Tag: to no one in particular

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. 

searching eyes

We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under.


The first category longs for the look of the infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. That is the case with the German singer, the American actress, and even the tall, stooped editor with the big chin. He was accustomed to his readers, and when one day the Russians banned his newspaper, he had the feeling that the atmosphere was a hundred times thinner. Nothing could replace the look of unknown eyes. He thought he would suffocate. Then one day he realized that he was being constantly followed, bugged, and surreptitiously photographed in the street. Suddenly he had anonymous eyes on him and he could breathe again! He began making theatrical speeches to the microphones in his wall. In the police, he had found his lost public.

The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at many known eyes. They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinner. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, when they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out of the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need. Marie-Claude and her daughter belong in the second category.

Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. Tereza and Tomas belong in the third category.

And finally there is a fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers. Franz, for example. He traveled to the borders of Cambodia only for Sabina. As the bus bumped along the Thai road, he could see her eyes fixed on him in a long stare.

Tomas’s son belong in the same category. Let me call him Simon. (He will glad to have a Biblical name, like his father’s). The eyes he longed for were Tomas’. As a result of his embroilment in the petition campaign, he was expelled from the university. The girl he had been going out with was the niece of a village priest. He married her, became a tractor driver on a collective farm, a practicing Catholic, and a father. When he learned that Tomas, too, was living in the country, he was thrilled: fate had made their lives symmetrical! This encouraged him to write Tomas a letter. He did not ask him to write back.

He only wanted him to focus his eyes on his life.

on ignorance

when one’s presence, or effort, goes unnoticed, or simply; ignored, he retreats back to his cave and goes on reproaching himself, and others, forever dwells with all his miseries, knowing not what to do but to continue lament on unimportant details and facts. he spins he twists he keeps on remembering, and at the same time, forgetting, because in the passage of time, what he cannot remember he forges, and when he forges, he constructs memories based on his beliefs and perception. false ones, to be exact.

the act of ignorance, although cannot be justified, can be explained. but explanations which are not irrational, need not to be explained. it should be suffice to maintain perfect silence, or better, with a certain aloofness in order to deceive oneself, and others at the same time. this aloofness, of course, comes in many forms.
it can be an act of escapement, or a form of distraction, without really dealing with whatever problems we may have. at least, an outward form of aloofness. so it seems so but it is not so. it may be so but it is not so. something does not disappear only because we wish them to. so despair not. because i hear you.
only i choose not to act on it.

infinite and surreal

References to things that symbolizes what seemed an almost idealistic world that was clouded and shrouded, fascinating in all its supposed mysteries because it never occurred that there exists such alternate worlds beyond that crystal snowball you created around yourself.

Through the looking glass, Alice. Through the looking glass.
But never further.
We are ever so elusive and ever so dispelling, once you smash yourself out you would never figure out where and what and why from before it seemed so different and enchanting and shit.
So stay inside. Point us out, if you like, observe us, but never go further.
Unless, you are, the Alice.