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I don't see what's wrong with crying. I feel so much better now after it's all over. I don't even know why it happened, it just rushed out just like that. Maybe I'm worn out, maybe I'm feeling the weight after such a long time. It felt really good. But you wouldn't understand, you're not in my circumstances. It's been a long time since I've had a release like that. But I guess I should've seen it coming. So today it all came crashing down on me. But now I can feel that I’m ready to pick up the piece.
Just don’t doubt me, he said. I still remember that from more than a month ago, I wonder why. He was probably one of the last person I had expected those words to come from. It came as a reply to are you sure? And after that, I wasn’t sure he was. I guess maybe too many things were happening around him at the time, or... I don’t know, maybe I’m just reading too much into it. But at that moment there was a period of vulnerability and uncertainty. I wanted to probe deeper, but there were things to do.
I think she was right, so was he. I’m spread too thin, I’m spinning so fast, you can’t see the colours anymore. I don’t want to go like this, but really, I’d rather burn out in one spectacular flame than fade off slowly, silently, not doing much. I guess I do put too much in other people that sometimes I forget about myself. See, even at this time of the day I’m still awake, and really, I don’t have to be. I just feel obliged. But now really, I have to go, there’s sweet music waiting, and another day ahead.
I’m drawn back in once again. It’s been like a revolving door, one moment I’m in, one moment I’m out. I’m not sure what I’m in anymore, and not sure what I just got myself out of. It’s ecstasy, both of them a world apart from each other, yet very much the same ecstasy that thrills me. I can’t take both, and I can’t seem to live without either. I very much would like to give one up, but it’s
now that it’s been so long. I’m not sure I’ll stay in. I’ll give it a day.
I just woke up to the end of a passing shower. Everything’s wet with a moody dampness – the roads, the cars, the trees and the houses. There’s a certain stillness that hangs around after the rain has stopped. It’s juxtaposed against what just a few moments ago was frantic activity in a frenzied dance of the rain. A car passes by, it’s tires make a sound like tape on the road as it passes by, leaving two warm, wet trails in its wake. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sun, the colours have been changing too quickly.
The wind’s rushing about in a minor tempest today. It’s been all blowy and blustery this evening, the wind’s crying out someone’s name as it goes on it mad rush through the trees and between the buildings. Crying out, crying out, whispering, shouting, languishing in a wild ecstasy. The wind’s crying out someone’s name, a name that I’ve forgotten for long enough already. It’s been so long since it’s been like this, it may be telling me something but I refuse to believe it. The wind’s crying out someone’s name, but for now, it dies down and no echo remains.
I think I realise why I blogsurf. It’s just somehow comforting to know that there are people who go through the same things you do. It’s reassuring to know that you’re not the only one feeling the way you are. Teenage or not, air stewardess or not, we all somehow share common experiences, common frustrations. We never get the chance to articulate it in our lives, and yet here we are, showing our stories to the world, to complete strangers. Yet somehow it brings us closer together. This is what ties the world up, my friend: we’re all human.
Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Five days later I wouldn’t have know what the heck was going on right now. In perspective, I just have to keep this on for three more days before the dust starts to settle.
I’ve seen all the colours now and I’m putting myself back in time trying to imagine how I say them then. It’s not enduring, I realise. After everything fades into the grey I now see, there’s none of that diversity I see. No screaming, no cheering, no spunky shades and loud colours. It’s all a mess, that’s all to it.
It’s time to catch up on another time lost in this book of days. Looking back or looking forward, he just couldn’t see much. It’s been an ineffectual struggle. It’s a walk filled with confidence and contradictions. The crisp air that once greeted him in the morning seems to be long gone. The weather wears him down, and the weight is increasing even more. This walk was littered with mistakes and triumphs, and it wasn’t going to let him down yet.
But the world changed too fast for him, what he knew was history, what he was, now isn’t anymore.
You don’t know how glad I am for tomorrow. After all the colours have faded, all the echoes have died off, and all the stage is clear, finally I get to get some rest. You don’t know why I’m feeling this because you never bother to step into my shoes. You don’t know why I’m so tired of doing some things because you’ve never known how it is like to be burn out, worn up, and almost giving up.
Then again, you’ll probably never know, and never see, because I never tell. Hardly anyone knows about this, much less you.
It feels so right somehow it’s wrong. After everything is over, I guess I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or ashamed. It just wasn’t right. It’s not easy to be where I am. Everyone underestimates the power of what you don’t see going on. Backstage is where everything happens, that what they always say, and indeed, backstage is where it all begins. Just because no one sees it happening doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Someone had to take the place after everything fell down. Someone had to, and someone did, so what’s the problem here?
