i’ll go back, if you ask me

Okay, for once, a serious, post, written in English. I simply don’t have the time and the disposition any more to write here, except useless, spur of the moment posts, but after finishing a few homework or two earlier than usual (in what seemed like a rare thing for me to do) , I think I deserve to write here. Besides, my ‘killer’ headaches seems to have disappeared, miraculously; fortunately. This seemed to have staunched progress in writing in some other two books I have, but whatever. 

So uh, don’t ask me when I should publish, or that you want to read that “collection of essays” of mine I wrote back in 2008 (because they’re rubbish and uh.. mostly plagiarised. Also naive. Who would’ve wanted to read a poorly written piece on Existentialism laden with quotes from Nietzsche, eh? I’ve stuffed them – all three copies – in some bookcase back at home, stacked together with my dad’s thesis, to make it look most unappealing). I’m shifting all these, writing things, after these exams, in which will come to end in three to four weeks time. A month or two of holiday, then “Out, Out, Out!”, like Alexander De Large would exclaim in A Clockwork Orange (the movie) to Australia. 

The night is quiet here, the yellowing fan at the ceiling seemed to have outlived most of the new fans here; it only died, with a long buzzing, rustling, sound, yesterday. My room mate, have decided to spend the night elsewhere, and I, quite alone, am typing here, enjoying the breeze coming from the window (with no monkeys lurking around, heh) , or a non-breeze, just deathly silence, with the occasional sounds of footsteps outside.

I quite enjoy having time with myself. There’s not much use, talking to people, laughing all about, discussing, unless it leads somewhere. Idle talk. Not to say that I don’t do them, it’s just that I get weary, tremendously weary, from watching people talking too much, too loud, to too many people, at once. I think I just need to spend at least two hours per day just to think. Or to stare, dream, and do nothing. Thoughts, images, ideas, fantasies, conversations, they sprang up all at once. Seized by a thought, I’d write them down, or if not, I’d weave them about, get up, move my hands, speak in different tones and voices, quite amused by myself, then laugh hysterically. Preferably in the dark. And most importantly alone. Who would’ve wanted to witness such display of insanity? 

But of course, non would’ve expect this. Because we, present ourselves differently to different people. And I don’t know this ‘we’ I am talking about. It makes things simpler. Or you just don’t feel like it, like Holden Caufield would’ve said. I don’t know, I don’t have the book with me write now. I probably read it like ten times, even the Bahasa Melayu version, called… I don’t remember. “Penangkap Gandum” or something. But this is besides the point. 

The point is, sometimes, you feel like a goddam hypocrite in front of people, never quite knowing which is the real you, or whether there was any ‘real you’ in the first place. Making a farce of yourself. All wrapped up in some kind of warped, contradicting, personalities, when actually, inside; nothing. The question of ‘who am i, really’. Kinda lame, really, but whatever. All I know is that this is the main thing that launched me into the so called ‘existential depression’, or whatever you call it. And I don’t feel like talking about it either, because you don’t really, or you don’t feel too hot about talking about things concerning yourself. . And if I did, I would be so obscure about it, because yeah, I’m that secretive. Perhaps some other time. After all, who ever really talks about themselves? Like, really, talking about themselves, pertaining the issue of you, and solely, you; not in relation to others, books, films, interests and all that kind of things. 

But perhaps they don’t care. And they never do. And if they did, they’d ignore all this individual struggle and project their focus, towards external stuff. Things in life, and life in things, forever entangled; inseparable. Where they go, what they do, what they read, watch, listen, speak, buy, possess, who their friends are. Forever amassing things to relate to, so that in the end, they’d all say unto themselves, that there is some worth in their being, some meaning that would matter to them. So that all is not in vain. Positioning themselves into somewhere they can call, this is my abode, my rightful place. 

Yeah, how lovely that would be, eh?

Compared to us little dreamers, wanderers of  night, forever seeking for our rightful place, if any, on earth, and the heavens.

Heh. I’m done here. Ending Song.