She reminds me of you.
The way she sat waiting patiently outside the door, calling for me. From the inside, it sounded like a whisper, weaving its way past the loud music and rough noise to my ear.
Can I come in?
I opened the door and she came running in, a playful bounce in her steps.
Hello.
I was on the phone then, and could only afford her a glance. But it was alright, she knew I was different, had a job to do and couldn't multi-task. She could take care of herself.
As if trying to recall her purpose for entering the room, she looked aroudn inquisitively, seeming to suggest that while she had been out I had rearranged th furniture again. I could only afford a silent protest spoken through my eyes as a slipped my hand around her waist. and carried her up.
Hanging up the phone, I noticed that she had finally remembered her purpose -- me. She wanted a cuddle, and wasn't going to leave without getting one. She could not have come at a better time, cos after a busy afternoon, I wasn't going to let her leave without one either. The purr of her breathing soothed both our souls.
Just as gently as she came, she twisted in my arms and stepped out my embrace. I didn't resist, because this was the way she had always been; this was the way we had always been. We lingered at the door for a little longer, both occupying opposite ends of the narrow entrance frame. I looked at her with my casual warmth and she acknowledged with her classy perch.
Off she went, her style raised to my trailing bidding. She gave me a cuddle, and left me with an impression, a lingering scent.
Meet Coco, the resident cuddles of Climb Asia.
She reminds me of you -- snuggler.
JKLM
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
Revisited
Another late night, 4 a.m. this time.
Was just down at the shop and saw something that reminded me of how we were, our little white cartoned greetings. Smiles came in 1 litre cartons, I never knew.
And now, as I plough these paper fields in efforts to upturn desperate enlightenment, you toss and turn. Your sigh and rustle whispers to me through the chopping of the fan, playing chorus to a techno beat. I only wish that my progress was proceeding at digital whiplash pace; there is still much to be done. At times like these, it seems like I'm running with the darkness, away from the sun, forever towing the horizon, that threshold between light and dark, knowing and oblivion. Always running, but never reaching. We're almost there.
Your notes and little surprises still catch me like they used to -- in pleasant suprise. I don't try to smile, because that's all I can do when I receive them. You should know how these things are. Because just as warmth fills the heart through eyes with the rising of the sun, from your fountain pours forth an essence, a flow and a comfort.
It's my turn to surprise you today. Another carton, just like old times.
Oh, and frankly, I miss your nagging even though it has been all of one day. Believe me, I don't know why either.
JKLM
Was just down at the shop and saw something that reminded me of how we were, our little white cartoned greetings. Smiles came in 1 litre cartons, I never knew.
And now, as I plough these paper fields in efforts to upturn desperate enlightenment, you toss and turn. Your sigh and rustle whispers to me through the chopping of the fan, playing chorus to a techno beat. I only wish that my progress was proceeding at digital whiplash pace; there is still much to be done. At times like these, it seems like I'm running with the darkness, away from the sun, forever towing the horizon, that threshold between light and dark, knowing and oblivion. Always running, but never reaching. We're almost there.
Your notes and little surprises still catch me like they used to -- in pleasant suprise. I don't try to smile, because that's all I can do when I receive them. You should know how these things are. Because just as warmth fills the heart through eyes with the rising of the sun, from your fountain pours forth an essence, a flow and a comfort.
It's my turn to surprise you today. Another carton, just like old times.
Oh, and frankly, I miss your nagging even though it has been all of one day. Believe me, I don't know why either.
JKLM
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Of Old
Ah an old habit...
One of juvenille fervour and irrational excitement. No wonder they die hard.
Of all the fantasies and bewilderment that takes place before sleep and upon the dreamy moments of waking, a common theme runs through -- the sensation of a peaceful transition into and out of slumber.
I guess I still have that habit.
I guess I still don't like to be disturbed in my sleep, though the spark that used to flare and the brows that used to fold no longer pounce forth like they used to. Look like this old cat has still got some fight in its claws.
