Waves.

The waves come and go, seemingly without any coherent pattern but if you do listen carefully, you can hear a rhythmic interval somewhat infused into the chaos. It recedes and rises right at the exact moments, a harmonic motion made of natural things. An unseen force pushes and pulls the entire ocean, without effort and doesn't it just feels like magic? Maybe it is after all.

Is it the wind? Some kind of  weird magnetic fields made up of the Earth and moon's alignment? There's probably some kind of scientific explanation to the theory behind; a long winded account of how some scientists gathered in a lab filled with sciency equipment and drew pretty diagrams on theories behind this phenomena. Probably not.

Right this instance, I just want to stand at the very edge and let the waves wash over me, feeling every periodic splash on my face, running down my body. Every droplet of water, a sense of renewed vigor, somewhat rejuvenating old memories, flashing before my eyes.

Just let the sea take all of it away.

hardly literal.

we rushed to the start, without a care in the world.
not knowing what to expect, just let our feelings poured.
and emptied, of itself.

there's no one to stop us; no one could even if they tried.

we let romance filled our heads with foolish notions.
not caring the consequences, just letting things run its course.
and ran away, she did.

there's no one to save me, from me now.

Thunder.

It strikes, the blue streaked lightning, hammering down upon the earth, each time, bringing about a deafening roar unlike that of the a lion yet still fearsome and full of the same murderous intent. A subtle crackling follows the awe-inspiring tear across the wind, like particles diffusing in the air, ionized by the sudden electrical surge. 

The entire nightscape  illuminated by the blue-white, brings about a frozen image of the nocturnal. Owls and the likes, revealed by the ungodly blaring of the very skies which it hunts in, yet unfazed and uncaring. With this very blast from the furnace of the heavens, every movement on land seems to begin to slow and halt momentarily. All things seem to be waiting for the next one, again and again.

Though the saturated air is dry yet a certain kind of moist permeates through the air, as if foretelling a coming storm. Only if the sky's temperament is predictable, then might we have had found solace before all of it broke loose, down upon us mortals.

A biting gale rose, out of nowhere and with it, a rustling of branches which grew violent as it escalates; 
A warning that gave us no time to prepare for, the wind clawed at all that it could reach, fatal and impartial.

In this chaos brought out by the natural order of things, I could hear only your voice, booming like the thunder itself, distant but close to heart.

The Box.

All of us begin as a metaphorical empty box, filled with nothing but innocence and naivety. There are no boundaries limiting how big or small this box could be, it can be as wide and as deep as seas and oceans, in the beginning. All wide-eyed and full of ourselves, we rush headlong into the world, neither knowing what to expect nor what to do with the unexpected. Then, it happens.

Growing up, we embark upon the arduous and never ending task of filling said box, with a variety of things - some of them matters, most of them don't. The more we stack into the symbolic box, the less we remember what we've put there to the point that we begin to question ourselves. What am I doing with my life?

That is the point when you'd become overwhelm with life itself. You'd become busier with the same amount of work but with less productivity than before, there might even be times when you just want to give up trying anymore. Yet, you trudge on, with whatever willpower you could muster, hoping that at the end of this soul crushing deluge, there will be serenity. The biblical equivalent of the light at the end of the tunnel.

We don't know this yet, but that peace does not lies all the way at the end. Depending on what you chose to put inside that allegorical box, any dissension disrupting your life's harmony could be eliminated instantly. Like, poof. Gone.

Personally, I'd put in love and passion enough to last me a lifetime and then seal the fuck out of that box.

Simple.

A silver locket shaped like a heart, laid neatly on the wooden table; 

A heart-shaped argent locket, rests glittering atop the timber; 

Lustrous silver locket, molded after a heart, lies glaring in all its splendor, atop the carved timber.

These three sentences mean the same thing but the vocabulary used and the way the sentence is arranged makes it seem so much more than what it is. In truth, there's really no need for bombastic words and the like for one to write...stuff. 

I want to write simple words, to carry within them deeper meanings and stronger emotions...so much more. I just haven't figure out the way that is right for me yet, but all in good time. It's due when it's due, not any time soon.

Dramatizing.

