Continuation

In his selfish refute for anyone to behold this lonesome image of beauty incarnate he sought out a devilish plan. Too beautiful to be concocted in the minds of mortal men or insignificant mice, he sought a plan that would have the pear stay with him for all eternity.

Down the base of the trunk of that sullen and unfortunate tree that chose to bear a single fruit, hundreds of meters down from the single pear the magician waited.

"Why not cut it down using magic?" the onlooking sparrow asked.

"Because magic doesn't exist" the Badger replied.

A fake and a charlatan the magician was. A back alley trinket dealer that adopted the title of Magician to inspire awe and admiration from his fool customers so easily bought into his lies.

Underneath the massive tree he waited for any passersby that he might pounce on them. For he knew that whosoever laid eyes upon the pear would want it for their own.

For days the magician waited, under nights with twinkling stars and soon the stars turned their backs on him for his selfishness disgusted even them.

Beneath glorious rays of the sun, but even then the clouds shunned its rays from him for his greed hurt their hearts and made them weep.

"Thieves" the magician spat.

"Ungodly beasts and toads" he whined.

For in the onslaughts of self pity and greed intertwined with the thorns of hatred and poison nettles the magician felt the need to prove that he was the rightful owner of the last pear on earth.

Out of stones and boulders he made a fort. Out of mud and murky waters he made a moat. Around the tree he built them all. And beneath the tree, the ground wept as it has never seen such selfishness. At this age, below the scattering of the northern stars and the infancy of Orion's belt, never has anyone's heart been riddled with such filth.

Years the magician waited. Frail his body had become. Bones and the sinews of his muscles could be seen underneath the stretched out cloak he once called skin. Dry was his mouth for neither the rains watered down from the heavens as the heavens felt nothing and no pity for him.

One a fateful day, with the harsh winds coming south from the spine of the world and the clouds roiling in from the northern lights, the tree shook. Mother of the pear and keeper of the secrets of the earth.

The pear having stood there for hundreds of years thought it enough and the magician's greed was too much for their hearts to contend.

Without a shout or a cry, the pear released its bonds and feel to the earth knowing full well the consequences of such an action.

Within the fall, the pear felt its skin tighten and shrivel like the pears that came before it, its juices spilling outward from the gravelly pores that littered its skin.

Within an instance it smashed on the ground. lumps of juices that once would have tasted like the heavens themselves smattering the honest ground below.

The Magician looked down upon it. With faint moisture lining his bloodshot eyes and trembles forcing their way through his mutilated and misshapen body, he wept.

The man, magician no more, wept for the heavens to hear and the ground to feel.

For what was once beautiful was reduced to nothingness. And in its nothingness it was reduced to less.

Such is the way of the world. Such is the harshness of the winds and the dirt and the air. Such is life. Stealing opportunities that had been unseen or ill perceived. The world settles for nothing less.

A yawn and a sniffle.

The soft pat-pat-pattering of the evening rain draws me out of my reverie. Stealing a glance to the left informs me that half the working world were on their way back home to their trophy wives, adorable children and translucent dreams long forgotten among the cloud breaching sky scrapers of a metropolitan world.

The background noise is extinguished giving way to more hushed tones drawn out from behind desks piled high with books and paper.

My fingers furiously type away, gnawing off the faint sensations of carpal tunnel syndrome. Easily ignored when most of your life is riddled with the tapping of the keyboards and the faint tingling sensations.

You never truly know what goes on in the lives of the people around you. The old man absentmindedly waiting under the pouring rain for a bus at an abandoned stop where no bus is ever seen.

The old haggard lady who sell curry puffs to feed his teenage son's drug addiction.

Or the tiny infant left precariously on a ledge at the end the bridge waiting to die by a mother who never wanted to be.

What are all their stories. Were their lives as interesting as strangers make them out to be?

The soft pattering of rain on the windows continue throughout my reverie. They bring me back from my selfish wanderings.

Ignore the men, women and children outside. Ignore their silent pleas for help. What about each of us individually? Were we that better off?

