all you wanted

the reproaching brother,
he questions my motive,
he doesn’t want to bother,
he knows this to be untrue of me.
ignorance is he.
resuming to his circling wraiths of continuity.
how boring.

a cat dead, and fleeting friends,
they all gather round the english counter,
exchanging stories of babysitting and travelling
while i glare at this extravagant lavishing disturbing enclove

why not why not
she asks
as if you are better than they
i say
they are too courteous for me,
too refined in their womanly glee
and too proud too stoop down like me

nay i am lower than they
i care not for clothes and matching furniture
nor plates or pleats
not books not films
or even art that they exclaim
hanging at walls posting your
self portraits of austrian
origin.

i have what i want
and what i want now is nothing
only time commands me now
as i lay, awake, in hiding,
plotting, paving my way to dying

but that is too much to ask for,
so here i wait
waiting.

tentang William James

aku cuma rasa dia adalah one of the very few authors yang aku boleh baca tirelessly without ceasing to be continously amazed at his words and wisdom. he does not decorate his words with superfluous conjugations dan kau boleh rasakan apa yang dia tuliskan itu, sama dengan apa yang dia ekspresikan, tunjukkan, tontonkan pada dunia pada dunia itu. tak ada pretense.

dia juga penuh dengan kata kata yang aku rasa benar benar, truthful, dan jujur. kau tak akan rasa tiba tiba repulsed dengan apa yang kamu baca, atau melihat diri kamu disagreeing dengan apa yang kau baca. dan, semestinya, aku boleh rasa apa yang diucapkannya kadang kadang sarkastik (atau offensive) dari mata orang luar, tapi sebenarnya that is how he really things and people are. he does not condemn, he is merely stating the obvious.

mungkin orang lain rasa yang buku bukunya dah kurang releven (kerana Principles of Psychology lebih melihat daripada aspek sosial dan individual dan growth, berbanding dengan dunia moden yang lebih berpaksikan genome genome dan keadaan lahiriah). dan dia tak femes pun.

relapse

does anybody miss me?

some post will crop up, soon. none of this elusive piece of shit. time and again i’ve been thinking of what to write here that is worth to write about, but nothing. nothing much. there’s nothing much. nothing much going on either, despite anything i have disclosed to any person – that i’m gonna be pretty busy for the rest of the holidays. none of that is going to happen. perhaps will, perhaps never. i’m not going to bother anymore. i’m just not up to it.

“We’re bored. We’re all bored now. But has it ever occurred to you, Wally, that the process that creates this boredom that we see in the world now, may very well be a self perpetuating, unconscious form of brainwashing created by a world totalitarian government based on money and that all of this is much more dangerous than one thinks, and its not just a question of individual survival, Wally, but that somebody who’s bored is asleep, and somebody who’s asleep will not say no?”
-My Dinner with Andre, 1981


so i ran. 

go drum too proud


Jonsi, Go Do. Lagu untuk esok. Fuck yeah. I’ve been studying and doing exams all week last week. It’s crazy. I’m singing ‘some candy talking’ loudly around the corridor, laughing and talking to myself in the shower, make up stupid words and sentences that rhyme together (badly), so meh.

And tomorrow, semuanya akan tamat. I’ll be writing here, soon.

swirl around

An old friend of mine asked about a week ago, what’s my life purpose.
And I told, straight to her face, without hesitant, that I wanted to die as soon as possible.

And also, the fact that I’m not the best person you could ask.

Hah. Gila.

Like the remark from some brother of mine, in one of my journals, scrawled in blank ink, in one of them blank pages;

“Who are you?”

Who am I indeed.

From one person to another, we impart on them different impressions, in different course of times. Only sometimes, the very same impressions strike differently on different people, who in behind their looking glass, see different things. A different perception. And when met again, these two figures, long parted, buried beneath the strife of whatever things that has come to past, but never, and never will be, forgotten, they both hold different views of each other. And suddenly what was then was not now, he, she, has changed, and you bite your lips in bitterness, cursing the passage of time.

And this is where you and I must part.

irreplaceable.

face unperturbed, besides the wall, beneath the stairs,
a lacklustre front; a flustered mind,
with no love of the divine,
only in darkness, and despair,
he finds his only heir.
heroes of the underclass, forgotten and forlorn,
exalted – without which,
he would be soon be gone,
in a tragedy of his own.

or is he gone?
one knows not,
legend to myth, myth to dust,
scattered carelessly across us,
in somnolence, he whispers,
he is on his way to his kingdom.

So don’t, hate, him.

plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.

-The Moon and The Yew Tree, Sylvia Plath
There’s only about three people I know who sends poems (or words) over messages to people who don’t bother much to say anything about it, and if they do, with a certain air of uneasiness, that which could be either of their own or some other people; Potsie, Mr. Cut Here (oooh~), and myself. 
Sylvia Plath goes a long way back, kid. It is the bridge to the world you’d never ever, dare to, go to.