I want to thank some very important people without whom this blog wouldn't have existed. It's been a long road since the my couple of blogs from before, indeed. I wouldn't have imagined myself still writing blogs and stuff when I first created my blogger account and that was so many years ago. I do feel so very old right now.

Who would've thought that an attempt to stay in touch with friends could become something so much more? True, what initially drove me to open a blog is an entirely different than what I have in mind now but that doesn't make it any less vital. In fact, without that innocent reason, I wouldn't be having this post written this very instance. It really just all boils down to the choices you make and what you do to keep going at it.

I like to write very much. There's a certain liberating sort of feel when I put words to all those feels that I couldn't express well in person. It's somewhat a rush for me when there are certain nights that all of it just clicks and flows. Effortless, everything just comes naturally and tonight is one of those precious nights. 

I wouldn't have figured out that I enjoy writing and have this blog as a platform without everyone that I've met up to point of my life. But there are a few select individuals whom has given a greater impact upon my writings than most and for that, it warrants a little appreciation even if they didn't ask for it at all. Heck, they might not even know about the impact that they have had on me. 

Lets take it from the top.

My family. Without them, I wouldn't have all that money to blow on my hoarding of books. Also, for the nurturing and care that took me from hating the language to being immersed in it. 

Teachers. I've been taught by quite a number of teachers but only one of few truly lived up to what teaching means, language wise, other subjects notwithstanding. An unnamed 'teacher' who gave me tuition classes. Unnamed because 'teacher' was all I called her through out the lessons which as recalled, were brutal. Next, my form 5 teacher - Pn Loh. I know our class weren't exactly the best and brightest therefore we're really lucky to have her then. She's fair; Gave credit when credit's due and punished when we deserved it. She's also the first teacher to give me confidence in my own writing and that was really all a student could ask for from a teacher.

Friends. I'm really lucky to have some pretty encouraging friends. There are those who helped mentally, physically and likewise. You do know who you are and so I wouldn't go into another long-winded account of how you all gave me a reason to continue writing. The point is, you were there then; you're still here now.

Last but not least, a thank you for all you anonymous readers! And for those unwary facebook friends who clicked on this link accidentally too!

I am one heck of a drama king if I may say so myself.

Epic.

Your story might not play out the way you imagined it to be, heck you might now be the farthest away from what you have in mind on the unfolding of your tale. The disparity between realities; That of your own making and that of which is real.

Point is, everyone has their own narration. A disembodied voice giving a blow by blow retelling of their everyday lives. Of course, you'd think that your personal story is most epic you've stumbled upon because we're all narcissistic to a certain extent. Human condition.

This epic retelling is all inside our heads but that those does not make it any less meaningful. I mean, it is your life and you're only going to live it once. No take twos, no rewinds, no crying. 

There's just one question. Frankly, do you think your personal story to be epic? Perhaps you're raised homeless, jumping from couch to couch, living off charity. And then now you have a house to your name, with extra money you could spend at your leisure, be it GTA V or gold iPhone. Just an example but I really could do with both right now.

Could you imagine everyone you've met up to this point or is going to meet in the foreseeable future also having such a tale to their own? Globes of yellow light encased with an orb of iridescence by the highways - numerous and uncountable, stretching all way to whatever destination it leads, into the unreaching darkness. Imagine every amber beacon that lies buzzing to be someone's personal saga. Would that be so impossible?

and in case anyone's interested, I'd like my disembodied voice to be the voice of God, Morgan Freeman.

Eburnean.

More short to mid length stories written without coherency in mind. I swear this short running commentary in the beginning will should cease. Not even really a story, just a few sentences combined to make up stuff.
Here we go-

The entire room was covered in nothing but the entirety of the light spectrum.

Pale linen and sheets. A washed out painting framed within a border of darker white, almost gray. A lighter splash of white graced the ceiling, creating the illusion of space being larger than it actually was. 

A white wooden bookcase, or plastic? Because it is the usual norm for bookcases to be made of wood. Besides, what else could it be? Anyway, the plastic/wood case was laden with books. And of course, all of the books are white, you've been paying attention to the story haven't you?

A toppled jug of milk laid on the counter, it's content almost the exact hue as the surface it is on. The liquid remains perfectly stationary, still that it seems and feels like solid - static and glued in place. The only reason why it's milk is because it's only natural to call a white liquid milk.

