Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:00:29 AM)
you dont get the feeling that he's really engaging with them
i think marie loved him and wanted to get married, but to him it didn't matter either way
" that evening, marie came round for me and asked me if i wanted to marry her. i said i didn't mind and we could do if she wanted to. she then wanted to know if i loved her. i replied as i had done once already, that it didn't mean anything but that i probably didnt."
charm says: (1:03:04 AM)
=\
okay. i need to find that book
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:03:45 AM)
"why marry me then?" she said. i explained to her that it really didn't matter and that if she wanted to, we could get married. anyway, she was the one who was asking me and I was simply saying yes. she then remarked that marriage was a serious matter. i said, 'no.'
she didn't say anything for a moment and looked at me in silence. then she spoke. she just wanted to know if i'd have accepted the same proposal if it had come from another woman, with whom i had a similar relationship. i said, 'naturally.' "
to me this man is strange, he feels like he has no emotion at all
charm says: (1:05:52 AM)
not a bad thing, perhaps.
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:05:58 AM)
a few of the characters (especially the religious ones, the madly religious ones) get angry at him because of this
yeah...and the truth is, he is just being honest with them
it truly doesn't matter to him whether he marries marie, or someone else, or even to marry at all
and at the end when he knows he is heading for the guillotine, he says:
charm says: (1:07:11 AM)
does all these happen before he kills the man>
(the unfeelingness)
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:07:42 AM)
"For the final consummation and for me to feel less lonely, my last wish was that there should be a crowd of spectators at my execution and that they should greet me with cries of hatred."
yes
he is always like that, doesn't talk much
charm says: (1:08:48 AM)
hm
what do you think
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:09:09 AM)
to him living is ..."you ended up getting used to everything"
at first he just seems like an unfeeling man
but he lives by what he can see, feel...what he can perceive through his senses
which is...logical
but there is no meaning to this logic
why, then, exist, if only to die?
would it really matter when and how? if death was indeed the end?
charm says: (1:11:13 AM)
i was just wondering the same thing, today
haha
why exist?
but i do not believe love is the answer.
it must not be - for then so many of us would have meaningless lives.
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:11:52 AM)
" as if a familiar journey under a summer sky could as easily end in prison as in innocent sleep"
i think so, because there are several kinds of love
whether superficial or not
disregarding religion entirely
you could live for somebody else, whether you loved them as a friend, family, or romantically
you could live for the love of material things and the sake of pride, being more so of something than others, turning life into a sort of competition that whoever has the most wins
and yet the material kind of pursuit...when they reach that point when they are satisfied that they are safely more wealthy than others, they wonder what then?
charm says: (1:14:28 AM)
just like living for someone else
if one day they should be wrested from you, leave you
or if you had to go far away
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:14:44 AM)
(but for the most of their lives, they had a sort of purpose...a self made one)
charm says: (1:14:51 AM)
then our lives would lose all meaning.
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:15:03 AM)
but lives consist of more people than that..
even a dog or a cat would suffice..if tey were the kind
but it's true
when those things end, life does lose all meaning
for me i have my faith
so
charm says: (1:16:46 AM)
should we all be allowed to find our own little meanings?
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:16:48 AM)
to an aethist life is what you make of it
yes
charm says: (1:17:01 AM)
relativism cheapens everything
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:17:04 AM)
haha!
it can
well, this is a world of free will
the only limitations are that of your own ambition and nature
unless you choose otherwise
charm says: (1:18:07 AM)
haha
sounds like you got it all sussed out (:
why are you depressed then
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:18:22 AM)
haha
umm. i am depressed because my world is tiny, and the sameness is driving me insane
this conversation is like a breath of fresh air
i want to be involved in something i want, what really drives me...
charm says: (1:19:27 AM)
now the hard part is finding out what that is
isnt it
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:19:31 AM)
rather than admin work
haha
charm says: (1:19:34 AM)
or finding a way to get there.
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:19:35 AM)
i know what it ISNT
thats a start!
haha
well
charm says: (1:19:44 AM)
well. half the battle won!
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:19:48 AM)
yes!
and no ;p
it can be quite vague
charm says: (1:20:07 AM)
sigh, i know.
i am looking for something transcendental, permanant, inspiring and above all, rescuing.
+Charmaine' || 最想环游的世界 says: (1:21:36 AM)
transcendental?
charm says: (1:22:30 AM)
haha. something above all these tiny-ness, meaninglessness and superficiality
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sound.
Click. Rustle. Breathe.
White noise. Rain on concrete.
Muffled, spattering through seeing windows.
Unheard, unfelt, alone.
Breathe. Pause for silence, which reigns.
Hollowed echoes. The distant bass.
Drumbeats, heartbeats, footsteps.
It's here.
A breath -
White noise. Rain on concrete.
Muffled, spattering through seeing windows.
Unheard, unfelt, alone.
Breathe. Pause for silence, which reigns.
Hollowed echoes. The distant bass.
Drumbeats, heartbeats, footsteps.
It's here.
A breath -
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Room 93: The Song
I watched as the lights changed from dim to dark, and with the siren's call echoing. I was mesmerised, eyes transfixed upon the still figure before me. It's cries were like music, and I dared not make a sound for fear of breaking the spell. Yes, it had me caught in a web of my own creation, it's heart-wrenching weeping never fading, but resonating in my heart and mind, binding me, holding me still. I could not tear my eyes from the sight. The music was like the union of the howling of wolves and the aurora, birthed in a winter cave of changing light.
To have such a sound here, within a closet of a room, behind a grungy metal door, was something more enchanting than the most magical of fantasies. The building had been unused for an age, that was for sure. It was certain that I was the first to make a print in it's dust for a long time. I was alone, save for the company of the weeping figure. In my heart I knew that even as it was alone, it had cried this way, it's heartsong forever echoing down empty corridors.
The rich sound did not match the bony frame from which it emanated from. Head in hands and naked, it sat upon an abandoned office chair. And always, always, that mesmerising sound rising from the depths. I dared not enter further than the closet's threshold. I did not want to interrupt. Though at first instinct prompted me to comfort the creature, I knew it was only an effigy. The song battered at my heart, pushing through me in it's sorrowful vibration. I almost wanted to be bound this way, by the siren song. I do not know how long I stood there, watching, listening.
Waiting.
