Friday, November 20, 2009
It is that time again. There comes a time in a person's life, a time in the night, when we look back on the decisions we have made, wondering if we have got it right or wrong; When we think of the secrets we've been keeping from the people around us, and how terribly shocked they would be if they were to find out.
When the hour comes, the loneliest hour, or a moment which one can cling to, to escape this harsh reality; when it seems too late to go to sleep, yet too early to be awake. A time when people are bound by the same, a common feeling of hopelessness. When one knows and even feels what it is like to want to die; how it hurts to smile; how we hurt ourselves on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.
What do we tell ourselves then? What do we keep hidden from others? No one knows I've done something wrong; no one knows I've lost my last real friend. Imagine the isolation; seeing the world as through a window or glass, on one side all the happy untroubled people, and on the other side you...
The hour will come, the hour between early morning and dawn, between the moon and sun, and when it passes, we wait for the next hour to come.
fire and ice clashed at [10:25 AM]
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I know things now. I realize now that our "friendship" had all the depth of glass of wine; obviously I didn't know him very well, or I would've known that he is capable of such cruelty; and obviously he didn't know me very well, or he would've known how deeply hurt I was when he decided to leave me for dead, to pick up the broken pieces by myself; or maybe he did...
I am furious with myself but even more so at him; I believed him, but he made me, no, let me believe him. I was open to the possibility that I had found someone whom I could share my troubles, who were not half a world away, who I could confide in without speaking into a phone receiver. I was filled with rage, though I did not let it consume me; anything would set me off, a book that had been left on my desk, a cupboard door that refused to stay shut; I was even furious at my deceased best friend's little sister and my close friends for being just like me; scared and broken, stubborn and human, and always refusing to let things go.
Every single time that he said he was sorry, that he hoped I would confide in him, that I would trust him; I believed him, a fat lot of good it did me. It is so hard to tell someone who isn't around to go to hell. I was even angry at him, for not being able to see my close friends one last time before they died; he had told me he "felt" the time was not right for me to visit them yet, I know he couldn't have known how things would turn out, no matter how highly he thought about himself, how much he saw himself above the maddening crowd.
Of course looking back now, seeing his descriptions of himself, how he saw himself; his excuses for his sins are laughable, his reasons are pathetic. He saw himself as a psychologist, a philosopher, a saviour of the world; full of wisdom and compassion; believing himself to be able to understand human nature and being able to relate to people, especially people whom have had difficult lives similar to his. How he "likes autistic kids" until they become teenagers, which he then treats like a plague; how his "compassionate nature and ability to understand people's motivation" makes him a better thinker, bordering on better human being than others; and especially how his painful past makes him "shy and afraid to open up", causing him to hurt others.
The rotten apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I wish I had realized it then, he is his father's son. Abandoning the people who accepted him and forgave him once he got tired of them, and committing this horrible act over and over again; never realizing he is more like his father than he cares to admit, more like the previous boyfriends he had, that he will continue being his father and burning bridges and destroying relationships because he refuses or is too scared to change. Adding to his inhumanity is his obsessive need to brag about his "abstract and philosophical mind" and of course his "boundless compassion".
I thought he was the sorriest human being God ever created, if he still or ever believed in God in the first place, but now I just pity him for he is going to die abandoned, just as he abandons others. I wonder though, after seeing how many people testify to his kindness, after sacrificing so much to get him through his troubles, why it doesn't extend to me? Perhaps the compassion was just a command of opposed human-selfishness/sinful-nature...
fire and ice clashed at [10:43 AM]
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I must've been at fault somewhere, I kept thinking about it but I still didn't understand. Or maybe, perhaps the world is at fault? He used to be needy. He used to call every single time he felt bored; sometimes even when he wasn't; as if I were his real bother. But as time passed on, with those days, he came to realize it...realize that I'm not his real brother, not anyone particularly important. He just wanted me as a replacement for his previous servant whom he got tired of. After he realized that, he started to bear a strong hate towards me. In his heart, after his father walked out on him and his mother, he has been endlessly gathering hate; then he started to search, for something he could release his anger on. Then I appeared...
At first he only made me accompany him into the wee hours, making me pay for his trips home, pay for his meals. He would apologise a few times, while saying he appreciates what I was doing for him. And I believed him. Until that day, the first time I ever asked for something; he decided it was to my best interests that he should avoid me. He's thoughtful, isn't he...
Everyday after that brought with it a new set of lies; I gave him the benefit of the doubt; for two months I held myself together, but it was too much. I was filled with a tiny spark of hope, I kept thinking it wouldn't be too long, wondering when would it be before I could speak to him again. I kept thinking, what was it I did that was so wrong, that I had to be treated like that? I still don't get it after thinking it through. So I just waited, waited for the day when he would explain, when he would apologise, when I could final say what I wanted to say to him on that day.
The days of waiting were hard. It hurts. It's hot. I wanted to cry. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't end them. I wanted to hide. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to escape. I wanted to shut myself in. I wanted to hold it in. I wanted to scream out loud. I wanted to go crazy. I was broken. I was burned. I was stabbed. I was bullied. I was played around with. I was crushed. I was stepped on. I was driven away. Again and again, I realized there was no difference from when he hadn't and had gotten tired of me.
