The cutest sound that I had the priviledge of waking up to was a hiccup.
Here's how it went:
"Mornin'..."
"M... *hic*... oh no..."
That made my morning.
JKLM
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Cold + Philosophy = Cranky Furrball
Madness #1
what stirs your fancy tonight, nymph?
of light, night and all that's in between
what stirs thy blood?
what stirs thy imagination?
a thought or perhaps an art
a spark of sudden fascination
a sniffle, a cough
a sigh and a scoff
a furrball sniffle
a runny dribble
blocked silly nose
coupled with aching bones
Madness #3
a flu, a bug -- oh how i think this sucks
a sneeze, a cough... omg... yucks
could you pass the tissue, dear?
my nose has fled, i fear
away from me, but never reaching
with its watery companion -- leaking
gosh, i hate this flu
it makes me feel blue
but warms my heart so
to feel your hug
even though i cough like
a sam-sui ah-soh....
Madness #4
sam-sui chick
she carry bricks
check those arms
she's far from weak
may be strong
may kick-ass
don't cross her wrong
she'll s**** your ass
sam-sui chick
i think i'm sick
cos your brick
just smashed my d***
----------------
My essay is due soon.
Stupid cold / flu isn't running away. Only my nose obliges them. Sheesh...
JKLM
Sunday, September 25, 2005
A Mesmerising Elephunkyshoppaholophotopeanutslut
While trying to sort myself out in the field of philosophy, I decided to try my hands at interpreting a song. I guess I'm in a poopy mood again. Ah... sweet melancholy.
I've got more questions... More things to write about, but insufficient time and insufficient rhyme.
Step by step, I'll put them down. Selfishly immortalising every bronze, gold and silver in mind; carelessly spilling them over this digital canvas. Perhaps one day, I would finally be able to catch them all.
No, I couldn't possibly. No, I don't think I should. While this poetry of life won't ever rhyme itself out... I'm always gonna worry about the things that could choke my senses, numb my mind and rob me of these vivid memories.
You, you are my inspiration. You keep me moving on to find the next moment of brilliance. My motivation is a storming cocktail of fear, ideals and passion. Yes, I'm scared -- to loose this spark, to loose you and to loose it all. At the same time, I'm scared of that there may be no room for all these things things that I greedily and willingly devour. Gentle yet firm... this is when your eyes steady me. "Slowly; there's still time." Yes, there's still time; as long as there's you, I'm sure there'll still be time.
-----------------------------------------
Storms at Sunrise
there once was a time
when all i knew was this place inside
this place where i could hide
safe in the familiar darkness, away in the night
where have these hands led me
when will this love save me
storms at sunrise have drowned my eyes
and filled my skies
how subtly the white melts within
but will I ever see
the light of you that shines on me
how calmly the black fades between
will we ever learn to fall
through it all
I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold
just like I remember
the winds on my skin still feel as tender
can you feel the chatter of raindrops on your face?
a storming sweetness, a memory to taste - to heal
how brightly your white still flows
could you dance again
and bring back to these skies a flame
how quickly the black will thenretreat
and then I will see
here with me
I never needed to worry about the things that could break us
and I shall give in -- give it all
just so
these clouds could part -- for once
cause through the wind I smell the warmth
of a rain that will come
that could bring us home
you know that where we roam
only these storms at your sunrise will bring us home
-------------------------------------------
Linearised
I hate to have my brain linearised. After packing up on the scientific knowledge for a total of about 4 good hours, that's what my brain feels like -- linearlised. And I hate it.
All of a sudden, the rhymes just escape my fatigue mind; I still see and smile to the occasional nuggets of details that my eyes catch, but I find that I loose them easily, like sand from a broken hourglass. All of a sudden, the fleeting nature of these ideas seem to scare me more than before. While I still had the strength and energy to chase them down one by one in the past days, these hours have dampened me of late.
I feel... Weighed down and piled in.
