Three corpses lie in front of me. Lighted by the laptop's pale white light of condescending nature. The light, it seems to mock the stiff, bodies that lay there. It was a testament to my impatience, and the unholy bloodlust that I have to seem have developed as of late.

But yet they kept coming. They taunt me.
They want to see how many more I can take before I finally succumb.
It is as if the corpses of their brothers and sisters that I have happily murdered were just mere puppets to test my mettle.

I sit here, the room covered in darkness. My naked upper half remains unguarded, unarmored, laying itself wide open to as if goad my enemies into taking the first strike. But my eyes remain wild and calculating. It darts from left to right, waiting, for that moment when it darts its black figure across the stark whiteness of the computer screen.

*CLAP*
Another body falls on the keyboard of laptop, its quivering frame refusing to give in to the reaper's scythe. But hope is all but extinguished; I have not yet noticed its limp, but shivering body that tries to crawl itself away from its apparent landing spot. It hopes to crawl into some blind spot, recover from the beating that I have given it, and strike at me again in order to devour the fresh blood that lies beneath my skin.

But it is too late.

Good lord.

Truly.

I have lost the touch. Well, almost at any rate.

Here I am, finally inspired to write something because of someone (isn't it always?) and it's going to be a series.

A series of short poems, dedicated to my outings that I had rather recently with someone... should I say, more special than I would ever think of.
My outings with her are not without humour. Every single outing was something funny, and it's always something that I'd regale about in the future with her.

But still.

There is something about her that, goes beyond physical appearance and linguistic skills alone.

I felt.. a connection. Not that telephone line TM punya.

It was a connection that stretched deep. Deep to the very hem of my being. A link, a twine of sorts, materialized thinly, but firm. And if I will it, indestructible.

I could say emotional connection. I could throw in that we have similar interests in nearly everything under the sun, of course.

But those are excuses.

Probably I am feeling things that I haven't felt in the longest time, or never before?
Because here I am sitting in this comfortable chair, dreading thoughts of ever losing her. I couldn't imagine the kind of damage I will suffer, the torture that I will go through in this lifetime, should she ever leaves my sight, my arms, my soul.


Henceforth, after two years not posting anything, here I am posting something that well, probably lame and crass and full of sappy shit.
But.

I want to remember. I never want these thoughts ever leave me because if they do; I will be just a shell, no longer a man.


Dan

The bouncer called a name, a woman in a business suit appeared before Dan.
"Come with me",she said, as she walked away slowly, inviting Dan in. Dan followed, nodding a thanks to the burly bouncer on the way in. The bouncer just sighed knowingly, with stoic visage.

************************************************************************************

Loud techno music greeted Dan heavily the moment he pushed through the heavy glass doors. Patrons were dancing to the repetitive beat. Catchy too, Dan thought. The woman just walked at a relaxed pace in front of Dan, intending for Dan to drink up the surroundings of this famous European style nightspot in KL. A Dutch DJ stood at the turntables in a glass enclosure above, dictating the dancers' moves with his music. The smell of cigarette and beer too, embraced Dan, and it keeps getting thicker the deeper he moves into the club. And as anticipated, Dan detected a hint of ganja. Other harder drugs wouldn't be too far behind then.

The woman walked straight up to the club's bar and spoke to one of the three bartenders manning the place. The bartender, he was wiry, wearing standard bartender's attire; white shirt and dark vest with a bow tie. But he had this super sharp features of a Malaysian upper crusted Chinese; fair, big eyes, slim brow, sharp nose. Anyone can mistake him for a Korean singer. Both the woman and bartender talked for a bit as Dan stood a little while away.

After their little conversation amidst the loud beats, the woman beckoned to Dan to come over. The bartender appraised Dan as he walked. The woman suddenly stepped aside, the bartender moved forward out of his post towards him. He then did a full body check for weapons that would've shamed a US Customs official. After making sure he wasn't armed, the bartender then nodded to the woman and then returned to his post.

The bartender than pressed a button underneath the counter, and a door opened on the floor, inches away where the woman stood.

"How much was it again?" Schiller asked.
Clutching the phone, with his shoulder and head, Schiller feverishly scrabbled for a writing instruments on his table. Numbers were spoken from the other party, and Schiller wrote a figure on an old copy of The Star left lying in the bin.
"Sure, I will get to you soon enough," Schiller said, as he put down the phone. "Assuming he'd accept it".

The clouds were anything but present in the night skyline of Kuala Lumpur. Schiller stared outside the window of his office in the Petronas Twin Towers. It was nearing midnight, and the moon shone brightly into his darkened office, save for a light on his desk. He sighed audibly, and then went to his drinks cabinet; to infuse himself with some fiery liquid courage in his system for a call that he's about to make.

He poured himself a generous sniffer of whiskey and downed it in a single gulp. The liquor burned his throat and made him cough a little. Already a man in his 60s, he shouldn't even be taking shots this raw and forcing down his system. But he needed it. He needed whatever he can get to help him to make this call. He poured himself another and sipped it gingerly. Holding his glass, he walked to his couch and sat down heavily.

Papers were strewn on the table in front of him. He pushed a bit of them away to reveal a cigar, half of it's length already been burned by it's previous user. Him.
Glass in one hand, he dusted the cigar and put it in his mouth. He then brought a matchbox out of his person, struck a match and lit the cigar, all in the silvery presence of the moon's light.

