Frustrations.
People ignore you because of the way you behave, because of the what you believe in.
And you give yourself reasons to justify in what you believe in and on the way you behave.
You know at this rate, somebody won't budge. So you keep your ground for now and don't slip.
There's so much more you have in your hands. Don't slip and you know you'll still have what you want to have.
So dig a hole, fill it back in and you'll make it at the end of the day.
The crop you yield hasn't been ideal, so don't grow anymore when you know the crop you have is crap and better off as the fertilizers that help grow a better crop.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Madonna?
I saw you at the counter today. You looked the same, as always.
The same shoes, the same bracelet, the same way your hair is done.
Only that you didn't wear the ring I got you before.
I took a second glance and I thought, perhaps, that wasn't you. That could have been someone else that might have looked like you. It's possible. It's a fact that there's 7 people who look exactly like you in the world, who knows, another one of you could be there, just like you.
There's a 1 out of 7 chance it could be. Right?
No, it is you.
You pack in the same things that we used to before. The same milk, the same juice. The same brand of jam we like on our toast.
The portions are meant for two and I wonder who it is you're seeing right now.
I should have said Hi as I pushed my cart towards the cashier. I should have.
But I didn't.
The same shoes, the same bracelet, the same way your hair is done.
Only that you didn't wear the ring I got you before.
I took a second glance and I thought, perhaps, that wasn't you. That could have been someone else that might have looked like you. It's possible. It's a fact that there's 7 people who look exactly like you in the world, who knows, another one of you could be there, just like you.
There's a 1 out of 7 chance it could be. Right?
No, it is you.
You pack in the same things that we used to before. The same milk, the same juice. The same brand of jam we like on our toast.
The portions are meant for two and I wonder who it is you're seeing right now.
I should have said Hi as I pushed my cart towards the cashier. I should have.
But I didn't.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Red Light Angel
I stood upon the junction between the alleys, red light glaring at my face as I watched the men and women pass me by.
Standing there, memories crawl back upon my head, like a reel that you don't want to look back at but you can't because the forward button is spoilt.
I remember when I first stood upon this place, the greasy stench and the women standing along side the streets. Mannequins, all of them, with an inviting welcome that was insincere and the young men that hawk them like wares for rent. Like renting a bike, telling you its the smoothest ride you could ever get.
I see past their advertisements, their offers of a good night. I look past the portrayed beauty of the streets and I see these angels in their eyes. Why would I call them angels? Why not? Does a profession distinct upon the character of a person, thus implementing that I should judge them by that. What absolute bullshit.
There's something about these angels that intrigue me. Who are you? Why are you here? Is there any reason or cause that you should be here right now?
Or are you just an illusion? A temporary image for the carnal desires of men with no such distinction over their desires. A fallen angel perhaps, redeeming yourselves and yet finding no gratification over the work that you do.
I took one by the hand that night and led her away from the red lights. We were in a room dim and empty, heavy with something I don't understand she begins to take her clothes off.
I told her to stop and I told her don't. She doesn't understand and grew afraid over the mysterious circumstances and I asked her, where was she before she found herself in this forsaken streets and alleys of illusion.
She told me of sandy beaches and palm trees. She told me of wooden boats and village men, pulling nets and fighting against the waves of the sea. She told me of an escape and a risk she took.
She broke into tears. She then told me she'd never look back because all that is left is an emptiness that no one could fill. I held her as she cried and she asked me why I had to know where she's from and why I brought back something that she never wanted to look back at.
It wasn't because I wanted to save her. I knew I couldn't. I just wanted to know.
I left her, telling her that the chapter she left behind is a memory embedded within her and that she should be proud of that. Mistakes done, mistakes come and gone. What's left is forward and perhaps, there is that place she left so many years ago in a new chapter where there shall be no shame, no illusion.
She smiled and I walked away, knowing that for these women, their dark chapters behind them could be as bright as their chapters ahead of them.
Fallen angels, clamoring back towards redemption.
I came to the Red Lights and I stood by their alleys. Angels turn their backs on me, over mistakes come and gone. The only thing ahead is the light that I always should continue to press on about.
