Sentrosi's Advent :: Etrinoss

NaNo's beginning. I'm writing and then not. It's quite frustrating, really, because I want to write and I have all these ideas but I have all these distractions and it gets tough when there're many ways you can go through with it and you're caught it what isn't really an impasse, but quite the opposite, and you can't decide, leaving you with a fine block. Sometimes I think the planning in October should be done, but crackfic really is quite fun nonetheless.

And I don't have friends-locked posts because it seems such a shame to be so exclusive when all I do is put crap nothing on this page anyway. Here's an idea, though: I'll start writing completely meaningless crap and actually make this experience something fun instead of trying to make it a catharsis in and of itself, simply because deviance from a norm is something emo( tional?) people go to the trouble of trying to be only end up not.

There aren't many words that can express how one feels in any given situation; after all, the lexicon of human words doesn't go beyond the lexicon of human emotions, if one could express them in a dictionary. Mood rings are so convenient allowing people to categorize your moods into one of several dozen little colours so you could put on a Happy one and go around smiling with only a fractionally smaller proportion of the Singaporean population finding you crazy. Smiling all the time is apparently creepy because it identifies you as 1) a pervert of some sort or 2) an escapee from Woodbridge. This is quite sad. I would smile all the time if not for the fact that it hurts my face. It's a lot less mainstream, anyway, than one might expect. The whole world isn't happy, and everyone hopes to be less happy than their fellow man because they suppose it easier to be than happier; of course, that's not true at all since it's been established that the whole world isn't happy.

There are a few ways to throw a stone such that it doesn't hurt any birds. There aren't as many to prevent them from hurting the stone. It's lucky that stones are forgiving. I have a friend whose parents are stones. As far as I know he hasn't had any traumatic experiences during his childhood, so perhaps it's better that way. It doesn't make so much of a difference the stone they're made of, I guess, but shale usually denotes a lineage from the upper crust, so to speak. It's all a matter of Geography, which is better not taken when exams are postponed for a week and no one has any idea what the biggest bird is, anyway. It's fairly difficult to kill a roc with a pebble; even in the eye it'd just cry on you and drown you in its salty tears. Season you for a snack, maybe. Although I'm not sure exactly what rocs eat. Sinbads, possibly.
 

I killed the one who wasn't me:
If he'd been close,
He might have loved
However temporarily.

I wondered if he could not like,
Or love, or may-
Be just for fun
Not feel what he once thought I might.

I wrote a word for him, how brief:
Like postcards sent
From places gone
To winter out the poignant grief.

I can't recall when we were friends,
And lived in dreams;
Now my nightmares
Keep me awake to make amends.

I killed the one who wasn't me
He was once close,
And I once loved.
However, temporarily.

I'll be able to remember this year as the year I witnessed Singapore clinch an Olympic medal after almost fifty years.

... If not for other things which I hope to remember as fondly.

They're a tribute, in a way, to everything.

But especially to that which I once could've had, if only I had once been what I could've been, once.

... Just not the way they mean.

They (who) write words – not sentences which

                        hang; not really going (anywhere)

                                    (in                    forward

backward        between)

why the

  awkward       (brackets)                    pauses

                                    which seem                 like

(words)             without catching a breath;     breathing.

 

                        Pause.

 

End—STOP                (a)        in         (play)

            (on) words, and maybe not even then

                                    (quiet)

And then an (outburst) of c o l o u r

       (rude)       like a                (giant!)            footstep

                       

            Or a poet        (–struggling—) with Tourette’s

 

                                                                        STOP(end)

 

 

 

 

 

... Seriously, though; what's with that?

Narcissu-esque moment today when I actually had to fight back tears (something I haven't had to do in a long time since I trained my tear glands on intensive Disney marathons); I'm not sure what struck me the most, but I think it was how magnificent his death was that made me feel like it shouldn't have ended, although that could have been his only conclusion.

It's amazing how much life that one death created.

I spent the ten-minute walk home singing Nobody Knows and The Gift, among other sentimental love ballads. Maybe it's from that one time a long time ago when I thought I felt something that felt like that which I haven't felt in forever that I have never felt again; I haven't run from it, but it still sits there, patently out of reach, while my conception of the image leaves it so grand that the real truth is that maybe I've forgotten how to recognize it.

And what it once meant; maybe.

I have an uncle Bob and an uncle Shaun. The former is dead and the latter currently living with my grandmother. Before he died, uncle Bob wrote a book which my parents gave me when I was in secondary school. I read it again today and I realized what he might've meant when he created that crossroads: two men standing at a two-way fork. They both know they have to go right to salvation, but the sign pointing to the left fork says 'right' and the one to the right fork says 'left'. Probably not the first one to use that, but it's effective, and strangely ironic.

I don't know which road I'd take.