He sat there for a while, puffing away and taking a sip of his drink now and then, contemplating on what to say when he finally makes that call. Then after about a quarter of an hour, he picked himself up from the couch and strode towards his desk. Standing, with liquor glass empty in hand, he dialed a series of numbers and waited.

**********************************************************************************


The streets of Bukit Bintang, in the heartland of the capital, was still brightly lit, dimming the moon's presence. Cars swept by endlessly, each with its own purpose and destination. People dotted the streets, all too friendly and passing greetings on this unearthly hour. These people ranged from middle aged, casual men with Rolexes and Armani loafers to young women of different racial mixes and clothes.

At this hour, accompanied by the unwilling blessings of the moon, these people peddle their trade to the a rather specific market. Luxurious German and British sedans would sometimes sidle up to one of the younger women, and within mere minutes, a door would be opened, beckoning its offer of hard cash for a service that they are there for, and could only offer to their patrons.

Dan just observed from afar, leaning against his own German sedan. It was an old BMW, bought at a rather cheap price from a dealer in Johor Bahru who sold Singaporean cars and legalizing them for Malaysian roads. He sipped his Heineken gingerly, while watching the spectacle across of him. A man in a beat up Wira inched close to one of the middle aged men on the road, and after an exchange of Ringgits, a woman was called and brought into the passenger seat of the car. The car then sped off to probably some cheap motel that would barely even cost 30 ringgit at most. Just enough to do the deed.

A Russian song suddenly played from inside the car. Dan reached his hands through the open windows and took his beat up Samsung mobile and looked at the caller's name.
It was Schiller.
Now? At this time? He answered it.

"Ich habe fur Sie arbeiten", a voice echoed, in throaty German.
A job, at this hour? Dan thought. It quite uncharacteristic for Schiller to give him last minute offers. Because Dan needed time to prepare. Especially with the kind of jobs that he get since he first started working with this man.
" Was ist das?" Dan refused to mince words, because each job brought him more money. And he could always use more.
"It's quite a offer, Dan." Schiller said, " Fifteen thousand. And I am taking no commission because it is a last minute thing, as we agreed upon."
"Exactly," Dan sipped his beer, " So what do I have to do?"
"Get to Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman right away." Schiller sipped his whiskey, "Meet Alain Esmail as usual. He'll provide the details."

Dan dropped the call immediately, not bothering with a thanks or even a goodbye. Dan gulped the last of his beer and tossed the can aside. He then made his way to the street that Schiller mentioned. 

***********************************************************************************

 It was just after midnight, and the street was bustling with activity. It's pavements were littered with club patrons, and the clubs themselves. Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman. For a street that's named after the founder of this country, it was quite the 2nd biggest hub of liquor and nightly entertainment after Jalan Changkat. Dan parked in front of a club. The man he was going to meet apparently was the owner of Club Infusion, an associate of Schiller's in Kuala Lumpur, and information broker to individuals who can afford it.

Dan stepped out of his car and made his way into the club. Two bouncers, who were dealing with a line of patrons who's too keen to enter one of KL's famous nightspots, stood in Dan's way.
"I'm here to see Mr. Esmail." Dan said, as he looked directly into one of the bouncer's eyes. The burlier of the two. He just stared back at Dan curiously.
"I am a guest of Alain Esmail," Dan replied, "And you're in my way. Get out."
The bouncer just stood there, still looking at Dan.
Dan just shrugged, and fished out three 100 ringgit notes. He folded them and put them into the gorilla's suit pocket. "There, we good? Let me in? It's rather urgent."

The bouncer called a name, a woman in a business suit appeared before Dan.
"Come with me",she said, as she walked away slowly, inviting Dan in. Dan followed, nodding a thanks to the burly bouncer on the way in. The bouncer just sighed knowingly.







...to be Continued

Spell-It-Right Challenge, organized by RHB Bank.






I have heard of this competition many times but I just have never got round to criticizing it. This competition, is a spelling competition. It offers a multitude of cash prizes to the winners, in exchange of observing your capability to probably spell "androgynous" or "asphyxiate", among other somewhat hard words.

I have seen a share of weird words myself. I have taken this test; a English language test that is organized by a university from Australia, all in the name to prove my English prowess to my mates, and to the foreign organizers as well. Took the test I did, and I could've sworn right there. The entire paper was dotted with so many new English words that made it seemed I was taking another foreign language. Only the presence of the standard English grammar made me realize it was the Queen's language I was being tested in.

So therefore, it is important for students to attend such competitions so they could learn bigger, better, and more complicated words. So they could apply for such ridiculous tests that could cost up to RM100 per paper.

That's what the competition is about. Through the same friend of mine (let's give her a name, and it's Nadia), she got tested on words so ridiculous that you'd swear it was made up. I remembered asking her about what words she was tested on.
They are:
Flosculous (Flowery),
Illatration (Barking at someone),
Pyknic (a person who has a round belly and tend to put on weight) 

If you heard those three words consecutively and ask to spell each, what would happen?
I'd stutter that's what will happen. The last word, God knows how it's going to be pronounced - peeknic? Puy-nick? - would knock me down like a sack of onions being dropped by a van on a Sunday morning from the airport. Our onions are mostly imported from India or China these days.


Hearing those words blew me away like how a fart would do to my roommate. I felt pity for her though. I didn't think that such borderline foreign words would be used in this competition.
I heard the winner was some dude, who probably burnt the latest edition of Oxford's and mixed it with his cereal every morning. He'd probably slept with headphones on, an 8 hour long audio dictionary playing in his year. For a week.