Who has he set his eyes on now? To whom will histroy repeat itself?
fire and ice clashed at [11:52 AM]
Monday, October 5, 2009
fire and ice clashed at [12:16 PM]
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
From the moment we wake up in the morning(What time is it?), till our head hits the pillow at night(Did I remember to turn off my computer?), our lives are filled with questions(What should I wear?), simply ones that are easy to answer(How should I go about my day?). But some questions are so dangerous that the truth is not an option....
As I meet people, as I am introduced to and have to acquaint myself with them, quietness is confused with sullenness and they assume I'm an artist, that my "still waters" must be the result of my struggle as a poet or painter; claiming I appear lost in deliberation, as though I'm wondering how to rhyme this couplet, or what brush stroke to use on that profile. If only they knew....
Perhaps I am becoming like my mother, the type of person who can never get the name of anything correct, and not just meaning every so often the title of a song or the occasional new movie release slips her memory, no; meaning every title of every artistic project, of every film, book and musical arrangement, has been revised in the faulty synapse in her brain.(Do you know what's that song called? It was sung by a girl. She sings. She's a singer. She sings lots of songs. You teenagers really like her.) As always she swims through details, like an aquarium fish, in her own little world of lights and bubbles.
Am I sane? Or am I crazy? Those aren't courses of action. But they can be for some. Constructing ultimately two paths to be taken; do we take the safe, smooth road, or the bumpy, winding route? These are the choices of life. To the simple traveller, a thought to indulge in one's flaws would be simple to answer and soon forgotten; but to the long, hard wanderer, how much would one indulge in one's flaws? What are those flaws? Are they flaws? Faced with haunting questions, questions which clearly should haunt the average person, Have I made the right decisions in life? Am I a support to my friends?
It is the thoughts in our head that terrify us the most. The questions that are so hard to ask, because we are so afraid of the answer.(Am I more like my parents than I'll admit?) These are the many buttons that are waiting to be pushed(Will I go to Heaven?), buttons that when pushed(Is there anyone at all whom I can trust?), and we get the answer we want and that is where happiness begins; but when we don't...well...what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.
fire and ice clashed at [11:40 AM]
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I cannot say with confidence that the feelings I experience are genuine. I am merely a creation of God, everything that I am, everything that I have is not to be called mine; Not my body, not my posessions...Is there anything that is truely mine?
When I think that these emotions and feelings could be artificial; that I could just be, in fact, an empty doll; that my entire existence is a simulation created by computers...would that feeling be artificial as well? Would it be so terrible if there was something that is mine and mine alone?
Where do feelings go? It's disturbing how one can be pushed around by one's feelings, how dangerous, but then what else would drive us forward? For what are dreams without emotions to deem them worthwhile; what are friends and enemies without emotions to define them, to seperate them into their respective categories?
Are my feelings an artificial creation? Am I just a work of fiction meant to be written off?
fire and ice clashed at [9:43 AM]
Monday, September 7, 2009
What's that on the floor? Has it always been there? Where have I seen it before? Perhaps it was the middle of January that I first saw the mark on the floor. In order to fix a date, it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the the weather on that day; I think of the food I had eaten. Yes, it must have been January.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of leaf so feverishly, and then leave it...I might get up, to have a look at the mark, but I dare not; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened. Ah, the mystery of life, the inaccuracy of thought, the ignorance of humanity!
Why if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through a hurricane - landing at the other end without even a single hair on one's head; shot out at the feet of God entirely naked; tumbling head over heels in the street like brown paper parcels being blown in the wind; with one's hair flying head back like the tail of a race horse. Yes, it seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair, all so casual, all so haphazard...
What was I just doing? I want to think quietly, calmly and spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thought to another without any sense of hostility or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself, I catch hold of any idea that first passes...Banana...its familiarity relaxes me. It was the game he and I used to play; banana...(things that are yellow)...smoker's teeth...banana again...(things that have its shape)...dildo...and we would pause and stare at each other for a moment...and we would laugh. O how we laughed...
What was I thinking of? I shower of thoughts fell from some high heaven onto my mind. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the most pleasant thoughts, and very frequent in the minds of mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises. They are thoughts like this: I was with that particular group, discussing films; I said how the portrayal of Asian-Americans in Final Destination 4 are all seen as replicated mannequins. All the time I'm dressing up the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, yet not openly adoring it, for if I did that I should stop myself. We have to protect ourselves from idolatry that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed any longer.
My God, I hate my reflection, always having that dead look. Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the figure with a forest of depths is no longer there, but only the shell of a person which is seen by other people. What is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating mice and writing down the language of the stars? I can imagine a world, a world where one could slice one's thoughts as easily as a fish slices water with its fin.
There's no harm in putting a stop to one's disagreeable thoughts by looking at something(Oh look there's a mark on the floor) Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I have grasped the plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality. Here is something definite, something real; like waking up from a nightmare, to worship reality, to worship solidity, to worship the impersonal world which is proof of some existence other than ours.
Where was I? What had it all been about? A banana? Ants? Humanity? Film? A game? I can't remember a thing. Everything is moving, falling, slipping, vanishing....I'm peckish. Maybe I'll have some chocolate(Oh look there's a mark on the floor) That's it...it was about a mark on the floor.
Argh it's a spider!
fire and ice clashed at [10:24 AM]