I fancied that the figure with it's long, long legs and tumbleweed hair might turn and look at me. But no, I knew that it would not. Whether it could or not was another question entirely, as I myself was torn between fantasy and reality in this time and place. Logic told me it was not real. But something deep down in my core, the thing we call our Dream, told me that this thing drawn in black and white across a wall had a life, had a soul. And for a moment I believed it.
I forgot the musty smells, the rust, the age, the dirt, the damp. I forgot about the floor beneath my feet. About the walls around me. And the sky above my head. I could only see the ageless figure, head forever in his hands, body firmly fixed to that chair. And always, always, the changing light, and the siren song. Reaching out, I allowed myself to cross the threshold, to touch the figure on the wall. First, only an index finger had crossed that sacred barrier which I had initially refused to cross. But I was drawn to it, this pallid image and it's haunting melody. Then, the rest of my hand, my arm, my shoulder, and finally my entire self had stepped across the threshold, to meet the figure face to face.
My feet trailed a path in the dust, each step causing whirls of dust to rise and fall. Like a petrified man I walked, slowly, slowly. Though the distance between the threshold and the figure was perhaps a metre or less, the few steps I took seemed to be frozen in time. The air grew thick, and I stirred up more dust. The song went on, unwavering and strong. At last I stood before the seated image, and with an outstretched finger touched it on one bony shoulder.
A part of me that was still sentient was surprised to feel nothing but bare wall, plastered over with white paint that had begun to peel and grow black mould. The feeling of surprise jolted the rest of me awake, and the siren call slowly faded into the background. It no longer echoed in me, the spell was broken and I was free. The image was just an image, it could not hold me. I no longer felt any sorrow for this thing, a thing that had no soul but for my fancy.
I tore my eyes away from it, with a tinge of fear that it might try and bind me to it again. I felt no regret shutting the metal door and subjecting it to darkness, no regret turning my back, no regret walking away.
Only the dust listens to it's hollow cries now.
To have such a sound here, within a closet of a room, behind a grungy metal door, was something more enchanting than the most magical of fantasies. The building had been unused for an age, that was for sure. It was certain that I was the first to make a print in it's dust for a long time. I was alone, save for the company of the weeping figure. In my heart I knew that even as it was alone, it had cried this way, it's heartsong forever echoing down empty corridors.
The rich sound did not match the bony frame from which it emanated from. Head in hands and naked, it sat upon an abandoned office chair. And always, always, that mesmerising sound rising from the depths. I dared not enter further than the closet's threshold. I did not want to interrupt. Though at first instinct prompted me to comfort the creature, I knew it was only an effigy. The song battered at my heart, pushing through me in it's sorrowful vibration. I almost wanted to be bound this way, by the siren song. I do not know how long I stood there, watching, listening.
Waiting.
I fancied that the figure with it's long, long legs and tumbleweed hair might turn and look at me. But no, I knew that it would not. Whether it could or not was another question entirely, as I myself was torn between fantasy and reality in this time and place. Logic told me it was not real. But something deep down in my core, the thing we call our Dream, told me that this thing drawn in black and white across a wall had a life, had a soul. And for a moment I believed it.
I forgot the musty smells, the rust, the age, the dirt, the damp. I forgot about the floor beneath my feet. About the walls around me. And the sky above my head. I could only see the ageless figure, head forever in his hands, body firmly fixed to that chair. And always, always, the changing light, and the siren song. Reaching out, I allowed myself to cross the threshold, to touch the figure on the wall. First, only an index finger had crossed that sacred barrier which I had initially refused to cross. But I was drawn to it, this pallid image and it's haunting melody. Then, the rest of my hand, my arm, my shoulder, and finally my entire self had stepped across the threshold, to meet the figure face to face.
My feet trailed a path in the dust, each step causing whirls of dust to rise and fall. Like a petrified man I walked, slowly, slowly. Though the distance between the threshold and the figure was perhaps a metre or less, the few steps I took seemed to be frozen in time. The air grew thick, and I stirred up more dust. The song went on, unwavering and strong. At last I stood before the seated image, and with an outstretched finger touched it on one bony shoulder.
A part of me that was still sentient was surprised to feel nothing but bare wall, plastered over with white paint that had begun to peel and grow black mould. The feeling of surprise jolted the rest of me awake, and the siren call slowly faded into the background. It no longer echoed in me, the spell was broken and I was free. The image was just an image, it could not hold me. I no longer felt any sorrow for this thing, a thing that had no soul but for my fancy.
I tore my eyes away from it, with a tinge of fear that it might try and bind me to it again. I felt no regret shutting the metal door and subjecting it to darkness, no regret turning my back, no regret walking away.
Only the dust listens to it's hollow cries now.
***
The first time this blog has ever featured pictures, this is written in tribute to a particular art called 99rooms which I had accidentally stumbled upon, and immediately fell in love with. Created by the four men you see below (a screen shot from the art itself), it is the fusion of photography, paintings and animation that brings the project to life.
L-R: Richard Schumann (Art Direction), Johannes Bunemann (Sound Design), Kim Koster (The artist), Stephan Schulz (Flash/ programming)
The first image above featuring the skinny man are screenshots from the game, specifically that of Room 93. Each room is special, with something to look at or do, and most of them are interactive that require you, the viewer, to click on something (or some things) in order to progress to the next room. Whether there is something to do or not is indicated by the cursor, if you play it you will know what I mean.
I don't know what this was doing on gamershood.com, but a rating of 3 stars out of a possible 10 repelled me from 'playing' the so-called game. However, prompting from my sister nudged me to discover this, which I really enjoyed (even though it can get a little creepy and morbid).
Here is the link to the flash: http://99rooms.terracontent.de/99rooms/99rooms.html
And this is where you can find more information: http://99rooms.com/info.html
For more works by Johannes Bunemann: http://www.dripdrop.de
In the flash, to view thumbnails so you can go directly to your desired room, just press and hold any key on your keyboard (I find any letter key works just fine) and select a room.
Image source: screenshots from the flash "99rooms" created by Richard Schumann, Johannes Bunemann, Kim Koster and Stephan Schulz.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Face.
Now let's try to hide behind the face, the face that never blinks, laughs or cries. The face that is forever young with a marble white complexion. It has no real eyes, just two black holes to look out of. Let's hide behind the face, let's go deep, deep beneath the face where the world can't find us, where it's warm, where you can hear the rush of real blood, and not the rasp of false, slithering skin, away from the glint of sheathed claws.
