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*

Classical, with a little rock... practically a plethora of unheard music for the hipsters out there.

Ah yeah *snaps finger*

I could, publish my stories to another site. Or some of my writings of course.
There would be fellow writers and fellow readers who are there to either spew flaming criticism or probably none at all.

Those writings, in the other blog, it was dedicated to someone who I thought mattered in my life. Now that person is literally exited and with the door hitting her ass on the way out, I suppose that these sheaf of posts should be given to more perceiving, linguistic eyes.

*chuckles* of course not everything. Just the real romantic ones. More like I am showcasing my romantic writing skills, akin to peddling your handicrafts at a bazaar in Central Market, KL.
Just goes to show that I am not limited to mere general, fiction and basically boring excerpts about my life.


The post be in my Facebook but just in case.. I would monger my link here for your perusal.


http://www.fictionpress.com/~monodanee


Happy reading.

I wonder if I should delete the other blog..

or

.. publish it in a public manner and advertise it so the whole world would know about it?

But of course,
I would tell that... wait a second.

I don't think I want to publish it at all.





Deleting it.

Here's a little truth to invade your mind;

I thrive on hate.
It gives me life. It powers up my perception, my common sense to a lot of things.

Or to be more apt, hate sustains my life and made me who I am today. A lot of things I have achieved, with hate fueling my desire like a potent, poisonous drug.
But the problem with me feeling hate at times is, well, it conflicts with other "human" nature of mine. The unnecessary nature of thinking about others, the baggage of concern. It weighs my true potential as I do not want to offend people, or create a strife between us, no matter how much hatred and loathing I feel for that particular individual.

And such conflict, I have found, is destructive.

Two opposite opinions, each in their own polarity, is ripping my sanity sideways. And the pity is that, it happens all the time, most of the time. My judgement is impaired, everything seems to be cloudy, and there is that constant need to talk to someone about your brimming aversion to that individual.

It happened to me once before way back then. Around.. 8 years ago to be exact. I wanted to hate that person so bad, but I was afraid to offend. And thus, this ripped the fabric of my sanity in pieces, turning into a mute shell. Not gone off completely to full retard mind, but it was enough to let people know something had set off in my head.
I wasn't myself.

And it is happening again.
I fear for myself really. I wonder how long would it take before I would launch myself in front of a speeding train, or on electrocuted train tracks. Because,

It is driving me insane.

Only loud metal growls and heavy guitar riffs are able to anesthetize my head from being a full on suicidal psycho. Among that, food and a minimal desire to live.


I am afraid.

Raise my hopes up.




But then again.

With this annoying plethora of emotions that are seared since I learned to speak,

I would always raise my hopes and get shot down.


Again and again.


And life goes on.

He walked into the place. The place that had the flashing lights. The lights, mesmerizing him, as if beckoning him to take step by another step into a pseudo promised land.
The rank, dusty smell of cigarette smoke envelops his being; he took a gulp inadvertently as he drank the surroundings around him. People we chanting, laughing, screaming; it was a fiesta of emotions in that enclosed space.
Suddenly a shrill bell knock him into reality. And there he was, clad in completely black. Black T-shirt, black jacket, and black sneakers and slacks to complement a rather funereal look. He believed the colour would ward him off evil spirits. He was superstitious like that.

Another step, and he was taking large, leisurely strides.
He stops at a table.
There were money being tossed, cards being put out, and people looking forlorn (with some having a focused look about them). He stood and watched. A person sat across the table, wearing some sort of a uniform. The person dealt the cards, with a monotonous, unfeeling look on her face. And then came the abrupt sighs and curses in a variety of East Asian languages as the person took all the money that was placed on the table.

He was in a casino.

A place where dreams are often brought to survive and to shatter at the same time. A place, where dreams and nightmare walk hand in hand. A place, to completely beguile even the most smartest human being to waste his hard earned cash, or savings, to a complete stranger that cares little of your welfare.