You won’t ever know.
You’ll never know amazing until you’ve been in my shoes today. Yet tomorrow I’ll be struggling not to lose what I’ve found. There’s always a little shock that creeps up on me at the most unexpected moments, even when all that glorious feeling is upon me, and spreading all over the place.
Right on the other side of the earth, someone’s looking up at the same sky, wondering why he’s not living the life I’m living. Meanwhile, it’s midnight over here, I’m wondering why I’m not living the life he’s living. I concur. It’s a disappointing world to live in.
Come back home child,
It’s been way too long,
Yeah, your father will be waiting
No matter far you’ve gone
Yeah, I know because
I’ve been on the road back home
And he’s seen me from a distance
And I was still his son.
I’ve come back home father,
It’s been way too long,
You’ve been waiting and I’m sorry.
It’s been way too long.
No matter what you’ve been through
He’ll be waiting at the door
Arms waiting to embrace you
To make all worth waiting for
He’s been waiting
He’s been waiting
And he’ll be waiting
I typed this messge hastily on my handphone just a few minutes before midnight yesterday. Staring silently at a what seemed at that time like emptiness, eternity and hope. Everything was silent, dark and still. I didn’t know what I was typing then.
The stars are indifferent to my plight. The sting still remain from what i thought was already long past. It’s a fleeting peacefulness as i lay on my back gazing, as only myself, at the stars above, then i’d realise just how feebly small we all are. It’s gone as soon as we’re all moving on again.
Today I realised how blind I was. It’s not just an obligation I have to fulfil, it’s my excuse in doing something when I know I don’t want to. I’ve come to a point where I’m starting to avoid too many things.
Auden once said in a poem that
on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast
I beg to differ. Sometimes things get to hard to ignore, and everything seems so likely to fall apart once I’m over the edge. It still remains difficult to catch up on three months of lost time.
Makes no sense for me to be sitting here. It’s Wednesday already and in three days, this week will end. I’m never coming back again, I keep telling myself, but it does not ring as loudly as it should. It never does. Soon I’ll be regretting not doing what I should have done earlier. It’s a vicious cycle I find hard to get out of wherever I go – there’s no turning back onc eI’m past and it seems as if all that matters is how far I go forward.
5:50 pm, Wednesday. Sixteenth of March, 2005. I’m somewhere in school.
I think I’m psychotic, somehow. It’s just everything’s too crazy lately. Yes, no, perhaps. Just yesterday I suffered from something like a withdrawal syndrome. I think I had too much sugar the day before. I got off the train after feeling this horrible discomfort for an hour. Got some chocolate (damn that product) and felt quite better. I need to sleep earlier and wake later, it’s a holiday, damnit. Can’t stand this anymore. Can I find a day that I can finally wake after 11am? That’d be sweet. I’ve got the stuff, good books, great music. Something’s missing, I think.
Music is lost on the fallen people.
I don’t know what that means, but hell, there’s some good stuff floating around that people don’t hear of. I think I have odd taste in music. I call it eclectic, people call it weird. I think it’s my sister’s influence. She listens to anything from pop to trip-hop to Latin. Me too. I was letting my friend listen to Beth Orton a while ago, and he was like, she’s good, but who the heck is she?
You practically don’t hear anything you don’t hear on radio.
Music falls on deaf ears today.
There is was just taunting me. Thick, black, and still, barely half an inch in deepness from the bottom of that cup. I could just imagine the taste. Tantalizingly bitter, fresh still warm from the machine. Cruel, cruel, it tormented it. I took a hesitant sip. Bitter like death, and dark like the night. It was pleasure and torture, the taste, the sensation. Not yet acrid and not yet painful. I got the full taste of it around my tongue before I swallowed it. Three hours later I could still taste it on my lips.
This was espresso number two.
You always said there was something in the breeze. It’s another one of those cartoon ideas that something comes around out of nowhere to bring some change. Oh yes, we learnt that in literature. Deux ex machina. We wait all our lives for change, waiting for the next month, year, term, semester to bring about something. Everytime we try to initiate some change, we wait likewise. It’s this problem with us, everything needs to have a continuity that doesn’t count time by days, hours or minutes. We wait for long stretches, in more ways than one, before we start working.
Where his tongue once was, her taste remained. So this was the curse of love, he thought. He tasted, hungered, and longed for more, but she never returned. The minutes numbered to hours in the springtime shower, the monsoon rain, the winter snow. The hours numbered to days, and he stared out of glass, into glass, through people, through shops, down streets, up to heaven, but he never saw a thing. Not a shadow, no note, no glass slipper, no messages on the phone. The days numbered to months, the months numbed into years until one day.
