On the outside of an orange we scrawled...

Morning breath.

2007-06-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

1.
Cold, musty, and moth-smelling,
Like the room behind the eyes.
Curtains are shut,
Dawn hides behind,
As if ashamed, to show her face
To this weary traveller of the night.

2.
There are countless mornings,
But none are like this one.
Today is the day after
I closed the door for the final time, at last.
I will not come back again,
I know it.

3.
I rise to pull back the curtains,
And let the morning breath shine
Through me.

This one thing on my mind right now.

2007-06-04T05:08:00.000-07:00

"And start new when your heart is an empty room."

You play the piano, but you do not speak french, nor have red hair.
Still, should it be any reason for me to be less fond of you?
No, I think not.

Cousin Sam.

2007-05-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

Lying atop a journal that is not mine, there is a picture of my cousin Sam dressed in a brown woolly jacket squatting beside a blue old rusty dumpster. He is looking at the floor but his expression is a disparate one. Though he looks lost and upset, I know that he isn’t really all that because the photograph was taken in Melbourne where he was holidaying. Although I think he looks a whole lot more good-looking with his seriousness, even if he’s faking it. My cousin Sam is my cousin Sam. I think.

Asking yourself questions you know the answers for.

2007-04-08T02:51:00.000-07:00

Who else?
You.
Nobody else but you.
Is there anybody else besides you?
Why not everybody else but you?
Can there be anybody else besides you?
But why is it only you?
You.
What is it about you?
What makes you you?
Why this obsession over you?
Is there only one you?
Why this elusive nameless you?
You.
Who else but you.

The deaf and dumb gods.

2007-04-08T02:45:00.000-07:00

A quarter past eleven, I’m reaching for the phone. I dial the numbers I can never quite erase from my mind; perhaps nothing ever will. I wait for the call to connect and look out at nothing outside the window. Even in the room it is empty and lightless. It starts to ring across the line; the droning drowns sounds of the marching band called silence. It sounds for a while longer and I start to wonder if anyone is awake. Then I begin to come up with excuses for the absence of life on the other side. It was late, but you always slept late. Maybe you were away, but you never left your phone. Maybe you were still refusing to talk to me, but you always forgave easily. I hear a click and your voice inviting me to leave a message. I don’t think about it before I do it; I speak, for the first time in months, because I want hear from you. I slur and mumble my words, a silent prayer to this god called you.

I don’t remember now, what I said in that message I left you. Too proud to have picked up the phone much earlier, I strangely still remember what you last said, long before, after you kept calling; searching for life across the end of other line but life didn’t want to pick up, your plea to an earless god. So you left a memo for me to return the calls. It’s my turn to do the waiting now; and the gods never answer the prayers, do they? You must be as deaf as I am or mute after all this time.

There is nothing else except my room and the telephone and the line that stretches from me to you. Between the two ends of this line is the stubborn indifference of two immortals and a blinding silence that extends for miles.

Jai guru deva om.

2007-04-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup

They slither while they pass

They slip away across the universe

Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind

Possessing and caressing me"

As the Beatles put it best into the song Across The Universe.

"Nothing's gonna change my world."

Amidst these giants,

2007-03-23T04:53:00.000-07:00

I feel wholely inadequate.
Every person I have conjured a mere replicate of some more successful character.
William, Elsie, Tom, Sophie, Susie, Mag, Danny, Moore, that father figure, that faceless mother, and that tragic boy.
Products of angst.
Language, my medium?
The brush to paint the colours of my mind?
It is a broken one.
Broken and dulled by the waters of a lake called Vainglory.
Cry now and understand why she left you.
Know now, why she sent that postcard.
Economy of expression?
You squandered it.
Penniless.
Guilty.
I scoff at you now.
No, not hopeless.
Go.
Go out and earn your keep.
Don't return until you might have enough to lure her back.
Tempt her to returning.
Try.
I dare you to.
Afterall, what else have you got to lose?

On being impulsive.

2007-03-15T05:29:00.000-07:00

Am I impulsive? What constitutes being impulsive anyway? Is impulsive buying new objects to toss into an already large pile of unused things, just because I feel like it? Is being impulsive bad? Is it wasteful? Do I even deserve buying new things for myself? Why should I buy anything I don't need at all when I don't earn any money for my own? Why am I even bothering about this? What the hell, michael.

Prat. = Culture snob.

Goodness, I am bored. Help.

"You bloody son of a plodding cow! Canis filius!"

2007-03-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

I have decided after not much debating and more of playing on whimsical notions:

I will not write anything I don't believe in now, for the time being. (except maybe in essays for school, et cetera, because I believe in passing my As).

This means that I might possibly be writing in this unfashionably boorish way for a while but really, it hardly seems alot more different from how I usually write. So it's no big hoo-har, right? Right?

One interesting word I learnt today: 'Canis filius' means son of a bitch in latin.

I can't edit my post's font with this iMac thing which irritates me dearly because I so do want to type out 'son of a bitch' in latin with italics.

Don't-give-the-world-a-shit day.

