There are many things seen and experienced, but so little can be said over the course of time. The mouth closes and opens, and yet nothing is spoken. There is truth, but they will not listen. Is there room for thought, if so many people are intent on going against you on what is right or wrong (say the Syiah question)? To speak is then futile.
After all, what do you know? Yesterday you discovered the wonders of Spotify, and listened to Empire of the Sun’s Alive for the 10th time in succession. I am not wrapped in velvet gold, but in F’s Egyptian-patterned blanket. The same liking then. You wake up, and six hours later, the fruits of work; 7 jars of cookies. You were standing all the time, and find it sort of soothing, this turning and adding ingredients. Melted butter. Crushed almonds. Chocolate buttons. Life can be so clear cut sometimes. The clarity in recipes.
He wanted to read Greek Mythology. We were in the old bookshop, him trying to find fiction, you trying to find anything that is worth buying (or giving). Classics, Poetry, Philosophy, Psychology. You had a method, going through these shelves in order, but the only find of the day is a rundown book of essays concerning Yeats and Eliot and everything in between. You handed him Catcher in the Rye, the same copy you noticed a month ago. A dollar each. He bought four. Outside, you hand him another two.
A plot is brooding. First a gesture, then a look, a picture, a promise, a meeting; the build up towards something unknown. Where shall it all lead to, then? Are we to give hope or to abandon it altogether? Of course, you are at loss, in limbo, suspended between guilt and curiosity. Everything is ambiguous these days.
perkaraperkara 