I can't be myself with this knowledge. Seems like someone forgot to put the "save" and "shut down" operations in my OS. Dammit.
Even this entry is... well... trashy. Sigh...
JKLM
All of a sudden, the rhymes just escape my fatigue mind; I still see and smile to the occasional nuggets of details that my eyes catch, but I find that I loose them easily, like sand from a broken hourglass. All of a sudden, the fleeting nature of these ideas seem to scare me more than before. While I still had the strength and energy to chase them down one by one in the past days, these hours have dampened me of late.
I feel... Weighed down and piled in.
I can't be myself with this knowledge. Seems like someone forgot to put the "save" and "shut down" operations in my OS. Dammit.
Even this entry is... well... trashy. Sigh...
JKLM
Monday, September 19, 2005
Swensons -- A Cocktail of Ice-Cream, Laughter and Lemon Peel
My mother the art critic -- everything from the layout of a dish, to the presentation, to the smell and finally the taste, nothing escapes her. Her quick tongue is always ready to question the tasteful, bribe the unwilling, dilute the conscious and, of course, praise the unnoticed. Introducing my mother the art critic.
My mother the engineer. With each conscious bite, she digests the formula for each dish. From the sauce to the filling, nothing is spared from her analytical tongue. Way before the aftertaste of each cullinary load fades, my mother is already hard at work at creating a counter-recipie. Within minutes, her cullinary laboratory delivers a quick and satisfying conclusion: "We could have had this at home." With engineered conviction, her stare would have convinced us that this were true, had it not been for the lack of time due to our busy schedules. Surely, we wouldn't dare question the competence of our resident specialist.
My mother the actor. She likes ice-cream, and we know it. She used to make mooncakes, and she knows it. But she claims not to like ice-cream mooncakes. Perhaps it's the theory that a cook should never taste the things he creates. Perhaps its her guilty conscience warning her of that well-hidden tummy. Her convicted refusal of the fourth piece of mooncake makes it really hard to tell...
My father the soldier. His rehearsed routined and precise timing is hard to replicate. His convicted, purposeful steps are hard to follow. His firm tenderness with my mom is hard to ignore. His eyes have a gentle smile that is hard to notice. His words of congratulations and thanks are polished and issued with militaristic assurance. My father, the soldier; walk on.
My father the scholar. His glasses hang from his nose-bridge like an inquisitor's tool as he scans the papers for information. You can almost hear his thoughts buzz through his skull as his eyes dart across the pages, ignoring the noise, the waiter and the music of the restaurant. His dedication to devouring information is boundless, I'm sure, because he studies the menu with an unequalled intensity. My father -- always focused, always purposeful.
My father the teacher. They say that a teacher teaches by example, and students tend to take after their teachers. I took a look at him and thought about myself, it seems like we both took turns at teaching each other things. My only lesson being conditional love: "I love you, dad, that's why it hurts to much when I can't even talk to you on something like this." His lessons ranged a great many things, too many to state here, but all bearing a common theme: how to be a man and all precious.
Each time my family gets together, it's like a high-society gathering -- we speak our own exclusive colourful language and communicate through our elite culture. My mother, the multi-talented bohemian plays the pipe and fills our dining table with her melodies while my father occasionally exhibits his throaty bass. My brother, the rebel, usually plays the saxophone though he does swtich between instruments rather quickly and toots a different tune according to the background. Me? I'm the flutist: tittering away in my corner with my chirping laughter and my high-pitched smile. I guess my parents brought me up well, because I have found their elitist views of many issues fitting and unparalleled. Great job, team.
Two birthdays were sounded off at Swensens while we were dining, cued by the pre-programed birthday tracks playing on the intercom. Horray... our little outing stradles both our parents' birthdays. Anyway, it's meaningless, this musical amusement. What could compare to the brilliance of our exclusive intercourse? Artistic and ambiguous though it might be at times, but still priceless.
