Time and time again.

What a liar is time!

It promises us so much, giving us all the freedom we need, to do what we deem is right. For with the gift of youth, we embark on life.

But as learn to value time, it fades, counting down like sand in an hourglass, slipping through the thin gap we never thought could make a difference.

And at its last moments, time slows to a crawl, only for awhile to let us appreciate the wonders of its existence, the promise that it kept, the freedom that we squandered.

What a liar is time! A cheat, a deceiver, a saboteur.

Times Occassional

At times, when the mind quietens, we feel not the peace of things but the noise we have stilled with the tasks and bothers of the everyday.

Some call it magic, in the air, but they are the ones who fall contently into the fortunate hashtag. For the common few who cannot have it true, the white noise of discontent scratches the mind, annoys the spirit.

There is fear, there is a deep dark mystery - one which begins as hardly such, but with the subtle push and nudges of our ever-yearning, transgressed into a twisted hope.

And it is signaled, by a factor most arrogantly ironic, often through the very sweet tones we hear through our ears.

Onwards, miserably

It occurred to me that we humans are a pretty stoic bunch, getting comfortable with the least of routines and then settling into them like moss on a stone.

But once in a while, the moss feels the need of a new moist patch to inhabit. That's where we move on.

Or rather, have the notion of moving on. For we have gotten comfortable you see, even if the stasis of our singularity fuels our flight complex.

So what do we move on to? A new hobby? A new mate? New places to live? Drugs? Death?

Well it seems to me that what we're really after is misery. Take whatever you have and chase the root eventuality of it all, and you'll be left with a sorry excuse to gripe about yourself and force the move.

The motivation arising from this intense ingestion of an inferiority complex gives us a reason to seem meaning, and in that search we find gratification that we may have, for once in our lives, arrived at something worth being comfortable with.

But it never is, and eternal recurrence comes into play.

A new hobby? A new mate? New places to live? Drugs? Death?

Stop

Fleeting are the moments we hold so dear - a touch, no more than a brush across the skin; a look, setting your gaze deep; a sound, sudden and sharp.

And we remember these instances, stringing them together and making collages that yield us faith, hope and shallow gratification.

But there they remain - deepest and true in our hearts. They fuel a passion, destructive. They rein a mission, oft elusive. They carve a chapter, unimaginably massive, into the annals of our existence.

And we welcome them wild dreams. For without a purpose, a life is but a forgotten tune.

Hindsight

There are many things in this world that drive men crazy, but none more than he himself, when left to his own designs.

That thought would sever sanity from institution, truth from reality, reason from time!

For regret eats at regrets, fending off advances by his sound being to rectify the tilt to his balance. But instead, the fuel squandered on distinctly impossible equations of remotely adequate versions of his reality.

A festering curiosity for the painfully obvious, yet deliberately oblivious.

For don't we all question, "why didn't we?"

In the rush of the rain

I am a snail.

When you think of me, you think of slow things. When you see me I am usually crushed and run over by ants, or on a tray with butter and garlic garnished with coriander.

Other than that you do not see much of me. I like to be hidden, away from the rest of you, because when I appear and you see me it's usually not a good end for me. Like you, I dislike dying.

I slither. I slide. I move slow. I like it when it's slow; it's a nice pace to see the world, and there is so much to see. You don't know I'm there, watching, because you're too much in a hurry to notice me. It's amazing how much you don't see when you're rushing off wanting to see everything.

I like it when it rains. I get to feel fast because when it rains the world becomes slower than I am. In my snail eyes, I see the world stop.

And when it gets really heavy, it becomes like in those old movies, where streaks of white blaze down the monochromatic scene, cutting the single frame into millions of small segments, each a different size than the others. The sound breaks, screeching and scratched by the falling raindrops hitting the pavement.

Now you're thinking that I can't hear. But I can, and I do. You should try seeing the world from un-you. Then you probably can see me.

