perkaraperkara

on life in mrsm. i suppose in a way we were lucky to have gone to the one in kota bharu first and formost because of its close proximity to the city, to the airport, to everything where there is life. second, owing to it’s age, it had no necessary reason to uphold whatever new tradition nor rules nor the need to be strictly strict. i suppose it depends. i got a pelepasan to not to go to prep class anyway, i had to on my own for the most part of time in order to live. food was great, it was teo great years of music, you had band sessions or art classes or a stroll around the city if you feel like it hitchhiking wasnt that scary you could normally just tap someone’s car by ghe side of the road and ask for a ride somewhere shops were generous food was generous the cafe near mydin was a great place to eat shophouses abs lofts were around obscure shops in some old abandoned streets still had their own attractions the language was mesmerising the people were cool the mall itself is boring but at least you could count on some guy or another to belanja some sarsi or pizza or icecream or whatever. what about the school i dont know never felt ethusiastic about it you could skip classes for days to doze off alone in your corner or watch the burning porch or see some movie watch her cry beside you play guitar in s s room or watch persepolis or no country for old men during weekends and then proceed to talk endlessly to m about his boring life pr teach j english in his desperate attempt to coax you to love him lol. or to spend the night in a room allegedly where the cleaner decided to hang herself over the betrayal of a lover and then the philosophers room where you could hear him talk talk talk endlessly about ideas islam life land business and career and the his thesis. lawyers who make it a point to say he hates accounting while giving a proceedig to us little shitheads clueless under the clueless whos now married i wonder who. anais nin? perverse teacher, delta of felda in the delta of nowhere i am not to recount you any longer goodbye

she does not return my call
is she dead?
i wonder myself.
if so, then everything will lose its meaning
i have nothing to go at to
no one shall witness my head
as it slowly dictates my every bodily movements

millions slowly burn their songs
into my ears
i think i’m in love
they stood next to us
calling upon him as he carves
the most generous smile
he too is in love

but yet i don’t feel anything
dreamlike, everything
midnight no longer woos me
what am i to be?

in pursuit of a thief.
orange tiger gentle tiger.
hesitantly i sigh
a moment later
he dies.

the cat storms off.

i am to live as surreal as possible starting today
no more confessions?
yes, because somehow everything evaporates into boredom
it’s best not to reveal
there’s a careful  balance to everything
who is the woman
it is reiko
i am remembering
the girl playing the piano the pathological liar
at any rate, we must seal off everything
there is magic in the elusive
cherry remains an illusion
extremely confident she struts about the world
with her fake eyes her fake lashes
and her vintage acid wash shorts
i am thoroughly ignored
and remain ignorant
what is there left in the world
are we to find a solution
nothing permeates into our hearts any longer
what must be done
ennui or not she remains the same
bored and boring

i am the same
i am the same

i don’t know what else to say.

and now i am stupefied, and i think nothing is worthwhile. maybe everything is worthwhile, maybe crossing the street and be talking to strangers just because you recognize they’re malaysians and ask where they are going and decide to come with em after twenty seconds is just maddening. maybe her reading your blog a long time ago (which is absolutely, wonderfully, lol) is somewhat surprising. maybe watching idiotic fan girls who suddenly decided to storm through the fucking crowd, pushing everyone along the way, the dastard absent melon heads raising hands just to say, hey sean, hey ryu take a look and be forever enchanted is the way one should go about their way on the world. i don’t know. maybe meeting an actual someone who suddenly confesses she wants to be a writer somewhat surprises you, or how they have read more murakami than you (but there is simply no loss, anyway),  or how you could lie on the carpet all day just fucking talking rambling to your other friend while facing the ceiling. that is the way to go. that is how everybody goes. just spacing out one day after another, only to be regretting for fifty minutes just to start to do it all over. i am short of money. i don’t know what i have done to myself. i’ve been eating practically nothing but milk and any other addition of ice cream or honey or some flavored nesquick and incredible amounts of coffee just to survive over here. squandered.

people are getting depressingly isolated from each other. everything has become absolutely clinic. cordial. what is there left to say. people run out of topics eventually. how am i to live with anyone after a year.

as a rule, i hate anyone who sleeps after subuh.
as a rule, i must be allowed to stay limp for as long as i want to.

morning are grey. i hate this.

surrealism my ass. apa yang surreal nya?

i am not to live any more. i am to go on a automatic mode.

so he told everyone he’s been seeing a psychologist
a counselor.
i don’t know the difference.
is it a psychiatrist?
no.
i don’t know the difference either.
but i’ve been to each and every
one of them.
i tell him.
i laughed at her,
because the problem was a trifle matter
old people don’t get depressed.
they’re too old for that.
you either die before you’re thirty
or fourty
and be immortal
glorious
else decline into
a faint light
dim and indistinct
ignored.

j tried again yesterday
i thought people are supposed to
do that only once a every few months
space is necessary
spacing makes everything meaningful
discern-able
scrutable

exposure.

i want to hear from you
every single day
out of boredom
because that is the only thing that matters.

woman of a heart of stone, he says the last time.
haven’t spoke to him for more than a year.
pessimist, fatalist, sadist, words i throw to him.
don’t ever come back.
“malaysia welcome not abroad student”
“malaysia welcomes not students abroad”
assistant engineer midnight chandeliers
sweat and fat the big flab
what have i done?
working, how’s that working out for you?
i ask this everyone,
i’ve never worked a day in my life.
seasonal, only. hours, only.
satisfaction never lasts.
i don’t toil, for i don’t aspire for money,
yet.
money is secondary, father says.
so sufistic so majestic
he tolerates not our typewriter’s song.
but hallaj would not love him.
for he toils too much.

berikan aku perempuan tua itu
tanamkannya di pesisiran bukit
yang dahulu kalanya indah
tapi kini maut merisik di setiap penjuru
tulang tulang lembut disambut akur

blood flows through my fingers
i think i am alive again
autumn rain, morning breeze
i am reincarnated again.

of course, those events in themselves did not seem to affect me, but when put together, it forms the grand notion of things.

ok tak ingat camane nak eja pun.

it is up to me. thoughts crop up simply like that. this is the raw material of it. i am done with your churning. the malevolent wishing of putting down, downgrading everything, a subtle annoyance wisping through your hair, advocating nothing, and nothingness, a lump of bruise strutting around trying to inflict and wound.

this is not to woo, this is how i operate, and you are but a spectator to all this.