--------------------------------
I missed Autumn today
As I stared into this black canvas
And contemplated the ways
That I could paint your essence
And somehow make you stay.
The storkes would need to be
Gentle and mellow in colour
Yet smooth to dance free
To the warmth of Fall's flavour
And no-one would ever know
The mysteries of your ways
The gentle seeds you sow
And the nights you turn into days
I missed Autumn today.
-------------------------------
I got a song in my mail today. It was unexpected. I feel like replying it with my interpretation. A rhyme, perhaps. But will it flow?
I received an sms today. It too, was unexpected. Especially one of such nature, that described me as a puzzling phenomenon, somewhat between a mist, a psychological case study, a puzzle and an engima. Frankly, I don't even know what that makes me. Confused, yeah, pretty much.
Whatever makes you happy, I guess. I'm just me, as far as I'm concerned. And that probably means that I'm more than words can describe. All because I chose to be.
How can you fix the mist? What home does the wind have? It has but a destination.
----------------------------------
My brother is like lemon peel. No not his skin, silly. Well, but he does have rather endearing freckles though.
He is bittersweet. And he's ben going round in circles lately. Actually, he seems to have been coiled up like a lemon peel for some time now... Always going round and round in circles around the same axis. That seems to be the way things are going for him these days -- it's usually a reactive core he hides behind those reactor walls. And good technicians can be so hard to come by these days. To make matters worse, each usually brings with her a different style of managing this plant.
Who could read these meters? Who could control this core? Who could stop a fallout? Who could preserve its energetic nature? Who could understand the physics of his atomic core?
He knows. I'm sure of it. But the contract with the technicains are always the trickiest to handle...
--------------------------------
I don't think there is a recipie for this cocktail. Not when the bartender keeps modifying the ones he has. Perhaps you could say that they all taste somewhat the same... But there are always the subtle differences. I'm sure you'll notice.
Speaking of cocktails. Just when I thought I had tasted it all... A new one finds its way onto the menu. Ah, the heady indulgence of passion.
JKLM
My mother the engineer. With each conscious bite, she digests the formula for each dish. From the sauce to the filling, nothing is spared from her analytical tongue. Way before the aftertaste of each cullinary load fades, my mother is already hard at work at creating a counter-recipie. Within minutes, her cullinary laboratory delivers a quick and satisfying conclusion: "We could have had this at home." With engineered conviction, her stare would have convinced us that this were true, had it not been for the lack of time due to our busy schedules. Surely, we wouldn't dare question the competence of our resident specialist.
My mother the actor. She likes ice-cream, and we know it. She used to make mooncakes, and she knows it. But she claims not to like ice-cream mooncakes. Perhaps it's the theory that a cook should never taste the things he creates. Perhaps its her guilty conscience warning her of that well-hidden tummy. Her convicted refusal of the fourth piece of mooncake makes it really hard to tell...
My father the soldier. His rehearsed routined and precise timing is hard to replicate. His convicted, purposeful steps are hard to follow. His firm tenderness with my mom is hard to ignore. His eyes have a gentle smile that is hard to notice. His words of congratulations and thanks are polished and issued with militaristic assurance. My father, the soldier; walk on.
My father the scholar. His glasses hang from his nose-bridge like an inquisitor's tool as he scans the papers for information. You can almost hear his thoughts buzz through his skull as his eyes dart across the pages, ignoring the noise, the waiter and the music of the restaurant. His dedication to devouring information is boundless, I'm sure, because he studies the menu with an unequalled intensity. My father -- always focused, always purposeful.
My father the teacher. They say that a teacher teaches by example, and students tend to take after their teachers. I took a look at him and thought about myself, it seems like we both took turns at teaching each other things. My only lesson being conditional love: "I love you, dad, that's why it hurts to much when I can't even talk to you on something like this." His lessons ranged a great many things, too many to state here, but all bearing a common theme: how to be a man and all precious.
