Carpe Diem.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

- 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.

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.’

"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.

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.

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!

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.