Well, it's the exams now anyway, all that stress must be driving us mad.
Thank you for being patient with me so far. Bear with me, it's not your fault. I'd sooner do with less sleep than do without your voice. I mean it.
JKLM
One of juvenille fervour and irrational excitement. No wonder they die hard.
Of all the fantasies and bewilderment that takes place before sleep and upon the dreamy moments of waking, a common theme runs through -- the sensation of a peaceful transition into and out of slumber.
I guess I still have that habit.
I guess I still don't like to be disturbed in my sleep, though the spark that used to flare and the brows that used to fold no longer pounce forth like they used to. Look like this old cat has still got some fight in its claws.
Well, it's the exams now anyway, all that stress must be driving us mad.
Thank you for being patient with me so far. Bear with me, it's not your fault. I'd sooner do with less sleep than do without your voice. I mean it.
JKLM
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Twilinght Song
No Me Ames.
Liquid frustration fall upon silken covers, hidden like icy pins to prck the unwary skin laid down to rest. Muffled protests and grunts of surrender form an unwanted ochestra for the chorus of emotions that rage behind still perfect black pearls. A storm rages over a body huddled, waiting...
=======================
Wind and rain. Winds may rage, but nothing comes close to the flood that rain brings.
The storm has passed, but the flood waters still linger on. No hymn, no rhyme... just the pregnant silence that follows a thunderclap.
The sun still shines, somewhere behind those dark clouds. I know... because I know that it's day and I should rise up again. Now, if only the clouds would part...
=======================
Beneath the crown. Behind the gems. Beyond the opulence.
I might have found someone with another back-riding demon. Just like me.
Swords drawn, eyes narrowed, guards raised.
Oh, for a panecea to rid these ills or a spell to melt these defences, my kingdom I would give. These chains have not been obtained from mistakes made, rather they have been cast unto your soul. How unfair for those who have never seen angels to describe and sculpt their appearances. How unfair it is for those who have felt angels to oblige them through their accounts.
I have.
JKLM
Liquid frustration fall upon silken covers, hidden like icy pins to prck the unwary skin laid down to rest. Muffled protests and grunts of surrender form an unwanted ochestra for the chorus of emotions that rage behind still perfect black pearls. A storm rages over a body huddled, waiting...
=======================
Wind and rain. Winds may rage, but nothing comes close to the flood that rain brings.
The storm has passed, but the flood waters still linger on. No hymn, no rhyme... just the pregnant silence that follows a thunderclap.
The sun still shines, somewhere behind those dark clouds. I know... because I know that it's day and I should rise up again. Now, if only the clouds would part...
=======================
Beneath the crown. Behind the gems. Beyond the opulence.
I might have found someone with another back-riding demon. Just like me.
Swords drawn, eyes narrowed, guards raised.
Oh, for a panecea to rid these ills or a spell to melt these defences, my kingdom I would give. These chains have not been obtained from mistakes made, rather they have been cast unto your soul. How unfair for those who have never seen angels to describe and sculpt their appearances. How unfair it is for those who have felt angels to oblige them through their accounts.
I have.
JKLM
Monday, November 14, 2005
Surf's Lullaby
I wasted most of Sunday between my table and my bed. The only productive work that I got done was marking a philo paper, which I incidentally got quite a number of questions wrong, and fuzzing up my hair from all that intermitent sleeping.
I wasn't fatigued, just bedshaped. You know, one of those states where the really hot and humid sunday afternoon weather just makes every little thing so difficult. Yup, that's it. That's why too.
Well, not all is lost, anyway. I've composed a simple piece for my SOM project. Rather surprised at the outcome -- when the pieces fell into place, the music was just smooth. I'd call it 'Surf's Lullaby" if I didn't have to name it after my matriculation number, as stipulated.