Standing there, memories crawl back upon my head, like a reel that you don't want to look back at but you can't because the forward button is spoilt.
I remember when I first stood upon this place, the greasy stench and the women standing along side the streets. Mannequins, all of them, with an inviting welcome that was insincere and the young men that hawk them like wares for rent. Like renting a bike, telling you its the smoothest ride you could ever get.
I see past their advertisements, their offers of a good night. I look past the portrayed beauty of the streets and I see these angels in their eyes. Why would I call them angels? Why not? Does a profession distinct upon the character of a person, thus implementing that I should judge them by that. What absolute bullshit.
There's something about these angels that intrigue me. Who are you? Why are you here? Is there any reason or cause that you should be here right now?
Or are you just an illusion? A temporary image for the carnal desires of men with no such distinction over their desires. A fallen angel perhaps, redeeming yourselves and yet finding no gratification over the work that you do.
I took one by the hand that night and led her away from the red lights. We were in a room dim and empty, heavy with something I don't understand she begins to take her clothes off.
I told her to stop and I told her don't. She doesn't understand and grew afraid over the mysterious circumstances and I asked her, where was she before she found herself in this forsaken streets and alleys of illusion.
She told me of sandy beaches and palm trees. She told me of wooden boats and village men, pulling nets and fighting against the waves of the sea. She told me of an escape and a risk she took.
She broke into tears. She then told me she'd never look back because all that is left is an emptiness that no one could fill. I held her as she cried and she asked me why I had to know where she's from and why I brought back something that she never wanted to look back at.
It wasn't because I wanted to save her. I knew I couldn't. I just wanted to know.
I left her, telling her that the chapter she left behind is a memory embedded within her and that she should be proud of that. Mistakes done, mistakes come and gone. What's left is forward and perhaps, there is that place she left so many years ago in a new chapter where there shall be no shame, no illusion.
She smiled and I walked away, knowing that for these women, their dark chapters behind them could be as bright as their chapters ahead of them.
Fallen angels, clamoring back towards redemption.
I came to the Red Lights and I stood by their alleys. Angels turn their backs on me, over mistakes come and gone. The only thing ahead is the light that I always should continue to press on about.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Hey Joe 3
Joe
Hey...
Voice
Where have you been all this time?
Joe
I've been around. It's been a roller coaster of an emotional ride for me. I guess I know how women go through their emotional times during the time of the month.
Voice
What justifies that this is how women feel?
Joe
I feel crappy, the feel crappy, we all feel crappy, what difference would that make except a bunch of crapped up people feeling crappy?
Voice
I don't get your point.
Joe
Its okay, I don't get me either.
Voice
Heh. No one gets each other, so don't worry about it.
Joe
How have you been?
Voice
I've been fine, you?
Joe
I've been lonely in my own home. No one's talking to me except when they think they could use my laptop. I don't let them because I'm tired of people thinking they can take advantage of me by me letting them use my stuff.
Voice
What's all this about?
Joe
It's about me.
Voice
That's fair. You have to have you.
Joe
Wow, its scary being rebellious but I just know its right for me.
Voice
You know what's right for you. I mean, look at your aunt. She's going back on her word on every single thing that's she's said.
Hey...
Voice
Where have you been all this time?
Joe
I've been around. It's been a roller coaster of an emotional ride for me. I guess I know how women go through their emotional times during the time of the month.
Voice
What justifies that this is how women feel?
Joe
I feel crappy, the feel crappy, we all feel crappy, what difference would that make except a bunch of crapped up people feeling crappy?
Voice
I don't get your point.
Joe
Its okay, I don't get me either.
Voice
Heh. No one gets each other, so don't worry about it.
Joe
How have you been?
Voice
I've been fine, you?
Joe
I've been lonely in my own home. No one's talking to me except when they think they could use my laptop. I don't let them because I'm tired of people thinking they can take advantage of me by me letting them use my stuff.
Voice
What's all this about?
Joe
It's about me.
