It started out like a dream. Slowly visualizing step after step after step when suddenly, you're drawn back into the same depressing world you desperately needed to escape.
It always starts out like that. Then you forget about everything you were planning. It all just ends up as what it was; cobwebs in a cupboard along with your past you always wanted to forget and you favorite stuffed bear that's lost all of its sentimental values just because you have a new stuffed toy.
Are all hopes and dreams and carefully laid out plans supposed to end this way? are they meant to? Or is it something so intricate that the universe dares not let it succeed thus sending down angels to interrupt your reveries.
I think it would be more dramatic if that reason was used. Something so brilliant and so thought provoking that it would disrupt the very nature of the life iteself. Well I have to give myself credit for my procrastination sometime.
Is writing a book so dangerous to the universe or would be dangerous to myself?
I doubt it since i've been procrastinating for over 2 years.
So it comes down to the thin red line I have to cross. To write or not to write.
Thus, I have to decided to write. The long awaited (self-proclaimed) "The Last Pear on Earth" is finally being written.
Today's post was brought to you by the number 9, the color red and the word procrastination.
The number 9 for the Spain world cup jersey i'll be purchasing with the number 9 on it and the name Torres splashed across the back. The color red because now everywhere I go all I see is red and the word procrastination because that's what I bloody am.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
poetry in motion
My eyes become heavy with the weight of a few hundred sunrises and sunsets, what does the world have to offer that which I have not witnessed before. Every day the winds bring about a chill that burroughs deep into the crevices of my skin. I have not the strength to prolong this life nor have I the patience.
I lie atop my hammock fastened from intertwined ropes scrounged from the wreckage of my memories. Each twist and turn of the fibres of these images are a welcome sign of pain and grief from my life. Each calling out to me. They say welcome brother. They embrace me with open arms, enfolding me in their cloak. The darkness envelops me, suffocates me. i cannot stand it.
Each day I welcome death, yet, at the same time I try to break free. I have so many things to look forward to. Another sunrise, another embrace by my love, the taste of fruits and the tangy smell of meats. The textures are both so different and so alien that they are new to me every single time. Pears, the sandy gravel texture of their skin. the bumps and earthen taste of them. Yet as you bite down, hoping to be welcomed by a hard shell, your teeth bury themselves fluidly as if you were biting down on a cloud or water itself.
I guess the pear has a life of it's own. It appreciates the bite. It welcomes the bite. I wonder if it had not. Would your teeth ground to a stop? Would it be hard to bite through if the pear itself was not so inviting? Yet, each pear has a simpicity to itself. The skin a soft, sandy texture but appalling in taste. The insides a gravelly watery abomination yet sweet and juicy. Juicy? Is that what they call it? I would prefer the term cold and daunting. Just like the winds that greet me every morning. Just the like the faces of my neighbours. Always scowling, brows bent as they reverse their cars from their porch.
What are they so miserable at? Their beautiful trophy wives? Their adorable intelligent children? The ones who always have a way to make me smile in the morning by asking me questions that only a 5 year old would for instance, just the other day, one of them asked, "what makes you happy?" I stuttered. I never knew what made me happy. In an effort to save my ego, I asked them back, "What makes you happy?" Their answer was simple and just, stunning me for a few seconds. Their answer was play-doh. Play-doh? Of all things? I was late for work and yet, these kids had piqued my interest. What was work compared to finding out the intricate possibilities of the universe using Play-doh as a means of knowing the answer.
They replied,
"Well, Play-doh comes in all shapes and sizes right?"
"Right" I answered.
"And you can mould them into anything you wanted to right?"
"Right" I replied.
"what else do you want in life?" they asked me.
"something that's colourful, that you can make into anything you wanted".
That simple blunt fact hit me hard. If that fact was a flying block of granite, it would've given me a concussion.
Simple, yet direct. Oh to be 5 again.
Which reminds me, must pick up some Play-doh on my way back from work.
This post was brought to you by the color blue, the number 5 and the word Play-doh.
The color blue for the children's eyes that matched the sky that morning. It blended them together so effortlessly. The number 5 for the right age number to be at in anyone's life and the word play-doh because everyone should have a source of happiness.
I lie atop my hammock fastened from intertwined ropes scrounged from the wreckage of my memories. Each twist and turn of the fibres of these images are a welcome sign of pain and grief from my life. Each calling out to me. They say welcome brother. They embrace me with open arms, enfolding me in their cloak. The darkness envelops me, suffocates me. i cannot stand it.
Each day I welcome death, yet, at the same time I try to break free. I have so many things to look forward to. Another sunrise, another embrace by my love, the taste of fruits and the tangy smell of meats. The textures are both so different and so alien that they are new to me every single time. Pears, the sandy gravel texture of their skin. the bumps and earthen taste of them. Yet as you bite down, hoping to be welcomed by a hard shell, your teeth bury themselves fluidly as if you were biting down on a cloud or water itself.