And I dedicate it to you, wilful surfer. With your drowned crown hung against a glorious backgroud of molten gold. While cowboys would sooner ride away into the sunset, you walk away, surfboard in hand, trailing a ridge of sand behind you. Your wet locks trickle the day's takings -- only the sea shares your passion for the wet and the dangerous. But she is not your enemy, neither are her waves your allys. You glance back, from behind dripping curtains, and sniff a salute to her -- your medium. You'll be back, and she'll be waiting with that characteristic frothy impatience. "What took you so long," her chatter pesters you each day. "What do you hold for me today," you answer her riddle, with one of your own. One last breath, before you head home. One last breath, that would still smell different from the first you took this morning upon the beach. Away you walk, away from the sunset... Into the night. "Tomorrow is another big day," you think, "maybe tomorrow, maybe..."
I wasn't fatigued, just bedshaped. You know, one of those states where the really hot and humid sunday afternoon weather just makes every little thing so difficult. Yup, that's it. That's why too.
Well, not all is lost, anyway. I've composed a simple piece for my SOM project. Rather surprised at the outcome -- when the pieces fell into place, the music was just smooth. I'd call it 'Surf's Lullaby" if I didn't have to name it after my matriculation number, as stipulated.
And I dedicate it to you, wilful surfer. With your drowned crown hung against a glorious backgroud of molten gold. While cowboys would sooner ride away into the sunset, you walk away, surfboard in hand, trailing a ridge of sand behind you. Your wet locks trickle the day's takings -- only the sea shares your passion for the wet and the dangerous. But she is not your enemy, neither are her waves your allys. You glance back, from behind dripping curtains, and sniff a salute to her -- your medium. You'll be back, and she'll be waiting with that characteristic frothy impatience. "What took you so long," her chatter pesters you each day. "What do you hold for me today," you answer her riddle, with one of your own. One last breath, before you head home. One last breath, that would still smell different from the first you took this morning upon the beach. Away you walk, away from the sunset... Into the night. "Tomorrow is another big day," you think, "maybe tomorrow, maybe..."
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Things That Happen With The Coming Of Night
Profile of A Woman
I miss autumn. Just as a refined woman leaves her lingering scent as she passes, you hazel crown still tingles my senses through our shared digital dreams. Those days must have left some sort of unremovable imprint on my soul -- even my eyes have turned brown, enduring the punishment of all other seasons, longing for your return.
Yet autumn has passed, her warmth gone swiftly, none as subtly as she came. It seems that while the sun rose one morning to announce the start of a day, it was really hinting me of her parting. Subtly she came, swiftly she left. As night fell, I craved for a familiar warmth and that dusty smell. But I was granted none; the seasons had changed, and into night I was cast.
A woman never uses more words than necessary to deliver her point. In fact, more is said through her eyes and posture than ever from the movement of her lips. Don't you notice that it is always the men who open up and pour their words in such vivid attempts at describing 'a woman'?
You never needed much. At your own time, you sketch such reminiscence in casual words and vivid style -- simple, yet gives as little away as these innocent black markings. If I should draw the picture of a woman, it's little wonder that it's you that should come flowing from my pen.
Noir.
Autumn was yours - your warmth and slow cascading flame left me so little room to hide. Now you ally yourself with the night. Every waking moment I am blessed to behold your opulent treasures, and every night I am assimilated in the darkness as your dark flame spills over my breast. We rule the twilights, you and I as queen and knight.
=====================
A Rediscovered Youth; Rediscovered Joy.
When was the last time you drove with the windows down?
When was the last time you drove with the windows down and the music up?
When was the last time you did all that, and sang your heart out to the accompanyment of highway wind?
Now, when was the last time you cycled till your butt ached?
When was the last time you did all that and cycled till your butt ached?
Mine was on Thursday, after years of missed time. Grinding up each hill, zipping down each slope; feeling the wind in my face, and the anxiety in my heart as cars and trucks pass us by -- I felt reborn again. Those 4 hours seemed shorter than I had ever recalled, and the world suddenly seemed smaller too.
