Convalescence

Today is one of those days where I have too much to say so I decide to say nothing at all. By saying nothing through meaningless morphemes strung together in a grammatically acceptable manner, I should think that my mind would tire of thinking. 

I

Well-wishes are tinged with bitterness as a bright future reveals itself in the darkness burnt by candlelight. Embittered growls pierce through the choking steam in the cubicle, while clawed fists send a reverberating chill through the bones that run through these walls. Only in such a space, with a mirror blurred by denial, can one look at one's own reflection and feel no sense of remorse. 

II

Even the fabled candle made of a tortured Mermaid's fat will someday burn out, leaving behind only a charred wick infinitely mundane. A reminder that dreams are fabricated by the unmythical organ known as the human brain. Hope is the soot of the dull wick exacerbated by the flames of a mermaid's soul, while love is the melting wax that burns the very skin that gave it purpose. 

III

On a windy plain where the tall grasses are as fair as the faded colour of your hair, I stand scattering dried buds of the Buckwheat flower. May their seeds, devoid of life, find peace among the wind that brings them home. Should they blossom again, let them be as colourless as my heart. 

IV

A being untouched by time exists within my mind yet walks on two feet under the very same Moon as I. Wrapped up in senses, only its essence from a time before now and a time far from now is able to shape the reality breathed by my existence. As the present is timeless, I am undisturbed by the setting sun every morning and the rising sun every evening. 

V

Like a photographed silhouette, her hair that blends with the waves of sunset troubles me so. The expression on her face, I cannot see, but I feel anger welling up inside me as the sun glows redder still. With her bare hands she dares scoop up the purity of spring and bring it close to her lips, while her feet sink deep into the fine sands of this lonely island, spreading her roots that it may grasp firmly its very core. 

VI

"You pathetic thing" comes the whisper behind gritted teeth. One cannot hope when one's heart is filled with hatred. Follow the path of that who seeks revenge, and satisfaction will come by way of flowing blood. Follow the path of that who loves like a fool, and satisfaction will come by way of self-inflicted suffering. Neither grant peace, but both allow honour to be upheld, that nobody should recognise. 

VII

The priestesses lined up by the columns of my skirt still fail to bless my soul. The seams come undone in a golden thread that weaves itself back onto the tapestry of infinity, which seen from below, makes infinity only temporal. 

Do You Really Want To Know How I'm Doing?

Do you really want to know how I'm doing?

I do not wish to unearth what has only just been sealed, where the dirt is still damp from the effort of rejection. The chrysanthemum I placed above the burial ground, its petals come undone piece by piece in the breeze, replacing the droplets that would fall from my eyes as I blink. Even if your hand were to break the stem of the mourning flower, its sorrow exists in a space your negligence is unable to perceive.

With your return came the season of loss I have yet to experience. The fragrance of the blooms that thrive in this season is nauseating, and I vomit as I struggle along its path back to normality. A distinct chill sets the temperature of this season. It freezes one from within, spreading outwards, instead of the reverse. Is it possible for me to survive such harshness? Already my lips have begun to crack, my skin flaking. Warmth has no place anywhere.

What does one know of having to face a corpse sustained by abject repression? What does one know of having to please a corpse that does not feel? What does one know of having to speak to a corpse without saying anything? What does one know of being haunted only by the likeness of a dead man you once knew?

The birth of a newborn does not kill its mother at the first wail.

Do you really want to know how I'm doing?

Do you, really?

A Well, River, and An Ocean

何が欲しいですか。今あの男はも一度貴方と話しています。それで何故顔の川まだ．．．

Have you ever heard of people begging that rivers should run dry? Me neither, but I know such a person. The story I will be sharing with you today, I wonder how you will see it.

Fear lives in a well dug by a pair of twins, Inse and Curity. Each morning, the twins make their way up the hill and to their well, drawing up a bucketful of spring water, drinking their fill. But of course, the fear that tinges the water is like the most subtle poison, odourless, clourless, and tasteless to the bodily senses. Do we blame the twins for ingesting such a substance? Of course not.

The Sun seems to be rising earlier each day, or maybe, the twins have been rising later and later each day. Still they made their daily commute up the hill and to their well, drawing up a bucketful of spring water, drinking their fill. No longer were they aware of time, only of each other, strangely so. Inse would glance at Curity and say nothing, while Curity would glance at Inse say something. It did not matter if any words were spoken, for fear plagued them equally.

And so, because fear is irrational, Inse pushed Curity down the well.