The world cannot touch us here.
This face is a very public face. It smiles and laughs at the right moments, and when the time comes to mourn the holes that the world thinks are eyes leak salt water. But they are not real tears, because real tears contain a pinch of Sorrow. What hides underneath has no control whatsoever over this public face, because what it wants does not agree with the public face, and thus is suppressed. Whatever hides beneath is very lonely, insecure, and very afraid that one day the protective face would be taken away, and that it would be left to be exposed to the world. It has lost it's identity to the face, and now the face is it's identity. It's name no longer exists; it is just a Lie, having lost itself in the labyrinth of rules that govern the face. Illogical, restraining rules that drive even the best minds to madness.
This madness is just barely detectable, being a fairly subtle form. It manifests itself in various ways. While maintaining a fairly normal front (noting of course that in this context, normal should be taken to mean the situation of the majority group), the persona is free to operate using several different profiles which are better known as alternative masks. However this often leads to a loss of identity. The original self, if it even exists still, can no longer be discerned from the scores of other profiles and faces that other people see. Each one is crafted uniquely, like a fingerprint, in reaction to something or someone. Each time something sparks off a new reaction, yet another facet is formed. Like The Mask. Except these can never be removed...just changed and added to. And more is not necessarily better.
The more layers, the deeper the original self hides. And the persona dies, while the mask lives on.
The world cannot touch us here.
This face is a very public face. It smiles and laughs at the right moments, and when the time comes to mourn the holes that the world thinks are eyes leak salt water. But they are not real tears, because real tears contain a pinch of Sorrow. What hides underneath has no control whatsoever over this public face, because what it wants does not agree with the public face, and thus is suppressed. Whatever hides beneath is very lonely, insecure, and very afraid that one day the protective face would be taken away, and that it would be left to be exposed to the world. It has lost it's identity to the face, and now the face is it's identity. It's name no longer exists; it is just a Lie, having lost itself in the labyrinth of rules that govern the face. Illogical, restraining rules that drive even the best minds to madness.
This madness is just barely detectable, being a fairly subtle form. It manifests itself in various ways. While maintaining a fairly normal front (noting of course that in this context, normal should be taken to mean the situation of the majority group), the persona is free to operate using several different profiles which are better known as alternative masks. However this often leads to a loss of identity. The original self, if it even exists still, can no longer be discerned from the scores of other profiles and faces that other people see. Each one is crafted uniquely, like a fingerprint, in reaction to something or someone. Each time something sparks off a new reaction, yet another facet is formed. Like The Mask. Except these can never be removed...just changed and added to. And more is not necessarily better.
The more layers, the deeper the original self hides. And the persona dies, while the mask lives on.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
I Love the Rain.
I love the rain. And rainy day type music. It's the kind you can walk around in, even when you're all alone in a dim park with a playground, the kind, you know, you can see the raindrops in the lamplight. The sad kind of music which has just one title: "Life". The kind that you listen to with big headphones, and you could do a mad dance...there's nobody to care or judge. And you feel in that little park, in that dim yellow light, all alone, you could melt away into the dark, just fade away, and nobody would know. Just the near silence that's left behind, and the little you-sized vacuum is slowly filled with more rain and dark.
And the sound, the sound of the rain.
And the sound, the sound of the rain.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Night of Lies
A man walked into a masked ball. A stranger in town, he thought he might take his time to join in the local festivities. Like any masked ball, it was held in a large hall, with music and dancing. Everyone was dressed up in ornate costumes. It was a night where you could be anything you wanted to be, whether it was a character from a fairy tale or a famous historical figure. Or just take it as an excuse to be blindingly beautiful. Coloured figures whirled around the dance floor, faces all hidden behind gorgeous masks. A man could never identify his best friend by looks alone, for the entire world changed its face on this night. Everyone could dance freely, without fear that perhaps their partner was an enemy waiting with a hidden dagger or a jealous rival, because no one was recognisable by their outward appearance.
Many of those who went for the ball would spend many a day, even weeks, in advance, planning and designing their entire outfit, including elaborate headpieces that were integrated into fancy masks. Nobody would ever wear their costume twice, for it was deemed unoriginal to do so, and besides, the entire point was to be unrecognisable. Sometimes entire fortunes were spent on this attire, for the event was but one chance in the year one could play at make believe and forget themselves, a single chance to do whatever one pleased at a party and not be judged by others. Most importantly, it was the Night of Lies, so named for obvious reasons, the only chance in the year to fake things, to lie, and get away with it. Anybody could attend, so long as they had a costume and an invitation which could be procured, very simply, from people handing them out on the streets and in the taverns or inns.
Greeted at the door by an attendant with the head of a donkey, the man was asked to produce his invitation. When presented with it, the attendant could not help but compliment, "Sir! What a mask! What an exquisite thing! What skill, what thought must have gone into such an item." All the man could say in reply was a 'But', for the next moment a beautiful creature with a cat's face whisked him off in an energetic dance not unlike a waltz. Once again he was complimented for his mask. "What creativity you have put into your outfit, my friend! Such detail and wit! Ah, this is a creation that must be shared, to inspire us all to do the same for ourselves next time!" Before he could respond again with a 'But', his voice was caught by the air as the dancers switched partners in a crazy dance they called Change. Dancers would change partners when the music changed.
Partner after partner, the man was spun around the ballroom were equally eager to comment on his mask as the donkey-head and cat-face had done, and partners were changed always before he could respond, as if the music had some cruel conspiracy to never allow him to speak. Soon it became such that every drumbeat, every musical note had the intent to quieten him, as if they knew what it was he was going to say, something so terrible as to go against the ethics of such a party. But of course it was inevitable that the song should end, to allow weary dancers a drink before they rejoined the throng.
The man found himself next to Cat-Face again. The feline features stretched themselves into a grin, and a pink mouth opened to inquire, “You were about to speak before. It has been such a pleasure meeting you.” A hand extended as a gesture of social greeting. A hand taken, and promptly shaken. “I was just saying what a wonderful mask you have got on. It has the make of a great craftsman! You must have paid a great deal to have it made.” The face seemed to turn green with envy, but at once swiftly changed to reflect a grin. “You were about to say?”
“You say how wonderful my mask is. But, I am not even wearing one.”