The lamp, emitting white light, hung from the ceiling as if it was oscillating and then just abruptly stops at the height of its motion, frozen in time and space. A low hum drones on in the background, driving through the void-like atmosphere of the room.

Everything was still. Even the tiniest of particles suspended mid-motion as if the entire notion of time itself has stopped. The most fundamental law of the universe malfunctioning at the boundaries of this very small white room. Right in the middle of all this torpid chaos, stood a person, clothed in black.

God will know why because I really have no idea why.

End.

Death.

Story time! Actually just some writing exercise that I'm doing to improve on my deteriorating skill. If I had any in the first place. Without further ado,


He died. That was the simple reality of it all.

When you reach a certain age where good health is no longer a guarantee, you'd begin to imagine what death would be like. There are scenarios of course - movies and tv series to stimulate your imagination. Though as a given, the writers for these depicted scenes still would've need to get their imagination from somewhere. Seeing how anyone who is dead would have a hard time describing what's it like, much less write the experience down. Death remains the greatest mystery of life, though it does stand pale besides the even greater mystery that is women. But this is not what this story is about.

Alright, death. So, he died.

When someone do talk about death, what is it that interest us the most? The circumstances that eventually lead to the ending that we now know? Or is it the stopping of time, the ethereal like soul leaving the body, and the instantaneous stopping of all the major organs? Then, what about the effects of a person's death on everyone else? Family and friends. Is that a part of death too?

It is a complicated and touchy matter. In some places, almost taboo to talk about at all because it is deemed to be bad luck to talk about the deceased. When you do pass on, you take nothing with you and leave nothing behind. That is, discounting all the memories that anyone has of you when you were alive but even those eventually dims and blurs with the passing of time. Precious memories turned into dust under the ravage of time. Unless you do happen to be someone of prominence, who'd put a mark on the histories of the making of this world. A major business tycoon perhaps? That might work just as well. Though in truth, how many of us out of the 7 billion have what it takes to charter a new course for the muddy seas of histories? How many tycoons is one too many?

People die everyday in the world whether anyone knows or cares about it. Every death is treated different, depending entirely on the geographical location of your death. Sometimes, the circumstances as well though occasionally your ethnicity comes into play too, somewhat. Actually, you read all about it in any of the major online news portal. But to be frank, those are just the death that are 'newsworthy' and could increase readership, resulting in better sales which in turn generate much higher revenue. News have become much more of a business in this day and age where death is a much needed commodity to make the headlines.

But I'm not here to talk about the evil news corporations running our headlines. It's death that I'm going on about.

Once again, he died. Though I repeated it quite a few times. He could and did only die once. And once was more than he or anyone could take.

How did we arrive at this conclusion? Well, he was drunk and then he was driving. It's called DUI in some parts of the world. Driving Under Influence. Alcohol does funny things to people and sometimes people does funny things after ingesting a fair bit. But as you know, this is not one of those fun and happy times.

Simple motorized vehicular accident. He'd simply lost control of his Benz and swerved onto the incoming lane. Though a bus was speeding down the incoming lane as well. The result was a spectacular clash of German-made steel against simple locally made steel. Then a mangling of flesh and the steel contraption that is humans engineered to ease travel. Probably some bones added into the mix as well. No matter what ideas you have of crashes from the action movies, this was not it. No Bruce Willis climbed of the wreck, unharmed and ready to bust some heads. Nobody survived the accident despite the best effort by the emergency response team.

Everyone died. He died.

End.

Written with the help of a Starbucks frapp and the soothing environment too. Once again, my name is wrong. They never get right, not even once.

Papered.

Does putting words down on paper guarantees permanence?

Some might point towards history, which to some point is unchanging since it's all just cold hard facts. Not to mention damn boring facts meant for gobbling up by secondary school students. But as unchanging as it is, there are some minor errors or alteration here and there. History books are still books, and it's writers must be human. From this logic, everything human does ensues error and fault.

But that's not what I'm trying convey here. To be frank, I know less than half of the stuff I type here or not even a quarter of what I think I'm passing on as a message. Most of it just cleverly(yeaaa, I hope) disguised messages directed in a passive way to people in my life.