This competition may have the right intentions - improving English vocabulary and extending the word ranges for students nationwide. The cash incentives offered are quite the nice bonus, too.

 But hey, looking at students stuttering over words such as "incinerate" or "creole", is probably what this competition is all about. Were I part of the audience (there is an audience watching how it's being played out), I would probably snicker or chuckle every time someone messes up their spelling.

Competitions, in nature, are entertainment for the masses. It is often touted as a place where people test their mettle for prizes. Most would aim for the grand prize, though. And they would battle it out, be it with each other or with something else; the Romans used lions and sometimes elephants for their gladiators.
So what I'd like to think is that this whole spelling competition is created with the intention to please some higher ups in the News Straits Times or in the dark corridors of power in the RHB Bank headquarters. Probably there is some fun in watching children being pitted against words that are enough to make an average English speaker's tongue bleed with confusion.


I'd love to write more but alas, I am afraid to bore my readers any more. Do await a part two though - there's quite a bit more to write about this competition. More things that doesn't make too much sense but would probably provide an interesting read, mind.



Until then, toodles!

The smell of burnt leaves wafted in the air. I shakily took the half burnt blunt from her and smoked it with the gusto of a virgin smoker. The taste of the smoke was, well, smoky. The inhalation passed through the throat and into my lungs, and I held it there for a while. Then I exhaled, leaving a slight stinging sensation in my lungs and a smoky aftertaste in my mouth.

Well, it’s a first time for me I guess. Normal, or chain smokers wouldn’t be so much as bothered as to write such a colourful or a detailed chronology of the first time nicotine touched their veins.
Much less, marijuana.

She was laughing in front of me, in that restaurant. I passed the blunt back to her, feeling somewhat disconcerted. Must’ve been the calming effect that I am not really used to, or maybe it’s me well, being me. It’s a habit of being anal over small things, minor details and such.

Two other friends of mine, guys, sitting on the side, stared at me. They’re probably waiting for something to happen. Waiting for me to say something stupid or just looking at how long until it took for my eyes to be glazed – an indication that I am already, high.

“Damn, it was… not unpleasant. Tasted like burnt lalang though,” I ventured.
The two dudes were staring at me, nodding their heads in agreement.
The guy on my left, dark skin and of Negeri Malay descent, reached for the glass cup of iced tea and sipped a sliver of the brown liquid, smiling. “ No one said it smelled of roses, you know.”

His gifted talent for sarcasm, starting to peek it’s way through the cracks of his tired exterior.

“It is grass in a sense.” He said, making a reference to the tall, sharp bladed grass that’s referred as a plant pest, a weed – the lalang – as locals call it in the native Malay language.
“Why do you think we call it weed, then?” He tabled the glass. “Names like that don’t invent themselves.”

Bald guy on my right, born and raised in the metropolitan life of Kuala Lumpur, Malay descent as well, cut in. “Well, how are you feeling right now?”
He seemed to be more interested on how I, a virgin smoker, would feel after popping my breathing cherry after the first time I took in smoke to my lungs. Willingly.
I gave a confused look. “I feel… nothing. Or I just haven’t felt it yet. How long would it take for it to work?”

The girl, a hybrid of Chinese and Indian; answered from across the table. “Not so loud, dumbass.”
She took another puff of the blunt, now burnt to a quarter in her fingers.
“This is your first time smoking, right?”
I nodded.
“Then it wouldn’t take too long. Your lungs would do the job of passing the chemicals to your head pretty quick. You’d start feeling everything’s starting to progress more slowly now.”
She tossed the blunt aside and grabbed an idle cigarette box for a cigarette.
“Also don’t think too much about well, getting high. You are not supposed to think. Just relax.”

As soon as the words escaped her lips, my mind is beginning to experience something that is completely unusual. I looked at the iced coffee in front of me and stared at it.

Dark skin dude started to chuckle. “There you go. Look at his eyes, he’s blazed.”
My eyes swiveled to him. “Sam, you know I…” I couldn’t get my mind to think of what I was supposed to say as I would’ve wanted to.
Samir, my roommate, my friend, partner in crime, just stared at me and reached for the iced tea and began nursing it. 

The Chinese Indian girl across me also managed a wide smile as she looked at me. Maybe she’s somewhat stoned by the blunt she’s smoked and feeling the inclination to smile, I don’t know.
The bald dude on my right also was looking at me, in a curious manner.

I am apparently being quite the show.

“Han, hey…” I started to say something towards the bald dude but I couldn’t. I just somewhat forgot what to say.
Han, or Farhan Aziz, a mutual friend of mine and Samir, a musician in the underground clubbing scene of Kuala Lumpur, continued to stare at me.
He waved a hand in front of my face. “Babe, you getting any of this?”

As always, it has been a great long while since I posted anything noteworthy for anyone to read.
If there's anyone reading.. that is.

Melancholic moment of writer's low esteem aside, I want to say something about a certain matter about a fear of mine.
It resurfaces itself once every so often when I am at my most relaxed state. Naturally, when you're relaxed, your mind tend to wander on it's own; and you can't exactly direct where it wants to go. Once you already started to think of something, it either gives you a wide, knowing smile, the kind of smile that makes people would think you're half mad or being high on a substance.
Or you could think about thoughts that would drop you into the deepest caverns of despair, ones that would chain itself unpleasantly, linking to more and more grievous matters and outcomes and dreams. And these are the ones that would ruin your mood, and makes you feel indifferent to concerns that are not your own. Words and music are just sounds to your head, colours seem to morph to gray, and your taste buds will no longer recognize taste. You will be rigged to those unpleasant thoughts, until it eventually blows up and everything's normal again.