As I make my way to my car I'm reminded of a a story.

The last pear on earth it was called. Once upon a time, a magician was walking down a deserted road. Much like any other, with gravel and pebbles littering the way. The path was savaged and un-motherly with no shade in sight.

As the Magician was walking, he saw a large tree, that of which bore a pear, a single pear that dangled from an immense height, too far for man, woman or child to reach. A giant maybe, but giants were scarce and it was not a day for giants young or old to be seen under the shades of pear trees.

So as it was, the Magician took refuge under it. The sweltering hot sun was making his head heavy and his feet sore.

After a moment of resting, he looked up at the single pear. It was high up but that did not hide its lush and sweet persona.

Oh how he envied it. He wanted it and if he could not have it, no one could.

to be continued... cuz I have to go home.

The world... TODAY!

Kitten Killer says the sheet, suicide victim says the paper. All that we strive to become are printed on tabloid newspapers running sheet after sheet of bad press and even worse journalism.

It all comes down to the needs of the consumers to fill their bellies with score after of overly publicized rags of paranoia and discontent.

"Don't go out, you'll get raped", says the bitch that conceived her daughter out of wedlock.

"Don't go there, you'll be mugged" squeals the sex offender father who escaped the gallows after being charged with raping his underage daughter.

We portray the visions projected to us from the prior generations. What we know, were taught to us by our parents. They disallow going through dark alleys because they're the ones hiding in wait there.

Our generation, conceived from the bastard sons and daughters of the generation that came before us have squandered the right to be deemed as the promised generation.

A broken and mangled lot, fueled by the inane fires of a lost submissive attitude and following headlong, blind to what the future held ahead of the thorns and brambles that litters our path.

Bastards and bitches the thorns moan, whores and thieves the branches and leaves yell. What we were designed to be have led us on paths of irksome ire. Straying too far to watch ourselves patter correctly on the righteous path of disheveled hair and torn attires. Too far lost to be taken seriously stoking the dying fires of a washed-up idea.

We have become the forgotten generation relying solely on the pity and the charity of a generation before us.

We hold out our hands seeking forgiveness but did they seek it before them?

Did they hold out their hands in piety and sought forgiveness from the bastards and whores before them?

They with their noses held high cursed our generation. Forever banishing us to the dark abyss. They who paved the way in order for us to lose ours.

What were we if they did not hold our hands and guide our ways before Adam was denied his meat and bone. What were we when Eve lustily felt the juices of the forbidden apple run red down her throat.

We are the lost generation that's what.

Sanity is just a suggestion, like pants.

The crow of the neighbor's slanted, one eyed cockerel startled me awake. It was painstakingly bright. My scrambling to liberate myself from the sinews of the blanket covers made of locks of pony hair intertwined with grass proved indifferent when I gave up and opted to just roll off the bed, covers and all.

I checked my makeshift watch fashioned out of palm leaves, a coconut husk and an irate lizard which sang show tunes when awoken giving off the impression that it was abused (because only show tune singing lizards were abused) to see whether my attempt of jumping out of bed was necessary.

I squeezed it's bespectacled snout making it fumble the horn-rimmed glasses off of it to check the time.

Depending on the tune of Speed racer that morning and having it hum absentmindedly suggested it was still early. If the humming was any indication, probably 6 a.m early.

I was awoken at 6 a.m. I wasn't supposed to be awake before 8. What kind of world do we live in that allows a person to be awoken at 6 a.m by the banshee-like shriek of a male cockerel in a dignified housing area. Matter of fact, what self-respecting person would keep a roost in the backyard of their three-storey urban abode in a densely populated urban environment.

It all culminates in the bowels of their upbringing. Where children are allowed to wander the streets at 12 midnight in search of frogs and the parents allow this thinking that their children are safe beneath the watchful eyes of god, their neighborhood night watch-men and Oprah when she stated in her shows, "children need their freedom".

It doesn't matter where they are, as long as they come home. What happens when they don't come home?

What happens when the silence of the night is pierced by the anguished scream of a mother who was informed that her child had died. Drowned in the dark abyss of the septic pool behind their house.

