. . . . .
I have been listening to songs and watching telemovies lately. Not much interest for reading nor writing. So, yes. This one will be brief.
So yes, as promised, brief.
Labels: clouds
A slight tingle runs through the lungs, passing air, gushing blood, tightens muscles, a light wave of stream plays. The heart speaks again. It says, "It's time". Soft wind blows, caressing empty thoughts, bringing gravity into picture, lacing beads of yesterday into the necklace of present day, heaviness that one's been carrying. Fingers shakes, toes awake, eyebrows flinch, "It's time," gestures the eardrums. Shoulders shudder, sending signals of fear, excite feet to step further, halt. To be lost in time when it is said that "It's time", to be honest, when? "It's time," frowns forehead. Time for what? "It. Is. Time," knees jerk losing balance. Feathers up ahead, from a little nest, from a little newborn bird, down it falls, above the ground it goes. This is called, Time. Musk fragrance of leaves from old books, thrusts into nostrils, awakes memories, delivers worry about the future. Throat burns, lips dry, cold tongue, a scratch onto the crisp of mustache. A glance, a stare, an ignorance, this is indeed time. Intangible, moving forward, leaves no trail, provides no Going Back.
And as I grow emotionless, time prevails.
Labels: earth, expression, life, nonfiction, rant
@ 13:42
(In the middle of a phone conversation)
“I hate myself sometimes.”
“I don’t think one is capable at feeling so.”
“What? How come? I do hate myself. So?”
“Sometimes. One is incapable of hating something sometimes.”
“Uh…Do elaborate.”
“To me, hatred can occur in split seconds, but take ‘centuries’ to be removed. During the process of removal, hatred will be temporarily permanent. So, your indication of hating yourself sometimes seems unlikely.”
“Well, don’t take it too far. It was just a figure of speech.”
“So, how long do you actually hate yourself then?”
“To be honest, I don’t.”
“That’s a lie.”
“What the..? I actually don’t hate myself in that weird temporarily permanent sense.”
“So, you love yourself, is that it?”
“Uh…I don't really want to put it that way.
"So, you love yourself, right?"
"Err...How do you suggest I answer that without sounding narcissistic?”
“By saying that, you love yourself sometimes.”
“That sounds pretty odd.”
“At least you would sound logical.”
“What?! OK. Whatever. I seriously don’t see the matter of how long one hates or loves or whatever.”
“It actually really matters.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
“Intrinsically.”
“…”
“I sometimes measure the length of it.”
“That’s absurd.”
“If you use the right tools, the right methods, sure you can.”
“Are you high?”
“No. Why?”
“Damn it. Don’t ask me back. I was being sarcastic. What’s the matter with you?”
“Conversations should have questions. If not, how can it last?”
“I beg to differ. Won’t it turn into an interview?”
“With you, I mean. Conversations with you will work if there are a lot of questions.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Our past conversations that contained approximately 90 questions last in an average of one hour and twenty minutes.”
“No kidding! And I suppose, you have been measuring this conversation too? Heh.”
“Until now, it has been precisely three minutes and 16 seconds.”
“What the…”
“Yes. Precisely three minutes and 16 seconds.”
“…”
“And now, three minutes and 18 seconds.”
“…”
“Now, I’m counting your silence.”
“…”
“Why did you say you hate yourself, again?”
“…”
“OK. Now the length of your silence has increased by 1.5 seconds.”
“…”
“Sigh…hello?”
“…”
“Hell-o..?”
“…”
“Your silence now has just increased to 2.5 seconds.”
“You are weird.”
“Your silence is overall, one minute and three seconds.”
“What…?”
“Phew. I thought you’re going to remain quiet.”
“I was about to until I imagine your puppy face turns soppy.”
“Do you still hate yourself?
“Yes, now that I’m talking to you.”
“You can be very mean sometimes.”
“False. I am mean, every time, naturally.”