Each time my family gets together, it's like a high-society gathering -- we speak our own exclusive colourful language and communicate through our elite culture. My mother, the multi-talented bohemian plays the pipe and fills our dining table with her melodies while my father occasionally exhibits his throaty bass. My brother, the rebel, usually plays the saxophone though he does swtich between instruments rather quickly and toots a different tune according to the background. Me? I'm the flutist: tittering away in my corner with my chirping laughter and my high-pitched smile. I guess my parents brought me up well, because I have found their elitist views of many issues fitting and unparalleled. Great job, team.
Two birthdays were sounded off at Swensens while we were dining, cued by the pre-programed birthday tracks playing on the intercom. Horray... our little outing stradles both our parents' birthdays. Anyway, it's meaningless, this musical amusement. What could compare to the brilliance of our exclusive intercourse? Artistic and ambiguous though it might be at times, but still priceless.
--------------------------------
I missed Autumn today
As I stared into this black canvas
And contemplated the ways
That I could paint your essence
And somehow make you stay.
The storkes would need to be
Gentle and mellow in colour
Yet smooth to dance free
To the warmth of Fall's flavour
And no-one would ever know
The mysteries of your ways
The gentle seeds you sow
And the nights you turn into days
I missed Autumn today.
-------------------------------
I got a song in my mail today. It was unexpected. I feel like replying it with my interpretation. A rhyme, perhaps. But will it flow?
I received an sms today. It too, was unexpected. Especially one of such nature, that described me as a puzzling phenomenon, somewhat between a mist, a psychological case study, a puzzle and an engima. Frankly, I don't even know what that makes me. Confused, yeah, pretty much.
Whatever makes you happy, I guess. I'm just me, as far as I'm concerned. And that probably means that I'm more than words can describe. All because I chose to be.
How can you fix the mist? What home does the wind have? It has but a destination.
----------------------------------
My brother is like lemon peel. No not his skin, silly. Well, but he does have rather endearing freckles though.
He is bittersweet. And he's ben going round in circles lately. Actually, he seems to have been coiled up like a lemon peel for some time now... Always going round and round in circles around the same axis. That seems to be the way things are going for him these days -- it's usually a reactive core he hides behind those reactor walls. And good technicians can be so hard to come by these days. To make matters worse, each usually brings with her a different style of managing this plant.
Who could read these meters? Who could control this core? Who could stop a fallout? Who could preserve its energetic nature? Who could understand the physics of his atomic core?
He knows. I'm sure of it. But the contract with the technicains are always the trickiest to handle...
--------------------------------
I don't think there is a recipie for this cocktail. Not when the bartender keeps modifying the ones he has. Perhaps you could say that they all taste somewhat the same... But there are always the subtle differences. I'm sure you'll notice.
Speaking of cocktails. Just when I thought I had tasted it all... A new one finds its way onto the menu. Ah, the heady indulgence of passion.
JKLM
Saturday, September 17, 2005
A Profile of Rain
Wind; a breath, a sigh, a whisper.
It's been a while since the words had rhymed for me. The sights around me still hold the same vivid enchantment, but I simply haven't found the time to capture all the angels and devils that prance across my dreamscape. On some days, I'm almost desperate to rhyme, fearing that each moment of pause will foretell the coming end of this poetry. On other days, I drown in the torrent of thoughts that flow forth from a spring, somewhere deep inside.
And so it came to pass, finally, on a hot Saturday afternoon. Closure; a rite of passage through tears, words, music and poetry. This must have been the longest week he has come to experience. This must also have been the longest week she has come to experience. Together through it all, any storm will pass. And the sun shall shine again -- even (care)bears need a little sunshine sometime.
Remember how you described the rain that follows each storm? Washing away all the destruction and covering up all that is ugly? Well, it's raining now -- a gentle, subtle dampness that soothes. And indeed while we drove down the highway this afternoon, through the stubborn dark clouds broke a smile. It's been a while since a smile had warmed that face and that heart.