2007-03-10T06:47:00.000-08:00

I don't get it. There's this willingness to begin writing in me right now but I don't seem to be able to write anything. Somewhere inside of me is a small person hollering, agonizing, and prancing about, imploring me to write something, anything. Don't know where to put my first word, first step, or pretty much anything else for that matter. Life is treating me fair but I am not playing my cards the way I should, emptying what little talent and time I have into sinkholes of whatever, all too happy to drain away everything I offer into the unfathomably deep abyss of the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Writing like this is as unglamorous as hell and bloody un-arty but I don't give a flying fuck because I can't be bloody bothered anymore. Actually, on some level, I realise the pretentiousness of almost everything I have ever written. About time also. There is no way I'll be able to do any good, preaching about something I don't believe in. I won't kid you, it's fun writing like this; might be trash but at least I'm enjoying it (you're still reading up to this point so I suppose you might be also; in that case - hah!).

You know, one thing I've always liked is coincidence. Coincidence never ever fails to entertain me, however trivial it might possibly be. I feel like and should talk more about my life experiences with the subject but I won't because I'm getting tired of writing and tired myself. I might read this next time and find out most shockingly (quelle surprise) how self-indulgent this post is but since today is don't-give-the-world-a-shit day, I will have quite pleasantly have myself excused. If you have suffered up to this point reading this poppycock, I can't say I'm sorry; it's nice to know you're reading anyway.

Hello beautiful stranger, are you a dreamer too?

2007-03-09T08:31:00.000-08:00

You there,

Yes, you there with that grin.

Tell me something:

I don't even know you,

But why do I like you?

Psst,

Quietly now,

Are you a dreamer too?

After the Oldies.

2007-03-08T02:35:00.000-08:00

Drained,

After we said what we had to:

That lonely conversation

An empty congratulation

A sincere commiseration.

While we lay back,

To relinquish a moment of quiet -

Between our open mouths,

We shared the same breath

And decided it almost felt better.

Speaking of this particular person,

2007-03-08T01:59:00.000-08:00

Maybe all he/she ever wanted was to be appreciated. Didn't matter who were the ones who did: black, white, he, she, gay, straight, real, unreal, believer, non-believer. Someone, just anyone who didn't mind the cold and crusty cynic; or the snotty facade. The beleaguered flesh behind the iron veil. Would you show compassion to this tin-man/woman with a heart?

Would I?

I don't know.

Would you?

Today, i grow a little bit more.

2007-03-02T06:28:00.000-08:00

Dream, dream, dream.

"Your boy is a dreamer." said the American.
I was two months and so was the world.

Today, i am merely seventeen inching my way to eighteen.

Each day I live but might not ever learn.

Today, having lived and learned,

I am thankful enough.

Sugar sweet silence.

2007-03-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

Silence is deliciously simple.

Wouldn't you agree?

Queueing.

2007-02-28T10:41:00.000-08:00

I can see you kneeling in front of the altar.

Gateway to paradise.

I can see the fever on your moving lips.

Desperate muttering.

Buying or begging for your ticket,

I wonder,

If they even have those at all.

2: How my pretty-looking wind chime found its way to the bay window.

2007-02-27T06:24:00.000-08:00

Not quite, I don't see a reason why I should buy anything that I, without so much as losing half a breath, can pick from under my feet. But, hang on, aren't you the Peter Piper who previously picked pickled peppers for that...?

Oh yes, that Poseidon fellow, said Peter Piper sounding not entirely pleased at all.

Why, how did - I don't understand, said I, trying hard to be apathetic.

It's not a very delightful tale, long story short, I still am working for Him, except that I'm bound to him until my contract expires.

Which is until?

Until He decides so, actually, Peter Piper sighed.

Not quite knowing what to say or do, said I, must have been terrible, whatever you did.

Yeah, He's got me good this time.

I couldn't say I was sorry, at least you're still in the same line of work, right?

Essentially, yes, the usual tongue twisting charms and jinxes, we actually have all sorts of other products now, may I interest you in buying the seahorse hex?

Don't quite have anyone in mind to make gay at this moment, thank you.

Oh come on, you have to buy an itsy-bitsy anything, please, he started to whinge and whine, I'll be trapped here for longer, otherwise.

Which was how I winded up back here with a pretty-looking wind chime hanging by the bay window of my seven-story terracotta pagoda. Wait until you hear what it does, you'll never believe it.

1: The twisty-tongued lady with the coral-crusted child in her eye.

2007-02-27T05:31:00.000-08:00

Seashells hang by the bay window of my seven-story terracotta pagoda. Bits of shell from gastropods and bivalves, riches of the deep, strung together to a thin piece of bamboo to form a pretty-looking wind chime.

I met a twisty-tongued lady selling her beach-pickings on the seashore last Sunday. I thought to myself: Well, isn't it ever-so strange to be selling stuff I could easily pick myself by the shore? So I asked this strange twisty-tongued lady who stood by the seashore why I should purchase her very ordinary-looking seashells. Lo and behold, from her turquoise-colored eyes, I saw a young boy encrusted with corals from top to toe.

Oh my, was my undignified reply.

Hello, said a gurgling voice, obviously coming from the crustacean-covered child, and who might you be?

Just a passerby person who might potentially be a purchaser, I said when I had sufficiently recovered enough, and who might you be?

My name is Peter, Peter Piper. Would you like to have a look at some of our goods, sir?

Home, sweet home.

2007-02-24T04:53:00.000-08:00

Honest opinion:

This feels like the starting of something beautiful.