Tuesday 9 May 2017

My Thoughts End with You

If you are familiar with this potato, you would know that I cannot ingest alcohol because I'd explode and become baked potato. Re-visiting what I had written last night, I would like to exclaim "IT WASN'T ME!" but I really did write what I wrote, though only half conscious. Was I drunk then? If one could become blue from fatigue, then bloody sure! I hadn't asked someone to go fuck themselves in so long, both in person and in writing so I apologise for my returning crudeness-- that is no way for a pretentious bourgeois to express displeasure. Ah, what else can I do? I am petty in the end, with my feeble heart that breaks even from its own beating.

Today's theme? But before that, I'd like to say that yesterday's dream was fulfilled: I went for a 3-hour karaoke session! Incomplete as it were without the songs of my beloved Jay, the tradition of straining my vocal chords to the songs from the glory days of Linkin Park was upheld. 3-hours may seem like a long time, but it's only enough to scrape away the skin of the frustration you were there to kill. And so, while she went for round #2, I left with the giggling frustration that recuperates in mockery, rooted to my stomach. By now, I'm already battling the tides that are the reason for my hair loss. Ooh, how they spit their sweet curses in my face!

Today's theme we'll leave for tomorrow; supper interrupted.

Certain places, if not for the decision and company of those I dine with, you would not see me in. Dining, surrounded by filth in the night reminds me of the culture which I came back for. But why would I miss such practices if I rarely indulge in them myself? Thinking about it now, perhaps it's the sleepless freedom in t-shirts and shorts that I wanted though I only own two pairs of linen shorts and rarely wear t-shirts. While it is true that I am much happier now back in the Motherland, I wonder if I hadn't thrown away the possibility of a life more indulgent in the arts. Other than theatre, there are alternatives to be found.

No, I certainly would have killed myself.

Mind games, heart twisters, scripted tongues, and encrypted rejection-- such is the way of one who thinks himself noble. There is no easy rejection for it is never meant to be pleasant. The lighter you intend the damage to be, the heavier it will weigh. In order to be merciful, hope must be left to waste away little by little, but as hope builds with time, the intensity of which can never be surpassed by the gentle peeling of its protective film through painless revelation, the ideal process of a tearless parting falls back on itself. That is what it is, only ideal, and never for one moment possible in reality.

Ah, for a moment, you made me believe you were a banana whose body would disintegrate into sparse clouds that litter a hopeless sky. But you are already the Moon whose cold gaze can only be felt in the dark when pretenses are put to rest. This moth was only drawn to the melancholy brilliance of your glow and wished to taste the mist that is your air, but I drowned as I kissed your reflection upon the salt water you have charmed.

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