#first fragment

if silence can be so gently expressed by words, I will likely blurt out a clumsy vulgarity.
the first fragments are the parts of the perfection
in any case, anything will be noise in the context of silence.
I can only be silent by being noisy
I mean that the noise is there to conceal the silence that must be religiously maintained.
my discipline is failing me.
in any case. do not restrict me. prevent me. or stop me.
this is no ritual. this is real.
the moment of silence is a moment of noise.
the first fragments are the traces of the perfection
I can only do what I must do and will do.
this is not rehearsed. this is real.
a fragmented reality of noise over the silence
you cannot know what this silence constitutes.
the first fragments are the manifestations of the perfection
the perfection hides
therefore it is silently concealing itself.
do not ask. and I will not move.
do not speak and I will not struggle.
time passes anyway
while I fly to mars.
no!
pluto, where I will not be remembered as I was before
but only as someone or something you determine
the first fragments are
I am silent.

first contemplations

before my clueless mind comes to realise the total fruition of my natural labour (of body), and before the fatal attraction is allowed its full manifestation; a belated contemplation is always crucial to an enforced discipline in finding a space, which is an echo of the foregrounding collision between my will and my desires. This echo is, nevertheless, real, to the extent that it is an entity or space by itself and is still in relation to the two (will and desire) at strife.

At the root of the collision is my will to power; the triumph of the will to transcend a self-imposed categorical imperative that governs my otherwise clueless mind: retarded even; and all I am realising is the process of attaining the victory and ecstasy of blind faith towards this power. Empowerment is but the blind strings of the puppet to move. A puppet moves but it does not discern, contemplate and destroy the strings, in an attempt to move in the direction of a paradox.

By a paradox, I mean the great mystery of the belatedness and the echoing of the will and desire, at odds with each other but able to collide with each other and create that third entity or space of existence. Put it this way: the will to power is but the logical morality that instructs me with the law or system and my outward behaviour; and desire is purely seeking pleasure or being the aesthetics self that is tempted to please the body at every moment possible and unthinkable (it just tempts you). It is at this paradoxical entity or space, where I discover a whole new but narrow existence that I can be at peace, despite a seemingly chaotic revolving possibilities that surround me perpetually. In other words, I am tempted by both the will to power and my desire.

The will to power is not simple to understand at first. To will does not necessarily mean to think or to contemplate. The first love is in the future power and this power is about transcendence to the imagined realm of godhood: the ueber-moral and religious/ethical man. It is impossible. You lie if you believe that it is attainable by your own strength. However, it is precisely the will to achieve that powerful status that makes the movement almost necessary for some. Power is order. Power is transcendental. Always upwards. Immortality. Heaven above.

To contemplate is to move without movement; not to will to be powerful and not to desire to be pleased. To contemplate is to be at peace with all sides, all temptations and all movements possible. It is this plurality that collides at all angles and create that only one possible outcome: Peaceful Chaos/Chaotic peace. Oxymoron it might be but the thought process I am engaging here is similar to the Chicken/Egg. The genesis of all things. Void to create. Creation to nothingness. To give birth for it to die anyway. To destroy so as to welcome the new. Darkness to highlight the solitary light. The evil to highlight the goodness. Sin for salvation to occur. A defeated foe for a victor to busk in glory.

The narrow path is found in the paradox.

saw you in a place where I could know you
when I've been a fool, been part of a crowd
and then I saw you
and I knew by your smile, it's you.

lost in those memories, the little short ones we have,
when staring into spaces we imagined,
and then I saw you
and I knew by your tears, it's you.

