methrowrock: (Default)
So I am sitting here, typing away at the keyboard that is made for gremlins and elves. My thumbs hesitate between the slivers of grey space, wondering about the constellations that they will trace out. I wish I could say that it is a cosmos in my head, but it is not. Black holes and vortexes, maybe, and that is the extent of my know-how of the universe. 

An interesting tweet popped up on the feed today. Apparently, scientists of some sort discovered an Earth-like planet that could support life only 22 light years away! Oh the potential, the functions, the knowledge! But a light year is still so many human years away. What is it about us that we delight in discovering situations similar to our own? We love to see the un-known, the un-real, the un-iverse as a reflection of ourselves, and we would spend hours grinning foolishly at how similar we are, how different you are! We exist as our own points of references: if that is not loneliness, I don't know what is.

The train is exceptionally crowded today. Hulking helices zipping along, filled with people with places to go, people to meet. There is an odd sense of temporality, of duality. The sense that you are there only to be somewhere else- the purpose of the journey. The sense that you are there and you are somewhere else- the process of the journey, plugged into your private sphere of music. The skidding tyres attempt to override the tincan drumming, the conversations of others jostle for your attention and judgments: they forgot that you are an obstinate oaf, so up goes the volume, down with the world. 

And even, within yourself, there are odd contrasts. The air conditioning blows upon my shiny knees, and yet, the backs of them are clammy, having stuck to my thighs for too long. There is a slight stickiness of backs, that disappears where my spine dips into its curve. It is something small, but something discomfiting. Haha it is funny how the tiniest unease is amplified when the sensory faculties are prickled. All of a sudden, your body is not your own, and these flying fat thumbs, who do they belong to!?

So this is me without a thesaurus and self-censorship, huh. There is more, but alas, I have missed my stop. Sigh.

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: (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 )

Profile

methrowrock: (Default)
methrowrock

March 2013

S M T W T F S
     12
345678 9
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
31      

Style Credit

Syndicate

RSS Atom
Page generated Sep. 26th, 2017 12:19 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Most Popular Tags