Sunday, 31 August 2008
The windows crackle
The windows crackle as the morning heats them up. If it were nearly possible, I would imagine that it is a childhood playmate throwing little pebbles at my window and making that sound to get me to go out to play. But it is not possible. It doesn't happen here. It only happens in movies.
Monday, 25 August 2008
Sunday, 24 August 2008
29/08/03
On a bus, again,
Traveling silently.
Familiar scent
Ambles tauntingly.
There was a time before this,
When I was heading this way,
He put my hand in his
And pretended to fall asleep.
Traveling silently.
Familiar scent
Ambles tauntingly.
There was a time before this,
When I was heading this way,
He put my hand in his
And pretended to fall asleep.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Him
It's been like what, about three weeks? I've been dreaming about him almost every day, if not, every other.
Sometimes I dream that I wake up from my sleep and I will think that I'm not dreaming and he is not in my dreams. It freaked me out for a while. Once, I dreamt of people I don't like and I was comforted to know that he was near. Another time, I saw him as an elephant, that was one of my favourite dreams of him from all that I can remember. Last night, as most nights, I saw him as himself, and he spoke to me about something important, but I only remember him saying, “This is awkward, ain't it...” It was so distinct that I woke up a little.
My dreams are probably a function of my imagination and desperation for something exciting and novel to happen. Dreaming of somebody for consecutive three weeks is quite novel to me. It is almost as if I can control, dictate what or whom I want to dream about. But the thing is, I didn't control or dictate dreaming of him. I didn't even want to dream of him. I don't know where he came from, seriously. I was quite troubled at first. Now I'm used to it. Somewhat.
Of course it had crossed my mind if it's a matter of the paranormal. It could be. He may be somebody who want me to do something for him, that's why he's come to my dreams.
Or it could simply be because he likes my company. You know, like how I like his company. I kinda like his company. Meeting him in my sleep... man of my dreams?
That is so corny.
I don't think I will meet his equivalent in real life. What are the chances of a man being an elephant? Or an elephant being a man? My hopes will be dashed.
I wonder how complicated would it be? If I were to like him? As in, in a romantic way. He is pretty likable. Not particularly dashing in looks, but there's something just clicks between us. If I were to love him? If there is the possibility that I will dream of him almost everyday, or every other, for the rest of my life, then I... you know. As awkward as it will be... of course, not that the relationship needs to last forever, but I suppose I require that possibility?
Of course, I'm just letting my imagination go crazy here. Anyway, it's not that I can really dictate what happens in my dreams, maybe he'll be scared off by what I'm thinking about here, and never appear in my dreams again. Maybe he's already engaged. I'd never know, really. Or that such things cannot ever happen. I should just concentrate my hopes on dreaming of him again tonight, if not tomorrow.
I need to change my life drastically. If this doesn't work out.
Sometimes I dream that I wake up from my sleep and I will think that I'm not dreaming and he is not in my dreams. It freaked me out for a while. Once, I dreamt of people I don't like and I was comforted to know that he was near. Another time, I saw him as an elephant, that was one of my favourite dreams of him from all that I can remember. Last night, as most nights, I saw him as himself, and he spoke to me about something important, but I only remember him saying, “This is awkward, ain't it...” It was so distinct that I woke up a little.
My dreams are probably a function of my imagination and desperation for something exciting and novel to happen. Dreaming of somebody for consecutive three weeks is quite novel to me. It is almost as if I can control, dictate what or whom I want to dream about. But the thing is, I didn't control or dictate dreaming of him. I didn't even want to dream of him. I don't know where he came from, seriously. I was quite troubled at first. Now I'm used to it. Somewhat.
Of course it had crossed my mind if it's a matter of the paranormal. It could be. He may be somebody who want me to do something for him, that's why he's come to my dreams.
Or it could simply be because he likes my company. You know, like how I like his company. I kinda like his company. Meeting him in my sleep... man of my dreams?
That is so corny.