I saw your face and gave you the hand.
what were you thinking, what were you feeling then,
and then I heard you
and I knew by your voice, it's you.

those little insignificant moments,
consisting of a bench and a sweater; my hand and a miserable song
though the revision means nothing to you now
they are but catching triggers of my memories and

should become parts of a song

Try singing this song, a song that is not a song.
Try listening to a song, and give your own melody.

see you again and again in the mornings,
when the grey letters create lines of history
and then I read them
and I know by your words, it's you.

time alone reminds me of the transience,
when a prolonged anticipation is not possible,
and always I dream of you,
and I know by the frequency, it's you.

but what matters now, what bothers me now,
when the real blues are inconsistently persistent?
and then I think of You
and I know by the silence, it's You and you.

those now significant moments,
consisting of a bench and a sweater; my hand and a miserable song
though the revision means nothing to you now
they are but catching notes of my thoughts and

should become parts of a song

Try singing this song, a song that is not a song.
Try listening to this song, and give your own melody.

and when you are happy,
I know by the happiness, it's You.

do not give me a golden coin, for I cannot deal choosing between giving the coin for some charitable cause or to use it for my own desires. unless those two meet as a single choice, (but even with that, it will always be juxtaposed with something else) it seems really quite a tough ordeal one is put through when the choices are equally marvellous.

Indeed, the strange psychological dimensions of our mind are not easily mapped and fathomed. I cannot identify my motives, much less understand them. They always seem at odds with each other. If anyone should tell me that everything is clear and distinct, I would very much suspect that he or she has never had insomnia. Or life has been so plain sailing that the last things on their minds are hybridity, paradoxes, oxymoron and irony.

so do not give me a golden coin. I prefer a plain bronze-coated coin. One of necessity more than desire. Water over wine. Bread over Cheesecake. That I may know so clearly the nebulous path I thread. All I need is that one coin to begin an investment. To make that one coin into many. And these many coins shall fulfill every simple necessity in my life. Yes. only those simple ones. The simple but often neglected aspects of our lives. The necessity to love. The necessity to drink, eat, breathe, sleep and to give back these necessities to those that need them.
If I had no wanton desires, a thousand wishes and a million wants, all I would ever need is You. With it comes the providence of necessities; the simple faith and grace coming together to create the harmony of my soul, body and mind. I do not want. For it is already provided: all that is enough to live and to die in this life; and after in our eternal life.

But I do have desires, wishes and a billion wants that are consciously sort after or unconsciously hidden. I am pursing things that I have no need. For all I need is You. remind me of the first things in life. That I may learn once again what it means to need You.

Das ist zwar eine komische Einscheidung, weil die Auswirkung sehr surrealistisch ist.
Die Gefühle sind wahr.
Ich verstehe wirklich nicht.
Die Nachten waren noch gleich.
Hatte Ich gesagt?
Lieben ist wirklich komisch.
Wenn ich die Wahrheit gesagt hatte, dachte ich die Auswirkung nicht.
Sowieso
die Nachten laufen zu lassen.
Ich warte noch.

always the busy people...
no. please do not think they are mindless, who spend their free time dozing on their seats in the train. they think an awful lot. what else do you expect? to be busy is to put an end to their worries, well, eventually.

always the lazy people...
no. please do not also think that they are mindless, who also spend their time sleeping on their untidy beds. they sleep in order to stop their minds from racing again. the lightning flashes in their minds are frequent. and they are busy with them.

--
I think I am getting these lightning flashes frequently. it makes it hard to fall asleep during a stipulated time: before midnight. when midnight comes, I can't sleep with these overlapping thoughts seeping in and out and as and when they like. I end up abhorring and loving these moments. It is like soaring through storm clouds and still feel safe. It is when I discovered lands beyond the dark horizon.

our dark and crazy thoughts are always a marvel and a poisonous concoction that brews in our naughty minds. I am equally fascinated by them and also how I have to be discerning and put an end to any potential manifestation and, hence, disaster.

but it is still warm and fuzzy to invite random thoughts to the house of consciousness. the sudden buzz in my brain, freezing my movement and arresting the moment for realisation: hey, you mean that is actually in my mind? I think the strongest feelings are those that are unuttered. It is like a silent earthquake that you can feel the tremors but the person who eventually feels (knows about) it, can only be at the end and never the core of it. Perhaps, it is really impossible to expect the person to stand inside the core, when the person who erupts hardly finds him or herself at the core, after being pushed away by the force of his or her volcano of emotions. at the end of it, you may just find them (both the source and the recipient) standing at the aftermath and staring afar, looking for the core. But soon the dust will settle. and life is just is.