Many of those who went for the ball would spend many a day, even weeks, in advance, planning and designing their entire outfit, including elaborate headpieces that were integrated into fancy masks. Nobody would ever wear their costume twice, for it was deemed unoriginal to do so, and besides, the entire point was to be unrecognisable. Sometimes entire fortunes were spent on this attire, for the event was but one chance in the year one could play at make believe and forget themselves, a single chance to do whatever one pleased at a party and not be judged by others. Most importantly, it was the Night of Lies, so named for obvious reasons, the only chance in the year to fake things, to lie, and get away with it. Anybody could attend, so long as they had a costume and an invitation which could be procured, very simply, from people handing them out on the streets and in the taverns or inns.
Greeted at the door by an attendant with the head of a donkey, the man was asked to produce his invitation. When presented with it, the attendant could not help but compliment, "Sir! What a mask! What an exquisite thing! What skill, what thought must have gone into such an item." All the man could say in reply was a 'But', for the next moment a beautiful creature with a cat's face whisked him off in an energetic dance not unlike a waltz. Once again he was complimented for his mask. "What creativity you have put into your outfit, my friend! Such detail and wit! Ah, this is a creation that must be shared, to inspire us all to do the same for ourselves next time!" Before he could respond again with a 'But', his voice was caught by the air as the dancers switched partners in a crazy dance they called Change. Dancers would change partners when the music changed.
Partner after partner, the man was spun around the ballroom were equally eager to comment on his mask as the donkey-head and cat-face had done, and partners were changed always before he could respond, as if the music had some cruel conspiracy to never allow him to speak. Soon it became such that every drumbeat, every musical note had the intent to quieten him, as if they knew what it was he was going to say, something so terrible as to go against the ethics of such a party. But of course it was inevitable that the song should end, to allow weary dancers a drink before they rejoined the throng.
The man found himself next to Cat-Face again. The feline features stretched themselves into a grin, and a pink mouth opened to inquire, “You were about to speak before. It has been such a pleasure meeting you.” A hand extended as a gesture of social greeting. A hand taken, and promptly shaken. “I was just saying what a wonderful mask you have got on. It has the make of a great craftsman! You must have paid a great deal to have it made.” The face seemed to turn green with envy, but at once swiftly changed to reflect a grin. “You were about to say?”
“You say how wonderful my mask is. But, I am not even wearing one.”
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
The Bubble
I live in a bubble.
A bubble is not like a box, in the sense that it is round. Spherical. But. A bubble is like a box, in the sense that it is closed in. After all, it is just a sphere of air, a little atmosphere I call mine. You can see right through it, and on the surface, you can see many colours of the rainbow swirling madly.
Undoubtably, it is a bubble.
It is easy to feel claustrophobic in such a bubble. After all, there is only so much air inside it, and no way to add more. A bubble's life is short lived. Either something from the outside pops it, or the air inside leaks out and it slowly fades away, as bubbles tend to do.
Sometimes due to its incredible lightness, the bubble can drift high into the sky. But a bubble can only take so much pressure. When it gets too high internal pressure exceeds external pressure. The air is thin up there, and the bubble cannot exist under such circumstances.
And then.
I fall.
I have seen such things occur.
It is very high up, mind you, so inevitably...well, that ending is obvious.
It is a lonely life inside a bubble. There is the common misconception that we are flighty in our thoughts. No, but everyone knows that the bubble people are never truly happy. We go with the wind, and if it doesn't suit us, well, too bad then.
You can get used to living inside a bubble.
But then it depends. How long can you live inside a bubble, until the time comes for it to expire? I think, that by the time you have gotten used to bubble life such as I, that well, all you have to do is
Reach out your finger,
Like so...
And touch...
the..
bubble
.
And as I fall all I can think about are the swirly colours, dancing madly on the surface of the bubble.
They know best of all what it is like to live in a bubble.
For who knows best, than a bubble itself?
A bubble is not like a box, in the sense that it is round. Spherical. But. A bubble is like a box, in the sense that it is closed in. After all, it is just a sphere of air, a little atmosphere I call mine. You can see right through it, and on the surface, you can see many colours of the rainbow swirling madly.
Undoubtably, it is a bubble.
It is easy to feel claustrophobic in such a bubble. After all, there is only so much air inside it, and no way to add more. A bubble's life is short lived. Either something from the outside pops it, or the air inside leaks out and it slowly fades away, as bubbles tend to do.
Sometimes due to its incredible lightness, the bubble can drift high into the sky. But a bubble can only take so much pressure. When it gets too high internal pressure exceeds external pressure. The air is thin up there, and the bubble cannot exist under such circumstances.
And then.
I fall.
I have seen such things occur.
It is very high up, mind you, so inevitably...well, that ending is obvious.
It is a lonely life inside a bubble. There is the common misconception that we are flighty in our thoughts. No, but everyone knows that the bubble people are never truly happy. We go with the wind, and if it doesn't suit us, well, too bad then.
You can get used to living inside a bubble.
But then it depends. How long can you live inside a bubble, until the time comes for it to expire? I think, that by the time you have gotten used to bubble life such as I, that well, all you have to do is
Reach out your finger,
Like so...
And touch...
the..
bubble
.
And as I fall all I can think about are the swirly colours, dancing madly on the surface of the bubble.
They know best of all what it is like to live in a bubble.
For who knows best, than a bubble itself?
The Box
I live in a box.
It is easy to tell that it is a box because it has a cuboid shape, six faces, and lines perpendicular to each other.
It is a box.
A box with doors, windows, a floor, four walls, and a ceiling, all various colours and patterns to suit what doors, windows, floors, walls and ceilings ought to look like. You may call it a room, but I call it a glorified box. It is a box, all the same.
It is easy to feel closed in in such a box. Even with the windows and doors. You feel like you are literally boxed in, like each six faces of the cuboid are suspended in the middle of nowhere, and closed tight so there is no way out. The doors and windows are only paint, everyone can fake anything with paint nowadays. And even if you could find a way out of the box you would fall into the black nothing that surrounds it.
It is better to feel closed in everyday than to fall into black nothing. In that way, I begin to like my box. It is a solid geometrical shape of security and seclusion.
I know I am alone in my box.
Because after all, a box is still hollow inside.
And no matter what you do to it, fill it with objects, add artificial light to make it look like day, play the sounds of the outdoors, the smell of existence...it is still a box. And I am still alone.