Voice
That's fair. You have to have you.
Joe
Wow, its scary being rebellious but I just know its right for me.
Voice
You know what's right for you. I mean, look at your aunt. She's going back on her word on every single thing that's she's said.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Storm
I lay asleep on a slumber after a moment of wrath and anger.
The sky brew gray even in the starlit sky and I laid there, feeling a gush of angry wind rattling my window as I awoken by a scream of thunder.
My heart shuddered as I laid there, awake.
Afraid. Alone.
I knew I could escape in my sleep from the frightful rage that is the storm outside my window but the lightning flashes catches my eye before I drift away in my escape.
One flash and the face of my father appears before my eyes and his images fades away, a sullen look from his face drifts away like sand from the palm of my hand.
Another flash and the face of my sister appears before my eyes and she doesn't recognize me anymore, a puzzling look of familiarity and she fades away thinking that its just another stranger on the crossroads of her life.
Flash after flash as I try to escape, the different faces drift away with a certain look and they all do not recognize for who I am.
I am me. I am who I am and I grasp what is mine in my hands.
Flash after flash, a part of me drifts away as well. Parts of me call out to the faces, and I give myself up to them to let them know I am here. And every call is ignored as I lose a bit of myself, inch by inch, measure by measure.
I curl up like a ball, within myself, searching for something that is still left in me and all I find is nothing but an emptiness that gave me this realization that I am alone.
One by one, they all leave me and the angry storm churns and screams and howls like a lost banshee with an empty song crying out and cursing something that leads to nothing at all.
I lie awake, conscious and I scramble within myself to feel something. I touch myself, feeling the sensations creeping up my nervous system and I search for the one thing that tells me that I'm not alone but everything seem to drift away.
There's a voice, I hear it and she tells me everything is going to be okay. That an emptiness is meant to be filled with something, anything. I hold on to that and I let go of myself.
I breathe.
There is something. I felt something and I breathed.
And I laid there just filled with so much doubt and questions.
I felt angry, confused. I possessed a deep sense of hatred towards something but I don't know what and flash after flash, I strike at anything hoping to come to some justice to what I feel.
I only end up to nothing at all and the void fills me up again.
I cannot run, I cannot escape from everything that weathers against me.
Flash.
Crash.
The fluorescent hurt my eyes.
The sky brew gray even in the starlit sky and I laid there, feeling a gush of angry wind rattling my window as I awoken by a scream of thunder.
My heart shuddered as I laid there, awake.
Afraid. Alone.
I knew I could escape in my sleep from the frightful rage that is the storm outside my window but the lightning flashes catches my eye before I drift away in my escape.
One flash and the face of my father appears before my eyes and his images fades away, a sullen look from his face drifts away like sand from the palm of my hand.
Another flash and the face of my sister appears before my eyes and she doesn't recognize me anymore, a puzzling look of familiarity and she fades away thinking that its just another stranger on the crossroads of her life.
Flash after flash as I try to escape, the different faces drift away with a certain look and they all do not recognize for who I am.
I am me. I am who I am and I grasp what is mine in my hands.
Flash after flash, a part of me drifts away as well. Parts of me call out to the faces, and I give myself up to them to let them know I am here. And every call is ignored as I lose a bit of myself, inch by inch, measure by measure.
I curl up like a ball, within myself, searching for something that is still left in me and all I find is nothing but an emptiness that gave me this realization that I am alone.
One by one, they all leave me and the angry storm churns and screams and howls like a lost banshee with an empty song crying out and cursing something that leads to nothing at all.
I lie awake, conscious and I scramble within myself to feel something. I touch myself, feeling the sensations creeping up my nervous system and I search for the one thing that tells me that I'm not alone but everything seem to drift away.
There's a voice, I hear it and she tells me everything is going to be okay. That an emptiness is meant to be filled with something, anything. I hold on to that and I let go of myself.
I breathe.
There is something. I felt something and I breathed.
And I laid there just filled with so much doubt and questions.