it just is. the simple and the complex. so if you ever ask me for the truth. i will just say what comes.

for that little moment of reprieve, I must still remind myself to face the judgement at a later time. there is so much haste in the matter that I have not taken a break to consider the consequence. the sequence of events conspired to ruin my honeymoon of irresponsibility. faced with a new situation, I doubt I have truly analysed my predicament. what predicament? is it not just a little demon that I lifted out from its cradle? if I may indulge a little, it is only a bad design to my mental architecture. And I like that.

do you feel a little dizzy? melons used to be big and round. smash it.
i feel a little dizzy
i feel a little relieved
i feel a little relaxed
i feel a little perplexed
i feel a little remorseful
i feel a little dumb
i feel a little pleased
i feel a little whimsical
i feel a little cold
i feel a little resigned
i feel a little blessed

a pebble dropped into a glass of water
finally i said it.
i can feel the silence before the eruption.
anticipate the anticipation
it's time to eat the remains of the melon.

this is transcendentally inward.
....

wait

at this junction, there are two signs. one to the left and the other to the right. I stand stationary, fidgeting at this opportunity to make a choice. I choose to wait, scratching my neck and the ends of my hair. it is rare that there are only two choices to make. What we do not see is sometimes dependent on what we do. After all, in making the choice to wait, the invisible third sign is followed. Perhaps I know all along that this choice seems obvious, being a person resistant to both action and change.

at this choice, the frustrating thing, however, is the onslaught of more choices: when do I make the next move? what determines the new choices? so do I wait further or move further, in a direction I have never taken before? If it is by nature that we are born free to choose, it is perhaps by culture that we deal with our choices and decide accordingly. I wonder if my indecisiveness, added with a tinge of shyness and insecurity, is culturally determined or it is an extension of my natural self that is pre-determined by the nature of being a third-born child. No...the question seems wrong. I cannot point to some original cause for the personality that I have now. I think it is no longer important but the remaining effect perhaps comes with the moment of choice-making. (apologetic, regretful or thankful)

The length of time it takes to let go (if possible) is possibly determined by multiple factors. Nevertheless, after eventually making a choice in the past, your entire behaviour thereafter is always a post-event as time ruthlessly moves on, and you feel compelled (either by choice or not) to be responsible to it. It catches up with you. I cannot stand the physical reminders. The emotional ones are worse.

I find it more absurd, to even try to explain this mental activity. Retrospective analysis always seem to be so distant from the actual event; the moment of exhilaration or anguish can never be captured. Just as the one time love I had for someone. Face the moment if not don't face at all. You are just going to be trapped by the old shackles of an old choice. Choices upon choices. But it always seems that we cannot escape this inevitability. It is like a bondage tied with knots we have forgotten how we did it and to entangle could only require divine help. I shall not go into my familiar territory of the paradoxical free will and divine predestination (as it still confuses many) but I truly believe that the best choices are always those done freely and pre-determined. After all, the rest is history.

--
while the ideas seem cool, the moment of the next choice still looms heavy over me. in the meantime, I am doing everything I can to wait; waiting is not always a bad thing. Suspense is.

what visions unfold before the amblyopic eyes,

a deficient image made whole nonetheless by the glare of the blood-rushing cogitated impulse,
deeply profound but strangely immediate. I see what I want to see. Completing the image as I encounter the blurred image.

I cannot see beyond what I see. Anything beyond has to be magic-ed; an illusion to piece reflected lights into a rainbow of imagination. My mind is so diligent, messing with what I want to perceive and to process as well as those I ignore.

These shades of reality, always so pretty, without revealing them as a diabolical truth. I find these pretty objects poignant in the revelation of our human weakness. There are only more reasons to feel sick; more reasons for us to feel so deprived. If only we would peel those stripes of colours into their respective shapes.

