Malta & Creta

a true magical work of art, all 607 pages of it in font size 7.
i need to read it but i've no time.
i admire people who make magic out of words.
and i'm only at Page 89.

porcelain

are we all like that inside? the depths? are we stuck in moments of trying to be who we are?

so i go to the toilet and feel unstable. one basin is filled with puke. the toilets are sparse and filthy. the ground is damp and black shoe prints are all over. strips of toilet paper litter the floor. marks on the toilet bowl remind me that many people smoke and only remember to stub out their cigarettes after pulling down their pants.

a child, a child

to paint a beautiful picture that reflects a song. is it ever possible to paint in words, emotions?
really, not.

highslowsighslowlyingoingintonighthetherealonerangerage.

do you see what i see?
Do you hear what I hear?
A child, a child, cries upon the night
with light as bright as the sun.

cogulation

it flies through the air, something floating midway between the sky and the ground and as if by impact, moves clockwise upwards in a gentle curve and sails downwards suddenly as if it has gained significant weight where it swiftly divides the scene of a coconut tree lined beach into two parts.
skin breaks and red foam cogulates on the lined concrete floor, red seeps through and moves through the lines in the concrete ground and it looks like a white plastic bag hurled from top in a child's tiny palm, crashing down to earth, the impact causing the contents to splatter out.
the red lined ground dries, the white covering flies away in the wind, to be washed up onshore of some obscure island and sand billows in crumbles on the red patch.

today.

the last link to the past 4 years arrived in the mail today.

blasting "boulevard of broken dreams" as we walk out from the air conditioned room out to the hot asphalt. taking a look around from a bird's eye aerial view and feeling that heady rush of joy of being alive and being able to share in that moment.

desolation

a lone cat plays along the road, near the curb where buses and cars whizz past.
a rotund indian man in a blue and white batik shirt shouts obscenities at the bus driver as he rushes on the bus, only to have the door close on him. he marches up and down the bus, muttering curses before he finds a seat near the back portion of the bus. he sneezes twice as he gets off the bus.

facets of desolation. all around.

ruins on a cloud

and an old style chendol cafe in the sleepy town.



sometimes, i don't know why we have to talk. talk is empty.

mutilation

fuck. my cousins are asking me to go drinking and i so bloody want to because it will be a bloody fantastic way to begin the holidays by getting drunk and puking out along the street. but i can't, as always since i have to be up by 5 tomorrow to catch the coach to malacca.
stupid clashes, as always.

***

i think that self-mutilation is a phrase. and the meaning of phrase is crucial here.

***

the 7th month is here again and there are lit joss sticks inserted upon the ground, stuck in crumbs of soil, burning brightly through the night, fading as the night wears on and then turning into bright glares later on at night. the air has once more taken on a smoky pallor and each whiff of the night's air that used to be crisp on hot nights now brings ash to mind. burnt monetary offerings, the symbol of faithfulness and respect for ancestory sail through the air at regular intervals.

the car stops at a traffic light at the bottom of a hill and i see many people burning money offerrings at the top of the hill in big bins that mysteriously appear around the periods of august to september each year. the wind blows strong, but i am sheltered in the metallic frame of the car, only feeling the puff of the airconditioner. it is a strange feeling to be so cut off from the world that i cannot feel the wind against my skin, while everything else billows in the wind. like being in a house with the heater on in winter.
the ashes from the burnt money offerrings billow in the wind, flicker and glow in a shade of reddish-orange as the wind plays with the ashes. and i think about how similar we are to ashes in this aspect.

counting down the days

i dreamt of a shopping mall.

***

i just realised that i now wake by 8 as if on clockwork.

the countdown to the wonderful, glorious long weekend BEGINS.

krom

i stared at words yesterday without reading them.
it is possible, you know.

sleep solves problems.

of fluff in a pink brain

tired with things to do.

it's weird how people sometimes fail to realise that we are indeed living on borrowed time, and that the decisions we make each time shape how we are going to live our lives. a movie on average takes 2 hours. we give up that 2 hours of our lives for the movie. it is akin to an exchange.
rules are made by people, and rules can be bent.
rigidity equates to brainlessness.
and i still don't like sneaky people, probably will not.
i don't have to look around and smile all the time, for sometimes i simply don't want to.
and i refuse to perpetuate the notion that one has to be a stupid smiley faced doll who keeps saying "thank you" sucks up and wheedles his/her/your way through everyone.
bona fide, people, truth. genuine-nity, people, genuine-nity. please check the root word if you're not sure.

fat

what 2 buffets in 2 days has done to me:



just add more hair.