the children of time.

Mondays are the faded but rational ones, making schedules and cleaning up. They are the voices of reason, but still give in to Tuesdays who are already overdosing on anarchy. They always ends up alone, their laughter turning to Wednesdays' tears, who have never really stopped crying. They don't say much at all. Thursdays sometimes hum just to break the silence, and can read more from rare smiles than useless words. Those two are in love. Fridays always cling desperately to vices and wait for Saturdays' company to hold each other tightly until their wasted delirium fades. But Sundays... Sundays know they're the end. Still, they close their eyes, and pretend it's all just beginning again. Sundays imagine their own world.

when I'm hurting...

When my fingers tremble as I type, I know the words I want will not run straight or easy. When my thoughts constantly elude me, hidden in some unknown corners of this bitter maze. When my entries get scarce here, and the raindrops don’t write themselves to any seemingly coherent points. When my emotions have been choked breathless and dried out. When I’ve felt too much of everything, to know what anything feels like anymore. When it’s so fucked up and down and in and out and backwards and upside down all at once. When the world turns slowly, but we all keep rushing. When there are crumpled tear-stained tissues overflowing every trashcan. When the fire is too hot to touch. When every song sounds like a heartache. When my dreams are just black and it feels worse than the nightmares. When everything is never as it seems.

the drunken ramble poet.

Well, I wrote the following ..."almost poem" last night in bed... and with no wireless yet, had to promise myself I would post it today.

I’d forgotten how great it feels to be measured on a level deeper than just appearance. Maybe not much deeper, but still a change. After a reawakening prompted by double vodka cranberry’s and a “highly” involved psycho self-analysis… I can feel my life slipping into a once-known territory that now seems entirely unfamiliar. I am hesitant about how to act… and grasping desperately at the hope that I won’t have to act at all. Anymore. The hope that my nature will rise to the surface, and this new world will see more than the last. More than my skin colour, chewed nails and nervous fidgeting. I know how to wear the masks, and play the part to perfection… but I don’t want to anymore. Always so cool, so aloof and rambunctious.. yet my eyes are blurred. They remain fixed on the horizon. You can think you know all there is to know about me after 5 minutes alone, but everything you know is wrong. If I could look away for just a moment, and let the mask slip….

There are a hundred thoughts I chase away every night. A thousand doubts, and a million memories. All of my tomorrows start here. Amidst the patience that doesn’t wait, but ends... and the pain that doesn’t hurt, but heals. It doesn’t matter how dark the sky is… because the stars are always there… even when you can’t see them. I wish I could tell you all my secrets… but my eyes are losing the battle against gravity, and the sandman is steadily trudging along in the distance. It is 1:24 am, and I am snuggling under this poufy marshmallow duvet, and drifting into the sleepy kingdom of the unconscious. G’night world. I kinda love you… even when I hate you.

the end of the beginning.

From a 3 year summer of excessive staring and the wonderland of the ex-pat elite... to a 3 month springtime of the straight, successive and solitary. Yes, it’s finally time to claw my way out of the rabbit hole, and leave behind the security blanket that is daddy’s thick wallet and guilty conscious. Unfortunately… I very much enjoyed not having to worry about bills or bank accounts… and am not relishing in my analysis of what I know is about to happen. I’m going to get this done right the first time and throw my entire life into a money funnel. I’m going to find a job I like that can lead to one I would love, and work ridiculous hours just to smile at a piece of paper with a slightly higher number on it every two weeks. I’m going to write my little ass off, and get this novel finished. I’m going to sideline with web content articles, and video editing. I’m going to make youtube videos again, to distract idle hands and thoughts. I’m going to quit drinking again, cook at home and wear out my library card. I’m going to do anything and everything I possibly can, and attack every opportunity with feverish persistence. This is one of those rare moments when I have disallowed myself the option of failing. It’s quite an amazing feeling to have an unwavering purpose, yet amazingly disheartening to know it’s such a shallow one.


Sometimes the right thing and the hardest thing… are the same.