I live in the perpetual state of unification and fragmentation, the doubling act of my mind to both unite the fragments into wholes and to destruct wholesome unities into unstable entities. Am I so naughty to incur the wrath of contradictions? It only invites unrest. But there is an absurb beauty to the unnatural equation. The instincts of opposites to refuse each other but rely on each other to co-exist. There is an Abel and Cain complex hidden somewhere in my mind. Even the explanation of such a description is so hard to be written. An Abel that is the apple in the eyes of my Lord. A Cain who has been condemned. There is an Apollo and Dionysus complex. Doomed and Blessed. Complete and Fragmented.

And comes the realisation that the tainted colours stripes could still form that perfect rainbow.

If I could, with ease, find some solace with this knowledge, then perhaps the nights would deliver some rest to me. Eternity is a long time. Long because it is not here yet. I am wide awake. With the trauma that comes from unexplained tensions.
leave some room for that moment of senile. since I do not have the pleasure of experiencing eternity but to be here in a limbo. It is a cool place. But I cannot stay there all the time.

And it seems, my troubles are trivial. While the earthquakes raged, the graveyards are flooded with recycled tombstones and men in black fret over the changes in numbers, I find myself more blessed than a couple deciding on their (first) honeymoon trip.

Before the argument turns generic and personal, capture me at some crevices, where I hide my wings and refuse to fly in the sunlit sky. I may stare at you and ask for a fishing rod and some bread as bait. Maybe not.

Seeing is not always believing. The illusions of the mind are more subtle than those that appeared physically before you. If we could just see with blind eyes, perhaps we only had to deal with the shadows and colour forms in the darkness. However, the undiscovered country will continue to fascinate us; though afraid that our fantasies will turn real, we continue to faithfully believe that they are familiar enough to welcome us. The plurality is unsettling. The real is far away. unless we stop seeing with our own eyes, we will never look at the same rainbow. unless I stop writing in riddles, I think I can never be truly understood. Or can I?

--

personal moment

loving is so hard to do. but the imagination of it is so simple to enchant, to entice and to enthrall, leaving only the imagined taste of it but never the reality of love. always grasping some truth of it but never the whole package. perhaps then, that makes some of us yearn for it more, which keeps it anew like the morning dew. always refreshing to discover something new. always never the person but the concept of our love. love the person not the concept. sounds easy. but if we be flawless, we wouldn't have to think of how to love. but what use are these thoughts? if morning dew should so quickly turn to salty tears. for me, there's not even the tears. the manifestation of some honesty is difficult when I do not even know what I have to be honest of.
--

if a thing could reach its zenith, I believe it must be feelings, of which new heights could not be scaled if there remained no saving grace. how rich it was when the morning dew brought the first rainbow to the moist grass fields. how fresh it was when the snow from the ice mountain melted and flowed into the many streams. I wished I was young again, to experience anew the first blessings and the first love. It is, however, impossible, to even believe for a second that I can relive the experience. It is really a grave sin to think that way, being fully aware of the consequences of having a weak mind. I have no freedom to will, if it must be accepted that to will consists of being entirely free to do whatever I want. I am, but a free person born with chains, to live and fret living, the endless strife between freedom and bondage. There is no rest in this matter, for experience teaches me that to cling on to some past is like engulfing the future with darkness. This blight creates nothingness. And still the natural course of the human life is to live retrospectively, no matter how adventurous our hope for the future seems. so where does the free man find his freedom?
only in Christ,
when even the betraying feelings cannot lie to the burning bush that lights up the dark room but burns nothing. He is the first love and the finisher of that love. If it be so that feelings must fade, let me be reminded of the wondrous gift of silence, where irony works its strength and reveals everything and nothing. To acquire knowledge is to lose a part of me, where the acquisition of knowledge is troubled by the forgetful memory. It is, however, a miracle that I remember my salvation, in the days of treachery and transgressions, where all else fails, fails you and you fail. I can betray myself. I can hate myself. But grace cannot and will not. Forgive myself for being so naive. My strength is weak. And so the knowledge/suffering that matures me is so essential to my upbringing. Love, my friend and reader, is not a thing we can easily boast of having. Till this day, I believe that I love no one and the closest I come to is 'love myself'. Love, if it so perplexes me to define, is only united in name and so often we fail the test of love. If it should encourage you, dear Christian, love, if it so manifests in you, is but the consequence of the first love wrought in you by the blood of Christ. To be loved first beats having to love someone as much as yourself. How you deal and manifest this love, my fellow fool, is another matter altogether. I can only remind myself that honesty is but one of the many first steps we must take. I am undone, utterly deconstructed by the honesty of the gospel. So let it be so, that every knowledge I acquire be like a child. A child constantly dying and resurrecting. I face old wounds and I cut them again so that each new experience sheds new knowledge. The child can love his or her image more than the things he or she will eventually hate. I am a child, wanting to be 33 years old.