It was gone.
It’s the late nights that fascinate me. Rain on the windowpanes, watching the streetlights in a vague haze of light. The only sound I hear are the raindrops on the ledge, on the windowpane.
It’s the late afternoons that draw me. Where the sun isn’t that hot, isn’t that bright. There the shadows aren’t that dark and aren’t that long. The wind tousles the trees playfully now.
It’s the early mornings that enchant me. Slight movements, the air still untouched from the night before, not knowing whether the blue that surrounds is light or dark. I breathe slow and deep.
Sometimes we find comfort in familiarity. It’s easier to run to a face you know, or hide in the warmth of your bed. Yet sometimes we need to find comfort in unfamiliarity. Run to someplace you’ve never been, someplace where no one knows you, someplace where you can blend into the crowd. There you don’t have to care about anyone, and no one will notice you. You can hide in the mass of people, or among the maze or buildings, or in the expanse of space. For that short peroid, you can escape from the wants of your burdened existence.
I feel really horrible now. It’s not been a most wonderful two days, and the weather today is downright depressing. I’m feeling very restless, kind of lost, and really, really not productive. It’s been a waste of time these two weeks, and I wished I could’ve lived it better. I have things I’d rather not think about, because it seems like everything around me is a mess. I need to get a lot of things sorted out here. I think I’m almost at my wits end, and I need someone to run to, not somewhere to hide. God help me.
The Psalms tell us that we were created a little lower than angels, and a little higher than animals. Some people rather be a little higher than animals, rather than subject to themselves being a little lower than angels.
Yes I envy him for being something I was never able to be, that I could never every become now.
Yes, I’m angry at another because he got what I want, and I got something more than that, which I never wanted.
Such is the irony of life, when you are a little higher, you wish you were a little lower.
I think if I wanted to cry anytime now, I could. All I want to do now is fall on my knees and let everything wash over me. There are very few times in your life you’ll want to use words like “magnificent” or “amazing” and use them to their full extent, past the place where the adjectives lose their ability to describe. Emotions drown me sometimes, and I’m willing to let it. Let everything get to me, and then pour everything out, knowing that once I’m over, someone’s there to make me feel better. I keep coming back here.
A couple of thousand of years back, there lived a woodcutter, somewhere in some Middle Eastern country. He lived alone, I would guess. Chopping timber wasn’t that easy a task.
The wood was heavy, dense, musky. Strong, definitely. Cut down a tall tree, they said, so he did.
I would presume there was a blacksmith in town as well. Everything the townsmen needed, he made, nails, hammers, whatever they needed.
Only three nails? No problem to him. They asked, he delivers.
So it was, the scent was heavy in the air, the scent of someone chopping timber for a cross.
The day after never really lived it up.
Three hours of sleep is way too little, I died for the rest of the day, and well, it was never actually complete. I’ve got one week to redeem myself before April starts. Everything that I’ve left undone, unfinished I’ll have to make up for it soon. It’s a straight road to destruction, and I should’ve veered off into the wilderness ages ago. That was an unnecessary metaphor to use, and yes, it’s getting too mundane in here. It’s going to be a hell of a day tomorrow too. Don’t wait up.
Don’t bother. It’s been too long since I went underwater. I’m drowning in every imaginable state. Work, criticism, insomnia. It’s been a helluva month, and it can only get better – or worse, depending on how you see it – from here on. Blue skies, black skies, sunsets and bus rides. Same old thing every day, I can’t be bothered to take notice anymore. I’m getting acquainted with my nocturnal side by the day, and the silence is only that much of a comfort. I listen to what other people don’t hear, and it’s my own little world. Bring it on, dammit.
This month ends in two days, and I’m invariably living on the edge again. I’m picking at the scabs of old wounds once again, wishing it all never happened in the first place. I’ve been missing out on life the past few days, rushing through and endless stream of traffic. I’m lost, weary, and just trying to find a place to settle down. It’s been taking too long lately, dragging too late, and really, I’m not sure where I’m heading anymore. I’m treading on thin ice, and barely awake to notice, and it’ll be too late when I begin to.
I was wondering if we were going too fast recently. Like when you’re on a train in the subway and those posters outside flash by, too fast for you to look clearly, and too slow for you to ignore. There’s a nagging feeling that you’re missing out on something, but you’re too occupied to find out. The next time you’re on that train again, you try to catch a glimpse again, to no avail. So there goes another day in endless locomotion, trying to catch up on the things we’ve missed. I’d rather sleep now and think about it later.
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