We understand that loss of such a nature will never be easy to deal with. Your state throughout these days had not only shown us a different side to the gem of you, but it has also reinforced our respect for you. Inspite of it all, you have done what was needed and what was right. We all hope that you can finally find some closure and rest.
Your simple request, my twilight fascination...
"My music, my soul
Our mysteries untold
From white to gold
Let these dreams unfold"
Perhaps a simple resolution will find you in time. Till then, keep the music alive.
I've run out of words tonight... I'll continue this some time soon.
JKLM
It's been a while since the words had rhymed for me. The sights around me still hold the same vivid enchantment, but I simply haven't found the time to capture all the angels and devils that prance across my dreamscape. On some days, I'm almost desperate to rhyme, fearing that each moment of pause will foretell the coming end of this poetry. On other days, I drown in the torrent of thoughts that flow forth from a spring, somewhere deep inside.
As I steady my hands to complete this work, I can't help but wonder... have i got the colours wrong? If a picture is supposed to say a thousand words, I'm sure I don't have much to say with this abomination my hands have created; seems like it will take more than inspiration to guide these hands of mine. Time to start over on this one... I just can't seem to get it right tonight.
Rain; a storm, a forgiveness, a redeemer.
And so it came to pass, finally, on a hot Saturday afternoon. Closure; a rite of passage through tears, words, music and poetry. This must have been the longest week he has come to experience. This must also have been the longest week she has come to experience. Together through it all, any storm will pass. And the sun shall shine again -- even (care)bears need a little sunshine sometime.
Remember how you described the rain that follows each storm? Washing away all the destruction and covering up all that is ugly? Well, it's raining now -- a gentle, subtle dampness that soothes. And indeed while we drove down the highway this afternoon, through the stubborn dark clouds broke a smile. It's been a while since a smile had warmed that face and that heart.
We understand that loss of such a nature will never be easy to deal with. Your state throughout these days had not only shown us a different side to the gem of you, but it has also reinforced our respect for you. Inspite of it all, you have done what was needed and what was right. We all hope that you can finally find some closure and rest.
Your simple request, my twilight fascination...
"My music, my soul
Our mysteries untold
From white to gold
Let these dreams unfold"
Perhaps a simple resolution will find you in time. Till then, keep the music alive.
I've run out of words tonight... I'll continue this some time soon.
JKLM
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Of Angels, Devils and Monochromatic Vision
10th September 2005 was a tough day. For everyone, and to everyone.
This is a crazy world we live in. Real mad.
-----------------------------------
I nearly popped by left shoulder yesterday. I should count myself lucky for escaping with little more than a severe strain on the rotator cuff group of shoulder muscles; my left shoulder is now weak, and my arm's movement range a mocking copy of what it used to be. I count myself lucky, because I haven't lost the use of my left arm completely -- the injury just makes it difficult to perform some tasks, but I can still sleep, eat and type.
Pain. So real, so raw... so funny.
The moment I strained my shoulder was something to remember. A committing dynamic reach for the final tile did the job for my left shoulder. It was a rather reachy move tot he right from the second last tile, not to mention the fact that the route was already pretty-much left-arm biased, as it demanded a leftward traverse before forcing a short-but-savage ascent to the end.
Just in case you're wondering... I was the route-setter -- I was the creator of my own ends in this. How apt.
The movies are right in their showcase of injuries of such nature -- no fancy positions, stunts or blood-curdling sounds. I felt my left shoulder strain to keep my body's balance to the wall as I swung out reach for the last tile, overwhelmed by the confidence that victory was mine this time. Then, just as I reached my destination, my shoulder gave way to a series of clicks, sounding much like what you would expect when a machine of gears comes grinding to a halt. There was no pain as my joint ground and crackled, just an untimely weakness that spread from the shoulder down to my fingertips. Next thing I knew, I was falling, with fingers of my right hand still latched onto the final tile, slipping under my own weight with each passing second.