People talk of living in bubbles. I talk of living in boxes. After all, bubbles burst eventually, or if you're underwater they rise to the surface and the little sphere of air inside is free. But in a box, you are trapped. Bubbles are aerodynamic and light, they are for the ones who still dream about a better world. But a box is not aerodynamic. It is nowhere near aerodynamic. According to one of Newton's Laws and those funny physic's diagrams, there is always friction between the box and the ground, and there is always the force keeping the box on the ground, and another that keeps the box from moving. If it moves at all, it will stop eventually.
At most, my box can rock from side to side.
It doesn't get very far.
That is because, in case you haven't realised, it is a box. And boxes cannot move by themselves. Even me, stuck here inside, cannot get this box moving.
Everyone lives in boxes, unless you're lucky enough to live in a bubble. The bubble people are not entirely happy, and that's why they dream of something better. The box people are completely content with living in an immobile box. And so they are happy. Or so they think.
Happy people are hiding something.
But not everyone knows that.
When the bubbles pop and you fall, at worst you end up with a few broken bones, and at best you get a couple of bruises. But when the box burns,
I die.
It is easy to tell that it is a box because it has a cuboid shape, six faces, and lines perpendicular to each other.
It is a box.
A box with doors, windows, a floor, four walls, and a ceiling, all various colours and patterns to suit what doors, windows, floors, walls and ceilings ought to look like. You may call it a room, but I call it a glorified box. It is a box, all the same.
It is easy to feel closed in in such a box. Even with the windows and doors. You feel like you are literally boxed in, like each six faces of the cuboid are suspended in the middle of nowhere, and closed tight so there is no way out. The doors and windows are only paint, everyone can fake anything with paint nowadays. And even if you could find a way out of the box you would fall into the black nothing that surrounds it.
It is better to feel closed in everyday than to fall into black nothing. In that way, I begin to like my box. It is a solid geometrical shape of security and seclusion.
I know I am alone in my box.
Because after all, a box is still hollow inside.
And no matter what you do to it, fill it with objects, add artificial light to make it look like day, play the sounds of the outdoors, the smell of existence...it is still a box. And I am still alone.
People talk of living in bubbles. I talk of living in boxes. After all, bubbles burst eventually, or if you're underwater they rise to the surface and the little sphere of air inside is free. But in a box, you are trapped. Bubbles are aerodynamic and light, they are for the ones who still dream about a better world. But a box is not aerodynamic. It is nowhere near aerodynamic. According to one of Newton's Laws and those funny physic's diagrams, there is always friction between the box and the ground, and there is always the force keeping the box on the ground, and another that keeps the box from moving. If it moves at all, it will stop eventually.
At most, my box can rock from side to side.
It doesn't get very far.
That is because, in case you haven't realised, it is a box. And boxes cannot move by themselves. Even me, stuck here inside, cannot get this box moving.
Everyone lives in boxes, unless you're lucky enough to live in a bubble. The bubble people are not entirely happy, and that's why they dream of something better. The box people are completely content with living in an immobile box. And so they are happy. Or so they think.
Happy people are hiding something.
But not everyone knows that.
When the bubbles pop and you fall, at worst you end up with a few broken bones, and at best you get a couple of bruises. But when the box burns,
I die.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The Leaving.
The morning air was cold and grey, but in a familiar kind of way, like the cool touch of a finger on a cheek in the morning. The otherwise monotonous air is ripped by the harsh calls of mynahs, those inconsiderate birds.
Suddenly, a brief wash of water splashes out into the nearby drain with a smack and a clatter, shaming the mynahs into silence. They flee from around me as the water runs it's course. But as soon as the streaming flow has slapped its way down, it stops moments later, leaving ripples and mossy mouldy cement damp and ever thirsting. All is silent. Dark birds fly overhead in straggly branches. The leaves are silent on their branches; there is no wind that moves them.
Scattered around my feet are white-winged seeds. Pale they are, and pointlessly fall on hard black road. Unless some friendly breeze disperses them to more hospitable ground, their purposes will be in vain. Yet knowing the laws of nature they are but collateral damage.
A sharp caw breaks the quiet veil that had previously settled. A crow lurks unseen. I eye a tall clump of greenery. It's in there, somewhere. It caws again, a grating, black noise. A distant rumbling hum touches the edge of my consciousness. I look up: it's time to go.
Suddenly, a brief wash of water splashes out into the nearby drain with a smack and a clatter, shaming the mynahs into silence. They flee from around me as the water runs it's course. But as soon as the streaming flow has slapped its way down, it stops moments later, leaving ripples and mossy mouldy cement damp and ever thirsting. All is silent. Dark birds fly overhead in straggly branches. The leaves are silent on their branches; there is no wind that moves them.
Scattered around my feet are white-winged seeds. Pale they are, and pointlessly fall on hard black road. Unless some friendly breeze disperses them to more hospitable ground, their purposes will be in vain. Yet knowing the laws of nature they are but collateral damage.
A sharp caw breaks the quiet veil that had previously settled. A crow lurks unseen. I eye a tall clump of greenery. It's in there, somewhere. It caws again, a grating, black noise. A distant rumbling hum touches the edge of my consciousness. I look up: it's time to go.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Poem: Today as Usual
Passive.
Somebody annoyed me today
but
It's okay.
I guess I'm happy.
Some lesson was hard today
but
It's okay.
I guess I'm happy.
I've got a couple of bruises
I ache inside and out.
It's been a down day
And there's still a long day
ahead.
I'm a little lonely
Inside
But still...
I guess
I'm happy.
Back home
My bible seemed to wait for me
And then I let God take the lead
And now
I know I'm happy.
Somebody annoyed me today
but
It's okay.
I guess I'm happy.
Some lesson was hard today
but
It's okay.
I guess I'm happy.
I've got a couple of bruises
I ache inside and out.
It's been a down day
And there's still a long day
ahead.
I'm a little lonely
Inside
But still...
I guess
I'm happy.
Back home
My bible seemed to wait for me
And then I let God take the lead
And now
I know I'm happy.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Sketch.
(Darkness, except for a little bit of lighting reveals the faint outlines of two figures, face to face, with one of them with it's back to the audience.)
You know what? Nothing feels real anymore.
Oh stop being emo.
Can't help it.
