a collection of ramblings and ravings, undone and incomplete
Your stray ember flies through the night sky
A firefly caught in the monsoon breeze
Please may it land near my buttressed roots
The foothills enveloped by dark clouds
,?
My feet rests upon your grains of sand, coursing warmth to my body through the sole. You embrace like a warm hug that I never got from my mother, filling every corner and accepting as is. No pushing, no changing - just warmth. I look beyond your sky, trying to see past the horizon if anything lies away from prying eyes, but you lay bare for me; honest and carefree. I stand opposing you - opposing the values you harbour and release. I cannot give warmth as I have only received coldness; I cannot lay bare because of secrets I dare not tell. Yet you still accept me. Your warmth keeps flowing, indifferent to my flaws. This careless detached warmth is the closest I have ever felt to love and I shall accept it as is.
Your Sun-laden sky hurts my eyes yet I dare not look away. I do not want to miss a moment of your being. If I close my eyes, your beauty might turn to storm as to scorn me. I cannot risk it so I will stay in pain staring at you. Experiencing you is worth the suffering. If my eyes do blink, they shall remain closed; I’d much rather lose you than watch you turn.
For a second there I lost my head
So I'll sing for you instead
And I'm all talked out from what's been said
So I'll sing to you instead
Through the drone of fluorescent lights and air conditioning,
Your fuzzy silhouette persists.
,
I don't dream much anymore but when I do it's something of emotional significance where I feel lost upon awakening but am unable recall the events that transpire.
I throw my bedsheets into a bin bag and carry them down to the refuse area. They are stained with memories not mine.
I lay bare on my bare mattress.
,?
God is not a higher power from the heavens that is merciful and forgiving. God is cold and uncaring. God is not a being unfathomable and all powerful in design. God is a constant force all around us, a concept so simply familiar. There is no divine besides the divination we bestow upon ourselves. Thoughts form and dissipate like a strong sea breeze that loses its speed. The typhoon winds felt on the coast is not felt further mainland. The apple that falls of the tree, uneaten, rots away until it is no more. Decay
,.
The posthumous killing of your memory.
The perverse yearning for a love not mine.
I remember sleeping with my beanie near my face, because it had the lingering scent of you.
Love of another is a form of envy; wanting to be with someone is the same as wanting to be them.
Works of fiction are a detriment to our emotional capabilities and well-being. We consume such pieces for the pleasure of experiencing stories and feelings that are not ours. We have not achieved those emotions, thus we should not feel them. Fictional stories are far too commonplace. Stories with too much grief and happiness, events that would never happen within reality - all packaged up neatly within the form of a book or a movie, only for us to consume and experience these unnatural, artificial emotions.
Sad and depressing stories are the biggest sin. No point does one crave to be sad. A happy individual would not wish sadness upon themselves, and a sad individual would not want to compound what he is already feeling. The existence of such artificial emotions presents much issues. Have we as a society learned to crave these vicarious emotions that we now crave anything presented to us?
I wander through cavernous thoughts and regrets
Through nothingness, through sagas that never took place
Your kiss, never given
Your touch, never felt
Your words, never spoken
Your gift, never dealt
Your lies, all around
Your deceit, infinite
I’m hiding from your never-ending torrent of shit
Like the German Black Forest
Of you I know nothing
I know not your eyes, your skin, your stench, your sins, your arms, your hold, your heart, your folds, your nails, your grip, your grin, your tics, your sex, your shame
I know only your name
When the smoke clears, it remains your name
When the smoke clears, it's all I'll have left
In my dreams, you have read all my poetry and prose. All I have writ has been for you.
We are in the middle of a cultural upheaval orchestrated by the West. However, most are unaware of this sinister plot. This has been brewing and bubbling below our noses for decades and is now reaching a point where its effects are reaching full swing. For those unaware, which I feel would be most of you, I am obviously talking about the growing problem of cheese.
Traditional cheeses garner no natural interest from east-Asian individuals. Unless already corrupted by the tendrils of Western influence, the natural pheromones and aroma produced by cheese will have no effect on us. These pheromones and chemicals make the Western man go mad. They encounter the slightest whiff of it and will spiral into a gluttonous frenzy consuming any cultured milk product in sight. Unfortunately for our kin living in the far reaches within the West, they have seen such behaviour and have been socially pressured into adopting this gluttony.
A concept foreign within the Sinosphere before its introduction to local markets through American trade. Traditional cheese from Europe posed no threat to our population until the Americans got their hands onto this material. They have meticulously crafted 'cheese product' to infiltrate our markets and cripple our economies.
Like a foreign body entering an oyster, we have adopted this cheese culture and formed it into a perfect pearl for the West to swoop in and take advantage of.
Their propaganda has stated that our east-Asian bodies lack the required enzymes to break down these cheeses causing a problem they have dubbed 'lactose intolerance'. This is a false lie devised by the West to lure us into acceptance.
,.
It was late 2019 when I think I first started losing myself. It was only a couple years later when I realised. It was a gradual process; like water running through limestone, slowly carving a path through. I do not recognise the man that looks back at me in the mirror. He has my voice, my doubts, but not my face, not my actions. He has my inactions. My inability to respond and react to situations. My tendency to run away from problems before they arise. I have grown up to be what I had always feared, what I would never have thought of myself.
The opposite of Scrooge looking at his gravestone; I look back and see a better person. A completely different man. He has the same dreams and ideals. Little did he know his five year goals will be stagnant for six. With more being compounded on without any progress made. The idea of completing them enough to satiate. I have not disappointed myself: I have disappointed the person I was, and the person I was supposed to be.
I'm afraid that I'm not as self-aware as I think I am
I'm stuck in a dichotomy where I know I can't experience all there is to experience so, should I just not make an effort knowing I can't live every life, or should i make the most out of this life, knowing that all the experiences I make will lead to me experiencing more and living those lives I can't, but then again doing nothing is an experience itself.
I hope the lead from my vaporiser gets me before heartache does