“Oh, yeah? Give me some numbers.”
“Err…O…kay, I just did. I was being silent for one minute and three seconds.”
“Your calculation is wrong.”
“What? That was your calculation, wasn't it?”
“You were mean, sorry, have been mean for three years, two months, a day, a minute and three seconds.”
“Err… I’m sorry?”
“Apology not accepted.”
“I mean, what did you just said? About the three years thing…?”
“Oh.”
“Uhuh?”
“…”
“Hello?”
“…”
“You are so weird.”
“How do you feel about one being silent at you?”
“Oh! There you are. To be honest? It makes me want to slam the phone down, makes me hate myself. Well, sometimes.”
“It makes me hate myself too, except, more than sometimes. And for some reason, I don’t want to slam the phone down.”
“…”
“It makes me hate myself more and more, for every second of silence.”
“Alright, alright, I get it. How do you suggest I make it up to you?”
“No, don’t. It’s not your fault.”
“Fine. What do you want me to do then?”
“…”
“…”
"..."
"This may sound ambiguous. I just, I want you not to be silent..."
"That's not applicable. I can't promise you that."
"..."
"..."
“And your silence is now…”
(Phone is hung up. A long monotonous tone is heard.)
"1, 2, 3, 4, 5...6...7...
in which, this is literally me at the moment.
Labels: colour pencils, fashion, pigmentinkpen, sketch
“When you see a female dressed in a manner that is unacceptable islamically, do not for a moment think that she is lower than you spiritually. If you do that, you are lower than her. Believe me, that is the teaching of your religion. She might have a link with her creator that you do not know about. She might have a heart that is tons better than yours. She might have one weakness that is outward, and you have 50 weaknesses that are hidden” - Mufti Menk.
Friday, 11 January 2013 @ 23:24
Just finished a marathon of exam papers, five damn papers, five damn days, straight, non-stop. My brain just puked and puked and puked.
. . .
An acquaintance passed away today. I thought I had concluded the Death Rows news. But no. This particular person, a friend of a friend still managed to squeeze himself into the list. Innalillahiwainnailaihirajiu'n. He was an ex-lover of someone I'm close to. I'm sorry, I've tried to look for you, but I didn't see you. I don't know why but, I just didn't. Not exactly his words though but something like that. Vague future, unable to see what's at the end of that very tunnel, I've foreseen that. Made me wondered whether that's a death sign. And when he didn't 'see' her in his future, was he talking about this? As if predicting his death? Maybe I was overreacting. And today, he left all of us forever. We aren't that close but still, the heart just never quit to tear itself apart.
. . .
Into watercolour pencil sketches now. Filling this (see photo below) with various characters whom my brain invented as it took a break from gobbling up chapters from many many textbooks.
A gift from a thoughtful friend, Shifa Zambry.
. . .
Thought of being away from Monsieur Internet for a while. When I look back, it had been two weeks. No internet and I'm approaching the Heavens. Bullshit's too much. Wasteful activity, this surfing the net. And within those two weeks, I'd breathed easier.
. . .
"About when do you start?" He tried to sound nonchalant."At sunrise.""How far do you go?""The whole way.""And can I have a return ticket which will bring me all the way back?"
Stumbled across this whilst Linguistics For Literature Students' revision. This one. A representation of death, maybe? Anyhoo, putting this one on my Future Reads. And the name of the subject somewhat made it sound uncool. Favorite subject forever, to me. And still hoping they have better sophisticated name for it.-The Celestial Omnibus; E.M.Forster
. . .
Finished The Fault in Our Stars in one day despite the finals. One day. For an amateur, as I am, that's a record also proved that the book was good (amazing, actually, but my Energy Bar is decreasing. Hence, the lack of ecstasy.).
. . .
Labels: death, fatigue, gerascophobia, human, rant
We've seen how sick wind blows
but I've got your bovine eyes
i'll love you like i love you
then i'll die
Labels: listen