I don't think I will meet his equivalent in real life. What are the chances of a man being an elephant? Or an elephant being a man? My hopes will be dashed.
I wonder how complicated would it be? If I were to like him? As in, in a romantic way. He is pretty likable. Not particularly dashing in looks, but there's something just clicks between us. If I were to love him? If there is the possibility that I will dream of him almost everyday, or every other, for the rest of my life, then I... you know. As awkward as it will be... of course, not that the relationship needs to last forever, but I suppose I require that possibility?
Of course, I'm just letting my imagination go crazy here. Anyway, it's not that I can really dictate what happens in my dreams, maybe he'll be scared off by what I'm thinking about here, and never appear in my dreams again. Maybe he's already engaged. I'd never know, really. Or that such things cannot ever happen. I should just concentrate my hopes on dreaming of him again tonight, if not tomorrow.
I need to change my life drastically. If this doesn't work out.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
There is Heidi
There are some skinny children running across the play grounds. The weeds growing through the concrete are green like the wheat fields beyond. As the children run across the grounds, the green wheats turn golden. It is the turn of a year and the beginning of another.
When the children are gone, there is a sound like wind. There is the smell of sweet roast meat. The smell is pink. Then, there is the smell of smoke from a smothered fire.
There is a man calling out to a Heidi.
There is a pair of phantom eyes. The eyes the sunlight shines through and dissolves. In the hall, there is the throne. It is a throne of gold. A heavy man sits. He has a beard. The rest of his face is in his open palms. He is troubled. He calls for Heidi. Heidi. He bellows. The name echoes through the hall. There is little of anything else.
Where is this place? Who is this man?
When she finally appears, the scene is bright. Water reflects lights. She has phantom eyes too. Eyes that see but cannot be seen. Ghost eyes. Believe. From nowhere, a cherub, with naughtiness or sin in his demeanor, giggles and hurries away.
He tells his wife or priest that he cannot forget a pair of eyes he saw in his dream. It must mean something. It did not belong to an animal. He troubled over it. He mulled over it. It is not like anything he knows. He must try to recall the eyes again. Otherwise they will fade away like all visions of dreams. This torments him, for when he recalls the eyes, they haunt him. He is unrested. He does not want to forget them. It takes a toil on him.
Heidi is quiet. He dares not to hit her. He merely cringes or frowns. Heidi whispers to him. It cannot be heard. What does she know? He will go to the temple. The gods may listen.
In the temple, there were only concrete and emeralds. He presents the vision to a goddess in the wall. Her eyes are made of dissimilar windows, and the irises are the windows outlined by curtains. It was certain. That these are far from the eyes in his dreams.
Had he just experienced an apparition from another god? He doesn't know. The gods must forgive him. He did not wish for the dream to come to him. Or at least so he must insist.
He kneels pathetically. And wails. He wanted to be polite at first. But uncontrollably he weeps and wails. Like he just lost his son. Like how he will weep and wail uncontrollably when he eventually loses his son to the war with the rivers. In the temple, there are resounding echoes of his cries.
Where is Heidi? She did not come with him. Yes. The temple is dark again. He is alone with his past. And his future. He forbade her from coming. She is pleased to be alone. But he misses her.
He lies defeated on the floor on all fours at first. When he is out of breath, he curls up to lie on his side like a child who lost a fight.
You, the observer, must remember, that the piano had not yet been derived. Accompaniment is better, but there is only silence and the noise from his movements. There is the ticking of a clock but that is all. All that is in front of you is a big bearded man, defeated in a hall of a temple of his gods, by the resounding echoes of his own cries for the impending death of his son he had not yet come to bear.
Just when he regained enough, he was immediately flooded by fear of humiliation should someone else been in the temple to hear his cries and vulnerability. After which, he was immediately embarrassed by his guilt for fearing for his reputation at such a sorrowful moment. He looked up into the eyes of his god. For mercy and relief. He cannot imagine how. He is tired now.