I feel the latter.

It was a regular night, and I just had a four hour conversation with a long time crush of mine. Bidding each other adieu and goodnight, I switched off the computer and turned to my bed for a short slumber.
Then as I lied down, relaxed as I am, my thoughts drifted about her.
Smiling, thinking about unlikely outcomes and scenarios between me and her.
But pretty soon, these thoughts gravitated into a living nightmare, a waking dream, as invasive thoughts start to pry themselves inside.


I thought of having a relationship with her, with my crush. Should she accept, I know I would be stoked, euphoric, jumping till my head hits the ceiling euphoric.
And that's when the invasion of facts and sense began; they were already forcing their logic on my fantasy. I would then think that my relationship with her would be impossible. I would then think that even if she had felt strongly for me as I did for her, it would be a fruitless endeavour.

Then my mind projected different pathways - all leading to a somewhat sad ending for the both of us. In relationships, things always don't go as we would like it to be. Theories and articles about maintaining a perfect relationship would die in this reality - such words are only cold comfort.
I imagined what would happen if we fought, would it be as bad as the ones I had with my ex years ago? And if it turned out really bad, what would then happen? Would we break up?
Then what about the friendship that's built in the past? The solid 10 years, a friend that I very much liked, a friend that I shared so much opinions and thoughts together. Also a friend that offered me so much support and encouragement when the chips were down, and a friend who, literally, possesses the same arguments and opinions that I do on most things around the both of us.

Would it be brittle and then shatter? Would it be then swept away in the cruel wind of time?
And then we would be strangers, with all the beautiful memories once shared, becomes a wound that would never heal. A scar would be between us, an ugly, painful scar.

As much as I want to be in a relationship with her because of similarities, and her overall great personality and looks, I am afraid. Of what would be of our friendship.

If I give that up,
I'd be giving up the only friend that actually gave three flying fucks about me.


And the male instinct programmed into my genetic code since my birth insists that I should be with this girl, because there is no other female that matches her in terms of, well, everything. She would be the perfect person to grow old with, the perfect girl to be a lover and a best friend at the same time.



Or maybe I am just thinking too much....?

Maybe that's it.
I am over thinking things.

You know, I always thought of myself, being an amateur writer and all, I could read people's emotions.

I thought I could tell from the tone of most conversations, or even the body language of who I am speaking to, whether he/she is pleased or just irritated or bored.

Perceiving emotion is a gift that, I'd daresay, is only available to the ones who participate in the science of creation - artists, writers, musicians, singers.. the list just do go on. These people, their brains are wired in such a way by the language they write, the music they compose, or the pictures they paint, that they could grasp the source of creativity - the human emotion.

I might be blustering a whole lot of hot air here but bear with me, would you? Although I am an amateur, I could at some degree, look at people's conversations be it in phone or paper and tell how they are feeling at that moment.
And more often than not, I am quite right. I have steered away a great many sad and boring conversations that way. And saved a lot of faces.

But reading people, by singling out their characteristics at a first glance - is something I cannot do.

And I thought I did. And I slept with the wrong sort, while antagonizing the ones that I call friends.

Let's just say,  that I made enemies of a friend (or friends?) that were just speaking out their views. I detracted their opinions and countered a not so sharp riposte - and that provoked some sort a feral reaction of sorts.
And while the ones I should be staying away from, I responded in a sweetness that would even make Willy Wonka swoon. I apologized, I said nice things; I typically was in the same bed as my enemy.

Sure enough, I was being manipulated by the being I call my enemy then. And got insulted in a way that I never would've thought possible.
When that derogatory statement hit my ears, I realized what a fool I was. I ignored subsequent calls and messages from the offender, as I slowly reconsidered my past actions.

But yeah, I learned from that incident. I am no mind reader, nor I am a good people reader. But at least now I know which shoes I should trod on, or at least walk together with.


Sheesh.. what a confusing episode this all had been..


*2 blog posts in one day... damn I am good.*
**2 posts huh? What about that little story project?**
*Darn!*

Unless I promote it vociferously - or in such an aggressive manner that would shame most telemarketers -, she would quite not. Or unless I just, you know, pop this post up like I did the other day in an innocuous conversation. She read it and gave one of the posts quite the glowing review.

As usual, I would just downplay it and think it is not up to standards. As always.
I spotted a few grammatical and spelling errors in there, and I saw the structural placing of most of my sentences were more than flawed - it was a disaster. Reading that post was like looking at my backyard; so many plants, so pretty plants, but they're all over the place and surrounded by weeds of different shapes and sizes.

Anyways,

My self-shooting literature review isn't something that I want to discuss here.

I just want to say that little gesture, the offer to read what I write, could make me happy. Really happy. Ten bottles of different liquors from different countries with petai sambal while in a BMW happy. I was ecstatic.

But I always have been happy whenever she even remotely, talked to me. Or just  spoke, briefly.

Ah world,
If only she realize how happy she makes me feel no matter when or where she messages me. Yes I admit, I still have more than just feelings for her. Always has been for these 12 years.
Like today, when I saw the messages, although short, was enough to send me on a mad jumping dance around the house. Or that message earlier! Although short, again, fireworks were doing the "Carnivale" in response to that.


Yeah I am abit exaggerating but honestly you guys.
I missed that feeling of being excessively happy from hearing from her at all.

Pathetic huh?