I guess the pear has a life of it's own. It appreciates the bite. It welcomes the bite. I wonder if it had not. Would your teeth ground to a stop? Would it be hard to bite through if the pear itself was not so inviting? Yet, each pear has a simpicity to itself. The skin a soft, sandy texture but appalling in taste. The insides a gravelly watery abomination yet sweet and juicy. Juicy? Is that what they call it? I would prefer the term cold and daunting. Just like the winds that greet me every morning. Just the like the faces of my neighbours. Always scowling, brows bent as they reverse their cars from their porch.
What are they so miserable at? Their beautiful trophy wives? Their adorable intelligent children? The ones who always have a way to make me smile in the morning by asking me questions that only a 5 year old would for instance, just the other day, one of them asked, "what makes you happy?" I stuttered. I never knew what made me happy. In an effort to save my ego, I asked them back, "What makes you happy?" Their answer was simple and just, stunning me for a few seconds. Their answer was play-doh. Play-doh? Of all things? I was late for work and yet, these kids had piqued my interest. What was work compared to finding out the intricate possibilities of the universe using Play-doh as a means of knowing the answer.
They replied,
"Well, Play-doh comes in all shapes and sizes right?"
"Right" I answered.
"And you can mould them into anything you wanted to right?"
"Right" I replied.
"what else do you want in life?" they asked me.
"something that's colourful, that you can make into anything you wanted".
That simple blunt fact hit me hard. If that fact was a flying block of granite, it would've given me a concussion.
Simple, yet direct. Oh to be 5 again.
Which reminds me, must pick up some Play-doh on my way back from work.
This post was brought to you by the color blue, the number 5 and the word Play-doh.
The color blue for the children's eyes that matched the sky that morning. It blended them together so effortlessly. The number 5 for the right age number to be at in anyone's life and the word play-doh because everyone should have a source of happiness.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
the rat race in times new roman
Even as a young lad I was fully emmersed in books. I remember my first story, something about a giraffe. What a sordid imagination I had back then. The bloody animal could've been an insinuation towards early childhood homosexual tendencies: the giraffe and its long neck as an innuendo towards the male genitalia and the brown spots on its coat as early signs of rectal infection. I could have turned out to be gay with std. Lucky for me, I was saved from that possible future. No no, I'm in fact free from any disease save for a mild bowel irritability now and again and am very much into women.
Fast forward 15 years into the future, I'm sitting at my desk at the office of a well known newspaper company typing along on my blog. Why, you may ask, am I not immersed in my work as a journalist? Because, dear me, I am only an intern. And as an intern, we are the lowest of the low. In movies, interns are portrayed as mindless zombies in t-shirts with tags around their necks with the words, "slave" plastered all over it. Over here, it's pretty much the same thing save for one little difference: I dont get my own food bowl hidden away in the corner.
As an up-and -coming journalist, i always thought that as a writer, one would be sitting at sullen, smoky cafes drinking tisane and conversing on topics related to philosophy, world events and Salman Rushdie's ex-wives. For me however, it was quaint mamak stalls, teh tarik and how MCA is non-existent. Very Malaysian and very close to the heart.
Although it has not been all press conferences and freebies for me, I look to each day with vigor. Waking up at 8:30 in the morning, leaving the house at 9 and reaching work at 10. Yes, the drive to work takes an hour. At work, I read the morning paper, open my laptop and facebook. Given no work whatsoever, I sit idly as occassionally my name pops up needing me to send a few papers here and there.
This is what I've always dreamed of doing.
Today's post was brought to you by the number 3, the color grey and the word boredom. The number 3 for the three days i've been doing nothing at the office, the color grey for if I were wearing a mood ring, that would be the color it showed and for the word boredom for what i've been experiencing for past 3 days.
Fast forward 15 years into the future, I'm sitting at my desk at the office of a well known newspaper company typing along on my blog. Why, you may ask, am I not immersed in my work as a journalist? Because, dear me, I am only an intern. And as an intern, we are the lowest of the low. In movies, interns are portrayed as mindless zombies in t-shirts with tags around their necks with the words, "slave" plastered all over it. Over here, it's pretty much the same thing save for one little difference: I dont get my own food bowl hidden away in the corner.
As an up-and -coming journalist, i always thought that as a writer, one would be sitting at sullen, smoky cafes drinking tisane and conversing on topics related to philosophy, world events and Salman Rushdie's ex-wives. For me however, it was quaint mamak stalls, teh tarik and how MCA is non-existent. Very Malaysian and very close to the heart.
Although it has not been all press conferences and freebies for me, I look to each day with vigor. Waking up at 8:30 in the morning, leaving the house at 9 and reaching work at 10. Yes, the drive to work takes an hour. At work, I read the morning paper, open my laptop and facebook. Given no work whatsoever, I sit idly as occassionally my name pops up needing me to send a few papers here and there.
This is what I've always dreamed of doing.
Today's post was brought to you by the number 3, the color grey and the word boredom. The number 3 for the three days i've been doing nothing at the office, the color grey for if I were wearing a mood ring, that would be the color it showed and for the word boredom for what i've been experiencing for past 3 days.
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