He pleads with the goddess and looked up into the windows with desperation. The curtains fly and flutter. It does not matter what is the colour now. The man sees through the dark abyss-like irises of the eyes. Through the gaps of the fluttering curtains he sees eternal grey horizontal bars of asylum cells. Upon closer look, the bars are made of lines of words. They are silver against a sea of darkness. He feels fear. He searches beyond the rows of letters behind of which he saw you looking down at him with pity and estrangement and whatever it is that you feel. You see his phantom eyes now as they are brimmed with fear. They are meeting yours directly. He cannot break away from your gaze.
And the curtains flutter back shut. And you close your eyes to imagine or recall the phantom eyes of the man in the temple. And you open your eyes. And there is nothing left of what you saw except in your mind you wonder who is Heidi.
(sneak)
When the children are gone, there is a sound like wind. There is the smell of sweet roast meat. The smell is pink. Then, there is the smell of smoke from a smothered fire.
There is a man calling out to a Heidi.
There is a pair of phantom eyes. The eyes the sunlight shines through and dissolves. In the hall, there is the throne. It is a throne of gold. A heavy man sits. He has a beard. The rest of his face is in his open palms. He is troubled. He calls for Heidi. Heidi. He bellows. The name echoes through the hall. There is little of anything else.
Where is this place? Who is this man?
When she finally appears, the scene is bright. Water reflects lights. She has phantom eyes too. Eyes that see but cannot be seen. Ghost eyes. Believe. From nowhere, a cherub, with naughtiness or sin in his demeanor, giggles and hurries away.
He tells his wife or priest that he cannot forget a pair of eyes he saw in his dream. It must mean something. It did not belong to an animal. He troubled over it. He mulled over it. It is not like anything he knows. He must try to recall the eyes again. Otherwise they will fade away like all visions of dreams. This torments him, for when he recalls the eyes, they haunt him. He is unrested. He does not want to forget them. It takes a toil on him.
Heidi is quiet. He dares not to hit her. He merely cringes or frowns. Heidi whispers to him. It cannot be heard. What does she know? He will go to the temple. The gods may listen.
In the temple, there were only concrete and emeralds. He presents the vision to a goddess in the wall. Her eyes are made of dissimilar windows, and the irises are the windows outlined by curtains. It was certain. That these are far from the eyes in his dreams.
Had he just experienced an apparition from another god? He doesn't know. The gods must forgive him. He did not wish for the dream to come to him. Or at least so he must insist.
He kneels pathetically. And wails. He wanted to be polite at first. But uncontrollably he weeps and wails. Like he just lost his son. Like how he will weep and wail uncontrollably when he eventually loses his son to the war with the rivers. In the temple, there are resounding echoes of his cries.
Where is Heidi? She did not come with him. Yes. The temple is dark again. He is alone with his past. And his future. He forbade her from coming. She is pleased to be alone. But he misses her.
He lies defeated on the floor on all fours at first. When he is out of breath, he curls up to lie on his side like a child who lost a fight.
You, the observer, must remember, that the piano had not yet been derived. Accompaniment is better, but there is only silence and the noise from his movements. There is the ticking of a clock but that is all. All that is in front of you is a big bearded man, defeated in a hall of a temple of his gods, by the resounding echoes of his own cries for the impending death of his son he had not yet come to bear.
Just when he regained enough, he was immediately flooded by fear of humiliation should someone else been in the temple to hear his cries and vulnerability. After which, he was immediately embarrassed by his guilt for fearing for his reputation at such a sorrowful moment. He looked up into the eyes of his god. For mercy and relief. He cannot imagine how. He is tired now.
He pleads with the goddess and looked up into the windows with desperation. The curtains fly and flutter. It does not matter what is the colour now. The man sees through the dark abyss-like irises of the eyes. Through the gaps of the fluttering curtains he sees eternal grey horizontal bars of asylum cells. Upon closer look, the bars are made of lines of words. They are silver against a sea of darkness. He feels fear. He searches beyond the rows of letters behind of which he saw you looking down at him with pity and estrangement and whatever it is that you feel. You see his phantom eyes now as they are brimmed with fear. They are meeting yours directly. He cannot break away from your gaze.
