After sunset...

It is easy. Too easy to denounce. It is easy. Too easy to shrug everything off. The more I look at it the more I see...

There are those conversations that are light hearted but far from superficial. There are things not plastic that can be said to those who are.

...I see myself caught in a game that I have made up for myself. It holds anchor deep. Someone said light leads to the depth where darkness beholds...

The lamentable things the human kind convert after. Knowing it is fading beauty, passing glory. People hold out their smiles, they hardly mean it. It is the handshake of deceit.

... I begrudge them because I cannot see the other side of the panel. I feel that crossing their path is mixing everything up. Like a fool, I succumb to my own rigid chains. It is so hard to ammend because I am afraid to start form scratch, I refuse to see that I am wrong...

It is the game of betrayal. The game where the first to lose is the biggest winner. As we climb the stairs to heaven or maybe descend it to hell, we forge identities. Breaching every rule we create.

I doom my own soul with fear. Every minute with pain. Because I smell before I see. I defeat it's reasons before I acknowledge it's prescence...

Yet in all these we care about the insignificant. Hope for the minimal and die like the animals. Life thrust is death and all that leads to it. A bag of bones.

I recommend to myself the prescription of hope and live. The joy to put away. That starts by changing every idea, of letting fear go and abiding by forgiveness. It is the lessons I pick up but the fears that I drown.

An apology is given. And I mean to keep my word. No matter how many times it fails, by the end of this period it will be through.

Writing-

INSPIRATION is very unique and much needed. But the question that perplexes me is how to sustain inspiration. Obviously because of itsuniqueness it uis difficult to sustain. Everytime I set out to write, I feel inspired. The next day or the next week that inspiration and penning spree would have been lost to the wind.

Writing serves a purpose different from direct speech and even media influences. It survives time more influentially. Furthermore, it accomodates and enhances the thought process for the reader. So much has been said about the good of reading. But the act of writing from the writer's perspective. It is so much easier to think sometimes say thoughts. But writing explores more than creativity. Cajoling proper and exactness, sometines venturing to explore our person and a form of undeniable excess into anything, writing is ultimately a freedom. FREEDOM from things within and without. It begins and continues, knows no bounds and has no definition, its form is immense and benign. At the same time, its effect on the writer can shape much and trhe world and yet leave little impact on everything outside though often it causes the world catastrophic corners.

Why do I write? I write because I love the way my hand moves on pen and on the key board. I write because I feel the freedom. I write because it si a contribution. But ultimately, I write because I feel the inspiration and the way of expression frees my thought, soul and energy in the way I know best.

Of course anyone is entitle to their say of writing. It's pros and its cons.

Finally I understand our Differences

I am back in Spore. Unexpectedly for a break. 4 months. And already barely a week, I am wishing it was over. Not because I do not love home. In fact home is the saving grace but Spore is a new perspective. While I am at it let me introduce that we are starting construction on the IR. At the same time, the IMF/WB meeting is currently underway. Singapore ban the presence of at least 20 activist which left the WB unhappy. The full process of the institution is not just the meeting but the prescence of all forms of participation including those of the activist. Singapore, however felt that their prescence would endanger the safety and decroum of life here and so they prohibited their entering Singapore.

In my room with the windows open sometimes I hear children screaming and babies crying. I hear the vulgar talk of the neighbor below and the chatter of idle housewives. It occurs to me that life for them is a deceit. It is the everyday and care of the self and around, the gossip and the perception. It is the outward and the form. The make and the built. Everything else is sequential or negated. When I went out the oppressive cold stare or the let of regard of human survival, I could not take it. Nobody said good morning,nobody smiled, nobody look at people and saw it was a human being. No. It was all about moving fast, making money, saving face, looking good and frontal vision. I saw the herd and I moved out of their way. Everybody evaded me but it was nothing personal towards me. It was personal to them. I wanted to help, to smile but I felt like the wall again pressed into whiteness. Ostracized because I walk too slowly, evaded because I smiled. So I am very conflicted if I should pick up pace, stop looking around and wipe that smile off my face. Becasue after all is it not a culture of comformity, of blending in and being part of the herd and of saving face.

Yes, I am so sick of it. I am not for rebellion of revolt. Or ostentaciosity and pompousness. I just think we should take our time to be sincere beings. We should realize that civilization exsist for the being and not the being for civilization. The world was created for men. Why not slow down and try to be yourself. I am trying though I may not be the most perectly sane, we don't have to be colourful about it. Just a simple smile on your face instead of a rigid, tight, self concious, intimidating look might do miracles for you. Forget the cosmetics and forget the latest fashion, it is what you are that can change the tide, it si cheer that may save the one you never met.

Ghost Month

Imagined nightmares inflicting my thoughts of rest. can't run, the distance is too much and I am too weak. I have left off running for too long. they say things are not black and white but nobody really explains what to do. wish I knew the answer. I am confused and stupified by the thought of going thru the imagined nightmares.

the ghost are coming. they are waiting like how people wait at the arrival halls. they are anticipating, impatiently. I remember when I was young, during competition, chains were attached to my legs. and I could not for years overcome that barrier. Lossen the chains! But, alas. Till the day there was no anticipation, no ghost staring, nobody at the arrival gates with an evil glare and the sign board that read- Hannah. Painted in black and with the scent of deciet and rounded words.

My life is chained. Ball bearings pulling me down to the center of the earth from fear. I want to fly into the shadows, sparse cry of the after rain and grassland capturing my imaginations and running the last lap with sweat drnching my face and still feeling like I woke up, just.

I want to fly over the hurdles and prove. I want to spit in your face. turn my head. no it is not a spit of a contempt. I just want to gain back what you have taken by no right. Snatched from my hands when I was a child. The right to myself. You took the key to my room and all I want is it back. And, ghost, I am coming back for it. It is up to you to hand it to me peaceably or I would fight for it. scream and punch. I am energize. Sedated with electricity.

The story is long and repetitve. But the ending will be swift and daming. It will snatch you like fire and smite your withered carcasses. It would finish what was not eaten. The body is battered but it is not dead. WHY DON'T YOU LOOK ME IN MY EYES!!! It begins at the arrival gates. It begins from the journey. But it conquers the imagined nightmares. It shatters your vase in smitherings. It burys you where you deserve. Your nitch in this world.