if it must be so, it must be so. I feel breathless for some action to be done.

goes without saying that most nights can be quiet and the streets are empty. an occasional automobile escapes from your view. the velvet sapphire sky obscures the celestial bodies. I feel the emptiness that perpetuates from my surroundings. I feel so empty and filled. a double sensation of chaos and peace. at ease with my turmoil. That seems to be my popular mood nowadays. The terrible plague that catches hold of me every second I can spare it. aha. there is a beauty in such nights. the empty streets are not exactly empty. what crawls beneath? what searches the crevices and drains to dug into? there are mysterious things dwelling in the depths. things we do not want to see or imagine. but they hide themselves, waiting for their turn to appear, not in front of us, but to achieve some purpose we can never be sure. there are mysteries all around us. and it is the night that I feel my mind react sensitively to my surroundings. nights make the pores on my skin expand. I feel the coarse touch of the early morning moisture in the air, ripening for condensation and manifestation. I feel, more literally, the hammer knocking within my skull, which my sadness, my boredom, my madness, my questions, my emotions and my pain constitute the pounding of the steel on my brittle bone. I feel also the great flood that wipes them away at the moment of sleep, revealing in new forms in my dreams. Is there a method to resolve the tension that is ever so potent and threatening? But it seems so natural that I must live with it. To have chaos is precisely the reason for my peace. That ancient curse has found its wormhole in me. Are we so pathetically weak that we cannot resist such parasites from building their homes? Isn't it even a normal thing that I can transfer abstract ideas of my predicament to persons alive? We all do, in some manner most violently. To actual condition is ultimately an abstraction of my conscience, the reflection of my desires, or the objectification of someone, making it impossible to be subject, yet alone conscious. He or she is conscious, but why must I deprive him or her their own rights to their consciousness? I am so undesirably selfish. But that is the fault of many, the worst being the suicidal, who leaves the living to vie for their own worries. Love, if it should dictate and heavily depend on the other to please our pathetic urges, impulses and preferences, is not love, but a projection of our desires. If love should destroy, it is not love. But love, not honestly given, is also an act of violence to oneself. If it is not kind enough to be given, how can we possibly be kind to ourselves and expect our identities to reveal truthfully? How then?! There is no end to the question, to love or not to love, unable to judge myself if my feelings are of love or not of love. There remains no rest, especially in nights like these, when the morning turns her colour and announces the day. I am but one of many who stares out of the window, and laments the passing of the night, without any means of capturing her for my own pleasure, only to realise that she comes back the next night and so on, till my days end. (or repeats) There are great mysteries in the night, and I can only, for now, appreciate the night for the thoughts that surround me, making me more sensitive to them than the busy day that are ruled by impulses and desires more than careful contemplation.

