Oh muse

If you can’t have it in yours, you will take ours.

A lousy parasite! An ounce of happiness and of control over lives that can only be taken through baiting and pretense—most of which spills onto the concrete pavement and down the cracks in mere moments of delight; the rest scarcely coats the lacerations of your tongue fresh off the ground.

It’s edgy rude because it’s round to care.

At the root of shiftless plans is the unsustainable re-energising of a weakened state through unprovoked aggression. Recall the adrenalin of that feeling wrongly-assumed to be unfairly denied but which you hardly worked to earn or deserve—enough for the transient scent of a cheap past-date perfume. You are just as you are, only angrier about it.

Mocking their fit to compete with your unhappy familiars the number of frowns to horde—King of the miserables and an Archetype.

By some sleight of hand, losing strength is the same as having it to a muddle head as is the exercise of restraint and civility. Is going downhill the same as uphill? like letting go of weights to crack your skull is easier than storing them away from harm’s reach.

No happy person wakes up an Arsehole. If only you were capable enough to fix your own problems as generations take hold of theirs.

Nobody can love a person who themselves make love an impossibility. The same applies to care and concern. Yes, it bothers you—or it wouldn’t be worth the effort to get noticed— that you have faded to the back of that rusty old container with your fears realised and powerless.

Packed schedule

An odd thing to be excited about but that’s not a quality I would deny.

Food-sampling, museum visiting, earthly-space “exploration”, merry festivals, swimming, text and video editing. Delightful activities more than sharing a cuppa with a sob story and a mean-spirited complaint which cannot be that horrific as recounted with the subject still alive to tell the tale.

What is the purpose of exaggeration other than to tug at strings in a not so subtle but manipulative fashion? Under the embellishment is a long-vein of fear that those by its side, will reveal the wrongness of its tint.

As if you didn’t already know with exhalation of each breath.

Is it loyalty of friends that’s in doubt or an ability to accept truth and of penitence?

If self-image is the only thing that causes you to fret, then telling tall tales is contrary to common-sense expectation; only with a modicum of attention is it startlingly obvious—overriding mundaneness made peerless.

That would not be needed if the account was reasonable enough on its own to brush sincerely and vividly—otherwise, there is nothing more to be said or done except uncredited useless platitudes.

To that end, I’ve no time left to give, having filled them with activities. I’d rather be alone, by myself and reflecting upon lonely faces at a train station.

Half an hour early and deciding if this is something to brag about or evidence still of an idle time. This or that — I caved not for stodgy tall tales.

Analysing dress

That one dress, not that it’s a work of art or haute couture, is a discounted piece of body tent down to 30% of its former glory— mildly heavy but structurally sound and will stand the test of time, I‘d wager.

I admire it hanging next to my weathered-tinted windows conjuring ways to describe something banal without necessarily inviting banality to the form of midi dresses with the success of a frail umbrella pitted against a sudden knock of wind.

Comfort is cardinal to someone no longer tolerant of unnecessary irritants such as blisters, movement-constraints, scratching fabric, moisture retention, un-breathability, social expectations, opinions etc

Length was always— neither too short nor too long—it stops where pool sandals and flip flops cannot get in their way or it’ll perform the function for which it was commissioned with much reluctance.

So I settle for geometry with the enthusiasm of an erstwhile friend long forgotten for seemingly lesser important things— fold or box pleats extends outwards from the back like a triangle giving a cape-like effect whilst the prints comprised of squares, intersecting and parallel lines segments, right angles, equidistances and so on—occasionally marked with violently-combusted stars at random meeting points.

The colour bleed on the lines and the gradient of fabric colour from crème to green, draws an image of artful imperfection—similar to artwork found in museums I will visit clad in it—there is beauty in imperfection as is proven by Maestros of old and nature from time immemorial, and now—if I may be so bold as to add—a $60 with accordion-pleats dress

Modelling perspective

Foreword: The left shoulder ache that persisted for days from poor sleeping position + ensuing lack of sleep was channeled into writing this post as an experiment of sorts. 🙃 Please bear that in mind whilst reading and judging this…Yikes.

