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There are pink flowers and there are white flowers. I think pink flowers live more exciting lives than white flowers by the only fact that they are pink. They get noticed immediately, they just have the exuberance to look different from all the white flowers. They get all the fun, they get all the funky girls, the white flowers only go to demure, forlorn little ladies. Pink is exciting, pink is vibrant. Pink is different, like the oranges and reds on a stark canvas. Pink is the first to be noticed.
But pink is also the first to be picked.
The urban landscape is too confusing sometimes. Buildings blend into one another, windows tile on glass or concrete surfaces and slide effortlessly from one plane to another. All around is glass, concrete and metal leaving a blaze of commercial heat in their wake. Walking from street to street staring at angles and buildings exploited to their geometrical maximum, practically exclusive to straight lines and flat surfaces.
Then the rain fell down from the darkened skies, washed the buildings clean from their perfectly-proportioned conformities and left sparkling traces of the thunder and lightning, on all the smooth surfaces of the city.
I spent the day building my castle. Yet when I return you never realise that I?ve been at it. You never see the dirt, never see the sweat, never see the tiredness. I spent the day in a way you never bother to find out, and would never bother to anyway.
I spend the day building my castle, yet when I return you say something to me and make me feel like it doesn?t matter anymore how magnificent my castle is, you just don?t care, won?t notice, never will. My castle will never be completed, you tear it down daily.
Rain is beautiful. It takes you by surprise when you expect it most. The first few drops upon the bare skin and then they come like an army. I don?t know why some people avoid the rain. It?s wonderful to walk through the rain and feel the water running down your skin, washing away the vestiges of the day, to dance in the puddles and get your feet wet.
And then it suddenly stops.
Now the springs of the deep and the floodgates of the heavens had been closed, and the rain had stopped falling from the sky.
He stood by the postbox while he waited and counted the cars that went passing by. He looked at his watched and contemplated the monotonous ticking of it?s second hand. Someone stops by and drops his letter into the postbox. The sky is darkening, and it?s only six, perhaps it?ll rain.
The people shuffle by, engrossed in their own lives. He looks across the road and think he sees her, but it isn?t, it never is.
Then the sky broke with a threatening roar and the rain came down, down, down to the ground.
Waiting is such a torturous experience.
But now I know?
He lifts me up, but not to places I want to be. He lifts me up to places I never thought I could be. I never see Him at all, yet He is beside me always. He is not by my side as I fall. He bends down and guides me back to my feet. No matter how many times I fall. He never gives me what I ask for. He gives me what He knows is best for me. He doesn?t hold my hand. He holds me within His loving hands.
My God is beautiful.
Sometimes I don?t even have to choose. Falling into place is odd, keeping in line seems extraordinary. No one has been killed by conformity yet, why try. I use different paper, I use different fonts. I like that gap between me and the others. I go
while they go
. I read different, I listen different. I don?t mind.
That?s why unique is a word of itself. It doesn?t get any better when you add a word to it. There?s no very unique, there?s no extremely unique.
Unique is itself embodied.
I don?t beg to differ.
I am different.
Waking up late is an exhilarating experience. The few moments of doubt, how did you wake up so early, why is it brighter than usual. Then the realisation dawns and sorts of brings the blood up to your head. And then you rush down all in a mess and do your stuff in twice the time. I think its times like this you appreciate the relative dawdle of your everyday morning. Then you rush off, for the bus or car. Leave it to luck to see whether you arrive in school/work in time.
It?s fun really, try it one day.
I'm taking a walk to the end of the world. I'll stare at the stars as the blink at me in stunned silence, flashing into and out of existence every second. Walking along the infinitesimal cliff of existence, listen to every word ever spoken rushing into my ears. I'll be floating on light and stepping on the darkness by the side. Someday when I reach there, but I'm still on my way. But when I reach I guess I'll realize that the stars aren?t blinking in stunned silence. They?re winking at me, and they say to me excitedly: "go you."
"I think I'm going to have nightmares tonight"
"I wish I could, I've been having dreamless nights for the past two weeks."
"That's really scary"
"I know, I can't help it, I've been pretty busy recently."
"You know sometimes you have a dream and then wake up knowing only that you've dreamt, but not knowing what you dreamt about?"
"Yeah, I know, there?s also the times when you remember a bit but the details escape you before you get out of your bed?"
"You know, it's kinda scary, you might have had dreams you would never know about."