I felt angry, confused. I possessed a deep sense of hatred towards something but I don't know what and flash after flash, I strike at anything hoping to come to some justice to what I feel.
I only end up to nothing at all and the void fills me up again.
I cannot run, I cannot escape from everything that weathers against me.
Flash.
Crash.
The fluorescent hurt my eyes.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Father
You said you’ll never leave me.
In the end, you did and reached a peak much greater than what I saw before we came to where we are.
While you’re up there, I’m still down here.
Alone and missing you.
I miss you.
You have your career, you have a family.
I don’t anymore.
I can’t even have that.
So tell me if every decision till now was ever worthwhile.
Dear Mom
Dear Mom,
I don’t hear you cry anymore. I don’t have to stay in my room where I anticipate the quiet muffles and awkwardness as I lay my head down to rest on my pillow as you and dad whisper your arguments just so I wouldn’t be hurt with the things that I might have heard.
I know your happy now. Not entirely but happier then when it was like before. You have a new life, a new kid whom I’m proud to be an older sibling to. I just can’t help shake that feeling off that you and dad left me somewhere in the remnant of an old past that you terribly don’t want to go through and forget.
I know you tell me stories that we are lucky that I didn’t have to go through the bitter arguments like my step brother does with his other family. However, you fail to see that I come to realise that the same pain still hits me as I step back to look at the bigger picture. I don’t have you and dad anymore around me.
No matter how many times I look back into my heart to make sure you and dad were there like the way you used to be, I still come back to an empty house anyway.
There’s no more dinner on the table like there used to. There’s no more whining or nagging for me to take a shower or to pray. There are no more sweet nuances that sweeten life a bit when I’m having a bad day.
I give.
You deserved to be happy after what dad put you through. You did your best during the days that you had to pull through the rough rocks of your life and I regretted not being able to help you as I just selfishly continued on to just achieve what I needed for my own.
I yearn for you to be back. I understand that you look past the mountains at where you live right now and you want me to be on the other side waiting for you to come. I so badly want to be on the other side just waiting for you to come for me.
They told me I was strong and I guess I was to be there for you and pa. But I’m not strong against this yearning for you and pa to be back like everybody else’s parents. I want to see you side by side seeing me grow and being proud together, not continents apart.
I miss you. I miss you terribly and I look up hoping that you’re on the other side of the mountain.
You’re Loving Son.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Hey Joe; Part 2
Voice
Hey Joe
Joe
Hey
Voice
Are you going to be okay, Joe?
Joe
I don't know, can I tell myself that I'm going to be okay?
Voice
I don't know.
Joe
Is anything going ever going to be okay?
Voice
I don't know.
Hey Joe
Joe
Hey
Voice
Are you going to be okay, Joe?
Joe
I don't know, can I tell myself that I'm going to be okay?
Voice
I don't know.
Joe
Is anything going ever going to be okay?
Voice
I don't know.
Monday, February 25, 2008
A Singaporean Afro; Chapter 1
I have an Afro.
There. I said it. I have an Afro and I'm one of the rare breeds of South East Asian people to be blessed with hair like mine.
And I have to verify that over the last three years, I have not had a haircut, like, a proper haircut, meaning, short and neat haircut like the faces that you see out there everyday, and I'm proud of it.
Because for one, my hair stands out from the countless sea of black straight hair, or the wave of reddish, golden-ish highlighted hair that at least 68% of the population seem to possess.
And the first lesson that you learn and live by for the rest of your magnanimous hair days is the attention that you attract with that embodiment that screams out you.
If you referred to my other blog, you would have had my share of experience with my hair and I'll tell you what to expect from the general public and your peers. People will find you amusing just at the fact that you have such wonderfully curly hair growing at a rate of at least 5 cm a day. The old would be reminded of the days back in the 70's where they would remember Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley and the young would be reminded of the funny clown that would one day haunt their dreams as they realize the horror behind that painted face of joy and happiness.
You would be that experience where they would cry out and laugh because they cannot believe that you possess such a thing. Is it an anomaly? Is it a thing of beauty?