From between the roots where wild grass part, dewdrops of purple began to swell and merge into a flowing river that carries the essence of a weeping soul. Inse, drowning in the manifestation of her own fear, was washed away into the open ocean. She continues to pray that the river might run dry so that she may sail back to the only world she knows, undisturbed by the currents of the river that continues to weep.

The world, always within sight, yet never within reach. Is this punishment enough for one victimized by fear?

Of course, nobody should live in Hell while they still breathe the air of this world.

Inse sometimes wonder if Curity misses her too, as she drifts between sorrow and fear, day and night.

Misfortune of the Black Dragonflight

If you are expecting this to be a comprehensive history on the Black Dragonflight, then you may leave this page. This is nothing but another one of my Hearthstone rants, though related to Deathwing specifically.

Deathwing has got your back! Yes, Deathwing has got my back! Of all the games I've played with you in my hand, I've only ever put you out twice, and twice, you perished just as quickly that I never had the chance to breathe my reliefs at your glorious exclamation of being POWER INCARNATE. Dear Lord, why must you meet such unfortunate fates every damn time!?

I remember the first time I put you out on the field. I had won for sure, I thought, but of course... Of course he also had a Deathwing in his hand that he could slam down the next turn. We have been bested, my Lord.

That was months ago after I first unpacked you one dull afternoon, screeching in joy.

Then the desperate moment of life and death came again this evening, where only you could have saved me from shame. I would have ended the mage's petty life if it wasn't for Ice Block. So, my last hope, I slammed you down and let my cards be burnt by your rage. The mage had already Polymorphed my Ragnaros, so what could be done to you now, just what?

Ah, I loathe the Mean Streets of Gadgetzan expansion.

Of course the mage would be able to create the perfect custom spell from Kazakus that turns all minions into 1/1 sheep and gives your hero 8 armor.

And just like that, my Dragonlord was reduced to a bleeping sheep. It would have been more bearable if you had just turned to ashes and returned to dwell in the depths of the volcano.

Such misfortunes this Black Dragon is met with when dealt by this hand. Maybe, we were never meant to be? For our ambitions are too great that even the Gods forbid our bond to form, in fear that we will succeed in claiming all creation for ourselves. Might I come to show true affection for you, your magma will be the last that I feel before my cries harden onto the surface of this rock you will forsake. I can only live to use you, as you manipulate me. We shall see whose heart is more corrupt, and whose soul still remain.

Descended with your traits of darkness that luster in waves of my hair and the oblivion behind my eyes, the longing for the kin of those you slaughtered is the pain I will endure. May the cold reflection of the moon glow in the eyes of the flaxen wolf that stalks the borders of such longing.

Meaningless Update 0301

Children are wonderful creatures that make decisions which fed-up adults cannot fathom. Am I an adult now? I seem to link adulthood to all that is wrong with life. I have become the very person I despised when I was a child, that person I swore I would never become, ever. So long, childhood promises!

While watching Timm Thaler, I was in my seat wishing that Baron Lived would casually appear next to me and tell me he'd like me to be is evil heir. I'd have accepted his offer without a moment's hesitation! Does he want my laughter in exchange? No problem! Quoting his own words "you don't have much to laugh about anymore anyway". I'd be a fine demon.

Giving up the world to experience what it is to be utterly human, is it worth it? It seemed so. I would have thought so, if there still exist love and happiness in my hea-- that's right, even that itself has been lost.

Aren't we all a little bit cold?

It used to trouble me when I realise I would never be the protagonist in life's incessant tale, but as I come to terms with reality, I no longer uphold the will to rid myself of my antagonistic qualities. A bitch, but still fabulous, still admired, only less noticed than those who shine with goodness. I think it would be full of anger, revenge, and mistakes, my life. Why can I only think of Darth Vader at a time like this? WAE!? YOUR RED LIGHTSABER IS AMAZING ZZIIINNG! Yes, I want to walk around flaunting my flowing cape and paralyze people with fear just by gazing in their general direction. FEAR ME!

Rachel's aspirations at the age of 20:

1. become a demon.
2. become a dragon *coughcoughDeathwingcoughcough*.
3. become Darth Vader.

Instead of wearing light coloured dresses and flowers in my hair, I think I should buy some black clothing, and a cape. Should a person ask if I am in mourning, I would say yes, mourning over the death of myself.

Even I am unsure if I should cry, or laugh at my immaturity. I can only confirm that I cringe at this awful blog post I published.