He dreams in colour, I know. I?ve been in one of them. I was watching him from a few metres behind him on the road as he wandered aimlessly around town. Then he stopped by, at the graveyard. He was crying by the grave, I remember six years ago, him, a child following the van silently dropping tears in the same manner, but not knowing why. He holds no flowers. But he cries, and cries, and cries. One day the grave will be forgotten, one day he will forget the grave too. But for now, I dream in colour, too.
I was making bread today. Delightful the way flour, water, starch and a teensy bit of sugar can make such a delightful confection. I loved the way the dough squished between my finger, how it started off as a sticky mess and then with a bit more flour and a bit more water, became a little ball of dough, soft and stretchy.
Never actually realised how nice bread smelt. The starch gives it this wonderfully terrestrial wheaten smell that we all associate with bread, it?s there in the dough too? I left with my hands smelling like fresh baked bread.
I scalded my tongue on coffee and contemplated the futility of life. Well, at least it kept me awake.
I remember last year my literature teacher told me that three people on stage signified a conflict. I?m not really sure why now. It seems easiest to talk when there are three people around. There?s always another person you can turn to, there?s always another two people who you can listen to. Another two you can talk to. What I don?t like about a group of three is the awkward silence that is left when one leaves and two are left.
Another floaty day today. I just took a ride on a breeze of the passing day not really caring what happened. The chocolates were a nice touch though. Too many words piling up in my head, not sure which one goes first. The little talk was particularly disturbing. I think I?ll consider what he said. Or maybe not. Pretty, pretty. More messing with cameras, ping pong, a bit of guitar and some noodles. I think. It?s pretty blurry now. Maybe I wasn?t paying enough attention. Okay. I wasn?t paying enough attention. I wanted to get over with the day. Fast.
There?s got to be more to life
Than chasing down every temporary high to satisfy me?
I?m being a little floating wraith in my life these days. I think I lost the energy to get going and do something extra for a while. I need to start on a clean slate. And find out why I keep telling myself that every two months. I?ve fallen back into place again. Feeling too comfortable not feeling comfortable. I?m not sure I enjoy it or not. Or I don?t really give a damn anymore. As long as I life.
What a sad life.
I envy him sometimes. He won?t have to look back on this time and live with his regret that he tried too hard for something he never wanted. Sure, he might regret the temporary now, but when you?re older no one really cares about what you did when you were 14, not especially the homework. He?ll look back and smile, he?ll reminisce not the times he did all his assignments on time, but he?ll remember the friends he had, the dances he danced and the songs he sang.
What they said was right I guess. What a life to live.
He brought up a thought that seemed alien to me? How could one not appreciate the beauty and fascination of the life that lies around him? He never knew what it was to express himself, never knew what it was like to gather a few random colours of markers and put them on paper in whatever way he liked. Whatever way he liked ?something that never occurred to him. Seeing too little exposure of expression through his life, too little music, too little art, too little prose.
Only today I realised how limited I was.
He showed that to me.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! It can?t be!
I never realised how lovely the urban sky can be. I guess the juxtaposition of the stark blue and swirly inconsistent clouds against the hard lines of buildings scraping the sky makes it all the more beautiful. Something charming about the way the sky appears between two buildings, an alley of blue and streaks of white surrounded by a technical masterpiece, as if they just complement each other so? what is that word? Perfectly. Yes. The sky?s gentle caress never fails to make the towering structures so much more magnificent. I must remember to bring a camera the next time.
It?s all so sudden, I didn?t expect it, neither did anyone else. It comes as a shock, it would. What if someone I knew was there? What if my closest friends were there? Like a glass shattered, how fragile existence is. Like a hole opened up and suddenly they?re gone. It?s when you hear news like this and the questions race through your mind, the what ifs, the maybes, the nos and the perhaps. Then you realise how much you?ve forgotten about life itself. Someday you?ll find time, someday you?ll care, then when something happens, that someday might never come.
He?s so lucky. What a wonderful family to have. Someone who you can actually talk to when you feel like it, a casual conversation, idle chatter. And the thirty odd years doesn?t even seem there. Philosophy, sex, mathematics, movies, current affairs, whatever. It?s so beautiful, and it fits all together, when I?m here outpouring my troubles to you. You may not even know me. I heard their conversation today, it was so light, so normal, yet so thick, drawn with blood. They?re almost like friends. There was nothing between the two seats this afternoon. Maybe I don?t try hard enough.
