Like Everything Else

It ends on the note
that nothing can continue.
It dies on the grave
which took breath to unearth
And it dissipates into non-entity
like everything else
at the end of time.

I have Opinions (Wow!)

Now for a rant from the top of my head..

I'm writing my very first opinionated post about life...yay...

...moving on...

Over the last month or so, I experienced some Facebook woes which stemmed from some slightly unsettling posts made by a person who I know but don't really see very often in my everyday (non-cyber) life. These posts were subtly aimed to upset me and make me feel like a rubbish person.

Now before we start jumping to conclusions about this, I just want to mention that these posts were in response to a comment I made to this person when I met him at the train station (i.e. real life). Basically I told him that the hat he was wearing didn't really suit him and he got touchy about it and decided he would (subtly) accuse me of being an unsupportive friend on Facebook.

sigh

So, here's my question to you, my dear (and very scarce) viewers of this blog: Is Facebook really the best way to communicate across feelings and messages to a specific person (subtly or otherwise)?

Clearly, after this incident, my anwer is no. To be honest, up to the point that this happened I was completely indifferent to the whole question but it's now clear to me that subtle hints on Facebook can be more caustic than face-to-face remarks.

Yes. I was really upset by this. Thank you.

I'm by no means implying that we should all boycott Facebook for its anti-social tendencies because I am just as bought into the Facebook culture as everyone else...

...I mean, I post random statuses, make weird notes, tag people in funny and slightly inappropriate photos, stalk my lecturers (I joke), etc. etc.....

...However, I do not believe Facebook should be a place for personal battles to take place. I recently wrote an article about how non-Facebook users are actually happier than hard core Facebook users and I'm beginnning to see why - to live your life on Facebook is to subject yourself to any hurtful comments/messages which people are too afraid to tell you to your face in real-life.

Let's face it - what we say/post on Facebook is not said by us but by our cyber-persona. And unfortunately, our cyber-persona has a hell lot more confidence than the real 'us'. Basically, what goes onto Facebook are normally the things we don't say in real life mainly because it is either something that could get you into trouble or something that could hurt someone else's feelings. But yet, we still post it up with the intentions of expressing displeaure towards another (to all 1000 of your Facebook friends)

Woot...social interaction just got more complicated.

But anyways, that's my rant for today. I can't be bothered to end this properly because I just can't be bothered to form a proper conclusion to this rant...but then again, what rant has a conclusion?!

Again, if you've bothered to read all the way to the end of this post, why not leave a comment to tell me what you think? Besides, I want some reassurance that I do have visitors on this blog.




I shall now leave you with a smiley face --------------------> :D

My Audience

Hello brain, why did you leave me
standing on the cliff in incoherent bliss;
did I offend you so that you couldn't even carry
the directionless rants of this little miss?

Oh hello people, you make me sick
but wait I didn't mean that, that was a lie;
what I meant is you make me tick
but I'm going anti-clockwise, aren't I?

Well I shall leave this poem for now
slightly unfinished and unmeaningful
but it doesn't matter, I'll still bow
and exit this stage like an idiotic fool

[None]

On such dreary days
we die. And there is an underlying
fever of hate and dismay
which enunciates all the undoings
of time and people
until we're left with just so little.

What is it about this
hell? Can we not salvage time
and revive it with a kiss
or am I just going to be the mime
which acts out life
in a wordless confine?

Let it all go into the darkness
of time.Forget the troubled
which hides the black mess
as the heart still wants to be cradled
like a baby fresh from birth
and not buried in the earth.

Bercerita

Cerita Bahasa Melayu beza daripada cerita Bahasa Inggeris kerana kegunaan bahasa yang berbeza memberi kesan yang berbeza. Itulah salah satu fakta yang kita memang sudah sedar tentang.

For example, when I say, "I'm hurt", you're more likely to think that I've fallen over in a clumsy heap and injured myself.

Tetapi apabila saya kata, "Saya sakit hati", anda tahu saya merujuk kepada kesakitan emosi.

Sadly, I have to admit that my ability to write anything coherent in Malay is deteriorating by the day due to the lack of use.

Adakah saya akan cuba memperbaiki masalah ini?

No. Because if I ever use this language these days, everyone's going to think that I do not want them to know about what I am saying. And I don't want to be judged.





However, now that I've admitted that I do use Malay to have secret conversations with others, you'll want to know what I've just typed above.