Oh well. Hardly she ever traverses this part of the internet - at least she won't read this. This whole thing is a  sad mess, a sombre attempt to engulf my emotions in words.

Criticism and opinions are like the buttocks, the gluteus maximus, our profound rear in which we sit on. We all have it.

All of us have an opinion about something, be it the car you're sitting in, the man you're talking to, or even the very air that you breathe. And more often than not, being average humans, we criticize almost everything that we see and hear or taste today in our lives.
Come now, don't lie to yourself. I am sure you have commented something about the food you had for lunch today, or even the waiter that served you being too rigid or leering, or even maybe the surroundings of where you place your sweet rear on; hot, smelly, humid - common traits of the Malaysian monotonous weather.

But opinions, you may have realized, are something that is offered quite freely and without restrain, to the nearest person next to you. Opinions are often the starter of most conversations, and for some, a joke - something to be taken lightly, a pinch of salt. And opinions are quite ever changing - no one means exactly what they say, and it means almost nothing to anyone at all.

But criticism, however, is an evolved form of opinions. Criticism, unlike opinions, it is meant to spur the change of someone and something, in regards of what is being criticized. And things of art, like literature, paintings, songs, are the ones that is often brought to the critics' kangaroo court for their appraisal and judgement. No holds barred, without bias, that's how should criticism be.
I have read lately, a newspaper article written by a critic reviewing a book. The entire gist of his article was mainly about caring about others' feelings while doing the review, and what about the sympathetic quality so common in Malaysians' affecting the quality of literature and art and movie produced. An example was where he said that he was given a bad book to review by a friend - he offered no help and asked him to take it somewhere else. The critic was afraid, that he would hurt the budding writer's feelings if he said if it was really bad, and all that.

What I think that is - and in agreement with aforementioned critic - the critics of this country should lock up their emotions when it comes to reviewing anything at all. Have they not considered about the quality that has been coming out lately in the film cinemas, the overstocked abundance of Malay love novels, and the obvious lack of Malaysian English novelists? Why do the critics would want to feed hopes to a shitty novel, and in result, a less than average quality literature being stacked in the shelves of national bookstores.

I would argue with them about this and I would get a response that is all too similar: "Don't be so harsh la.. They are good, after a few reads, their work would grow on you! They have potential! We need this kind of up and coming writers", etc.

WRONG.

You tell a builder building a house made of sand that his work is good, and he will keep building houses with sand and one day kill himself with it.
Same goes for anyone. Why pull the Asian parenting treatment in this sector? Why aren't you harsh and intimidating to them? Why don't you go all Donald Trump on their proverbial asses, and tell them that their work is not worthy for even the dustbin, toilet material even?
Why the lot of you, encourage the growth of such material, and not stick it to them that they should write/produce/compose better movies, art, literature, etc?

We are a sentimental, emotional, sympathetic lot, that's why.

For me, I want my work to be subjected to criticism worthy of Spartan discipline and cruelty. I want to know how bad did I do. I want to know how horrible my grammar, my sentence structures, my story premises; the aspects of a novel or any writing work of mine.
I get a lot of honorable mentions of my articles; like, publisher quality material, made with the essence of a trained, experienced writer, weaving emotions like a skilled romantic novelist.. the list do go on. Yes, I am not exaggerating.

I just want the raw form of criticism, the unadulterated, watered down, sweetened excuse of an opinion that only serves me no good to improve my writing quality.


Now I know why most local movies are of even lesser quality than our Thai or Singaporean counterparts.

I always wanted to write a novel.

A novel, be it something heavily action oriented, a horror carnival, or romantic mush spun and woven into the fabric of literature. Comedy is not an exception though - although I need to write up more clever jibes and metaphors to at least provoke a smile or a chuckle from a reader.

I am not short of ideas either.

I have this little story about how a man/boy who finds himself trapped in an international conspiracy of corporate assassins, and intends to be one. I want to make this a series, somewhere along the lines of Pendragon, the Harry Potter series, stuff like that.
Also, I have thought up a few lines of horror stories telling how a boy kept talking to himself in a bathroom mirror in his house, conjuring up alternate, completely different version of himself; a more richer, handsomer, much more positive person. Something about escaping reality by talking to an apparition but later, the boy would find out that there would be more to that apparition that he considered a confidant all this while. I'll try to make it scary as possible (meaning more research on ghost stories and probably even more ghost/slasher/horror films. sigh.)
Also probably romance stories, minus the romantic aspect. I had, as mentioned a few times here, written quite a bit of love letters for 3 months every day towards an ex of mine. I reread a few of them recently. Was disgusted that she get to read all this but then I realized little by little, I do have the capacity to turn sentences and words into one big flowery mush of emotions and feelings. And the rather stupid dedication of a man towards a woman he did not understand well enough.

Good ideas? I don't know. But..
A well known fact is that I have not yet seen or heard a Malaysian English fiction, or non fiction novel being an ultimate bestseller, or at least having a popular following, or even, having a strong readership base. There are so many talented Malaysians I know, personally, who can write so well. Their writing talents are merely confined to the walls of journalism and mass media in this country because of course; as said in an age old saying of parents here: Writing doesn't put food on the table.
But doing what you love most; isn't that what everyone wants to be able to do? But alas, this country is so much unlike the bestseller Western nations; putting food on a table here is getting harder for the common youth.

Railed off again as usual, I see.