And the curtains flutter back shut. And you close your eyes to imagine or recall the phantom eyes of the man in the temple. And you open your eyes. And there is nothing left of what you saw except in your mind you wonder who is Heidi.
(sneak)
Thursday, 7 August 2008
想你 16
怎么从来再也没有在街上碰过你?
是不是因为我们连那一点缘份都没有了吗?
还是因为你见到我就躲了起来?
你应该是没有躲我的理由吧?
可能觉得 和我打招呼 很麻烦...
其实我也觉得 和你打招呼 是很麻烦...
就这样吧.
希望你还好. 希望你过得快乐.
是不是因为我们连那一点缘份都没有了吗?
还是因为你见到我就躲了起来?
你应该是没有躲我的理由吧?
可能觉得 和我打招呼 很麻烦...
其实我也觉得 和你打招呼 是很麻烦...
就这样吧.
希望你还好. 希望你过得快乐.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
The Kite Flyer
When I was younger, I often wondered if the kite should be released instead of being tied to a string, if it should be free.
When I was older, I understood that without the string, the kite would be unable to fly.
I made that into a lesson about life, in many, many different ways, most of which I have long forgotten because they are tiring to remember.
Now, I just fly my kite and try not to let it fall to the ground. It may sink or dive or climb higher or not. It is in its nature. It is just a game that some people play when they want their kites to fly very high, or how some people want their kites to look very beautiful, or to spin in an interesting manner. Well, my game is simple, and probably the most not interesting game to watch. So, when I am flying my kite, I take it as my responsibility to keep it away from the ground.
Of course, it still does so occasionally. It is in the kite's nature to fall to the ground when there is the opportunity to do so. As it is in my nature to fail from time to time. Each time it happens, as it is in my nature, I will be disappointed and wonder if it is in the kite's nature to disappoint.
(sneak.)
When I was older, I understood that without the string, the kite would be unable to fly.
I made that into a lesson about life, in many, many different ways, most of which I have long forgotten because they are tiring to remember.
Now, I just fly my kite and try not to let it fall to the ground. It may sink or dive or climb higher or not. It is in its nature. It is just a game that some people play when they want their kites to fly very high, or how some people want their kites to look very beautiful, or to spin in an interesting manner. Well, my game is simple, and probably the most not interesting game to watch. So, when I am flying my kite, I take it as my responsibility to keep it away from the ground.
Of course, it still does so occasionally. It is in the kite's nature to fall to the ground when there is the opportunity to do so. As it is in my nature to fail from time to time. Each time it happens, as it is in my nature, I will be disappointed and wonder if it is in the kite's nature to disappoint.
(sneak.)
Monday, 4 August 2008
Information Management Policies of the Dystopian Future (A bad paragraphers' corner)
1. Maybe one day, there'll be so much writing and so much information that they'll pass laws to ban everything that is not concise.
2. Long sentences with no real content will be banned.
3. Conjunctions that could be better communicated by body language will be banned from spoken speech.
4&5. Emoticons must be used to communicate emotions instead of using emotive words like "frustrated" or "melancholic" or "elated". One must use a .gif to communicate the feeling of elation.
6. Also, emoticons must only be portrayed with ":" and not "=", as in, ":)" and not "=(".
7. All emoticons will be accompanied by a number, to denote the intensity of the sentiment to avoid ambiguity. The number measures upon 10. e.g., ">:( 2" may mean, "I'm quite pissed", or ">:( 10" to mean "I'm so pissing angry I'm going to piss in my pants and then his/your pants... And then threaten to kill everyone/myself."
8. Some smart asses will put ">:( 100" to try to indicate that their sentiments are so intense, that they're off the scale. They will be fined. Their abuse will cause inflation to the EM (emoticon measure) and mess up interpretations causing EM to be ambiguous like the emoticon itself.