☺

Ini adalah Masalah yang tidak boleh diceritakan

Sesiapa yang sudah melupakan masa kanak-kanak ialah seseorang yang tinggal dalam kesunyian.

Janganlah lupakan rumah pertama anda
Janganlah lupakan sekolah rendah anda
Janganlah lupakan keluarga anda

Because when others leave you...

...merekalah yang akan jaga hati anda....

A Poem found amongst my Lecture Notes

Nineteen years old and counting
we scribble pictures of the lecturer,
oh I wonder how you carry on teaching;
under the giggles of naive teenagers.

Bugged teeth and a devil horn
and a tail to go with that too;
geez, no wonder you look forlorn,
we're not the only ones drawing you.

We pack up quickly as the lecture ends
and you sigh at the thought of doing this again
but a student looks at you and says "nice ass"
and this is why you keep coming back in.

Silent Virtue

The music plays on as the snow begins to settle on the lawn outside - just more proof that life still goes on even though the dismembered aspirations lie limp on the floor.

Fly up to the surface 
and just start again

It was never meant to manifest itelf any further than it had but nonetheless, with or without the exchange of words, you still want the best for them.

All the best
I head off into the woods and sit down amongst the snow-laden trees. It is always a wonder where those footsteps are now. I want to believe they are in a better place and for the most part they probably are. There is no question that everything still rolls on as usual - the only thing which is out of sync is the emotions which once did not exist.

Lord I don't know which way I am going...
...still got such a long way to go...

The Problem with Dreams...

Sadness shook the unconsciousness away and tears began to fall at 4am that morning. It seemed almost futile to go back to sleep so a hot breakfast seemed well-suited for the current occasion.

30g of porridge with 1/3 cup of soymilk and 2/3 cup water. Standard.

It was that fucking dream again. The one where the dreamer was a child and was taken away from the comfort of her childhood bed to be left at an orphanage. This was a reoccurring dream since the age of eight - it keeps coming back - and it won't let me grow up.

As the years fall behind, many other dreams manifest themselves from the new experiences and expectations which pop up in time. But somehow, those other dreams were never feasible and only crumble between my fingers the harder I try to hold on to them (like feta cheese).

I finished my breakfast. It was 4.20am.

I listened to Coldplay's "Charlie Brown" to pass the time.

In my scarecrow dreams
when they smash my heart into smithereens
be a bright red rose come burst through the concrete
be a cartoon heart
light a fire, fire the spark
light a fire flame in my heart

It meant so much but helped so little. Oh how symbolisms can only bring meaning but not healing. By the end of the song, I wondered how many more fallen dreams could I take...

...but I then reminded myself that there were other hearts out there which were more severed than mine. Just like how the lyrics could only bring meaning, my orphan dream could only bring sadness...but not hurt me. Dreams are not reality; they are mere untruths which exist in the individual heads of dreamers.

There was a lot more to smile about by 7am because consciousness invited no dreams and reality was allowed to run its course.

Somewhere the streets are made of gold...

What Wednesdays bring...

Wednesdays promised nothing. It passed by ever so silently and ever so slowly as I sat wondering about the trivial things in life.

This morning's burnt toast left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth and it was determined to taint the taste of any food I was going to have for the rest of the day.

It was pathetic how a single bad item could change your perception everything else on that day as my burnt toast had done. While I am aware this was just down to my lack of culinary expertise and technical know-how as far as toaster-using was concerned, I couldn't help but feel that this was basically all my fault.

Having said that, some things aren't always your fault and in the wake of betrayal, sometimes you can only ever attribute blame to an external source, namely someone else who lacked any sense of loyalty.

Words can only heal so much.

On dreary Wednesdays like today, I wish I could delve deeper into the minds of those who were disappointed and brought down by the other they trusted. I want to know what scars were made and how to heal them...

...but none of that is any of my business.

So I can only watch from a safe distance as the hurt eats them up from the inside out and watch the bodies grow limper with every passing day. Helplessness is all I feel - and really, all I want to do is give them a hug and tell them that everything will be alright.

Burnt Toast

I don't understand why I constantly end up with burnt toast. It's not that hard a task to watch the toaster in the morning. It's not like I have anything better to do (besides getting changed, brushing my teeth, ironing my shirt, completing my unfinished work etc. etc.).