Shut up, you KNOW you're perfectly capable.
I'm not.
Oh get real.
Nothing's real.
You know very well that it's not true!
What?
You heard me.
No, I mean, what's not true?
The fact that nothing's real. Stop being an idiot.
Am not.
Are too.
(silence)
Whatever.
You only say that because you don't understand the point.
Which is?You know very well what I mean.
Fine. This whole school crap is killing me.
No, you're just not trying hard enough.
But I AM!
Don't give me that crap.
Shit you.
You know swearing will get you nowhere.
The world's too happy.
And you have a problem with that? You aren't even being relevant. Stop changing the topic.
There IS no topic.
Don't give me that.
I'm not giving you anything. Never have, never will.
Oh and I suppose you're satisfied with that, then. Happy with being perfectly mediocre.
...I never said that.
Then? What are you doing? Sitting around, doing nothing, feeling sorry for yourself?
Am not.
Say what you want. It's your call.
You don't understand, do you? Everything comes so easily to you. Easier said than done, you hear? Do you even know what it is that I've stupidly put myself through? Putting others before self? Never being able to say no? Trying not to compromise on anything and ending up failing in everything? I try too damn hard, that's what, and I've got nothing. Nobody really gets it, I don't know how to make people see it, and I am tired.
Sleep, then.
(mocks) SLEEP THEN. So when someone says they're tired it always means in the physical sense, doesn't it. Life's so black and white for you. You don't GET IT.
I think...I do.
Tch. Yeah right.
No, I think...I really do. I've...been there.
What makes you think I'll believe that?
You can believe what you want. Do what you want. I no longer have a part in this.
Oh really? And how is that possible, now? You can't very well tear yourself in two.
(sighs) You're right. I can't. But you know what I mean. You can't go on like this. You can't. You have to snap out of it. Now, before it's too late. Stop dreaming and come back to earth.
(Lights brighten to reveal not two figures, but a lone seated figure, facing a large mirror.)
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Heat
A dedication to the horrible heat of the afternoon, which caused my brain to go into spontaneous combustion.
***
It was hot.
So hot that everything seemed to be a warm, bright orange in the heat. The wooden floor was unpolished and worn, yet that too seemed to flow and swim like a viscous mixture of hot brown mud, boiling beneath my feet. The air was still. Thick and still. I could hear my heartbeat echoing around my head, damp and muffled. The humidity seemed to soar with every second, and it seemed as if a fog had fallen over everything, wet and corrupting. There was no breeze, but the cream coloured blinds tapped softly in the silence. The distant tinkle of the bell on my dog's collar seemed even further away than just the kitchen. The trees outside were still and quiet, as if silenced by the extreme heat. There were no birds, except one lone crow, fat and shining from scavenged meals. Everything turned to a blur. My glasses were somewhere around, but in this heat my mind felt like it had melted away, and I couldn't be sure. Couldn't be sure of anything.
In a drugged state I clambered back into bed. It was too hot to do anything, even to breathe sent a hot rush of thick air into my lungs. My eyes hurt. Everything was too bright...too bright to see...to think...
The welcome cool of the evening found me fast asleep and covered in sweat.
***
It was hot.
So hot that everything seemed to be a warm, bright orange in the heat. The wooden floor was unpolished and worn, yet that too seemed to flow and swim like a viscous mixture of hot brown mud, boiling beneath my feet. The air was still. Thick and still. I could hear my heartbeat echoing around my head, damp and muffled. The humidity seemed to soar with every second, and it seemed as if a fog had fallen over everything, wet and corrupting. There was no breeze, but the cream coloured blinds tapped softly in the silence. The distant tinkle of the bell on my dog's collar seemed even further away than just the kitchen. The trees outside were still and quiet, as if silenced by the extreme heat. There were no birds, except one lone crow, fat and shining from scavenged meals. Everything turned to a blur. My glasses were somewhere around, but in this heat my mind felt like it had melted away, and I couldn't be sure. Couldn't be sure of anything.
In a drugged state I clambered back into bed. It was too hot to do anything, even to breathe sent a hot rush of thick air into my lungs. My eyes hurt. Everything was too bright...too bright to see...to think...
The welcome cool of the evening found me fast asleep and covered in sweat.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
You Just Had To
I wanted to stay here
My friends were warm and kind.
You just had take me away, didn’t you?
I wanted to stay at home
And watch the rain slip down the window panes
I wanted to witness the cleansing of the world
You just had to drag me out to school, didn’t you?
All you wanted was grades.
I wanted to be five years old again
To be carefree again
To be unfettered by knowledge
Just like a child running barefoot in the grass
I wanted to be that.
You just had to impose yourself on me, didn’t you?
You didn’t like the idea of an individual,
All you wanted was for me to be a mini-you.
I wanted to be myself
To be different from you
Not another you
But a me
I wanted to be free from you
You just couldn’t let go, couldn’t you.
You thought that I should always stay home.
You didn’t like the idea of me being free.
All you wanted was for me to obey.
And it was cold and rainy and dark all around.
But you just had to bring the extra coat
Even when it was pouring outside
Even when you were sick yourself
You just had to put your arm around me
And hand me a tissue and say, “Here, blow.”
Like I was a child again.
You just had to, didn’t you.
***
NB: This poem is not about anyone in particular, rather it is aimed at portraying the understanding that a child comes to about his/her parent in life. In a sense it is a little about me discovering another side of my mother that I never knew existed.
This poem was written as part of an exercise that my literature teacher conducted in class to demonstrate the concept of writer's style, or technique, as it were. We were given a short while to write it, and for a moment I considered copying something from here to submit, so I could slack off for ten minutes or so. In the end, I decided to write something proper and here it is. Enjoy! (Incidentally this was chosen to be published in the school's literary compilation. *grinz*)
My friends were warm and kind.
You just had take me away, didn’t you?
I wanted to stay at home
And watch the rain slip down the window panes
I wanted to witness the cleansing of the world
You just had to drag me out to school, didn’t you?
All you wanted was grades.
I wanted to be five years old again
To be carefree again
To be unfettered by knowledge
Just like a child running barefoot in the grass
I wanted to be that.
You just had to impose yourself on me, didn’t you?
You didn’t like the idea of an individual,
All you wanted was for me to be a mini-you.
I wanted to be myself
To be different from you
Not another you
But a me
I wanted to be free from you
You just couldn’t let go, couldn’t you.