The words past Dior’s lips trawls the virtuous eaten in a fit of jealous rage invisible beneath stellar couture. Though they hide not expressions, even past the stink of intentions under a spritz of Chanel No.5, they work nonetheless on the beguiled and their diamond-crusted eyes.

Ride and scream cheaply using mean words, petty actions and low-grade comments unworthy of dignity, polish or a dime—exactly as ordered—except to accumulate cemetery’s gravel under the sole of sky-high Jimmy Choos.

Heels won’t make the hunched back appear taller, smaller still if one can only stand up straight for fundamentals.

Quite the character, just not the one to admire— the sort to desire diversity in an inequitable world only in a wardrobe and jewellery box from breakfast at Tiffany’s—exactly the one with exquisite inlays filled only by stale air of yesterday’s news and moreish party balloons before it makes a quiet escape out of fading rosy cheeks and gaiety.

Even values and integrity cannot be traded if genuine to begin with and cannot be tricked into thinking that a bargain can be struck by parting with pricelessness and submit to esteemed indenture in perpetuity.

There’s nothing to gain from accepting a poor imitation of what is good. Now someone can buy it with dirty money until they be prevented from pillaging—yes even towards you—rummaging through your ashes.

Go with the flow and not against the tide yet cut the meat across the grains, not along them. Repeat but understand how they differ depending on the subject or risk an ineffectual campaign too valuable to dispose or retain.

There are things that should matter and things that should not. A pretty cause like overvalued self-importance is best left to rot.

Irrational and hopeless, all things weather-beaten against time gets dragged along littered routes of used plastic straws; too short to stay young compared to an average life and made insignificant still next to eternity.

Shifting perspective.

No, I’m not angry. Why should I be? Nobody is made for this world if they can only be here for just a speck in a very long time. That’s not an important question, still less the right one.

Sloppy overconfidence

First think of the title, then the content.

“Why thank you, brain,” I bellowed, “how disorderly of you to let me in on the secret years after I cry myself awake.”

“You’re welcome,” says brain, “that dribble of confidence swears down your chinny chin chin though. Now you must sleep till the morrow.”

Overconfidence makes one sloppy and somewhat a double-edged sword. It makes one lax, the guard is down and a bull’s-eye on a leathery back. Now closed, no more help can come through; at least nothing new and pertinent.

In exchange, armed with a diamond-shaped shield made of graphene. Make yourself impervious to anything designed to pin you to the ground. No hammering can royally steamroll your crown. King of the world, no one can say otherwise, at least not to you, convincingly.

I’m pulled in all directions, splayed onto the roughness of my hundred dollars shaggy rug but I’m going out today in a teal skirt and pink cropped-top under a dangly chain—no really, I was planning to but then it rained. Some mistakes I can afford still, already paid for by overconfidence. Yet there remain others too expensive for sloppiness.

Delete button

Don’t do it.

Which button can you press for the ones inside your head?

For the ones you’d like to keep, left crumbling with no support on which to stand.

Take them all, trash and gold. As good as old.

Sort it out when the time comes, when they start to smell like murder and the doctor comes.

You’ll just take all that I have, anyway I try to run.

Greedy little bugger.

Personal Inexperience

Write down ideas and build upon them until the realisation comes that no one knows where you are going with it. That vaguely-familiar song replays itself at random along with inchoate thoughts lingering at the back of one’s head, trembling at the thought of leaving its hiding spot. Why and where? what sort of secrets too precious to divulge is it guarding?

How heavy is the risk of losing to another half-conjured thought? Why should that matter to anyone but you? Curve a finger to cajole with confident assurances of security; it must come out only because it should and somebody wants to see the crown it wears or if it wears any and if it doesn’t, slap one on it pronto.

Found myself patting the back of another whose shoes I wore occasionally. I don’t remember what that was like— both the shoes and the pat. I’ve run too fast for anyone to feel the wind from the dash of lightning or maybe no one really pays attention anymore—distracted with flashy lights and metal.

Like everyone else, all we can do is to hang on for life; most of the time we aren’t even conscious of that, thankfully. We enjoy the ride and feel the breeze generated on the side by a centrifugal force— they don’t know our plans nor should we ever tell them—it’s not like they will see in the same way as we do.