Your peers would be fascinated and fall into two categories where they would either get tired and/or jealous of your hair or they would very much appreciate your hair for what it is and ask you to keep it. Thing is, you don't have to give a fuck on what people think anymore because you are what you are and you have that decision on what you want to do. True, you have until your army days but what the heck, might as well just live with it while you still can.
The first lesson of A Singaporean Afro: Attention. Because this isn't America with African Americans roaming around with afroes to make it a norm. And people would stare because you are one of a kind and it'll get you far some day.
There. I said it. I have an Afro and I'm one of the rare breeds of South East Asian people to be blessed with hair like mine.
And I have to verify that over the last three years, I have not had a haircut, like, a proper haircut, meaning, short and neat haircut like the faces that you see out there everyday, and I'm proud of it.
Because for one, my hair stands out from the countless sea of black straight hair, or the wave of reddish, golden-ish highlighted hair that at least 68% of the population seem to possess.
And the first lesson that you learn and live by for the rest of your magnanimous hair days is the attention that you attract with that embodiment that screams out you.
If you referred to my other blog, you would have had my share of experience with my hair and I'll tell you what to expect from the general public and your peers. People will find you amusing just at the fact that you have such wonderfully curly hair growing at a rate of at least 5 cm a day. The old would be reminded of the days back in the 70's where they would remember Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley and the young would be reminded of the funny clown that would one day haunt their dreams as they realize the horror behind that painted face of joy and happiness.
You would be that experience where they would cry out and laugh because they cannot believe that you possess such a thing. Is it an anomaly? Is it a thing of beauty?
Your peers would be fascinated and fall into two categories where they would either get tired and/or jealous of your hair or they would very much appreciate your hair for what it is and ask you to keep it. Thing is, you don't have to give a fuck on what people think anymore because you are what you are and you have that decision on what you want to do. True, you have until your army days but what the heck, might as well just live with it while you still can.
The first lesson of A Singaporean Afro: Attention. Because this isn't America with African Americans roaming around with afroes to make it a norm. And people would stare because you are one of a kind and it'll get you far some day.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Hey Joe
(Joe sits on the couch staring into space. He is holding a lighted cigarette. He flicks off some of the ash into an ashtray)
Hey Joe.
JOE
Hi. Thank you for taking a part of your time to talk to me.
VOICE
You're welcome. Don't you have any friends Joe?
JOE
Yeah, I do. I have friends.
VOICE
You got a girlfriend?
JOE
Yes, I do.
VOICE
Uh-huh. Okay. Do you know where you are right now Joe?
JOE
I don't know. It's difficult to say.
VOICE
No it isn't. Answer the question.
JOE
But it’s a loose question. How do you want me to answer it?
VOICE
In any way you want Joe. In any way you want. Just take your time.
JOE
I'm at home right now. I am answering your question in what you might want to call the make shift television section of the house where I designated my lap top and whoa, having a head rush now. Calm down. Calm down.
VOICE
Relax Joe, take your time.
JOE
Ok, Ok (breathes) must be the jazz getting caught up with me. I don't know where I am right now, frankly speaking. I've landed on a path that I did not expect to be on, a different route towards from the actual destination. I don't mind it really; it's a journey that makes me go hey. Funny really, because you planned ahead so much that the present becomes a being that pulls you back. It hurts like how a horse feels that pang in its jaws when the rider pulls it back to change its direction. Which gets me thinking, What controls my own life? Myself? Or is there always a greater power out there, somewhere, that drives my fate to where it needs to go? Like my destiny is already written somewhere, and it has to follow that course to get me where I need to go. Do I have control on my own life at all? My own destiny?
VOICE
There's always been a debate on what controls the course of life, you know that? And it always been an ideal that circumstances shouldn't be the basis on how you're life runs through till it ends. Something like religion, in that sense.
JOE
Like religion?