You thought that I should always stay home.
You didn’t like the idea of me being free.
All you wanted was for me to obey.
And it was cold and rainy and dark all around.
But you just had to bring the extra coat
Even when it was pouring outside
Even when you were sick yourself
You just had to put your arm around me
And hand me a tissue and say, “Here, blow.”
Like I was a child again.
You just had to, didn’t you.
***
NB: This poem is not about anyone in particular, rather it is aimed at portraying the understanding that a child comes to about his/her parent in life. In a sense it is a little about me discovering another side of my mother that I never knew existed.
This poem was written as part of an exercise that my literature teacher conducted in class to demonstrate the concept of writer's style, or technique, as it were. We were given a short while to write it, and for a moment I considered copying something from here to submit, so I could slack off for ten minutes or so. In the end, I decided to write something proper and here it is. Enjoy! (Incidentally this was chosen to be published in the school's literary compilation. *grinz*)
Monday, June 26, 2006
Get up, and Go.
They just went. Left. With instructions, to take care of this and that matter. And you are left with...what?
No choice.
***
So they have decided to come back. Oh to be at that leisure, unfettered by anyone's commands. To be allowed the right to just take off and go, without bringing baggage or leaving a note.
Nobody likes to be left behind like the child who knows but has no voice to speak. To be patted on the head and given a treat to disguise undercurrents that are only too obvious.
Do they not know the adverse effects this has on even the strongest of men? Abandonment and a feeling of being, somehow, not good enough. Not deserving of whatever it was that someone else got, and knowing no reason why, except that one is, to put it bluntly, not good enough. Again and again.
Change is called for.
But what? And how? What other factors might be drawn into this web of equations that always devise ways to trap and delude and complicate. The human mind is a black hole unto itself, feeding upon every thought until there is nothing left but shadow.
Unless.
There is yet hope from the sources, the roots of our being.
Something stirs inside, an as yet flightless being that strives to stretch its unborn wings.
To get up.
And go.
To leave everything behind like an old skin that serves only as a bitter memory of what once was, like the scab that grows back and refuses to heal. There was only bitterness there.,br>
Was.
And now?
A yawning white chasm opens up like a book. The pen is in your hand. Now is your chance to change. The beginning of a new chapter, a new journey.
Change.
Just get up.
And go.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Observations of Environment I
The last drops of tea slowly turn cold in the artificially cooled air of my room. I can anticipate the bitter tannin taste this will have when I drink it, more tea in it than milk and sugar now. The cup sits silently on the wooden table. I hear the sonds of a game and typing in the background. My diary is balanced across my knees. My stomach is churning from the cold tea. It's been sitting here all afternoon, and all evening. It's dark. All lights are off save a small black desk lamp, which happens to be from Ikea. I am currently seated on a small blue plastic chair, which is more suited for a child than a person of my size. It's been in my family since I was small enough to use it, and I remember using it as a tool of violence against my siblings when we fought. I've long grown out of that. I've got plenty to do. Even with this feeling of restlessness, I've achieved everything and nothing. Nothing being something that's socially significant. Everything being something that's personally significant. Of course the two do cross at certain points, but it's easier to say "everything and nothing". Though, it's more like "everything and nothing and sometimes in between" which has a kind of rhythm to it. It's like at school, where I know everyone and no one. And sometimes, in between.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Thoughts in Rain
The rain keeps falling, a proper deluge that dims and blurs and yet...cleanses. Thunder drums to the steady beat of the rain, rain that can be like darts and bullets and also knives. Rain that hurts. A cold, thin gloom sets itself upon the world when it rains. Car splashes, coloured umbrellas, other sights and sounds are out despite the rain. The world moves on in the rain, unfazed and indifferent. Nature is losing her touch here, among civilizations where concrete and oil are king. So it is for me, I must go places even in the rain. But a lonely taxi ride to my destination prompts thougts. A mess and tangle of thoughts that confuse and exasperate and so much more, that cannot be put into words...but for two:
Human Nature.
This strange and wonderful thing. Good and evil. How complicated it is, that even we who are humans are at a loss to understand it. Why we are who we are. Why we do what we do. How we work, what makes us tick. What makes us laugh, cry and sing, sometimes all at once!
How we are all social creatures, deep down inside. Even the most antisocial teenagers are the ones most in need of company. How we all need to work. Not for money, but for the deep passion and need for a purpose inherent in every human being. And all these among other things, so many other things we can only begin to speak about, the surface of which we can only hope to touch briefly...
My train of thought is interrupted by the taxi driver.
I pay, and walk off into the world.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
The Prodigal Child
I'm a cheater and a liar
I'm a downright damn denyer
I'm a so-screwed-up-in-sider
That doesn't give a damn.
I'm a person in transition
The back way: No Admission
There's only one decision
Only one line to take.
I'm coming from the darkness
Released from the tight harness
No longer tied up and alone
I'm finally coming back home.
I'm a downright damn denyer
I'm a so-screwed-up-in-sider
That doesn't give a damn.
I'm a person in transition
The back way: No Admission
There's only one decision
Only one line to take.
I'm coming from the darkness
Released from the tight harness
No longer tied up and alone
I'm finally coming back home.
Untitled Thoughts (Cont'd)
And here again how tempted I am to return and rewrite and rephrase and redo and edit it all and change it all but then I stop and
think.
How that's how life is because you can't change it and nobody can turn back time or relive anything again you can't always be looking
back.
It's sad but true yet how much I long for the past how much I want to rewrite some parts of my life how much really I want some things to be so very different from how they are now and how desperate I want it to be so and when I come face to face with the facts how it overwhelms me those facts how they overwhelm me and even though I may overreact or be dramatic it is how I am sometimes even though I may be that way how true it is the way those facts affect me.
How they affect the way I live I love I laugh I listen I lie I lack I am.
And all these thoughts they come again and again in refreshed waves bringing new thoughts I must write down for my own sanity's sake even as the world is watching me weighing whispering wondering wearing away.
And I cannot seem to stop these thoughts they just come without rhyme or reason without punctuation in a kind of strange rhythm that is the rhythm of life it goes up and it goes down that's just the way it is that's how it is and we must live with it in sickness in health in dark and in light in this situation and that
we must live with it.
Live with it or perish.
think.
