I fear I will lose myself in my little ideas and thoughts, and die. I fear I will die having done nothing to turn my little thoughts into big actions. I fear death before I have been able to untangle myself from the tediums of everyday life, to transcend the needs of the day to day (money, food, living space). I fear death before i have transcended the everyday and changed it so it no longer needs to be transcended.

On Writing

Writing is like going to war. There are a lot of inflated egos involved. Most times the issue has been blown out of proportion. Other times there is no issue, just a need for blood, carnage and destruction. Except every innocent civilian killed, imprisoned, kidnapped, raped, mutilated – those tortured and those that torture – are all visions of the narcissistic soul that sits, silently, holding a pen.

The scarf hanging behind the door flickers in my peripheral vision. It isn’t cold out. The scarf has been hanging there from several winters ago, faded and dusty now, partially moth-eaten.

No face emerges from behind the door. The door does not budge. Yet it seems as though the scarf has become an effervescent vapour that moves to drafts of air blowing through the door’s woody fingerprints, but the air is stagnant

The baby-tongue of my lantern’s flame stands, twitching only slightly. My shadow on the wall is a malformed apparition and the moon cannot be seen from  my window. The scarf still flickers in my peripheral vision and I expect you to walk through that door.

“Leave living to those who know how to do it.”

Cleaning out your home after you passed, I finally understood.

Dreamers

Dreams? Dreams you say? Frivolous persuits. There are no dreams here. At least none that are different from anyone elses. We dream to be One, all of us. We dream to be better persons, lawyers, doctors and engineers too, of course. We dream to be good wives and quiet children that dream the same way too. We dream in sequence and structure, the proper way dreams should be dreamt. When it is unbearably quiet in the night, we are all asleep. And the unbearable quietness of day is not heard by us either for we have not awaken. We dream, you see, in cyclic fashion, perpetually, continuously. And in our predictably similar dreams, patterned to what a wonderful world, we abide by the dreaming rules, and continue dreaming happily ever after.

Psych final on Saturday, History of Graphic Design on Sunday. No mood to study for either and zero preparation for both.

Hooray.

I feel SO FUCKING USELESS!

I MUST CREATE!!! I MUST!

Your room smells of old
history books, musty paperback novels
that have been felt
with eyes and read by hands, and later
rested on sturdy mahogany shelves.

You’ve left your glasses on the bed
stand, next to a picture of your wife -
you told me
she died romantically, her head in your lap
on a trip to the alps or some other cold
place. I wonder
if she thought so.

I’ve been waiting naked in your room
for a while now, you said
you had to go take your blue
pill -

The cloud car ran over a cloud boy today,
while he tried to fetch his cloud ball from the street.
I tripped while jumping over a puddle,
trying to save a little cloud ant
instead.
A black cloud cat crossed my path;
I was smitten by the cloud god -
he said I’d better get my dirty feet
back down to earth
before he made the clouds rain
and there was nothing left to stand on.

So many comments! :L

Thank you Darky

I hope you’re well. And I’m sorry I havent been on MSN lately its busy on this side of the world.

Update your blog!! So I can comment too

*non-existent hugs*

A moment ago I knew what to write here.

The sun hangs hollow
shining hollow rays
that turn iridescent when refracted
through hollow things -
and in the emptiness of the day
what more can you say except
you have no more words?
what more can you feel except
a hollow, unending weakness?

He thumbs through
your belongings
absently
when you take leave of him -
(the burgundy scarf
pale lipstick,
pencil, sketchpad)
and places them on a shelf
with similar items.

Having cleaned his room (of you)
he steps out the door
to find his pick for the night.

A leaf falls
in the garden
by the pond
on our wet picnic mat
close to your lips
singed by the sudden heat
of the gun barrel
that you held between them

You remember words (not yours)
stolen feelings – cliches
You scribble down a thought
or two
and call it
poetry

There are only
so many
ways to say
you are in pain;
beyond that,
pain ceases to be;

it becomes the room
in which you live -
the room in which
too much has happened;
even the jewelry box
holds your gem,
the uneven folds of your bedsheet
cradle it,
and the vacant chair is warm
with its heat.

untitled (poem)

When the only chance at freedom
lies splattered
on the sidewalk

When God offers no solace
and even
ceases to be

When anger is not a feeling
but an entire
state of being
and
despair is not a condition
but a thought process

When the only way to salvation
is the razor-straight path
of a bullet

Then come and ask me
why I speak of death
as if it is a blessing that will
release me.

Twitting…

I’m not one to adore a bird’s twittering. I rather dislike it. Its like an irritating alarm that I cant turn off or snooze. Its a call that brings me back to the here and now from my pleasant dreams (day or otherwise, usually daydreams).

But, anyhow, a friend and I have signed up for Twitter accounts.

Here’s mine: http://twitter.com/gindeloon

Henjoy.