The black clad dude, carrying a sum that he had just withdrawn from a bank, hoping to strike it lucky again. The crisp currency, sitting barely folded in his wallet, was thrown onto the table for an exchange for a couple of casino chips.
The dealer counts it, checks it for forgery with a UV sensor, and then prepares the appropriate amount of chips for the black clad dude. The dude accepts it, and soon he places the money onto the table, expecting a straight win.
But alas; luck was not on his side. He stared forlornly as the dealer took away the chip he has staked, but he would not be deterred. He put another. With the thoughts of this loss is just a mere fluke of sorts. He would recoup that initial loss and gain a straight run of wins.

Again, the result was as brutal as it can get.
He lost his capital in less that 5 minutes. He looked at the dealer for some sort of inspiration; the poker visage stared at him back with an unfeeling cruelty, offering zero sympathy.
Soon the black clad dude would do it again, and he would lose more than he thought possible.
And the cycle is repeated until he would have nothing left to go on with.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And that is how an average day at a casino is like.
For literally anyone.
People, although losing, they would just go on and on to believe that they would regain what they have lost. Luck does play a part in gambling, but instinct and self awareness about what is happening, and the obvious common sense to stop while you're really ahead, or really going down.

Believe it or not, when you have won aplenty, do get the hell out of there. Take a smoke, a drink somewhere or something.
They, the gambling conglomerate, would want nothing more than to regain their losses from you particularly. No one likes losing. And so are these guys. Although say, they lost a thousand to you, they'd very much like it back. Just as much as you lost a hundred, you'd want it back too.

The amount of stories that I have read alone while going around the Internet, horror ones.
Some fool lost 35 thousand ringgit and only had around 100 bucks left all in all because of his habit of not wanting to stop.

So.
Gambling is not fun.
Unless you're some oil baron, conglomerate, rich foreigner, etc
Not for students, or idiots who think they can make it big after winning a mediocre amount.

She is what I would call,
A cocaine, a drug that makes us crawl,
But I have never taken any at all,
Not that I would know of, at least I think that's all,
Fragile, white, like a porcelain doll,
Intoxicating me with a presence, enough to make me fall,
Like cocaine, like alcohol,
She is addictive, she's nice, she's a beautiful sight, I recall

But that was the beginning, my audience,
She have bathed me in her radiance,
She have showered me in happiness,
She has left me breathless,
For I could not believe that anyone, for once,
would want someone as worthless,
as ridiculous, as mediocre in appearance,
Like a person like me, it slaps me with an unholy force.

But slowly, these days, now and then,
I have these inherent thinking where and when,
Or what will happen,
Should the day comes when we would split, be broken,
Like a twig under a summer's sun,
crushed underneath the legs of children,
And strangers we shall be, decidedly being different,
A word, an email, seldom be penned,
Not anymore, not for her,
And our lives will be back as before,
Where I am living the average, cold, restrained,
And she would be in another nation,
Because we wouldn't be meant,
for each other should that ever happen.

But by golly, my unfaithful audience,
I would be damned in all sense,
If I would ever let her go just like that, with zero reasons,
Would we be friends?
Would we, like before, together, like before the fence,
That barred us, a guard with its spiking green lance,
The only thin line of defense,
Against the feelings that are immense,
And let the climbing commence,
As I drop all of my fear, my pretense,
To see you on the other side of the fence.

I would never let that happen,
I do not want it to end,
Were it within my domain,
of power, I would fight, I would restrain,
I would receive the pain,
I would not care whether I go insane,
Or be whacked to death by a stalk of sugar cane,
I still want to be with you, to be in the train,
Ignoring every Dick and Harry and Jane,
And sit with your head on my shoulder, your beautiful mane,
The warmth of your body, like spark on methane,
The heat of the flames, like a summer in Spain.