i flip the switch. lights come on. is this my room? yes it should be. books all over. a messy bed. books and bed don't go well. to read without falling asleep. i have not mastered that. the ceiling may fall anytime. the stereos are not loud enough. the cds are trapped in their plastic cases. most are cracked. liberated often. the time is passing towards dawn. the wind is not blowing tonight. those window grills. i hate them. i hate the patterns on my bed. is the light really on? typing endlessly in my mind. what appears in front of me are contorted. empty cup noodles. lemon tea is going to attract ants. this is me and a room. facing a screen that is going to blind me. i type. expecting some useful content to manifest. reading nonsense. is this becoming interesting? shall i begin a description of the events that passed? doubt so. poor reader, I shall not make you read my complaints or my words of thanks. there is nothing valuable in those. there is, to me, more value in the contemplation, in between the moment of encounter and the moment of repetitive representation of an event/experience. (they are separate entities) Things are hardly accomplished with such an attitude but the satisfaction i gained from the experience before it transcends to representation is one of excitement, anticipation and immediate response to the experience. After all, once reduced by reason and understanding, I depart from the holistic experience into a fragment of it. I enjoy temptation more than the act. I can feel the guilt from both sides: the ethical boundaries that condition me to react in a certain social manner; and the liberal creativity to manifest that temptation into an act. I do only violence to the temptation. Temptation is possibilities. Must I be Apollian or Dionysian? To align myself to one aspect is to do violence to I. I am perhaps too egocentric to believe that I am predictable. Some of us just like to be multi-faceted. However, multi-faceted is not apt to describe my condition. I find myself shifting from one end to another, restless and hating myself for my movements. However, the discovery of the temptation before my action is often the most exciting moment (not always lovely and positive). Perhaps it is fair enough to say I enjoy this sadistic side of me. But often I find myself resisting action. Afraid what the next morn will bring me. If it is even possible to maintain such a tension, I would certainly be better of inhuman. After all, temptation leads to action most of the time. At the particular second that a sentence is uttered during a conversation, a response is expected. if sometimes I fall into silence, it is my preferred mode of self, to contemplate, and try my utmost to maintain that tension. A sentence uttered is a violence committed, revealing in part who I am. Violence or the act of reducing the whole me into some recognisable part that people can easily use to judge me. I feel like I have digressed. the point, if I am truly making one, is my desire (of the ego) to exist in between being insane and sane (madness and reason). I find myself being more insane than sane for my own good. But at times when I find myself too sane, the reasonable self is really not a projection of the inward self but a self socially conditioned. Repetition is an attempt to only reestablish the recognisable fragment of the I. repetition is but the futile attempt to make some absolutely unique to itself into a universal phenomenon, easily replicated and copied for mass production. I cannot be repeated. My proxies are me and still themselves.

dear reader
the nights can be short when you're asleep (if you are asleep). I often find myself lost in time as my dream overwhelms me. as images flood the dream sea, as i change costume and the characters around me come on stage or leave. the lights are a perpetual foggy
i sometimes feel like i am watching a film, finding myself jumping from one scene to another
but there is something real about my dreams. there is comfort in my dreams
the comfort that I do not need to see the end of it
dreams end abruptly and you wake up alive
assured that as real as our dreams can be, we wake up from them.

I let the wind whisper past my ears
gently caressing my face, carefully stroking my neck,
and patiently waiting for your hair to fly back.
are my hands like the gentle wind,
steadfastly carrying your beauty to face me, delicately wiping the old tears from your cheeks,
and most gratefully spreading my arms for the final embrace?

I let the rain wash my mane
kindly washing my filth, boldly unfolding my exteriors,
and meekly waiting for the cleansing of my soul.
are my hands like the gentle stream,
perpetually carrying manna to strengthen you, constantly enriching the poor heart,
and most thankfully joining my hands for the thanksgiving prayer?

when love spreads into her tributaries,
love still comes from an original source
thousand streams to many beneficiaries
one love with an unlimited resource.

are my hands like eternal love?
gentle, careful, patient, steadfast, delicate, grateful, kind, bold, meek, perpetual, constant, thankful?
are my hands mine.

