it is almost a fleeting feeling that continuously assails us, that begins in the stomach, that lingers, in a most silver fashion, silver because it does have a very specific color pertaining to it, why i don’t really know. to try and explain it, explaining requires hard work, and as we are wont to find ourselves in this fairly nervous position, when everyone else is sound asleep.
let us try, nevertheless. but the powers of description has left me, we are no longer required to exalt ourselves beyond the necessary measure, and those fun excited encouraging english teachers you once loved are actually either those who read nicholas sparks or depressive fucks who lack life in their own lives and continue to harrow others.
she has left for malacca this morning. no, not you. her. one of those people you really don’t mind laughing out loud with. to instantly carry on where you have left her. why am i speaking in such simplistic tones. that does not satisfy you enough? you want me to be specific. geh. geh. much demands, yet you offer no compensation of any sort. i am tired. and why does this remind me of that miller movie.
there are no prejudices. even if there are, you don’t mind. she is nice, and that is all there to it. girl with a heart of gold, as zooey would say. the cute one. these people don’t command names for themselves. i like to remain nameless. and like her, i don’t like to leave impressions. i’m tired of trying. all this is paltry.
where did i even get that word from, paltry. i found a notebook tucked somewhere in the shelf the other day, it was this uh, mini dictionary i kept for myself while first starting beyond good and evil. there was a time when evil was attractive. now everything seems pale. you, you rebel aspirant, seem to be yearning for this. to acquire a life not your own, and continue to dream for impossible circumstances that will never come your way. life is not elsewhere. kundera is wrong, and as soon as the orchestra is over, while magical at first listen, it soon becomes dull. maybe i read jung too much.
but do continue, please. alright. what now. nothing. i want new books. maybe i’ll finish the yellow one tomorrow, because it really is boring. dialogues are the only thing that matters. and gestures. i suppose. if you read the year and death of ricardo reis, you’d find no dialog boxes. what are they called? collumns? colons? sounds about right. oh emulation. no, i prefer doing this a long time ago. prose if more preferable than poetry.
what i find funny is slowly you are catching up with all the remnants of the yesteryears. as if you need time to mature and understand it all. but i don’t find them interesting no more. i’d read me a little franny on a train ride if that pleases me every now and then, but i don’t know. six years i’ve held it already. i am in the process of abandoning, something. purging is the word, but using the same words over and over is boring. we used relinquished before, but that is the process of the self. not your possessions.
so how do you feel now. pure? i don’t know, i did not love them, so it torments me not. they are after all, buku buku yang kurang penting. clockwork orange was alright, but like i told you, it does not appeal to me no longer. vulgarity is now repulsive. it has always been that way. you laugh, but you let out a nervous laugh. you do not approve, but it is afterall, something that assails your senses, uncomfortably. chuck all your palahniuks into fire, they do nothing but provoke annoyingly.
besides, after the incident of a certain mister N (a self-obsessed condescending “poet”) refusing to lend books to a very Young, Indifferent but Occasionally-Enthusiastic, uh, person, combined with a little dose of Walden, screaming his simplicity and self sufficient ideas, the very notion of hoarding books and moving them in boxes and then taking days to rearrange em neatly on your newly bought shelf seems stupid. troublesome.
what i really wanted to say is this, that i am past defining myself.
goodnight.
perkaraperkara 