On the mattress, I was curled up like a fetus, seeking comfort and relief from a dull aching pain and an unfamiliar fear. I couldn't feel my entire left arm. I was sure that I had torn, broken or dislocated something. Struggling to make sense of the injury and recover my grip on reality, I desperately willed my arm to move.
Move, dammit. Move!
Nothing. I was sure, by now, that something must have been dislocated. There was no pain, just a numbing ache that was a fast spreading through my entire body. The closer the ache got to my heart, the more fearful I had become. The very sport that helped me to find myself was now going to teach me a lesson I would not forget. I didn't want to learn that lesson; not now, not when there are still so many other things I have to do!
I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. As if taking my final stand against this chaos and pain now tearing into my mind, I laughed. It was probably one of those psychotic chuckles that would have had been aprropriate in movies like SAW. As I ridiculed my own mess, I tried once again to force my arm back into movement. And it moved this time.
Pain. I was, by then reduced to a storm cloud of sweat, laughter and rumbling grunts.
I have never felt such pain. How ever did You survive your dislocation? You fascinate me to no end... I have never felt so alive, and so relieved that my fight for control had yielded some measure of success. My arm was responding again, though any movement was paid for in a large bill of pain.
Still weak and numb in the fingers, I staggered to my brother and said:" Bro, I think I popped my left shoulder. Ha... Should've seen it coming. You got anything for it?"
Ah, my brother. I do love your support. "Wait ah," came his reply. "Hmmm...," followed his warm strong hands as he surveyed my shoulders for any signs of abnormalities.
"Nope, don't think you popped it. Go clean the shoulder up first, I'll get you something." No fancy words, no reassuring phrases -- my brother really knows how to cut through any fog with his searchlight of calm and humour. Thanks, bro.
And for the rest of the day, pain was a child; its inquisitive hands kneading my mind slowly, searching for signs of inconsistency and pockets where the dull ache had not already spread to. My soul was fast becoming a worn-out tooth brush, raw nerves all splayed out.
-------------------------------
With one and a half-arms, I stepped out of the house, bag slung on my good shoulder. With angels and Devils playing on the discman. How apt. Outside, the clouds were gathering, seemingly in some sort of grey symphathy.
In me, a storm cloud was gathering. They wanted to go drinking in school Such a waste of the precious sands of our weekends -- to be drunk in school and easy with our emotions. I can just hear the rumour mills turning.
-------------------------------
Black or grey?
Black, definitely.
White or grey?
White.
Well then, black, white or grey?
I'm not too much of a grey person...
What element of weather can you identify with the most?
Hmm... I would say that it is rain. Because...
----------------------------------
They say that a picture says a thousand words. Maybe that's why I ask you so many questions. Maybe that's why I'm always playing with words. Maybe that's why I miss our conversations. Maybe that's why the weekends always feel so empty.
Half-full or half-empty? And why?
My answer: half-full. Because I hope to always be able to seach and find; to be the colourful variant in a monochromatic world.
I used to hope that I could dance again when I needed to. I used to hope that you would teach me. I now know, because I feel that you inspire me, and that I am only beginning to understand. If ever you feel that this is unsettling, just remember: I try to dance to your tune, as you do to mine. Perfection then becomes well-coordinated series of actions, and mistakes are but a coincidence of events. I have no doubt that we had our times of perfection, and may have many more of unpolished stones, gems and precious metals.
Until then, let us just dance. =)
JKLM
This is a crazy world we live in. Real mad.
-----------------------------------
I nearly popped by left shoulder yesterday. I should count myself lucky for escaping with little more than a severe strain on the rotator cuff group of shoulder muscles; my left shoulder is now weak, and my arm's movement range a mocking copy of what it used to be. I count myself lucky, because I haven't lost the use of my left arm completely -- the injury just makes it difficult to perform some tasks, but I can still sleep, eat and type.