I?m glad I don?t have that much money sometimes. It makes all these small little things, books, CDs, food whatever so quotidian and mundane when you can afford them all. Then when a person gives you some little gifts it?s nothing special. But when you can?t exactly buy them all down the shelves, when you receive a small blessing from a friend, it?s such a wonderful surprise, you treasure it, that he got the time to bother to look for a gift your you, to write a note. And best of all, you really like it.
Thank you, Go you!
I?m running dry. I think this paperchase is soaking up all the ink within me. Ink, watercolour. Ink, fountain pen. Ink, paint. I can?t think of much these days except my schedule. Hectic is invading my privacy, seeping through every part of my body. Can?t help but lie lifeless in my bed treasuring the few hours of dreamless semi-consciousness. Every thought dissipates as I sit to pen it down. Images flee my head as I try to recreate them on something material.
My muse shuns me as I try to find her. Somewhat tangible yet I still can?t see her.
Felicity accompanies him wherever he walks. He steps with confidence and eases off into the distance, smooth, sophisticated and distinct. And the distance welcomes him. He wears a mask of purest charm. Perfection was never so aptly drawn. Never before, on a mask. He must love it to wear it so often. I wonder how it feels behind it. He?s human, but his almost subtle hauteur disguises so perfectly the things that distinguish us.
One day I?ll be down here with my brush. He?ll be up there with his mask. I might paint his picture, but I don?t have to.
I don?t know what you gain from all this. Are you even doing this for gain? You never get it when I show the clues. You never think twice, you never choose your words with care. You don?t realise that when something goes wrong, it might be your fault too. Some sort of psychologist you are. I?m ashamed. Why don?t you take a walk in my shoes for a day? Then you?ll know what this means. Why do you think I hide outside until late. Why do you think I immerse myself in this pixelated reality. I?m trying to escape.
I think I?ve been living in the past dreaming about a future that?s all nicely painted and even made up with wonderful quaint sepia tones. Well. Now I?m grown up to a smallish extent, I?ll say that I?m still fascinated by sitcoms and their all so perfect lives, although they live in imperfection. I still look out for the horrendously overused clichés and redundant repetitions. I love the way it all falls into place so nicely. So we just sit and stare. And perhaps think of murdering Enid Blyton (though she's dead already).
There?s still hope for the world then.
Just these four words. Just these eight words. Just these twelve words. Just these sixteen words. Just these twenty words. Just these twenty-four words. Just these twenty-eight words. Just these thirty-two words. Just these thirty-six words. Just these fourty words. Just these fourty-four words. Just these fourty-eight words. Just these fifty-two words. Just these fifty-six words. Just these sixty words. Just these sixty-four words. Just these sixty-eight words. Just these seventy-two words. Just these seventy-six words. Just these eighty words. Just these eighty-four words. Just these eighty-eight words. Just these ninety-two words. Just these ninety-six words. They say a lot.
I?m taking a walk through a graveyard. I wish I could say something more than just this. But the graves are so beautiful. Simple, yet stunningly beautiful. Tracing the words inscribed into slabs of granite and marble. Feeling the remains of some unknown soldier on his gravestone. Then I?m walking on his turf, where a few feet down what?s left of what was once a human lie. It?s enchanting and there?s this wonderful feel of solemnity that hangs in the air like the dampness that hangs around after a refreshing rainstorm.
In the distance, the sun shone through the clouds.
What a beautiful day. The rain reminisce of yesterday when we stood under a granite ceiling staring out at the rain as the last lingering notes of Amazing Grace faded off on the bagpipes in memorial of the dead of WWII. Today was beautifully rainy. Staring out at the scenery, enchanted as usual, sweeping past me while I stayed in the freezing air condition of the train. The raindrops kissing the windows in wet blotches and trickling down the smooth surface disappearing off the edges suddenly. How beautiful. Tomorrow it might rain again, I never know. I love this rain.
I don?t know what happened. April passed so fast. I still have so many things I haven?t done. Pages not written and songs not sung yet. I?m falling into this pit I?ve been trying to avoid for two months. I?m feeling like quitting again. Feel like falling again. I hate it when I think like this. That no one would care if I don?t show it. And the problem is I don?t show it so no one cares. And I desperately one someone to care. I?m falling asleep daily and calling for help every time. Silently, silently. No one knows.
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