The Oddity

December 15, 2010

I‘m parked behind the collision. Leaning back, observing the fire show of twisted metal and crackling screams. Never impeding, never involved. A little step too slow in every direction. Forever since my life would allow to recall.

Parked, but inching forward

I drag the oars of a square boat, treading the mean still waters of a round river. Neither adopting the art of floating nor sinking. I let sigh to myself, i don’t agree with your ways, water. But you have me cornered, once again. Awkward, with no hole to dig.

And with these words that I lasso from a overdrive run, it will soon hit that I am but a face, an impression projected by an entity of a body, held tight, together by written word over word til the spaces between such aimless scribbles, covered, hidden, incomprehensible.

I curse at myself. For I may have gotten thus far. For I may have bestowed to me the hope of pulling out unscathed and on top. But that the hope is only subjective. I hurried myself a brief, stolen sentence that I am much larger at heart and mind. To play a reel of an onward life that is almost also subjective.

Comprehend. As tis the only way. I extend my palm, into the wind before me, to take you inside. Mind.

Odd, I feel today.




The Flight

December 8, 2010

And such is a new fold to a page. The crisp, uncreased white shirt that my life has altered to fit the shape of my body. The fresh start that has eluded me thus far.

Come Monday, I will inevitably be thrust into the next phase, the unnerving beginning to another year of change I have promised myself time and time again only to come short when it matters most. But this time, somehow this time, the mood has changed and the uncertainty frets me not anymore.

Here’s to a summer of discovery. Of undying lessons to be learned. And of tears and blood to be shed. I am hard-pressed to not disappoint myself, and the summer should take heed.

Your seat's next to mine in here

And to you, the blood in my veins, the calm after my storm, the love in my soup, the gun in my holster and the tamer of my restless heart, come home. We have much to mend and hands to hold.





December 6, 2010

With the past years snug in my back pocket, I take a pause and I wonder, while my mind speeds through my body’s length, what facet of me has decently inched toward utopia? For the better part, yes, I am undoubtedly happier, or at least I play the role with flawlessness. But I am nowhere near that said, intended resting point that will colour my stone in the regal hues of a life well lived.

I am but a face

I will create what I will intend.

But for said time, I am entombed in a bubble of bricks. Accepting, willing without abscond. I pave the way for myself into walls. Swallow my blood and retrace these steps into another end of disappointment. I am a wretched smile, for my veins carry the anguish along with the life. Favours not met, consciousness at unease.

Today, I find myself envying the people I sworn to never become. An oath so sure and lasting. Tarnished.

And with the lack of understanding, the depths of my well has just gotten deeper. Darker.





December 1, 2010

I‘d take a swooping glance at the mirror and wonder how I’ve lived for the better part of my years. To such form, to such mold. I’ve tread the hours and days failing to acknowledge that the defining part of my entity is performed through words. The very words that you take in right now.

I am the words you understand. I am also that that you are aimlessly reciting. Forget about the face for it is only an aesthetic identity, hold the sentences, stanzas and paragraphs dear. When I’m part with the air we breathe, those words that you’ll embrace, is me.

Which four walls can contain me?

Ultimately, I am misunderstood in ways that you will never imagine yourself to comprehend. I am misinterpreted vehemently and fervidly. And I’m stumped on ways to clarify myself. If I can even begin to know the real person who tugs on my strings. I’ll admit it as much as the next person that at most times the tendency to perish may still be too overwhelming.

But why do I still play by their rules then?

I’d take another glance in the mirror and see a mess. A disfigured mess of all sorts, sewn and patched by the attachments that you’ve all bestowed upon my wretched self. When the stitches strain and tear, would it be any wonder if such a mess got on your beautiful shoe?




The Scribe

May 22, 2010

In trying times, commit and jump.

I’ve ran the world 3 times over inside my mind but I may have only just skimmed the surface of life. There’s an awful long way more to go and we’re plagued by the uncertainties. Who could’ve guessed that I’m sitting atop this fenced shaped pedestal so far into my responsibilities to carve a tasteful mirage of a better life when I first set out for these shores.

With my languid style, I cant help but wonder when the next transformation train will arrive. I want to be a writer, but a distinct loathing for my own scribbling is evident. I have laid my hands on acting, the portrayal of someone I’m desperately not has only earned me this far and this much. So I beg the question, who am I?

Aesthetically, I am who I am. But there’s a current below this demeanour that would sweep us away.

This society is built on reputation, my reputation is not of this society.




The Dark Room

April 27, 2010

And soon it will dawn on me. I will have an objective and the means to fulfil it.

Inspiration is not something you grow in a flower pot. It is irresponsive to pleas, and ignorant to force. It will tunnel its way in most times than not when you feel desperate and glum.

Alas, you have arrived at your destination.

Coming from a dark room no bigger than yours, a vast congregation of talents illuminates what seems to be no more than, a dark room. This room however, has left me with barely a thread to hold my crumbling self-believe. Great talents they were, all showcasing their best booming voices. I was enjoying myself on the most minimal and then I felt sour.

People, need it. Purpose. Just like how one microorganism would have its purpose to sustain an entire ecosystem. I need purpose. But what purpose do I have to salvage me from this wreck? A wreck brought about by a life of ‘almost-theres’ and ‘masters of none’.

What am I here for? To write and relate? I’m no good at neither. Then again, I’ve never done well before.

I’m running a war inside now. I cant tug at your heartstrings with my raspy voice neither can I be that man who does this and this best. I’m not special. I’m just, a normal person.

This is me. And thats just about it.

But as my personal conviction would prove otherwise. I will not bow out of existence as a normal man.

Yours sincerely



The Return

March 1, 2010

This city that sleeps a slumber so silent in the night is a far cry from its bustling day. I’m back here, maybe more homeless than ever and I’m certainly fretting at this instant.

But hush, as I start anew. A new direction, same expectations but a fresher perspective. Back in this familiar foreign stomping ground, I feel nestled in the embrace of peers. Loved in certain aspects but hated the same way by the ignorant ones who share this land.

I carry my new ink with a greater symbolic meaning. The green eyes that watch my back is a testament to the overcoming of my vulnerability. I am hardened, albeit soft.

And the world around me will change for I’m as much of an actor as everyone else. For better or worse, we’ll keep breathing to see.

Yours Sincerely,