Soft Rock Star

You have been far too distant from your thoughts. Incoherence rambles on like a train in the distance, rumbling on the tracks, eating away at your precious sleep. You barely notice the abrupt changes in the thick, cool, air-conditioned air. Yet that mere whisper, that single, little, utterance of muffled sound, is enough to eschew a would-be dream.

And every night, his little whisper in your ear kills your dreams softly..

You have no idea.

A Love Story Set in the Age of Simplicity, Which In No Uncertain Terms is Deemed as the Dullest Theme to Explore, Encountering Numerous Changes in..

the Way We Perceive, Hear, and Imagine the Flutter Of a Heart Beat, Which In Its Own Right Should Prove that All is Not Sound with My Mind When the Words that I Should Say Crumble into 3 Stupid, Small, and Callous Words, Which I Must Mention – is the Truth, My Truth and Our Truth.

Enter.

It takes me a while to remember. This is different.

I am seeing colours, a mist of whirling rainbows entwined in a luminous and magnificent spectrum. Your pink hand falls in line with the rainbow as I flip my shutter carefully, caressing the delicate situation. The backdrop – a sky, that is forever ingrained with the faintest hint of blue, on a patched ceiling of white clouds – is not entirely visible at first glance, due to the glory of the rainbow, but is certainly present. I abide on the ground, on the gravel, where I turn my head towards the direction of the breeze, into eyes of sparkling brown.

My face breeds contempt. I ruin the moment with a crooked grin, a crooked thought - A silly recollection of silly actions. I smile again.

The World is not perfect.
It destroys the beauty of the Sun with its urban landscapes and various technological advances. The latest disruption to my precious amount of ray is a grey bench hooded by a grey roof. There are no doors to this wall-less device. We talked under the cover of the bus-stop. It seems almost like October, except the breeze has stopped and it is now humid.

Sweat.

And it finally arrives. Our number.

The Day the Saucers Came

By Neil Gaiman - writing in Fragile Things.

"That day, the saucers landed.
Hundreds of them, golden, silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn't notice it because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
Or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men's nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold, and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,
You didn't notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything,
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call."

And I was. I really was.

I'm running out of places to hide

Gaiman writes,
“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

And I think..
So do I.

Her morning elegance she wears

A few days ago, I figured it would be fun to write against the backdrop of an alternate universe. What if I woke up as a different person, leading a different life? The results vary from the cliched to the freakish. Yet, here I am.

An alternate universe:

I: Waking at the unconvincing hour of redemption?

The radio-alarm cares not for man or time.
It's 7.17AM. It's unhealthy for me to be considering lifting my eyelids.
Some consciousness drifts in amidst the blistering pace of the Sun gathering its army of rays to intrude the perfect dark.

My dream -- in its fantasy World where my Kingly throne is surrounded by damsels, damsels and.. damsels? -- stares at me through my fast closing gap of memory.

Eyes arise.
I see the World for the first time this Thursday morning.

This Thursday morning, is joined by its companions - the January rain and the overcast sky. Although, I am unsure how to feel in regards to the pulsating urge to inhale some amount of air, it is musky and humid. Why can't I feel the cold of the fading winter that crowds around my curtained window, gasping for presence, desiring to ravish the warmth of my tiny home?

"Hum. Hum. Hum."

Ahh. The radiator is my best friend.

[insert section where location, characters and situation are described]

II: Yes, I work.

I work in a room full of boxes, dust, grey, and more dust.
My office is located along the busy street that surrounds the local shopping mall "Glow and Frings". As to, exactly how one might find his way along the busy street that surrounds this mall, you might have to ask a policeman. Or a painter. Or a cat. I just have no idea.

Every morning, my mother sends me to the office. With some amount of effort, I finally have nailed down the events that chronicle my eventual conclusion of arriving at the mahogany doors of "Primrose and Garlands co. (Flowers are man's best friend)"

1. Breakfast. A toast is always good. (noted: 19/8/1997)
2. Bath. I like the lukewarm shower with the occasional mirror mist frolic. (noted: 5/12/1999)
3. Car. Mother has said that I should always wear my seat belt further down my chest. The constant tug on my neckbone irritates the nerves. (noted: 1/1/2000)
4. I think the streets around my office are quite dirty. I just saw an old man have his breakfast of old jelly and crushed up cola can. (noted: 1/1/2000)
5. Fiona Apple was on the radio. I just thought it'll be nice to note that. (noted: 4/5/2001)
6. "Glow and Frings" is especially crowded this morning. I do suppose the office will be too. (noted: 25/12/2001)
7. Office doors. Here we are. (25/12/2001)

Usually, after opening the bronzed handle door at the entrance, I climb the long wall stairs that lead to the top of the shophouse. I enter my office and greet my assistant Melanie with a smile that reaches the tip of my ears. Then, I make my routine observation of the surroundings from the window. Our office window sits at a prime location between Greenwood and James streets. It observes the traffic light -- with its 30 second intervals and white crossed lines marking the street -- that signals the start of a busy shopping day for most of my fellow townmates. I habitually grab a chair and cut ribbons while I stare out at the urbanised setting, from the comfort of a 2-storey shophouse residing in another row of 1970-esque shophouses. The view is quite astounding. Today, I saw a woman smack her child for dropping the sacred coin purse he was handling. I should tell mother never to try that.