For that night, we could have been heroes riding upon our mystical steeds, charging hills and galloping through the urban jungle. The roads were our playgrounds while their inhabitants were the lazy lumbering giants. Upon and across these fields we darted, ducking between giants and zipping across their empty trails, ignoring their grunts and protests. If you ask me, I'd say that they were probably jealous of our freedom. Ah what price, to trade in the youth of your tiny limbs for gasoline mechanical advantage, only to find that you were better off with less in the first place.
And for those 4 hours, we were mythical riders: rugged, strong and careless. Adventure was our staple and the adrenalin was our wine. Your flushed cheeks were testament to our intoxicating chase. The streelamps were our crowd, cheering their tungsten chorus as we zipped past, our youthful energy burning bright in our eyes. And just at a particular moment, through a sideward glace, I caught sight of a scene.
Wind-tossed fringe, glistening skin, bright opulent pupils, burning with tungsten fervour... And lips curled with a joy bubbling deep within. We were the jungle children for the night, and nothing could stop us. We were happy and we were alive again.
JKLM
I miss autumn. Just as a refined woman leaves her lingering scent as she passes, you hazel crown still tingles my senses through our shared digital dreams. Those days must have left some sort of unremovable imprint on my soul -- even my eyes have turned brown, enduring the punishment of all other seasons, longing for your return.
Yet autumn has passed, her warmth gone swiftly, none as subtly as she came. It seems that while the sun rose one morning to announce the start of a day, it was really hinting me of her parting. Subtly she came, swiftly she left. As night fell, I craved for a familiar warmth and that dusty smell. But I was granted none; the seasons had changed, and into night I was cast.
A woman never uses more words than necessary to deliver her point. In fact, more is said through her eyes and posture than ever from the movement of her lips. Don't you notice that it is always the men who open up and pour their words in such vivid attempts at describing 'a woman'?
You never needed much. At your own time, you sketch such reminiscence in casual words and vivid style -- simple, yet gives as little away as these innocent black markings. If I should draw the picture of a woman, it's little wonder that it's you that should come flowing from my pen.
Noir.
Autumn was yours - your warmth and slow cascading flame left me so little room to hide. Now you ally yourself with the night. Every waking moment I am blessed to behold your opulent treasures, and every night I am assimilated in the darkness as your dark flame spills over my breast. We rule the twilights, you and I as queen and knight.
=====================
A Rediscovered Youth; Rediscovered Joy.
When was the last time you drove with the windows down?
When was the last time you drove with the windows down and the music up?
When was the last time you did all that, and sang your heart out to the accompanyment of highway wind?
Now, when was the last time you cycled till your butt ached?
When was the last time you did all that and cycled till your butt ached?
Mine was on Thursday, after years of missed time. Grinding up each hill, zipping down each slope; feeling the wind in my face, and the anxiety in my heart as cars and trucks pass us by -- I felt reborn again. Those 4 hours seemed shorter than I had ever recalled, and the world suddenly seemed smaller too.
For that night, we could have been heroes riding upon our mystical steeds, charging hills and galloping through the urban jungle. The roads were our playgrounds while their inhabitants were the lazy lumbering giants. Upon and across these fields we darted, ducking between giants and zipping across their empty trails, ignoring their grunts and protests. If you ask me, I'd say that they were probably jealous of our freedom. Ah what price, to trade in the youth of your tiny limbs for gasoline mechanical advantage, only to find that you were better off with less in the first place.
And for those 4 hours, we were mythical riders: rugged, strong and careless. Adventure was our staple and the adrenalin was our wine. Your flushed cheeks were testament to our intoxicating chase. The streelamps were our crowd, cheering their tungsten chorus as we zipped past, our youthful energy burning bright in our eyes. And just at a particular moment, through a sideward glace, I caught sight of a scene.
Wind-tossed fringe, glistening skin, bright opulent pupils, burning with tungsten fervour... And lips curled with a joy bubbling deep within. We were the jungle children for the night, and nothing could stop us. We were happy and we were alive again.
JKLM
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