Pain. So real, so raw... so funny.
The moment I strained my shoulder was something to remember. A committing dynamic reach for the final tile did the job for my left shoulder. It was a rather reachy move tot he right from the second last tile, not to mention the fact that the route was already pretty-much left-arm biased, as it demanded a leftward traverse before forcing a short-but-savage ascent to the end.
Just in case you're wondering... I was the route-setter -- I was the creator of my own ends in this. How apt.
The movies are right in their showcase of injuries of such nature -- no fancy positions, stunts or blood-curdling sounds. I felt my left shoulder strain to keep my body's balance to the wall as I swung out reach for the last tile, overwhelmed by the confidence that victory was mine this time. Then, just as I reached my destination, my shoulder gave way to a series of clicks, sounding much like what you would expect when a machine of gears comes grinding to a halt. There was no pain as my joint ground and crackled, just an untimely weakness that spread from the shoulder down to my fingertips. Next thing I knew, I was falling, with fingers of my right hand still latched onto the final tile, slipping under my own weight with each passing second.
On the mattress, I was curled up like a fetus, seeking comfort and relief from a dull aching pain and an unfamiliar fear. I couldn't feel my entire left arm. I was sure that I had torn, broken or dislocated something. Struggling to make sense of the injury and recover my grip on reality, I desperately willed my arm to move.
Move, dammit. Move!
Nothing. I was sure, by now, that something must have been dislocated. There was no pain, just a numbing ache that was a fast spreading through my entire body. The closer the ache got to my heart, the more fearful I had become. The very sport that helped me to find myself was now going to teach me a lesson I would not forget. I didn't want to learn that lesson; not now, not when there are still so many other things I have to do!
I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. As if taking my final stand against this chaos and pain now tearing into my mind, I laughed. It was probably one of those psychotic chuckles that would have had been aprropriate in movies like SAW. As I ridiculed my own mess, I tried once again to force my arm back into movement. And it moved this time.
Pain. I was, by then reduced to a storm cloud of sweat, laughter and rumbling grunts.
I have never felt such pain. How ever did You survive your dislocation? You fascinate me to no end... I have never felt so alive, and so relieved that my fight for control had yielded some measure of success. My arm was responding again, though any movement was paid for in a large bill of pain.
Still weak and numb in the fingers, I staggered to my brother and said:" Bro, I think I popped my left shoulder. Ha... Should've seen it coming. You got anything for it?"
Ah, my brother. I do love your support. "Wait ah," came his reply. "Hmmm...," followed his warm strong hands as he surveyed my shoulders for any signs of abnormalities.
"Nope, don't think you popped it. Go clean the shoulder up first, I'll get you something." No fancy words, no reassuring phrases -- my brother really knows how to cut through any fog with his searchlight of calm and humour. Thanks, bro.
And for the rest of the day, pain was a child; its inquisitive hands kneading my mind slowly, searching for signs of inconsistency and pockets where the dull ache had not already spread to. My soul was fast becoming a worn-out tooth brush, raw nerves all splayed out.
-------------------------------
With one and a half-arms, I stepped out of the house, bag slung on my good shoulder. With angels and Devils playing on the discman. How apt. Outside, the clouds were gathering, seemingly in some sort of grey symphathy.
In me, a storm cloud was gathering. They wanted to go drinking in school Such a waste of the precious sands of our weekends -- to be drunk in school and easy with our emotions. I can just hear the rumour mills turning.
-------------------------------
Black or grey?
Black, definitely.
White or grey?
White.
Well then, black, white or grey?
I'm not too much of a grey person...
What element of weather can you identify with the most?
Hmm... I would say that it is rain. Because...
----------------------------------
They say that a picture says a thousand words. Maybe that's why I ask you so many questions. Maybe that's why I'm always playing with words. Maybe that's why I miss our conversations. Maybe that's why the weekends always feel so empty.