After cutting ribbons, I normally make a cup of "Instantly Ice-Cold Coffee (We only give the BEan-S-T!)" with an "Instantly Ice-Cold Coffee" packet and a cup of hot water. After my break, I tie the ribbons around pretty flowers Melanie has already trimmed and cut. Mother always sells these at the local market down at Home Road.

I like Melanie's face.
It is a round and peculiar face. She is very slim. I understand the two concepts do not usually go hand-in-hand. Melanie wears little make-up. She looks a bit like Renee Zellweger. I like that. Melanie is 27 years old, and loves to wear little striped blue blouses. She also plays guitar for a band called Primrose - named after our proud establishment of "Primrose and Garlands co." One day, if I can remember to, I will ask Melanie out. Maybe I should note that.

8. Ask Melanie out. (noted: 12/3/2009)

...

The story behind the main character -- who remains unnamed -- is such that he is intriguing in nature, and very careful with everything he does. It does come to the extent that one might compare the character to the popular private investigator Adrian Monk. I digress. My character has hints of lapses in memory. How long these lapses last, how frequent they are, I have not yet decided. The setting -- location of which also remains unspecified -- is rough and sketchy, with some degree of urbanisation at least. There is a reason I left out these vital details that might give some backbone to the ramblings that these 2 chapters seem to entail. I left this blank, so I could work on it further. I simply don't feel in the right frame to concoct a storyline right here, right now. This could work in the long-term, but first stories are always first stories. I didn't enjoy writing this one. But, I am pleased with how it turned out.

Are you?

P.S.: Feedback on this blog entry is appreciated. I am contemplating my chances in this industry. So far, I do not feel very confident. I feel like I'm new to a video game, and getting absolutely slaughtered even by the worst of all players.

Right. Off to covers, pillows and dreams of damsels now.

I'm so tired of learning to talk, building fences on the wall

A Thank-You Note to No One in Particular:

It occurs to me that once every few years or so, on a rainy, lazy, uninteresting, afternoon, as you sit at your desk and contemplate the headstrong aroma of boredom, you generate inspiration from an array of products that flash before your eyes. Heavily decomposed, almost warhol-esque, their mere presence in that browser of yours belies the disaster your life seems to be in. You forget your pain. You immerse yourself in a World you seem to have misplaced.

To some, Art is a medium.
For me, Art opens one up and strips him to his bare essential self.

And so I thank you dear artist.
I thank you for making this day, a little more bearable than the rest.

And Now We Resume the Update on My Life:

I'd like to think that no one really knows where they're going. I'd like to imagine that we are all stuck in a vacuum that urges us to make the best of our situation, but denies us the ability to predict, prepare, or fashion the future to our liking.

Friday morning was particularly insipid.
I would say that the idea of being in their shoes one year from now, is aptly frightening. Yet, I am not quite sure of the events of this fulfilling year. Am I going to be bold, brave and ready to tackle my inapt ability to work when push comes to shove? Do my teachers see me as something worth the squeeze? Will I make it to the end where I stand and smirk at my pink sheet of paper?

I have no idea.

Just like the first droplet of rain, that hits a hard dirt patch, from an ominously cumilonimbus setting. I'd like to imagine that though I am not entirely drenched, I am on the path to fulfilling my aim. Eventually, someday, somehow, I will be able to soak through this thick uninspired desire and push myself to work.

Alas.
For now, I wait.

Alas.
Dear friend, I am scared to lose.

I followed a rabbit, through rows of mermaid entwined shrubbery

How did you begin your year?
2009 began with a tolling bell, faces I onced talked to, and a car that offered no glimpse of the horrid nature the future belongs to. I recall I turned to the window. Breathing against the cold, now-moist glass, I placed my hands against the furthest corners of that tiny-squarish portal of vision. Trees, greenery, darkness, more cars. Except this time the picture kept moving on and on, as we travelled through time and path. Blinded by the city lights, and the memories of a dozen inconsequential experiences in them, I sought the guidance of a power so divine that I felt ashamed of how oblivious I was in the previous 365 days.

How simple is life truly? That on January 1st, 2009, at 12:00AM, we are separated from the year 2008 by a mere second. - A fraction of time that deftly flips over the calendar pages so smoothly.

I placed my hands against the furthest corners of that tiny squarish portal of hope. I wanted to see the future. Did I see it? Perhaps, I did.. If it did happen, maybe I saw a future I immediately sought to forget. And hence, I cannot remember. Thus, all I know is the mere coincidence that, on that dear night, I felt like I did not want to enter a darkness - that is the unknown. The unseen, the unheard, and the unherald.

By the by, it dawned upon me that everything was going to change. That everything had to change. As though, the big silver ball in Times Square became my personal harbinger of mist. I suddenly realized that I do not have certainty for myself anymore. A distant voice screamed a distant warning, or truth, "It's a shoreline, and it's high speed. It's a cruel World, and it's time."

Dear reader,
everything is changing.

If you are as lost, as I am, in this gust of the unseen, take care.