How now brown cow?

The Necklace

My attempt at a short story. Forgive me. Haha.

The ornately carved necklace felt warm and familiar in his hands. As small as it was, the necklace, a small wreath of holly crafted into the shape of a heart with a tiny dove sitting atop it was the first thing that caught Malcolm’s eyes.

A totem the nurses called it. An object in which patients suffering from Amnesia and Alzheimer’s would use to slowly help invoke memories from their past. Although he found out a while back that this treatment was never in any book or medical paper, the nurses through observation saw that these ‘totems’ gave the patients a calming effect as if their sentimental memories were locked up in another part of the brain. A less damaged one that still retained all the memories of past loves and laughter.

Two days after recovering from the accident Malcolm was told that he suffered from Amnesia. Unable to remember anything prior to waking up in a hospital bed, a young nurse, Suzy, suggested he get a totem of his own. Malcolm willingly obliged.

Walking around the house which he was told was his, he noticed a glint of sunlight rebounding from what seemed a tiny object sitting above the fireplace. Malcolm picked up the trinket and stowed it away inside his pants pocket and made his way to the front door. He found what he was looking for.

Twirling the necklace in his hands, Malcolm would always be reminded of a certain memory. Whether it was real or not, he never knew, “good things should never be questioned” he told himself.

The memory of the ocean usually came to mind. The sights of roiling waves and rough sands that were accompanied by the stinging glare of the morning sun on his face and the colour red would always taunt him. If he allowed his mind to wander deeper he swore he could almost smell the scent of the ocean. He let the memories consume him.

The sounds of footsteps coming closer snapped him out of his reverie. He saw the glint of green and instinctively stood straight. He loved the sight of Nurse Suzy’s deep green eyes.

As she passed, she gave a half-hearted smile Malcolm’s way and continued walking, her emerald orbs glinting in the sunlight.

He was always too shy to return the gesture...

***

Nurse Suzy was on her morning rounds on the western end of the hospital but she always made it a point to pass through the northern wing.

“Morning Suzy” Dr. Alvarez greeted her. She smiled lazily and returned the greeting.

Alvarez noting the smile asked her, “He still doesn’t remember you?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow” she replied more to herself than to the doctor’s enquiry.

Suzy grabbed her clipboard and brushed her auburn locks out of her eyes and continued walking.

“Nice perfume. The ocean?”

“Yes... it was always his favourite” Suzy replies as she looks back at Malcolm absentmindedly twirling her necklace. The same necklace that two weeks before had been an engagement gift from him to her.

‘Not today, maybe tomorrow’ she hoped to herself.

The value of 1

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine piqued my interest to a theory that he made up. Before I continue, I just want to explain that this blog was created for the sole reason to have me practice my writing. The posts do not need to make sense nor do I want them to. It's just for practice.

Yet, this post is a discussion. No one be obliged to respond, it's just so that it's out before some creature beats me to it.

The value of 1 (one), is a theory in which each and every thing in existence (most preferably corporeal) can be valued at a certain number.

Now, when he explained this theory to me, I had my doubts. Being the cynic that I am, questioned him to no end.

It's very simple. When a person comes into being, and is given a soul with which to think, feel and perform re-menial activities with, they are given the number 1 or 'I am number one' if you will.

As they go through life, their actions and consequences add to that value thus increasing their self -worth. For instance, actions eliciting rewards adds a point and consequences that leads to disapproval, deducts a point.

Thus, for me, a full-formed young male, with several achievements in life, driving a decent set of wheels and taking shelter under a roof could be given the value of 10 give or take the actions he has taken in life.

The question still lingers in our minds though, what is our value in life, how do provide value to our achievements and what is our main value in life with which we use as target.

We start from the very beginning. When we are born, we are given the value of one. When we survive the birthing process, we are given the value of one still. Our parents adore us, thus granting them a full achievement point and having them claim that it benefits from us in turn granting us a point. The ability to grant points to others and be granted points will be discussed later on.