Half-full or half-empty? And why?
My answer: half-full. Because I hope to always be able to seach and find; to be the colourful variant in a monochromatic world.
I used to hope that I could dance again when I needed to. I used to hope that you would teach me. I now know, because I feel that you inspire me, and that I am only beginning to understand. If ever you feel that this is unsettling, just remember: I try to dance to your tune, as you do to mine. Perfection then becomes well-coordinated series of actions, and mistakes are but a coincidence of events. I have no doubt that we had our times of perfection, and may have many more of unpolished stones, gems and precious metals.
Until then, let us just dance. =)
JKLM
Friday, September 02, 2005
A Tale Of Random Thoughts
My kingdom fell to the sweeping unassuming grace of autumn. Unapologetic but yet still dsubtle, autumn winds of mellow drifted gently through once empty courtyards, changing all they touch. Each marbled inch of the courtyard statues feels the warm breath of change; flagstone by flagstone autumn's whisper fills their gaps, as her golden-brown gown crackle playfully over their helpless frozen features.
Leaves crumble from ashened branches; trunks bent, dry with resignation. Once a green crown, now a patchwork of ash and brown beauty. Subtle were the changes, bold were the signs -- all these from the whisper of an inevitable autumn, for the reign of a summer king must give way to his mellow queen. Frozen setting rays of brilliant orange blend comfortablly with familiar cousins of burgandy, like fingers entwined -- the once blinding glory of holy light, now a humble ashened glow.
-----------------------
My summer is giving in fast to an autumn, a mellowing of sorts. A ball of ash-green ash found its way into my hands, a whisper of autumn into my eye and a tremble of warmth eased itself into my soul.
I used to love watching sunsets. Did someone once say that the things you love would eventually rub off on you?
A sunrise before a sunset. An opening act before a closing act. An audience gathered and dispersed. A tree blooming before sheding. A flower smiling before passing.
Autumn has finally found me. Summer might have been different, but they're all seasons, passing in turn. Autumn is beautiful as well. Perhaps winter might hold more magic when the snow falls and the mercury falls.
The night is here. The candles are lit -- angels of tungsten, bring light to a familiar darkness. With eyes opened, but heart closed, each laboured breath in the dark grinds like sand on stone.
A yearning. A longing. Another long night. In autumn, all nights are long -- it's neither the length, nor the darkness that would pose tricky -- it's the music, the siren song that plays on the night wind, if it blows.
JKLM
Leaves crumble from ashened branches; trunks bent, dry with resignation. Once a green crown, now a patchwork of ash and brown beauty. Subtle were the changes, bold were the signs -- all these from the whisper of an inevitable autumn, for the reign of a summer king must give way to his mellow queen. Frozen setting rays of brilliant orange blend comfortablly with familiar cousins of burgandy, like fingers entwined -- the once blinding glory of holy light, now a humble ashened glow.
-----------------------
My summer is giving in fast to an autumn, a mellowing of sorts. A ball of ash-green ash found its way into my hands, a whisper of autumn into my eye and a tremble of warmth eased itself into my soul.
I used to love watching sunsets. Did someone once say that the things you love would eventually rub off on you?
A sunrise before a sunset. An opening act before a closing act. An audience gathered and dispersed. A tree blooming before sheding. A flower smiling before passing.
Autumn has finally found me. Summer might have been different, but they're all seasons, passing in turn. Autumn is beautiful as well. Perhaps winter might hold more magic when the snow falls and the mercury falls.
The night is here. The candles are lit -- angels of tungsten, bring light to a familiar darkness. With eyes opened, but heart closed, each laboured breath in the dark grinds like sand on stone.
A yearning. A longing. Another long night. In autumn, all nights are long -- it's neither the length, nor the darkness that would pose tricky -- it's the music, the siren song that plays on the night wind, if it blows.
JKLM
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)