In the black and white of the rain, I see people standing, looking up expecting to see something there that would make it all stop. There are those who walk in the rain, like I do. It gets wet you see, and for someone who breathes through their skin I need to get to higher ground or I die again.

Those that walk in the rain, they look out for me. It's nice to be noticed.

I am a snail, and you see me when it rains. Not because I come out, but because you wanted to.

Be boring, be safe

I can't sleep because I thought about all the stupid things that I've done in my short life so far and I'm thinking I want to live a lot more than I have...

But a lot of living more involves not dying, so here's the motto of the moment - be boring, be safe.

It's not about not daring to try new things, but rather not going about things that you will most certainly categorize as stupid after a very quick second thought.

But unfortunately, from my very quick flashbacks of all the silly things that I've done so far, that thought doesn't come quick enough.

So here's a fast mantra for me to observe - be boring, be safe.

Because god knows what he'll done with a dead exciting guy.

I've got to remember this...

Just because the world you see is small doesn't mean you've seen the world.

How true. I must do my best to remember this the next time I shoot my mouth off at someone for being less of something I expected them to be.

The Pier

Today we know contentment. With the new days before us, let us tell the hungry voices in ourselves that from the very beginning, all we've wanted to do was sit and be happy.

Let us all cast our lines and be glad that the weather is fine. And if we catch something we'll be glad that we have a meal. And if it rains we'll be glad we won't have to kill a living thing. And if we go hungry let us be glad for the motivation to fish tomorrow.

If we do this, then we will be happy. But if we started saying if only, then happiness will never come.

Ask for nothing and know contentment for all that comes. Let that be my resolution for this year.

So close, and then goodbye forever

I had an idea for an entry as I lay in bed yesterday night. It was about a guy talking to another guy about the passing breeze. There could be a philosophical undertone but I don't remember now.

What I do remember is telling myself to get up and write the idea down, so that it forms as a nice story I could read when I wanted more ideas. But I got lazy and stayed in bed, telling myself that it should still be in my head when I wake because it's a great idea, and that I would get to writing it when I was awake.

I can't imagine how many times I've told myself that, and the many times I never got to writing anything down.

And so it dies - the idea, and the inspiration that might have followed.

But perhaps ideas never die, or at least their influence. They fade into the darkness of your consciousness, only to rise when your mind ripens. This piece of work I'm typing out now clearly stems from the lingering wisps of the story from last night.

So I guess it's like energy - displaced but never lost. From the inaction of last night comes the volatility of the moment, fingers frantically trying to catch up with my mind, the words disappearing faster than they can manifest, red spell-checking worms crawling across the page.

And so it is true for all things thought lost and nonreturnable. You may not know it, but my advice is to never stop searching, for when the mind is willing, the end is never far.

But take caution, dear traveler, for all who waits may not be rewarded their just desserts.

The Pig and the Lion

Sam was a pig, the same kind you'd associate pigs with - pink and fat and lazy and rude and noisy and dirty. Whatever he lacked on the outside, he'd make sure there's less of it inside of him as well. As far as pigs go, Sam's the creme de la creme.

Sam's owners were so proud of their fine specimen of a fat, lazy, rude, noisy and dirty pig. They loved him so much they kept feeding him and feeding him and stuffing him silly. For you see, the more fat and lazy and rude and noisy and dirty he got, the easier it is for them to kill him.

But like all living things, Sam was not aware of his fate. In fact, he thought that his owners were feeding him so much because they loved him! He thought, "Hey, that fat man and his fat wife must love me so much because they feed me and tell me to get fatter!"

But the day came when the owners have need for Sam's pork. They took him to his pen, right up to the spot where they always feed him at. The happy pig followed, ready to be pampered once more.

As the enormous animal lowered his fat pampered head into the food bucket, he noticed a shiny metal object behind his owner's back. Thinking it was a silver bucket full of food, he continued to stuff his ignorant face.