So with the stratus value of 2 while still a babe, commands you keep collecting points like Mario bopping bricks with his head.

undeserving of points as an infant and during the kindergarten period, we move on the primary school. Points can be earned by making friends or helping others make friends thus qualifying you to earn points. Then the UPSR period comes. A full set of A's could earn you 2 to 3 points, but a rather shoddy result may just earn you 1 point and deducting a point or two.

We move forward with PMR and SPM and maybe STPM. The gist of it is that you gain points based on your achievements, rewards and decisions.

Today's post was all about the point system. In future posts we will discuss the deduction process as well as a look at the pros and cons of sins.

At best...

For the longest time I could remember, a specific thought has overpowered my rational sense of thinking: the fact that life is the eternal displacement where we should not be. A narrow tube in which we missed the off-chance to be propelled into the perpetual bliss that is our next life.

People have often stated that in our existence there exists several places: earth, heaven and hell. For the devout catholics there's also purgatory.

Many people define earth as a sullen state of limbo that is the intermediate point in our existence before we are catapulted to our next destination.

But what if it's not? what if earth is just another exit. Another turning point in our miserable little, ill-forgotten lives that we, in our misguided approach to cosmic travel misdirected and landed in.

What if everyone existing right now was meant for something far greater than to be placed in this god-forsaken (a term loosely used) plane of existence.

This is how I see it. We were created from the noblest and purest of molecular designs. constructed in the cosmos and given the freedom of choice and understanding as all perfect higher beings are given.

We were then placed on a proverbial slingshot fashioned from the stars and the galaxies that littered that plane of existence and flung to the farthest reaches of nothingness to a plane of existence by a higher power.

We were supposed to land on heaven but was misdirected and ended up landing on earth, a shy stretch from hell.

It's not unheard of, yet what we sinisterly don't take into account is that all this is metaphorical and proverbially intended for the bored and unwashed.

So it all comes down to the simple fact that all this is horse shit. good day.

The essence of something long forgotten.

By a degree of longing, each of us in turn have had vivid flashes of what we yearn to be. Be they illusions of grandeur or obsessions, we've all gone through that phase in life.

A phase in which we know what railroad tracks will lead to where no matter the specific number carriage we hope on or the intricate lines of the tracks that look all too similar to one another.

My obsession was with my writing. I was never certain as to who had said this, but it was certain that I held on to it like a babe suckling on a teat.

"Music is my mistress and it plays second fiddle to no one".

Writing was my mistress and prior to this played second fiddle to no one. Yet, for the better part of my stay in this company, she (writing) was a cantankerous whore who slept with anyone and everyone and in turn could be found underneath the covers of the beds of strangers.

Ever since we moved here, my love and passion for her had diminished. She was never mine, and yet for all the life of me I still considered her my one true love.

I found her in the back alleys of scriptures, in the empty brothels of a feature and in the beds of the editors who vilified her against me and abused her in an attempt to make her their own.

I'm losing her. Her once true warmth that seeped into my every bones feels so ancient and distant as if she has aged and matured beyond her years and my grasp.

In the past, she was my mistress, where passions of old played a part in my life, I would always come back to her each night. She would smother me in her bosoms and love me with all her passion. She would envelop me in the throes of love making and sweep me off to distant lands in the only way she could.

Now she has gotten lazy, like the back alley whore that wishes only for men full of desperation to take her in the same alley she was conceived by the bitch of a mother before her.

Long gone are those distant lands, long lost are the intricate scents and smells of fruits and foods and the sounds and sights of the harsh gravel under our feet from the beaches we used to make love on.

Lost are the heavy sound of typing my fingers used to play on her skin.

The whore has taken leave of the love I gave her. She seeps through my fingers in a last ditched attempt to escape the harsh quarters I keep her in and break free of the bonds only to find salvation in the bosoms of a matron mother that only knows a straight road.

My mistress is almost lost to me. Yet, I will try to gain her trust again that she may allow me to make sweet melodies and visit lost planes of existence once again.

My whore and my bitch will return to me.