to exist.

Because by then – you were just another corpse in my cemetery of mistakes.

*****

You called to say hi.
But I had already long said goodbye.

Accidentally On Purpose.

2009-07-13T05:42:00.000-07:00

Yes. I've emerged out of the void. About time too. Really. This idea kind of unwound itself as my fingers clashed with the keyboard and hungrily ravished it. And through some strangely coiled process it is what it is now. Whether you'll like it or not, well that's really out of my hands and for you to tell me ;p.,

I hope you do enjoy and can relate in your own private spheres and/or planes.

Till next time ;)
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An elongated sigh escaped me. Trapped in my room, it bounced from wall to wall. And came right back at me. I stared at it with a 'meet your maker' glare, and created its sister: an even longer sigh (if such is possible, since sigh #1 was really long!)

The moment was followed by one of counterfeit silence - seeing as I somehow couldn't exclude the AC drumming, the clock ticking and the something expanding and contracting. Oh right, the expanding and contracting would be me. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale - you know, the elementary motions of life amongst other things.

Suddenly I get the feeling that I'm a jar, and someone just accidentally on purpose knocked me off the shelf, and all my contents came pouring. What happened to the jar you ask? I'll tell you: its plastic, not glass. Hence it survived. No splintering, no brittle peices, and evidently no replacing. If anything, I take my necessary precautions.

Rule: Try to never smash into smithereens.

It's right up there with breathing. Notice, the keyword being 'try', because if you've been overruled by Judge Life, then you are officially screwed sideways.

A friend of mine once told me to embrace everything. The converstation went somewhere along these lines:

Me: Uff!
Friend: Just embrace all.
Me: Even if it screws you sideways?
Friend: Look on the bright side, you could be screwed diagonally. Hence, embrace.
Me: Ooo.
Friend. Yeah.

And you can sort of imagine the rest.

Embrace, my ass.

I'll sit here and sigh like the insomniac that I've now become.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Suddenly my clock comes into the foregroud accidentally on purpose. How those SOBs manage to do that is beyond me.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

I glare at it, and for a second consider having a staring contest. Hell, I didn't consider, I went ahead and did it anyway.

1:19 A.M.

And I saw it. Clear and lucid.

I saw how I was alien to the crowds.
I saw how I excluded my own self in this self preserving way.
I saw how I built a batman armor around myself.
I saw how I breathed in nonchalence till I was a vaccum inside.
I saw the truth turning into an illusion.
I saw how I narrowly catergorized and scrutinized.
I saw how I pushed second chances aside and refused to believe in them.
I saw the longing for me to speak and not just talk.
I saw my barriers become more solid and no one approach them.
I saw how I craved contact with a personality pulsating with energy and complexity.
I saw how I pushed everything away.
I saw how I kept my distance farway so I could easily flee.
I saw how I moved on.
I saw how it all became hazy.
I saw them become what they became and yet to me I stayed the same.
I saw when I stopped believing in light and embraced the grey's of life.
I saw the little trust I had in anything and anyone.
I saw the doubt that clouded me.
I saw the endless inner conflicts: To do or not to do?
I saw my failed attempts.
I saw my numerous joys.
I saw my hearfelt successes.
I saw my regrets.
I saw my ego trips.
I saw the finite circle of reality, and the light wave of fantasy.
I saw the innocence leaving me and coming back to hover at the surface.
I saw my naive inner child.
I saw my wiser cynical self.
I saw them clash and battle.
I saw how I became my own enemy.
I saw how I became my own hero.

I saw me and all my imperfections.

And I realized that this is my package. This is who I am. I am no jar. I am a bar of soap. A carved and weathered bar of soap - a direct result of time.

Suddenly I was tired. And total silence welcomed me into its home .

My eyes closed through a will of their own. They burned. I felt the tear glide, and my cheeks became a water slide.

I am imperfection incarnate. And I of that I'm proud.

I take a peek. Damn!

1:19 A.M.
Looks like the clock won again - even if accidentally on purpose.

And just like that, sleep came over me. And for that while, I succumbed to the realm of the dead, at peace with myself.

My Immortal Soul.

2009-06-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

Everyone is a direct composition of the finite and infinite - the transient and the eternal.

To be human, there is the mortal body, and the immortal soul. Together, you live, and in death you part.

-------

It was all escalating. She watched it grow, nurtured it even. Looking at it, together it formed a scrumptious accumilation of a bit of everything - the frenzied emotions, the drama, and most of all irony. All there. All simulaneously present and ever engulfing. Their smell so refined - so poignant. To inhale, would be to reach an elevated high. To refrain from doing so, would be to breach the nature of existance. Yet, to watch, she is left in anticipation, of when the right moment came.

And so she watched. It was everywhere, and yet nowhere. Very clear, and yet few could ever see it. It presence well defined, yet few could ever feel it. But she felt it - so palpable. So tempting.

She thirsted for it. With all her senses. But it wasn't time yet. So she waited, just watching. Fighting an ever arduous invisible battle of wills: body against soul. This time, the body victorious overcame the soul, as it craved in silence - waiting for the time to strike, and satiate the smoldering thirst.

It engulfed her - wrapped itself so preciously around her, almost teasing. The pain now visible, the irritation tangible, and the need over-powering. Yet she fought on, knowing compensation would only strike a lulling harmonic cord of a harp so captivating and her soul would soar in its confinement.

The passer-by's would ask, in evident inquisitiveness, what the matter was. But her answer never satisfied them. And so they'd walk by in pronounced perplexity, failing to see that her ambiguous answer was but the truth. Sometimes even the truth is not fulfilling. But this wasn't one of those times. This time, she spoke it like it should be said. It's not her fault no one took the time to bask in its realness - in its accuracy.

It was the only one she ever had for them: the answer each one privately sough to seek, whether in a moment of acute awareness or not. Little did they know, it was right there.

And then it hit. The blow came not so unexpectedly. It was inevitable. And she knew, it would come. Unlike many, she didn't ignore the signs, no matter how little. She knew the blow left a trail that made a mock of Hensel and Gretel's bread crumbs. One only had to look. It all disintegrated like fission - all the frenzied emotions, the drama and the irony. And it tasted like an earthly peice of heaven. An unatural high. A feast made for royalty couldn't compare. She relished in it, letting her soul sing and overindulge. There was no more pain, no more frustration. They were someplace aeons away - for now anyway. There was only this moment in its glorified stance. And she still relished devouring it all.

Content, she lay back.

Fascinated, I replay it all. It was then that I understood it all. That every emotion, every peice of drama was sustinance. And when found lacking, one creates them. Yet the 'why' was beyond me.

I walked her way and asked: "Why?"

And she replied with the same reply: "I'm feeding my immortal soul."

First and Foremost.

2009-06-01T12:16:00.000-07:00

"Carpe diem, Quan minimum credula postero" - Seize the day, trust as little as possible in tomorrow.

No I don't speak Latin, yet this Latin phrase never fails to intrigue me. It altogether sums up a interesting life philosophy. One to be embraced. With wide arms might I add.

And so I begin by saluting you and welcoming you to my lair - my thoughts, contemplations, conclusions, and everything in between.

I must forewarn you: this is not a blog about an epic love story, or a conjured fantasy land. Its about living in reality - exploring the realms of the mind and soul.

Again, I say, welcome.