I have procrastinated heavily, and for a few months, on my novel. Or any writing for that matter, In fact, I took 4 weeks just to think of writing a post here.
But this ends abruptly today; I am going to start writing and hopefully, a masterpiece that is worthy to even one reader's eyes, and salt to the reader's mind.

I shall be off to begin the furious typing of the keyboard, brimming with ideas. I'll post excerpts here; although I am rather confident that little would view it, much less plagiarize it.

See you, readers.

I wrote something again today.

It was a list of titles for a newspaper article.


Plenty of them but to be honest, they aren't worthy of a mention here.
Why o why?

Nothing's supposed to be taken seriously, on this corner of the vast sewage system that is the Internet.

For too long my page has been so clean, without ads backing my pipes up and making everything undesirable to look at. (Or smelly. But you can't smell a post but you can sense that it stinks) And Flash animations. And pictures!

You people often wonder why there are more text than pictures here. I have seen many blogs which accommodate so many pictures of their daily life (and fucking Instagram) with little text accompanying it.


TO BE BRUTALLY HONEST,

If I wanted to dot my page with pictures, I'd start popping pills and grow my hair long enough as well as start parading a pair of black rimmed glasses. Like those annoying hipsters of Tumblr.
Have you people even seen Tumblr? That place is solely for lesbian schoolgirls and hipsters that refuse to grow up to congregate and reproduce.


So sorry for high text ratio against pictures here. I want people to read. Knowing the fact that people actually come here to read what I have to write, no matter how stupid and inconsistent I sound, gives me a sense of gratification.


And checkered shirts man. And iPhones, or anything Apple. Because android and Windows are wayy to mainstream. *mutters about hipsters*
 

I think I am going to start writing real frequent real soon. I need to have a purpose in this one-dimensional life of mine which I only seem to be going through.

Drinks and cards and casino chips are still my cursed monetary entertainment of the day though.

But never girls. They don't bring me excitement no more.

Not going gay mind, just being financially prudent.

At least with gambling, you'd know the uncertainty of winning brings you a malady of joy, sadness and euphoria and darkness at the same time. Kinda like a drug.

And with drinks, you get high.



All that aside, I still want to continue writing. I like writing.

I won't deny it.

It has been silent for a lengthy amount of time. My fingers, they have been sad. They weep. They weep for not being able to dance on the keyboards as they compose and weave a work of art, directed by the electrical pulses of the brain's creativity.

Speaking of this brain of mine, it has been rotting. Rotting not in a literal sense but more so, in a rather metaphorical theme. I haven't been writing, for a long time. After somewhat seemed like an endless sabbatical, a friend requested of my (decayed) talents. Talents that once I claim to be a gift, a pride of mine.

Wrote the article I did, and I completed it as soon as it was requested (after days of delaying). As soon as it was done, I gave it a quick look-see, as per usual any writers or artists would after completing their task.

I feel nothing. It was odd.

I did not feel the usual pride that comes with any written work I craft, whether it be on blogs or fiction. In fact, in its place, a whole feeling of disgust. A sense of disillusionment, and sadness icily enveloped me, as I read each sentence, saw each word.

Usually, I would discredit myself; I would, on purpose, drive a knife to my ego. I would taint my own sense of accomplishment of negative thoughts: People won't read, your whole post is too boring, etc.
I often wonder how many writers actually do this. Or even musicians or artists. I don't think that men and women of art and literature would tell themselves that their work is not worth the effort to put into it after they're done with it.

I perceive it differently though, amidst all that self hate and criticism. I believe that I will make myself write better, more consistently superior than any of my previous works.

People would come to me and say that my English is great, my written work is good, why didn't I pursue journalism, i.e, becoming a professional writer. But I would shoot all those encouraging opinions down modestly and publicly, while secretly storing all those compliments to myself. I do that.




But now, I thought of my work, this newspaper article, as the worst that I have ever written in all my years since I started to lift my first pencil in crafting an essay in English class at school. My friend, the receiver of that accursed article of mine, complimented graciously, even noting that the lecturer in charge of the newspaper project gave a noteworthy praise. Minus the grammatical mistakes, mind.

I fervently thought of that compliment was just something she'd throw my way, her way of being nice. I didn't really think my article was good enough for any newspaper, save a magazine or a free handout at that. I would keep all those opinions on myself as usual, and lead this friend of mine to think that I am being critical on my own work. 



And unrelated however, I just watched a movie, a Snow White and the Huntsman, a movie about the classic German fairy tale except it is darker and a more evil queen in its universe. The movie wasn't too bad, but it wasn't an all time favourite either. It was more of a, see-it-forget-it kind of thing. Something that you would just watch once, forget it and never watch it again.

But the soundtrack of the movie, is something else. It was what drove me to write this first actual blog post in months. A proper one, mind.


And, I am not sorry for this fragmented post of a movie and my decomposing writing skills.
Out.

Goodness how long has it been since last wrote?

Not too long. Right. It's been barely even 2 months since I last wrote the post that looks like a wasted song of metal genre. A rambling of a kid.

It didn't even give me time to feel bad and all.



I really need to change my blog theme for cinnamon's sake. The light coloured font on the white part of that theme really irritates (everyone) if not me.

the story begin like any other,
but this story does not goes,
nor ends in a predictable way,
A desired conclusion,
It does not have,
an incomprehensible beginning,
An introduction,
As unforeseeable as the strike of lightning,

The story starts,
When a mind so foolish,
A mind so alone,
Is led to believe,
Led itself to be fooled,
To be tricked,
Into believing a fiction,
So real, so vivid,
Only to face an abrupt,
unexpected end,

So this mind,
With bitterness stifling logic,
And anger diffusing sense,
It will look, it will find, it will seek,
The various ways, the methods,
For the bitterness, and fury,
lodged within the crux of his mind,
Has birthed vengeance.