9. In fact, they'll impose a fine for saying something ambiguous.
?. Then again, maybe they won't because governments rely too much on being ambiguous.
9. Maybe they'll impose a tax - an ambiguous tax that'll be ambiguous about what it is taxing so that governments will be ambiguously exempted!
10. Also, they will ban bad paragraphing in most public places and increase insurance requirements should one decide to allow bad paragraphing for up to 20% of the unofficial documents. That segment will be labelled "bad paragraphers' corner".
2. Long sentences with no real content will be banned.
3. Conjunctions that could be better communicated by body language will be banned from spoken speech.
4&5. Emoticons must be used to communicate emotions instead of using emotive words like "frustrated" or "melancholic" or "elated". One must use a .gif to communicate the feeling of elation.
6. Also, emoticons must only be portrayed with ":" and not "=", as in, ":)" and not "=(".
7. All emoticons will be accompanied by a number, to denote the intensity of the sentiment to avoid ambiguity. The number measures upon 10. e.g., ">:( 2" may mean, "I'm quite pissed", or ">:( 10" to mean "I'm so pissing angry I'm going to piss in my pants and then his/your pants... And then threaten to kill everyone/myself."
8. Some smart asses will put ">:( 100" to try to indicate that their sentiments are so intense, that they're off the scale. They will be fined. Their abuse will cause inflation to the EM (emoticon measure) and mess up interpretations causing EM to be ambiguous like the emoticon itself.
9. In fact, they'll impose a fine for saying something ambiguous.
?. Then again, maybe they won't because governments rely too much on being ambiguous.
9. Maybe they'll impose a tax - an ambiguous tax that'll be ambiguous about what it is taxing so that governments will be ambiguously exempted!
10. Also, they will ban bad paragraphing in most public places and increase insurance requirements should one decide to allow bad paragraphing for up to 20% of the unofficial documents. That segment will be labelled "bad paragraphers' corner".
Dear You
So, I'm me.
And you're you.
And I'm writing this thing that you are reading. – A chasm in time. A perpetual conundrum. – This must be the stuff of time machines.
Perhaps you'll forget – most probably – most definitely – you'll forget this that I'm writing that you're reading. And why shouldn't you? These are my stories to tell, and even I forget them once in a while. If you're going to remember anything at all, you're better off remembering your own stories, right?
What that takes me a day, or weeks, or years, to write, you take a few minutes to read. You know, I'm just like a secret admirer, writing you love letters, and leaving them here and hoping that you'll find them and that you'll like them and like me a little bit more.
I hope, but of course I dare not to hope too much, that one day, something exciting will happen between us. That's how I comfort myself when I am waiting in front of the computer, sometimes late into the night, looking forward to it.
I don't know what is going to happen. I don't even want to imagine. No expectations, no disappointments.
In fact, I take back the confession altogether and let's just say that I only wrote what you read for dramatic or comic effect.
I'm me, and you're you, after all.
Yours Sincerely,
Me.
And you're you.
And I'm writing this thing that you are reading. – A chasm in time. A perpetual conundrum. – This must be the stuff of time machines.
Perhaps you'll forget – most probably – most definitely – you'll forget this that I'm writing that you're reading. And why shouldn't you? These are my stories to tell, and even I forget them once in a while. If you're going to remember anything at all, you're better off remembering your own stories, right?
What that takes me a day, or weeks, or years, to write, you take a few minutes to read. You know, I'm just like a secret admirer, writing you love letters, and leaving them here and hoping that you'll find them and that you'll like them and like me a little bit more.
I hope, but of course I dare not to hope too much, that one day, something exciting will happen between us. That's how I comfort myself when I am waiting in front of the computer, sometimes late into the night, looking forward to it.
I don't know what is going to happen. I don't even want to imagine. No expectations, no disappointments.
In fact, I take back the confession altogether and let's just say that I only wrote what you read for dramatic or comic effect.
I'm me, and you're you, after all.
Yours Sincerely,
Me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)