In the end, we are all trying to do the same thing. Extend a hand when you see someone about to let go whilst firmly gripping onto your handle— it won’t go anywhere but transforms you. We have but two and happily, they will suffice.

Nb: translating from feelings to thoughts what it is like to be midway on a journey, on which all pathways are wonky.

Ten chapters

If you could write the story of your life in only ten chapters, how would you write it?

From start to finish, sequentially, and only the good or bad parts whilst leaving out the rest? Would you choose to include the mundane details because they are part of who you are?

Would it be a romance or a tragedy? Would your readers feel good reading them or be inspired by your story?

Do you want to be an example for others to follow or lesson to be learned? Would it sound like a how-to guide e.g successful, good parenting, excellent boss, best leader or friend?

Would you instead, much like me, focus only on key memories which could be a mix of both good and bad as long as they explain why you are the way you are today and the best/worst version of yourself?

The exhibition of Nam June Paik’s work specifically the Sistine chapel reminds me that life could in fact be a series of moments instead of linear, sequentially placement of days, seconds, time etc. I like to think of the story of my life this way—a collection of files in which one would find allegories. They could be significant, life-changing, key-defining moments and normally they are but not necessarily so.

In my view, they don’t have to be snippets of an autobiography nor a curriculum vitae.

They don’t have to be list of adventurous things you’ve done, places you have visited, favourite foods or top regrets of things you wish you hadn’t done or did.

They could be mere fleeting moments that mean something to you even though they would count for nothing to someone else such as an oddly-shaped seashell you picked up whilst on your solo travels to Bali surrounded by couples in love and you remark for the first time, how wonderful it is that you never feel lonely.

They could also be events connected by a single thread whose content you feel is most important, likely values such as forgiveness, patience, steadfastness, generosity and mercy

but that would mean that content of the ten chapters change depending on which threads or values you think counts the most at different points in time making your chapters dynamic and living, just like you.

I want to write them as objectives I wanted to achieve —not necessarily big and commonly-accepted goals like career, choice of marriage partner or university—but objectives that I wanted to realise so badly but didn’t because life took me on a different path and as a result, I am better for it.

Can you think of moments like that? I can say that most, if not all of them, made you better in some way, if you were really honest and determined to find that nugget of truth.

Will you then be already satisfied with the way things are now knowing what you know? especially if you know now that the future will only get better.

The big picture

It’s that time of the year: a sort of makeshift random annual census that most count as unnecessary, a few others believing in its utility and a minor group liking the attention. This time around, we shall count amongst us, the easily bewitched by that one witching tree that elicits from them so much and only negative emotions, blinding them from the overarching goal of reforestation, a robust eco-system and the cooling effect of clouds —yes that’s a thing.

Today you will come to a realisation that a source of a big worry plaguing you for as long as you can remember, has in fact been neutralised. It has been for a while now; you’ve only noticed it today because you were too busy lamenting, wallowing or concentrating on whatever else in the interim. Now it has become startlingly clear that all that extra time you spent miserable were for nothing: for not only could it have ended much earlier, it took you away from more valuable things that needed your attention.

If only you were looking at the right place—But that’s the thing, isn’t it? All that time you know, or rather, assumed that you were doing exactly that—looking at the right place—with so much attention to detail you never thought you could muster by every fibre of your mortal being—Going over the same few engraved and unchanging lines that was never going to be any different though you become increasingly bored and frustrated but you soldier on, not any closer to your golden prize, but to persist knee-deep in misery.

The right place to look requires a view from high elevation, transcendence beyond your immediate self, outside and beyond still, so you see yourself, in an expansive forest and not merely just next to that one tree trying your hardest to take it down with your bare hands. Why do we do this, I wonder? How silly. Now that tree is not a person, mind you. It could be but you would a fool to think that it could only ever be so. It never was; It was as it has always been, never as simple as that to take you away from any justifiable use of raw emotions and avoid a tragedy and an additional adversity. How to be smart about choosing what to spend your time on, that which brings you joy and rewards your hard work and perseverance?Simply change the elevation from where you are standing. How very silly.

Usual suspects

Usual suspects