to receive so swift a death
just under one breath
how repetitive this has been
how painful your words have been

may you be granted ignorance
may you be blessed with hope
he walks off to another realm for a new experience
he walks off to cross a new tightrope

he repeats himself
only to reveal how fragile his will is
if it must be done it must be done
but he is weak
to execute that dreadful act
deep down inside
he knows how he feels
but if he was to write this narrative
he did not know how to end it with a happy ending
therefore he must let go
the author has to die
in presence and in absence
he may become a distant memory
with labels easily recognisable
slowly becoming a victim of time
but to him the feelings are complex
and may remain for long
do not ask what they are
if only he could relate
the depiction is futile
just as the labour did not bear fruit
what labour? it is just the rotten fruit that falls to the ground
trampled on and forgotten
contributing nutrients for a period
please stop talking to him
if your words should sting unwittingly
please stop thinking of him in a particular way
for he cannot resist thinking otherwise
he is weak
but he does not want to confess
he cannot pretend for long
the outcry can be fatal
so avoid him please
before he releases it all
and loses the only thing left
he cannot say it explicitly
he only hopes something happens
that may make swift the resurrection
not necessarily unto glory
but to a rest
he is laughing now
but the real rest comes
it is neither funny nor sad
it is just pure rest
a rest from you
who for the longest of time
he had no courage to say
the words to give him that rest

es kommt

es wird losgehen

es ging.




weiter warte ich nicht.

the flood of messages come
but there are some that would never arrive
what's he waiting for?
knowing well some chooses to be forgetful
no matter
not much is left
the positions and situations have changed
or it was always just nothing
welcome to a transition
finally he can walk with his eyes open
and they can do, say or feel whatever they want
while they lasted, it was bitter sweet
and i will remember every moment
fly free
dream big
the long journey continues

when innocence made its final bow
violence loses its pain and becomes a formality
it seems less cruel somehow
and innocence is replaced by a sense of reality
but how real is this reality
when it is just a defence against an unwanted reaction?
is it not just another alternative reaction to the violence?
when left alone to speculate the answers
there can be none
my ears are closed
and i do not want to care
some words said in innocence (or not) can be deadly
but i have not died from those wounds
my innocence abandoned me years ago
mortal coils tangled around my mind
cursing the very soul of my existence
if the war should end now
the trenches and barricades would not be removed easily
if you have innocence in you
rejoice while it lasts
ignorance may not always be a bliss
especially in moments when you cannot be ignorant
i know where i stand
right at the epic-centre of the outskirts
near enough to know, far enough to leave
may we never know the answers
as i lock everything up
without innocence
violence seems easy
treatment seems routine
after all...
enough is enough

watch my back
it is not mine
i chase after it

always a distance away
i envy that back
it has a front that does not turn back
it does not know what is behind
teach me how
to abandon so quickly
teach me how
to ignore everything behind
where is it looking?
certainly it cannot be the back
certainly
i envy that back
that back encapsulated in a picture
the moment of eternity
(unless one destroys it)
while i am
stuck in moments of looking front and back
running stationary while awake
moving rapidly while asleep

when is the day i may walk confidently?

--

can you hear my prayer for you?
can you hear my prayer for me?
we are all foolish creatures
honest only to what we desire
bolting everything else into an old chest
ignored and left to be undesired
if we should open it again
should we be forced to
what demons will creep out or conjure out from its dark corners?
i feel for you
just as i feel the long sleepless nights
with floating devilish blankets that cover us from the light
are we blind?
we cannot be
as we feel the pain enough to know what is around us
are we then just shutting our eyes
afraid of the golden coin before us
the glory that both makes us tremble with fear and thanksgiving?
the light still seeps into the lid of our eyes
filling every possible hole through dreams and blankets
and we see the light
each in our little rooms
and
we'll never see the light alone

there is a season for pain and a season for joy
there is a season for blindness and a season for revelation
we venture into unknown places and return to familiar territories
and there is still only that one way to rest
and so we walk
every breath a step closer to it
until that last breath comes
we continue this walk
even when our cries are muted
even when our eyes are closing
our silent cries are not unheard
our vision is not blurred
we walk on
and
we'll never walk alone