The old farmer raised the axe and brought it down as hard as he could, but he missed because of his eye sight (for old people often miss the heads of animals they attempt to slaughter). This sent Sam sprawling across the farm, his food bucket in toll.

And so Sam escaped certain death.

Running with a bucket full of food is no mean feat, and it soon tired out the giant animal. Sam took to resting so that he can finish his food better. When there was no more food in the bucket, with even the smell of food gone, Sam got up and started to find a watering hole.

Alas, the obese farm animal's luck seemed to have run dry! At the watering hole is a fearsome lion, the King of the Beasts! The magnificent creature sat still as the lumbering calamity of a livestock approached the water.

Seeing how much bigger he is than the lion, he proceeded towards the water. (You see, Sam had not seen a lion before, much less know what they are capable of!)

Alex (that's the lion's name) looked on in curiosity, but when the pig got too close to his water he hissed.

Sam, appalled by the smaller animal's act of defiance, snorted rudely, "I want the water, small furry creature! Move aside and be on your way. There will be none left for you when I'm done!"

Alex raised his eyebrow (if lions had any) at the audacity of the fatso, but did not speak up.

The pig pushed his blubbery frame into the lion's face, but got shoved back by Alex's front paws. Enraged and used to getting his way, Sam squealed at the animal lying before him, "Look buddy, I'm doing you a favor now. Get the hell out or I'm going to bite you!"

He bared his herbivore teeth at Alex, chomping at the air to make his point.

Alex shrugged his shoulder and got up. The arrogant Sam proceeded to trot past the relented lion, giving him a small shove at the end of it.

As the enormous animal lowered his fat pampered head into the watering hole, he noticed a shiny object behind him. This time, he had no time to react, nor did the lion miss his mark.

And so Sam got what he deserved.

The magic of inactivity

There's a magic about staying still, and I love it.

I like simple. And coming from a guy who has far too many shirts (yes, I've finally said it), that means something.

What is it about going places? I for one can't stand the exhaustiveness of travel; making sure you don't get lost is one thing, but making sure you get back is another big problem.

To combat the underrated and totally overlooked problem of getting lost in the alternate, I suggest staying put - something I have had a lot of time to get used to.

What isn't great about staying still? Whereas going places is seen by many as necessary, I would like to attest to the positive attitudes of inertia.

It starts anywhere, in a place where people come or keep away from, at the time of the day where time doesn't matter, in a cultural setting of incomplete harmony.

So many things, yet nothing; simple yet wonderfully complex, this is the magic of inactivity.

It gets better with company (if you actually find someone who's willing to spend hours of their time with you just staying still). There's the understanding of being there, and the appreciation of knowing that you have each other to turn to when it all gets too much to handle.

You see, silence is far from it; a void of communication hardly signifies that there isn't any happening. When was the last time you looked at someone and found that you're able to understand them - listen to the words they want to say; feel the weight of their emotions; share every sway in the winds of their life?

You wish you do, and sometimes you actually get close enough to.

And it could all happen where nothing happens at all!

Your mind doesn't really need all that attention to be entertained, so give it a rest sometimes. You'll be surprised what you can come away with.

The Way

There exists a kind difference between cruelty and ruthlessness, as there is a mocking revelation between kindness and pity.

But so often do we generalize things, that we take for granted the subtleties that present themselves - like the harsh words of a parent (I’ll kill you, you fucking ingrate!) against the rigidness of policy (If you want to riot, you will be arrested); or the dollar given to the auntie who sells tissues against the dollar given to the auntie because she sells tissues.

Do we not see the need to divide? Or have we experienced too much to be able to make a difference anymore? What about consequences - are we only driven by the end result, not batting a thought about how it is achieved? Are we reasoning too much, taking into account the fine salts of a main course instead of the quality of the steak?

I’m lost of course, because here I am ranting away in the middle of the night, over a thought I had in the course of the day while walking to the taxi stand.