How that's how life is because you can't change it and nobody can turn back time or relive anything again you can't always be looking
back.
It's sad but true yet how much I long for the past how much I want to rewrite some parts of my life how much really I want some things to be so very different from how they are now and how desperate I want it to be so and when I come face to face with the facts how it overwhelms me those facts how they overwhelm me and even though I may overreact or be dramatic it is how I am sometimes even though I may be that way how true it is the way those facts affect me.
How they affect the way I live I love I laugh I listen I lie I lack I am.
And all these thoughts they come again and again in refreshed waves bringing new thoughts I must write down for my own sanity's sake even as the world is watching me weighing whispering wondering wearing away.
And I cannot seem to stop these thoughts they just come without rhyme or reason without punctuation in a kind of strange rhythm that is the rhythm of life it goes up and it goes down that's just the way it is that's how it is and we must live with it in sickness in health in dark and in light in this situation and that
we must live with it.
Live with it or perish.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Untitled Thoughts
Sometimes I wonder about myself and how I am the way I am and how life is the way it is and how everything just is and was and probably will be or even never be.
I think,
How sometimes I get into a total screaming-inside kind of mess and how I get out of it and how that's really how life is and how I manage life at all and how I get through it.
There's a lot of hows.
And then,
There's how I am with this person and that and how it all works and how the world works with it and how the world might be without it and there's more hows for you.
And again and again,
The whys of the hows and the hows of the whys and such strange things that go on around me that feel like I don't know what's going on but really everyone has to go through them too and isn't that interesting.
My mind does wander from the clickety-clack of typing to the hard skin of my feet and the sounds of the air-con and the sound of silence which is also the sound of night and not just the sound but also the smells like the smell of before during after the rain the smell of tap water the personal smell I associate with someone and not just the smell but the taste of blood how metallic it is from cracked dry lips and the taste of other things how it is with me because of how I think of them and not just the taste but also the feel of plastic keys the feel of skin the feel of cold and more than the feel and smell and taste and sound more than all these is the sight and how the light falls just so and the shadow of a hand or any object really and how everything can be so ugly or so beautiful and in the end.
How it all goes together.
And the source of the inspiration is not just external stimuli oh no it is of the heart and the soul which yearns to write it is the passion which springs from within it is all of these and more which trigger the urge to just write and write and write and write and write and never
stop.
How everything seems to fall in place but in reality things don't work that way.
How in the quiet of the night
things
just come to mind.
And how I can put me inside something to get something else and take me out of something and get yet another thing.
And so many other random things that just flow and flow without ebbing this unending stream of emotions and words that just
COME.
And they never go away until your fingers at the keys are exhausted and your mind is finally empty and your heart is placid and still.
And then the sorrow comes, when the joy of writing diminishes and fades
till next time,
when the muse comes again in the middle of the night.
And how strange it is.
Just when I think I am done there seems to be more and more and more to say and then I just
forget.
All of it.
And the window closes and opens and closes and opens and things go in and out and time passes like it always does never stopping and there is always
always
something to say.
Even when I need to leave when my head is addled and tired there is still so much to express that is crying out be written!
And we, we who were cast out among the ashes, cry out and hope for salvation.
I think,
How sometimes I get into a total screaming-inside kind of mess and how I get out of it and how that's really how life is and how I manage life at all and how I get through it.
There's a lot of hows.
And then,
There's how I am with this person and that and how it all works and how the world works with it and how the world might be without it and there's more hows for you.
And again and again,
The whys of the hows and the hows of the whys and such strange things that go on around me that feel like I don't know what's going on but really everyone has to go through them too and isn't that interesting.
My mind does wander from the clickety-clack of typing to the hard skin of my feet and the sounds of the air-con and the sound of silence which is also the sound of night and not just the sound but also the smells like the smell of before during after the rain the smell of tap water the personal smell I associate with someone and not just the smell but the taste of blood how metallic it is from cracked dry lips and the taste of other things how it is with me because of how I think of them and not just the taste but also the feel of plastic keys the feel of skin the feel of cold and more than the feel and smell and taste and sound more than all these is the sight and how the light falls just so and the shadow of a hand or any object really and how everything can be so ugly or so beautiful and in the end.
How it all goes together.
And the source of the inspiration is not just external stimuli oh no it is of the heart and the soul which yearns to write it is the passion which springs from within it is all of these and more which trigger the urge to just write and write and write and write and write and never
stop.
How everything seems to fall in place but in reality things don't work that way.
How in the quiet of the night
things
just come to mind.
And how I can put me inside something to get something else and take me out of something and get yet another thing.
And so many other random things that just flow and flow without ebbing this unending stream of emotions and words that just
COME.
And they never go away until your fingers at the keys are exhausted and your mind is finally empty and your heart is placid and still.
And then the sorrow comes, when the joy of writing diminishes and fades
till next time,
when the muse comes again in the middle of the night.
And how strange it is.
Just when I think I am done there seems to be more and more and more to say and then I just
forget.
All of it.
And the window closes and opens and closes and opens and things go in and out and time passes like it always does never stopping and there is always
always
something to say.
Even when I need to leave when my head is addled and tired there is still so much to express that is crying out be written!
And we, we who were cast out among the ashes, cry out and hope for salvation.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
U turn
I went down the road
Mashed a toad
Realized
I couldn't turn back.
Mumbled a prayer
Seeya la'er
Hoping that
I wouldn't crack.
Hole in toad.
Hole in me.
I felt the load.
I couldn't see.
Tried to let go
With no avail.
Hopelessly so
I weep and wail.
Realized
The only way out
Was not, in fact,
to scream and shout.
The hole was there
The load was not
If I took it to God
It would soon be forgot.
The hole would be whole
If I took the turn
Back down the road
And the sin I spurn.
***
How true this is to life at the moment! And life at all times...for that matter.
Mashed a toad
Realized
I couldn't turn back.
Mumbled a prayer
Seeya la'er
Hoping that
I wouldn't crack.
Hole in toad.
Hole in me.
I felt the load.
I couldn't see.
Tried to let go
With no avail.
Hopelessly so
I weep and wail.
Realized
The only way out
Was not, in fact,
to scream and shout.
The hole was there
The load was not
If I took it to God
It would soon be forgot.
The hole would be whole
If I took the turn
Back down the road
And the sin I spurn.
***
How true this is to life at the moment! And life at all times...for that matter.
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