I would like to honestly state here, amid the darkness that has blanketed my room, I am frankly irritated.
Irritated at the fact, that insects are flocking to my computer screen, which is the only thing that is actually bright in the entire room.

Actually, there shouldn't even be such insects. Light insects, I dub them, are crawling through the screen like it is some kind of Animal Planet show their missing on the screen. Or like a makeshift, walk on the cinema kind of fad among light insects.
Imagery aside, why are there even such insects roaming on my screen?

I lived here for more than two years, and I have never experienced such insects on my screen in the middle of the night. Oh wait, I think I know why.
You see, there are two windows in the room that I am living in. And apparently, my room is located on the part of the building where it is facing this huge ass tree, all green and roots sticking out and all that. Let me see.. with trees that size, and it is the thing that is in front of your window, surely there is that odd one or two weird insects that come in for an excursion or claim permanent residency in some dark recess of the cupboards in my room, or that lonely shelf, or that wall corner.

And considering the ridiculous one track, fickle minded weather of the equatorial country I live in, the tree that is looming right in front me could well be breeding ground for God's most little joke: mosquitoes.
And not considering other wildlife that haunt the the tree, like bats, weird ass birds, giant moths (the big black ones that seem to just get stuck on the wall, never flying away) that might be thinking of placing their lodgings with their six generations together under my bed. I am surprised there isn't an actual biological orgy going under my bed at the moment.

So why all the unnecessary documentation of wildlife that is literally around me? You see, there are two, TWO windows in each room. Simple open and shut contraptions. Push to open, pull to close, and there is that odd latch to seal it tight. The most effective barrier, the wall, the unyielding shield against these hapless insects.

Only. If it is closed.
Open, it is like Chinese New Year for all the 8392373567 insects + whatever organisms that has wings or light enough to be blown in.
And if considered that I am too lazy to close the window, and to assume that pulling that curtain, somewhat a surrogate window, will protect me from all those weird ass insects from sharing my bed and breakfast.
I am oh boy, so wrong.

Mosquitoes in particular, are the prime bitches, the culmination of all things annoying and evil and ridiculously.. annoying. They are literally invisible until you feel that odd itch on where it last bit you. And in a place like mine, on a bad day, you will feel like Nosferatu's discarded meal thanks to an armada of mosquitoes thinking its Thanksgiving.

All because I left the window open.
I closed the window from then on.

But no, my room mate, bless him. He is doesn't get bitten as often as I do.
and he leaves his window WIDE OPEN.
And I become the unwilling blood sacrifice from 2am to 6am.
And the cycle repeats itself.

The Shieldtox/Insect Repellent in a can is standing by. Waiting for its pressurized, poisoned content to be breathed by the insects that are retarded enough to take a meal out of me.

Often in this life, we anything but infallible from making mistakes. However, there is that moment in time, we will not realize that we have made that odd grave mistake, until it hits us squarely back in the chops.

Oh yes, we will make that mistake, it will be dormant. It will be living inside the very core of your brain, feeding off on more related events and rises at the most appropriate moment. To literally stab you with the reality that has resulted from that tiny little action that you have done so long ago.

But I wouldn't go as far as to say that I have committed such a mistake. No.
I just was giving it a thought.
The mistakes, or more my actions, have made me into that being today. I have no regrets. And stuff that I am supposed to say in order to make this sound cheesy.

I am sure there are those times, when you just look at your older posts and go, "damn! did I really write that?"
Just because it was really good.
No I am not kidding, I have read some of my older posts, in another blog (in which you guys won't ever get to you pretty much apologies) , that I still couldn't believe I wrote all that tripe.

Not that I am blowing my own trumpet mind, but I do think my past work are the equivalent of some Literature Prize on some level. I wonder where all those metaphors, imagery, the string of sentences that could provoke even the mildest of thoughts, the notions that could stir the very hem of your common sense to think.

I amaze myself sometimes.

And sorry for the month hiatus though.

Here's something unrelated for your perusal:


Happy trails!