Humiliation,
Pain,
Agony,
Is all the thing that flows,
Through rails of thoughts,
of that mind.

Curse the person,
That brought life to this mind,
Only to murder it with a knife laced,
with a potent poison of betrayal,

Curse the person,
That led trickery envelops the mind,
From seeing true sense,
And feeding upon the lies,

Curse the person,
That caused the mind to betray,
To switch sides, to be a traitor,
towards other caring minds,

The mind will not hate,
The fabric of thoughts would not despise,
The karmic wheel will be the judge,
It will be the adjudicator,
With the person standing guilty,
And the only accuser,
Is the time that flows constantly,
Ignorant of saint and sinner,
Unbiased in its final judgement,
The finger of reality will be pointed,
All crooked and sharp,
And the eyes that revere,
Now becomes the jury.


Curse the person,
That brought life to this mind,
Only to murder it with a knife laced,
with a potent poison of betrayal,

Curse the person,
That led trickery envelops the mind,
From seeing true sense,
And feeding upon the lies,

Curse the person,
That caused the mind to betray,
To switch sides, to be a traitor,
towards other caring minds,


Wake up, wake up,
Stop dreaming your biased reality,
Live, grip your sanity,
Let it not fall to pieces.
Even as your mind is being seduced,
by the fake convictions,
and impure words,
Let it be a mistake,
A blot, a stain in your page,
You do not deserve this...

Everything in life, I have always expected the worst. The worst case scenario will always playback heavily in my head as I conjure not so nice pictures and events and words to each play their supposed part.

You’d agree with me on this; having such expectations will cushion the impact of whatever you’re about to receive. Even if it is certain that something good will happen to me, I would have another negative scenario played out, because nothing is exactly sure in this life. There is always that odd chance however small, to turn things completely upside down.

I have had my share of bad news and good news in the past. But the attitude of me receiving them had always been linear; keeping low expectations and portraying the worst possible outcomes. So the effect of the bad news would be kept to a minimum (i.e, no breakdowns, emotional outbursts, etc) and the good news would be amplified. Seriously.

I tend to divert my readers from the title heavily before getting to the point hence, keeping in line with my usual method of conveying information in this blog. 

Regardless, I have received a reply for the email I sent to a particular someone weeks ago. But if you had known the contents of what I had sent, you’d be hesitant to reply. That was what I thought exactly. I thought the email wouldn’t be replied at all.  1 (or 2?) weeks passed and I received the email.

I can tell you here right now, I was scared all the way from the tip of my longest hair, to the soles of my feet. I was honestly expecting the worst kind of reply possible. A measure of sarcasm, sentences provoking discordance, and the bleeding venomous words. And that was the worst I could imagine.

But when I read the email (it was written in Microsoft Word!), a strong sense of relief curled around me. 

And my teeth sneakily came into view as a smile began to creep on my face. I took my time and slowly read the words, as how one would appreciate  finely prepared food in an exotic environment. As the words slowly wound its way towards the comprehending part of brain, a good sense of a high came over me. 

Yes. I was happy.

The email was much longer than what I sent. But I easily could’ve felt the dedication, and the measured use of words and phrases, and the effort placed in writing such a meaningful composition. I reread it again and again, to fully understand what it all meant. 

Did I forget to mention that, whatever doubts, worst case scenarios that were played in my head, were diffused in a mere heartbeat when I read the first word?

Suffice to say that everything turned out better than I had expected. It was the best response that I could ever get at all. Like gambling, instead of getting a pair of tens or waiting for the dealer to bust in a blackjack game, I had the blackjack combination.  The ultimate prize. 

Many speak of it. But few, have actually succeeded.

The time that needs to be taken in order to successfully, say, "let go"? Is rather uncertain. Much like the number of stars that are haplessly stuck in the heavens to exude their brilliance.

Astrological matters aside, there is that.. rather odd feeling that your mind, the cerebral cortex of your head that refuses to absolve. Or in readable terms, I do not want to forgive and forget, and leave it be.

Surely many have succumbed (or is it two? I lost count of the number of people that actually read this other than me. Which is sad. And this thought has overstepped the boundaries of making sense.).....

.... To my words. About a female that was my companion, my other half. I wrote a poem somewhere in this blog. If you could, even call it a poem. I think it is a mishmash salad of words that used the wrong ingredients. Like the choice of beef and chicken in a Caesar's salad, or ikan bilis in a classic mamak mee goreng. *shudders in disbelief*




I mean, the poems was written with an intent, but with the wrong words and different contexts. Not to mention horrible grammar that seemed to violate the poem like how a rapist does to his (or her? =P) victims.


Pardon me for the excessive metaphorical comparison. The example that I have made about the grammar and the words. It was necessary to portray them in such a rather horrid manner so as to make you (whoever's reading this) understand my feelings as I read them again.


*coughs* I think we may have yet steered away from what I intended to write. Anyways,

I remember how dedicated I was to this one particular stranger of my life. I didn't even know her at all. So when came the (sorta) expected end, it really struck a hollow feeling within me. Dedication.. the feelings that I have had.. and among other things, were wasted.

Let's just say things got really bitter between the pair of us after sometime. And I regale a lot of stories and rubbish about this one woman(girl?) that (somewhat) ruined my life to a lot of people. And I still do.

