nocturne

Jan. 31st, 2012 04:22 am
methrowrock: (Air Balloon)
Hi. It has been a while. Too long. The words are wedged in my throat, dessicated and scratchy. What a pity: just a week ago, they were stretching and ricocheting about like noisy, messy Catherine wheels. Bah-dah-dum! Insert vague statement about how things change and stay the same. Done. And now what? They say that the best way to distill your heart's purest intentions is to let your fingers gallop forth over the keypads like wild stallions. Who says? I don't know, but they are right. The monitor is darkened, the keypads are illuminated, my fingers are tangoing with the neon-lit skeletons of alphabets. And it is refreshing. Bon Iver is on eternal loop, because don't you know? He has collected the sorrows from aching marrows, turned them into tensile strings to pluck at, and coated them with the viscous ennui that is his voice. His songs are forests pregnant with fog that you dream about on stormy nights. And bah-dah-dum! again, a deluge of adjectives to mask the banality of thoughts.



the road to nowhere begins here )
methrowrock: (Sunflower)
Limbo, what an awkward word for an awkward phase. It screams inadaptability, incoherence, inelegance. Limbs akimbo, you are a paper doll splayed flat and trodden upon by the grimy feet of distracted toddlers. It is a weird stage to be in- the feeling of transition. Lost in translation: the phrases come as squiggles, the particles and connectors are missing, eaten up by the starkness of "contentful" words. Telegraphic stage? I have been going for EL lectures heh, and what a whole new wonderful world it is! I was worried about growing intellectually complacent, which, on hindsight, is quite a joke, because I am neither intellectual, nor have anything to be complacent about. Every sentence is a struggle to be understood. Thus, my eyes turn into stars when I witness the sparkling wit of Simon Amstell from Never Mind The Buzzcocks. The sharp ripostes flow ceaselessly from a pellucid spring, or something beautiful like that. It is nice knowing that there are people who are awesome out there. They will be the ones to save us from Armageddon; they will splinter the hurtling comets. I will watch and applaud from the shade under a juniper tree. And that, is the exact opposite of what I am supposed to be striving for. Half a month into the new year, and the resolution list is burning itself up in betrayal. Blarg.

the summers daft and winters long )
methrowrock: (My Neighbour Totoro)


The Artist and the week )
methrowrock: (Default)
I missed the countdown to 2012 last night. We had a splendid view of the skyline,- a stippling of chromatic lights upon an inky-black canvas- but we missed it anyway. Sensei Flower was supporting his mother down the stairs, while Ah Da, JJ, and Gus hovered behind unhelpfully. As they tottered gingerly into the room, there was a sudden psychedelic blaze of sparks in the sky. There was a collective gasp of wonderment, mixed in with a little bit of... regret? It IS hard to say goodbye to time, seeing the hours burn up before your very eyes, careening at 360km/h in 360 degrees and disappearing as fast as they had exploded into your consciousness. But that was how 2011 ended: unexpectedly, abruptly, and staring at the backs of people that I had long etched on the back of my eyelids. There was even a whiff of annoyance as I jostled with the rest for a prime viewing spot by the window (all the better to take pictures from. What does it say about my generation that requires our days to end up as photos?) It was unassuming, it was understated, and for that to have been most of my year was something that I really appreciated. From here on: the annual summary of dazed days.

we will see when it gets warm )
methrowrock: (DBSK!)
Reclining against a creaky chair, as the night winds weave around dust-covered figurines and worn shelves, it seems that this is the peace that I have been looking for. Maybe it is the winding down of days, the ripping of sheets from a barely-there and badly-frayed calendar, the trickling of minute minute-sand that is especially visible at the end of the year. People begin to seek closure, attempting to repackage their shapeless days into sizable chunks of meaning and epiphanies. The retrofitted motorcycle emits a syncopated snarl, flaying the silence of the night. Rubber tyres grind gravel, the fan-blades slice through buttery air, the traffic lights take turns to wink: there is a muted and neutral precision that makes it feel that everything that you see, hear, touch, smell, taste is there for you. This world belongs to you. It exists for you. And when you reciprocate by immersing yourself fully in the world, with the world, a palpable calm settles over you, washing away worries and woes. Until, of course, this world that you see cracks and morphs into something else, shuddering from the fractures it had concealed. Self-contentment is a funny little thing, always evaporating just at the point of crystallizing. Ephemeral and fleeting, it lasts as long as, and is as invisible as, the air aspirated for its fricative descriptions. But for now, the hues burnish bright. The surroundings quiver with vibrant surreality. And you breathe, breathe, breathe, filling yourself top-full (not with direst cruelty lolol) with air so crisp that it could adorn your lungs with a thousand paper cuts. Gruesome, but you know what I mean.



there's always time on my mind )

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