You follow its belief, its teachings and ways just so you don't destroy yourself or become wayward, but you dedicate yourself to something that you believe would find you somewhere that is much better beyond this plane. However, you don't know entirely whether that the beyond is somehow bound to happen. You get doubts at the initial stage, but you stick yourself to that belief. Like how you look beyond to the future and you hope that things will fall into place. Its hard to believe what you want to believe, because the no matter how many times you look forward, at your destination, you are never certain that you'll make it in time or you'll end up at the place where you think you're destined to be. Just like how you’re not certain whether you’ll go up to heaven or nothing happens.
JOE
So where does my life hang in that balance?
VOICE
It lies in you Joe.
JOE
You're giving me that ideal where I control my own life. My own fate, where another higher power runs my course to somewhere I don't know, to somewhere I never thought I'd be. A bit hypocritical from the looks of it your own words when everything seems to be in doubt.
VOICE
It’s because you're both the horse and the rider. Higher power may change your course but you have a hold of the reigns to get you to where you want to end up at. You might not have chosen but you can steer that course towards where you want to be.
JOE
Thank you for saying that.
VOICE
I'm here for you Joe. I believe in you as how everybody who treasure, love you and keep you in a place in their hearts.
JOE
Do you love me?
VOICE
What sort of question is that Joe? Never ask that, all you have to do is just know.
Did you smoke Joe?
JOE
Yes, I did. I know it’s an addiction but I always somehow say it’s genetic.
VOICE
I'm not judging you Joe. You chose your decisions and you shall take responsibility in what you do. You never run away.
JOE
I never.
VOICE
That's good. Now pick yourself up and get back on. You're special you know that, and you'll always be who you are meant to be wherever you are.
JOE
What if I don't make it? What if I don't get there on time and I'll never see you again?
VOICE
You'll see me again and it doesn't matter whether you make it or not. It's the journey that counts and how you were never dragged around by the horse or the controlled by the rider. You are your own being on this journey and I'll see you again somewhere along the way.
JOE
Cheers to that. I'll be on my way now. Thank You.
VOICE
You're welcome.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
After Death
Where would you be at the end of the world?
Would you be on the train ride as you always do every morning, beating time to get to class before you were late even though truth of the matter fact is, time is always ahead of you and it ran out for everyone?
Would you be at the peak of your glory and elation as your dreams come true and at that moment, everything turns gray before your eyes and everything crumbles before you and you stand there, realizing the horror before you and everything else went black, as somebody calls out your name in an echo.
Would you be in your lover's arms as they caress and stroke the very being of your soul, and that touch burns as everything disintegrate into nothingness and when you look up, that beautiful face, the very reason why you'd go the extra mile fades away as you feel light and float up with the memory of where you have been before time was up.
Or would you be at the lowest pit of your life, piss drunk and depressed with a bottle of pills in the medicine cupboard. At a point in your life where everything is gone and the only way is up or down to your own grave as Despair takes over you and you decide that the pills would end it all and your death would be in unison with the destruction that occurs a few seconds after you were sober enough to pick yourself up and go to the bathroom and puke.
Or would you be here right now, typing down these words or wondering what the world would be like as the apocalypse approaches. Would everyone know and scramble for the hope of humanity and survival, just so they could live for one more day, one more night, one more hour, one more minute, one more moment to decide whether to accept or decline this prophecy brought down to us. It is bound to happen and either death or this would come first as proof to show how little we are on this plane.
We are mere humans. Nothing more, nothing less.
Who would remember you once you were gone? How much have you left behind? How much did you matter towards the world that you were brought in?
And would you regret the life you lived or be satisfied before leaving?
For we don't know what is beyond Death and anything is possible.
So, are you prepared if there was nothing at all after the life you live and you died as all your family, friends, lovers and children cry at your funeral?
And if you lived to see the day, where would you be at the end of the world?
Would you be on the train ride as you always do every morning, beating time to get to class before you were late even though truth of the matter fact is, time is always ahead of you and it ran out for everyone?
Would you be at the peak of your glory and elation as your dreams come true and at that moment, everything turns gray before your eyes and everything crumbles before you and you stand there, realizing the horror before you and everything else went black, as somebody calls out your name in an echo.