But things like this happen to me, and thoughts like the above present themselves and leads me to question in hope of an answer.

Is it important to get an answer to every question? Well, I think for a kid like me, it perhaps is the very reason of asking.

I’ll need to be more mature to think that some questions warrant only a silent wave of the hand.

And the question in this case would be, like in most other cases and most vividly pointed out through a conversation with a friend the previous night (woah, he can cross-reference!):

Do we even care?

Uncategorized

There are many forms of happiness I've been told, and not all of them are good for you.

It's just one of those things that you say you understand, but lose meaning as you continue to think about it.

My advise for now would be to not refuse happiness, for it's often so hard to find.

But then again, what do I know?

Cups

Guys, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

While at dinner today, I chanced upon a philosophy. It arose when I was trying to defend my lousy memory. I said I can only remember things from the most recent on - it's like I erase the older ones that I think I don't need and then replace them with the newer information; this would explain why I have the memory of a headless chicken.

For this reason I've not really remembered the birthdays of friends and loved ones.

But then again, there's this section of my mind that I dedicate to remembering things that are very sentimental - the words people say to me, the things I've done, and many other seemingly frivolous emotional junk.

Those I'll never forget. The first words, the first time I felt something, everything people say that left an impression.

So here's my analogy - that our (mostly mine I guess) memory is like a progression of our drinking glasses.

When we are young, we're like those big glasses you can find at IKEA for $2.99 - you use them to hold everything - warm or cold, to the brim or just a sip; we're open to suggestions, and our minds willing take in anything we throw in. That's probably why we still remember the Gummybear song, or the Ghostbusters' Anthem.

And then when the midlife crisis strikes, we're progressively turning into wine glasses - holding less liquid, but whatever we chose to contain is far more refined that the rubbish those young kids pour in their IKEA glasses. To get more wine, we'll have to drink the existing ones - that's me and my replacement theory.

Here's an example of what IKEA glasses hold (explicit language warning).

Lastly, we move on to the fine chinese cups that we see in front of graves. They're elegant, but hold very little water. If you pour too much, everything will spill. Oh, and you'll only use them when you approach the cemetery.

So there you have it - my theory of memory and the drinking glass.

A Word

No more, but yet to mean everything.

In hope, we dream and in dreaming we live; all in a sad life we play out like flames dancing on a candle's stage. But yet we rejoice at the mention and sacrifice for the touch, petty creatures lurking in its shadows taking venomous bite after bite until nothing is left but a cold, hard, lifeless shell, spent and broken by hunger and greed.

Wars fought, civilizations torn asunder, history rewritten - all in the grand envelope of its cape. To the victor goes the grudge of the fallen, and with the spoils of the battles past we build a new world in its name.

At its grace men fell; for its power women worshiped. For it, time itself stood still.

And at its promise I now count, like I have counted before, like I have counted always; for something that might very well not be.

A word. No more, but yet everything.

Prolonging the night

Special thanks to Ivy, who is now happily married, for letting me in on this marvelous little trick that is my blog title for today.

So you're awake at this time. The night is a great place to have some personal time, and here's a list of what I like to do.

Take a look around your room; go downstairs for a walk; look outside your window; count sheep; draw sheep; and if you've a sheep in your room, shave a sheep; sing something you like; make a playlist of videos you like on YouTube; tap your feet to the rhythm of your heart; remember; forget; pine; turn on your television; read a book; write a book; eat something; cook something and get someone else to eat it; call a friend; make a new one coz you just woke someone up in the middle of the night; take a shower; take a bath; download a video; draw; play a game; breath; watch an insect crawl across a room; grow a plant; watch it grow; wait for the next minute to come; close your eyes; lie down; try sleeping for once.

Sometimes you'll never know what you'll find as you're sitting alone in your room. In the presence of silence, some of us fear; some of us hunger; some of us discover what is it to be us.