Anyway, so I burnt my toast again this morning and left the kitchen smelling like it was set ablaze at some point in the night. I hoped no one noticed: I grinned at my housemate as I walked out the door with my charcoal toast on my plate - she'd never know it was me.

Needless to say, I only got through half of the toast before deciding that eating a carcinogenic slab of charcoal was probably not a good idea. I abandoned it and got changed for work. Looking at myself in the mirror, I caught a glimpse of the half-eaten toast on the table - no butter or jam or marmalade or Marmite - their absence on my toast was a cloying reminder of what was once an obssession but is now just a matter of bad habit.

The thought moved me slightly as I put on the shirt which once didn't fit me and hung on me like an oversized rag. The realisation didn't seem to want to leave and so I took it to work with me.

By 4pm, I was about ready to stab the computer with my massive, bare hands. The documents I was working on didn't seem right and the perfectionist (or paranoia) in me was throwing a childish tantrum in my head. I resisted letting this tantrum manifest itself in front of my colleagues and I left them to continue tapping away at their computers. Oh how trivial this angered moment will seem in 30 years time - it would all seem like nothing but a distant memory.

I got home at 6pm, after a long walk around (and around and around and around and around and around) the park only to be greeted by, none other than, this morning's burnt toast. Fuck...it's like it's following me. So I've put up with time and psychological conflicts to be haunted by the connotations of burnt toast. Why, oh why are you still in my ever-so-slightly big head?

Of course I discarded the damn thing. The toast I mean, not my head, though had I been able to discard my head together with the memories, I'd have been more than happy to. Unfortunately, that's not how disorders work - they stay with you even after several years and cling even more when you try to get rid of them.

Well life still goes on...and I still wake up to a new day to start afresh once more. So I get on with my routine of...

1) Snoozing my alarm clock five times before getting up
2) Brushing my teeth
3) Putting the kettle on
4) Putting the bread in the toaster
5) Reading the news...


....but oh, what do you know - burnt toast, yet again.

Ghostly Instigations

The ghost of girls drift silently up and down the corridors. Only a few of us can sense them. Their eyes were constantly peering over our shoulders as if to mock us for what we couldn't get away with.

Burnt toast.

Not an excuse. It still stayed on our plates, waiting to be relinquished of its existence just like how our minds had to relinquish control to the system.

No scraping the burnt bits off bread        we were told.

Heads down, we studied and analysed each crumb on our breakfast and estimated the amount of milk in our coffees. It was all futile.

Somehow the voices of the ghosts found their ways into our heads and they snickered at us and drove us into anger. Control should have always been ours, regardless of the safety of our lives. And so we clench our fists and bring them down heavily on the table, only to be restrained and counselled for our misbehaviour.

The ghost of girls still laugh at us.

We were let go eventually. One-by-one we filed out of the building, and the sudden realisation of freedom dawned heavily with death upon us. We knew and learnt nothing more than the words of the ghosts and we follow through their hypnotic instructions to self-destruct and harm.

If you're lucky (which I almost was), plans in life take a sudden turn and they urge you to kiss the ghosts goodbye. But sometimes when plans fall through, it invites the ghosts back in and their presence acts almost like a calling for the obliteration of the self like the way the noose beckons death upon its victim.

So the ghost returns. She's sitting on the bed next to us, her hand on our shoulders. She speaks to us like the way anyone would but her voice stands out and amplifies in the air. She wants us back and she is determined to make sure she has us back.

Pigeons

Pigeons,
not very smart things
just like the one who checks it
always at the wrong place
at the wrong time
saying the wrong things
night and day
day and night
the world spins and unexpectedly
stops, hidden away in the dark
under the tree which burned
like daylight and churned
hot butter. Weeping days
on the beach and crying  days
on the bed, while time passes away
under the pigeon's wings it goes.

Times a'flying

Think back to cold 2009;
Never did they think she'd live.
Look now in 2012;
Now she doesn't think she will

Up Front

I don't want to know
when nights opaque with hate
bear heavy shoes on the girl
and boy who know nothing
of life and anger.

I don't want to speak
on days which hearts break
and crumble unexpectedly
on a rock by the river
which sweep away drunk memories.

Trouble not the minds
of the innocent for they
know nothing of love and hate
but do speak of romantics
and of authors and poets
for they hide emotions in words
and hide feverish desire in hearts.