Would you be in your lover's arms as they caress and stroke the very being of your soul, and that touch burns as everything disintegrate into nothingness and when you look up, that beautiful face, the very reason why you'd go the extra mile fades away as you feel light and float up with the memory of where you have been before time was up.
Or would you be at the lowest pit of your life, piss drunk and depressed with a bottle of pills in the medicine cupboard. At a point in your life where everything is gone and the only way is up or down to your own grave as Despair takes over you and you decide that the pills would end it all and your death would be in unison with the destruction that occurs a few seconds after you were sober enough to pick yourself up and go to the bathroom and puke.
Or would you be here right now, typing down these words or wondering what the world would be like as the apocalypse approaches. Would everyone know and scramble for the hope of humanity and survival, just so they could live for one more day, one more night, one more hour, one more minute, one more moment to decide whether to accept or decline this prophecy brought down to us. It is bound to happen and either death or this would come first as proof to show how little we are on this plane.
We are mere humans. Nothing more, nothing less.
Who would remember you once you were gone? How much have you left behind? How much did you matter towards the world that you were brought in?
And would you regret the life you lived or be satisfied before leaving?
For we don't know what is beyond Death and anything is possible.
So, are you prepared if there was nothing at all after the life you live and you died as all your family, friends, lovers and children cry at your funeral?
And if you lived to see the day, where would you be at the end of the world?
Saturday, January 12, 2008
The Playwright
This is the beginning of something new and perhaps an outlet that would make me practice my writing at least everyday, as much as I could for the constraints of my mind as various stories and event faze by my brain every single day and at the moment where I needed an outlet to write it down, there's isn't a medium for me to do it.
Since the internet has the infinite space for me to pen down what I believe would one day be something beautiful, appreciated by anyone who shares the same passions that I do and believe in what I do. I believe in what I leave behind and it doesn't matter if no one reads this for the moment. This address would be passed to someone of this medium, and he or she shall discover this hidden treasure of mine and my legacy would be continue down.
But why do what I do? Is it for pride and fame? What is it that makes me do what I do?
There's a story behind every single thing that happens in this world, right from the very matter and anti-matter that exists on every single plane of existence. Stories are perhaps the most fluid of everything that has ever existed, for the knowledge that carries with it runs as deep as the very first creation of this earth and it runs older as it tells tales of what runs before the very idea of stories come to mind. Men travel through time and forecast his fate and tries to revert from the inevitable, stories bend the reality, giving that fantasy a life as mere beings struggle to exist on their own planes of existence. Stories make the impossible exist, for if the story doesn't exist, then that particular matter wouldn't exist at all in the first place as. What runs through my imaginations and possible intellect strives me to create something out of the stories that exist through my mind.
I do what I do and when it comes, somebody else would be on this space of existence and it would progress through time and eventually, I believe that something really beautiful would sprout out and my dreams would one day finally come true.
Since the internet has the infinite space for me to pen down what I believe would one day be something beautiful, appreciated by anyone who shares the same passions that I do and believe in what I do. I believe in what I leave behind and it doesn't matter if no one reads this for the moment. This address would be passed to someone of this medium, and he or she shall discover this hidden treasure of mine and my legacy would be continue down.
But why do what I do? Is it for pride and fame? What is it that makes me do what I do?
There's a story behind every single thing that happens in this world, right from the very matter and anti-matter that exists on every single plane of existence. Stories are perhaps the most fluid of everything that has ever existed, for the knowledge that carries with it runs as deep as the very first creation of this earth and it runs older as it tells tales of what runs before the very idea of stories come to mind. Men travel through time and forecast his fate and tries to revert from the inevitable, stories bend the reality, giving that fantasy a life as mere beings struggle to exist on their own planes of existence. Stories make the impossible exist, for if the story doesn't exist, then that particular matter wouldn't exist at all in the first place as. What runs through my imaginations and possible intellect strives me to create something out of the stories that exist through my mind.
I do what I do and when it comes, somebody else would be on this space of existence and it would progress through time and eventually, I believe that something really beautiful would sprout out and my dreams would one day finally come true.
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