Take some time to think about the things that are important to you and how you think you want to deal with them. Is there a clear answer? Do you need a clear answer? Could the answer be right in front of you?

Prolonging the night. Try it sometimes.

Segway

I think poetry's kinda like a segway - you don't really know how it works (unless you head to Wikipedia), but you jump on anyway and once you get the hang of it, you go places with so much more ease.

I use poetry as a drawing board, a blank canvas for me to tell people who bother reading what and how I feel the precise moment I wrote the piece. In a simple act of writing I engrave that instance of my life onto eternity, readying itself for a retelling whenever I feel like reminiscing.

To find out more about a person, I'd say to read their writing first. For when they are alone with a pen do you see what they truly are. It's like how your character is defined by your behavior whenever you're alone in a room.

I thank those who have opened themselves to an interpretation of my emotion, no matter if you feel what I felt. While I try my best to recreate the raw feeling, it's your imagination and understanding that lends meaning to my words.

But I say too much and am testing your patience on this moment of creative masturbation. No matter what I write, I hope you take meaning from it.

And that may just be the best purpose yet.

Why I Write

It is a lurking fear that I can never write as well as the previous day, that I find it hard to articulate the flood of emotions that I often find myself needing to release. In those instances I find myself a pen, and sit down on the corner of bed (that's where most of the writing is done), and scribble away.

Sometimes I write about animals, of grass and trees in the wind. Sometimes I write about empty faces I see when walking down the streets. Sometimes I write about my mistakes and shortcomings. Sometimes inanimate objects take lead as metaphors to a life not led.

In that simple act I train my mind to let go - willingly erupt into a flurry of expression, letting the heart guide the pen onto the crisp paper. I read my writing sometimes, and find myself in ridicule for the past written. So many times I've wanted to throw them all out - my careless altercations with the subservient representation of my being.

But I have only till recently kept them hidden away - if not in mind then in physicality, yellowing to a soft yielding crumble juxtaposed to the authority and angst carved onto their pages. I would look at them constantly only to have them look back; my past grievances trading blows with the weak autocracy of a waylaid psyche that refuses to verbalize its hopes, dreams, wishes and prayers.

And for the fallen syllables and verses I prepared a funeral rite - a passage of purpose, fulfilling the immense promise they have been brought up for; for the dead words and uprooted emotions I prepare a feast of their brethren - more words to feed the words, unrelentingly pouring forth from my cursed mind, repeating the repeated, removing cause from the unpurposeful; telling the same tale of the same subject from the same person at the same time upon the stubborn intestines of the present.

A long tale retold to no one, heard by a lonely ear of the writer; applauded by the majesty of my ego; crucified by the nonchalance of reality.

And of what do I bleed? Of nature and it's splendor? Of promise and its ironies? Of dreams and their prospects? Of people and their faces? Of love and its cruelty? Of nothing?

But I write.

Now, standing upon the carcasses of fallen hopes, failed verses and the misshapen molds of reality, I realize that I write of but one thing - a simple word that I hold so dear.

Truth.

And one day, I wish I can do more than write.

Moderation is for pansies

I've know the meaning of the word. Perhaps it's likened to a tingle of fear - the kind you get when you think you're in too deep but know you can't get out of, not because you can't but more of "you won't".

And the adrenaline hits, sending the blood pulsing and your mind into overdrive; you start seeing things you normally won't see, and thinking things you would never have thought of. There is this awareness, and you're beginning to get addicted.

The danger takes over, and you move into automatic.

And until one stage you simply sit there, watching yourself work, but still feeling the same anxiety that brought you here in the first place. Everything moves faster, and you stand still waiting for the moment to arrive.

Because there's always a time to let go, and when it comes you let go, no strings attached. Never get too personal, never think twice. The adrenaline got you this far but too much of a good thing is bad, and you'll know once it bites you hard.

Go in strong, come out quick - it's the same rules as putting your head down a lion's throat.