--

but soon
i may turn my back on you too

tick tick tick tick
no. it's not the clock
it's 6:28am and the sky is still dark
i wonder since when did i begin this nocturnal existence
the cars are leaving their lots
no. drivers are driving their cars away
crappy album again from my ex-idol
at least the last song sounds relevant
“也不想入睡。。。”
late saturday nights, no. early sunday mornings
the ants are crawling
there are no interesting shows on tv
there is nothing to read, no. i don't feel like reading.
back to an old book.
back to my old thoughts.
a football game to go to
no sleep
who cares.
no one saw.
the day will still pass.
but there must be someone out there like me
the blankets of morning clouds cover us to sleep.
they comfort but they do not put us to sleep
perhaps i like to match my mental fatigue with a physical one
10 minutes later.
it's still not dawn.
words come in sequence here
but thoughts don't. they rush in.
like fools who cannot queue for a weekend buffet
i don't like to play host
for once i like to be the one invited
to be served
i don't like buffets.
frankly i don't.
teppanyaki sounds better.
when the morning finally comes.
when the lights go off at that specific time.
if my eyes are still opened.
it's only because of duty.
or it could be a preference to live more hours consciously
daddy came in
he just smoked.
more time spent dying
when i am awake i know i am alive
lots of deju vu these few days
the colour of the sky is changing
will i still smile when i see them
saturdays are weird days for me
a day of rest but i chose not to
these days must end soon
even winters have their springs
my hibernation ends soon
out of the shell
to be human again

heavy is the heart that bears the weight of the mind
the subject is at odds with the object
both conscious
not up or down
inward
the manifestation is inward
the conviction is inward
the confrontation is not that is presented before you
but at the point of darkness
eyes shut
the leap of faith happens at the precise moment of neither/nor
neither subjectivity nor objectivity
absurdity
once that
the face-to-face happens
and the strife begins

left

right

centre

right

left

centre

the centre will always be centre
maybe
whose centre?

--

i have many thoughts tonight
let me try to express them

--

you are alone in the room
the fan is spinning its web
you are sleeping with it
are you dreaming of the fan?
it is always beside you
have you once paid attention to it?
how the cobwebs and dust form
how the wind weakens
clean it then
you are the one using it
alone in the room

--

imagine flying
imagine soaring through the skies
imagine the sun piercing through the clouds
imagine the white blankets as you reach higher
imagine you are still warm
imagine the air is still fresh
imagine you can fly
imagine
the skies' the limit
i will trade flying for a stroll in the park
i will trade flying for a handshake
i will trade flying for my scenery outside my bedroom window
i will trade flying for your smile
the ground feels more real

--

das Zentrum
you can spin in the middle of everything
you are your centre
repeat your movements over and over
wo ist das Zentrum des Zentrums?
i can jump out of my centre
and still i find myself in another centre
my body is not free
my mind is always within it
i cannot witness myself
i cannot face myself and see myself in flesh
das Zentrum ist kein Zentrum
aber noch ein Zentrum
stand straight
and lift your hands to the side
you can feel like you are rising
but you are always fixed to the ground
always
do not rise
what goes up must fall
and when you break
it won't be painless
if you must rise
rise to infinity and stay there

--

Illustration by Bill Burgard

you came a little too early
the house's all melted down
what's left you asked?
all molten delicacies
of horror and violence
but don't worry
it's all over
the bad witch is dead
boiled in her own melting pot
she won't come and torment you
i'm the new master
so please stay
there are more sweets to chew on
what?
unhappy memories?
don't worry
they're in the melting pot right now
stir and stir
i wonder what's cooking
i wonder how it will turn out
stir and stir
do you want to have a sip?
a concoction of fantasies and miseries
of horrors and trauma
but don't worry
it's all mixed up right now
you can't tell the ingredients
you can't tell the recipe
so do you want to try?
i promise that it will be sweet, bitter, sour, hot, cold, spicy, salty
everything you can imagine and taste
wait a little while
uncle fairy tale will boil this molten soup
and all will be done