The stories get even more wilder and more ridiculous as it was retold. And shorter. Because I was getting tired of mentioning her name or a reference to her over and over again. But I am still doing it.

Maybe one day, I would stop telling everything altogether because honestly, no one likes to hear me talking about a bitch that ruined my life. But in my defence, I would say she was.. similarly inclining to that direction.

You won't see me posting another word about her anymore in this recess of the internet. I am tired.





Of talking about her.








Finally.

I do not know how is this considered as a gift. Or maybe it is just me boasting but...

I write well.

I have looked over some of my emails that I sent to my ex without fail everyday during the duration of my short-lived relationship with her. I used a variety of metaphors, a plethora of amazing imagery, and probably the sweetness of the sugar market in Malaysia.. because I felt as I read it.

I didn't know I had it in me to write such exquisite rabble of words. I weaved those words not very much unlike the way one weaves intricate designs on a batik clothing. It was done with surgical precision, and it was done with the dedication that only another craftsman would appreciate. Or even lovers of art. Maybe.

As I read those past emails that I have kept (in the sent folder of my email client obviously), I was amazed at the extent of my skills. And I felt disgusted, as to why I wasted such talent, such effort in my words to such an undeserving person.
Of course, it would be really prudent to start bitching about my ex like a bitter, slapped dog. But I have already done that, and in different methods of communication of the humankind. Yes, I have talked bad about my ex in social media. I made it an issue, a bad news, with scathing words lacing it like a shrouded veil of grey on a white dress.

However, you will never find me posting about how bad a girl she was (previous post was just a lukewarm level of my verbal assault) over here. I have already damaged and stepped on my ethics as a writer. I have spat on the number one unwritten law: Do not write bad about other people, no matter how shitty they are.

So regardless, I have already, misused my talent in writing. I have written bad things about other people in such a colourful manner. And I have written beautiful things to another girl that did not in any way deserved it. And believe it my readers when I tell you, that I wrote, out of the 3 months we were together, out of the approximately 90 days, I wrote her on everyone of on those days except on a Friday and a Saturday night. Calculate. And I wrote without fail, I wrote nicely, because my personality as a writer, and the misguided dedication to an unappreciative person.


I just wanted to rant. This post is.. somewhat looking rather meaningless at this point. And no I am not under the influence of any substance or any drinks.

by the way, the pictorial evidence here would make some sense as you read on

As always and forever it shall be,

The title explains it all.

Yes, I am writing now with the assistance of a couple of shots of Bacardi in my system. In case there be young readers, Bacardi is rum, the type you see on that first installment of the Pirates of the Caribbean.

Not too exactly sure on what to write while being intoxicated. I don't think I am intoxicated enough just yet. I am feeling that odd inhibitor feature. That, weird sense of thinking about others. About whether they would be offended on what I am suppose to write.

I have many wonderful readers. But of course, as with my current state, I probably would write what I actually feel for the first time about the people that I see, or interact everyday. No names though, probably you readers would realize that it is you that I am describing in minute detail. Feel free to take it up with me instead of bitching about it to others, won't you?

Alright, now that the disclaimer's complete, let's move on to the main course.

The world's greatest medicine for introverts. The ultimate destroyer of the human's natural inhibition. And it was all discovered by some random Iranian scientist in back of God-knows-when. But irony aside, even Jesus advocated the use of alcohol in ceremonies; so as said that He turned water into wine for the enjoyment of a certain banquet he was attending. Sadly at the time Jews weren't so industrious; the Lord could've been used as a premier wine factory and could be sold for a lateral arm and a leg to the Romans. The wine as stated in John(2:1-11), was better than the one being served. So why not?

Told ya.


Hold on. I need another swig of liquid courage to go on writing. There. It will need 5 minutes before that injection of confidence takes effect on my head.

*approximately 10 minutes or so*

I.
AM.
STILL.
FEELING IT.

My sense of self consciousness is so strong that EVEN 5 shots of rum could not deter me to bitch about people who ruined my life.
Oh what the hell. If people don't like what I write, just come up to me and give it to me upfront. Never bother to gossip or bitch about my writings behind my back like that odd little coward underneath your grandma's skirt of insecurity like you are.

Seriously, this one girl that I have dated, for three months. We broke up. We are talking. She is dating some random white guy from Australia. I don't care. She does give a shit. She talks. I do not listen. She asks for favors. I cannot. We still talk.

Reminds me of a friend of mine with exact same characteristics. Only difference is that she is 3 years older.
So my ex, solely speaking, would turn into a slut if she ain't careful. Not that it is in my interests to care about what you think or what you do. I am not tied by any sort of social protocol to be your manservant; listening to your problems and doing shit for you. I do not call, not do I initiate a form of communication; I am not obliged to do so. For, when you broke up with me to be with that retarded 20 year old Caucasian from the land of immigrants, all loyalties, unwritten friendship clauses and agreements, obligations and trust, were broken. Burned and grounded into fine ash and scattered over the Klang river. I am not so as bitter to know that you have left me for a white guy; I have been discarded by an Indian girl for a white guy once. So it is nothing new.

Maybe I just don't like you that way anymore. Or in another way as well. That odd one that you say (or probably insist) that you are friends with me.


Damn I am feeling the headache of the intoxication.

Auf wiedersehen readers.

Regret that you have wasted your time reading.



*was actually removed to not offend someone, yes I was sober then. But this is such a compelling article, it be a shame to shelve it in the draft section*