Getting way off point here but that's most of the posts that's ever written in this blog anyway.

Just. This.

Nothing is ever permanent;
Take naught for granted;
Live free & die hard.

Butter knife.

Saying you treasure something/someone is like saying you're grateful that you have them.

You treasure your family, your friends, your possessions. There are a variety of ways people sort their list of treasures; Money? Social standing? Those are that too. Anything or anyone can be put in the same list. This is all very subjective, all according to the person viewing it. Perspective.

Everyone has a different treasure. or treasures. many many treasures.

They all have a different way of showing affection for all the treasures in the world. Hoarders just take in everything and guard them with extreme prejudice. But that's not saying that they aren't grateful, they just take it all in, accepting all they've hoarded as a part theirs. It's a serious mental condition that I've no means of seeing clearly. But in a way, it's a simpler way of living, albeit quite cluttered and messy. Not to mention detrimental to your entire well-being if your towers of stuff just fall and collapse on you. It is simple if it could be applied to human beings and not just, you know stuff.

Imagine taking everyone in, well not literally. Just accepting everyone for who they are, what they do. Without the colored lens and all. Just everyone, friends without all the thoughts of trying to murder your neighbor with a butter knife, no matter how much they deserve it. An utopia of almost perfect ideologies. You do know why we call it utopia right? Paradise. Because us, humans being us would never achieve such ideas. That might be the pessimist in me talking but I strongly believe that for the cold hard, undeniable truth. Stereotypes and haters are just everywhere.

There's just no known solution because individual are highly unpredictable. Emotions. That's the killing blow to the envision utopia. We can't act, well not completely, without emotion. Unless you're a robot, which I'm pretty sure my neighbors are.

Now where did I put that butter knife?

Deny.

Pardon my jumbled thoughts and unstructured method of writing. I don't know any other but we learn from our mistakes, no?
There's a time and place for a great deal of things in life. To me, there won't be a better time than now, ever.

I always think but I never act.

A rather confusing sentence but I've almost always lived by it no matter what I try to change it. The fact remains, stoically and unchanging. Believe me, I've tried. I would try again if it weren't for the shitty outcomes that I must endure each time. They are not pretty at all.

What shall be, will be.

We learn to accept things for the way they are as we grow up, we've come to grasp the reality that is both harsh and cruel. There are just some things that no matter what we do or how hard we try, we can't change a damn thing about it.

Denial.
is as sweet as it lasts.
after that, it's just you clinging.
hopelessly to a root stuck out.
by a very tall cliff.

The fall will come, soon.

Stories.

It's that time of the year, again. Can't say I'm not a little excited, but it is good to have excitement, albeit foolish ones. I'd probably be more on the active side of blogging this month, probably be good?

There really is quite a bit of words cramped up in my head, incoherent and illegible words, if you could even call it that. I'm just kinda stumped at the moment, trying to find the right words to express all those words hidden in that deviously huge skull of mine. Make sense, no?

On matters of personal achievements, allow me a little vanity. Recently picked up Wheel of Time, again. Been a week, read 3 books. Still going strong on Lord of Chaos. It's an exceedingly wonderful thing to have all the time in the world and do nothing else but read the week away. Perhaps I intend to do away the month too. Fantasy for teh winz!

but-

In all seriousness.
It's an amazing thing, really. Stories.
They sure as hell beat reality, eleven times out of ten.

(Prior)ities.

Another period of being inactive yet again, it does seem to be rather the normal occurrence here though.

Writing here initially, this blog was suppose to be some form of release for myself. An outlet for me to just let it all out, which I've found to my dismay, is really not that simple. I couldn't write as freely as I had, before. or wouldn't. You know, we wouldn't know. 

Reminiscing on my previous blogs, I don't remember how I could posted what I did, I don't remember what drove me to write those words. What was my aim? Really, what the heck was on my mind? Reading back some, I'm pretty sure I'm incapable of writing anything similar again. Atleast for the time being.

but I remembered how good it felt, to not think so much. and just write.

In a slightly more aesthetic description - letting the words flow out, let it rip.

 It's a feeling I'm striving for once again.

To write, for the sake of writing.

and I couldn't pick a better time to reevaluate my life decisions, eh? Really.