Propagation of the Truth.

Midnight. All is quiet. The silence is both soothing to the soul as it reeks with its indiscreet slither of insanity. All is still. All but that silent thump. *thump* *thump* *thump*, it goes slowly and - as if growing impatient - it slowly becomes louder and louder until *CRASH*.

What began as an innocent little pat would slowly become an incessant flurry of mad flailing and pounding upon the walls. The masons, the guards and gatekeepers are diligent. They stand fast and hold the fort. The walls will hold. There shall be no defeat this day. This day. What about the next? What about the month ahead? What about the future? Will fatigue not find its way into the souls of these obstacles? These shields of meat? Will not we succumb?

The city will soon tire of the ringing in its ears. Blow upon blow, it grew from a silent rhythmic harmony to a skippy beat and when the cacophony reaches its crescendo, will the city still be there? Will the walls hold? Not on this day. We are tired, we are hurt, but we have yet to be broken.

Hold fast and still my dears. Perhaps they can't see us shaking from the outside... We will win and they will never know of this...

D.A.R.D.

What we can always rely on with confidence is who we are - our own personal Northern Stars to guide us through the sins we commit. The blank slates of our life continuously imprinted upon by grace, marred by betrayal, caressed by romance and love, defaced beyond recognition by loss and missed opportunities yet embroidered with memories of beauty and the mystical. The sins of our fathers, they haunt us like they were our own. Countless folds upon folds of unvoiced agony alongside the multitude of tears shed for joy, sorrow, grief and anger emanate within us. Silently dictating which path we take along the labyrinthine journey of life. Every step one takes along their path inevitably becomes an indispensable part of them, becoming one with the traveller's personal vat. Personal. Who we are. Who are we?

Some believe that we are the product of what we are put through, twisted metal scraps regurgitated from the grinder. Others believe that we are what we were taught to be, perverse images of flamboyant ideals.

Although I cannot invalidate the two, I must add that there is more to the equation. We are also the fruit born of what we want to become. Our capability to learn through interaction and through observation allows us to take a look at the bigger picture and decide what we would like to become. What I speak of has been labelled as intra-personal intelligence. Such introspection exists but is not practiced by all. Looking into one's self is not always simple and may be harrowing for some.

It is the examination of what we have become as a result of the collective trauma and glee which we have seen and been put through. We do actively choose what we become but it may not always be a choice we readily or even consciously make but there is always a choice. Heavily dependent on what one believes in for him or herself: True Justice, True Love, True Peace, True Joy, the list continues. The quest we embark upon is for the personal development of ourselves as engines of our beliefs.

Alas, through the twine of some lives, there is not time enough for such petty self-indulgence. Life carries on and little or no concern goes along with the decisions which are made with repercussion to the neighbour. The road is rocky, worn are the wheels but the truck which is them will still trample upon the livestock it ploughs through. The collateral is of no consequence to the actor. The injured lie broken and spiteful and decide to bring their truck to the fields...

Thankfully, I have no car yet.

The incoherence. I love it! I love it!!

True.

It's true, when I am not so exasperated with my life, I stop posting here. Not to be mistaken, we all have our little exasperations in life. It's just that I believe that I can deal with this exasperation for now. So much so that I feel no need to spill my heart out here. There have been times where I wanted to but could not be bothered to do it.

I've found myself angry, moody, agitated, enraged and sad but lacked the initiative to bring it here. Been keeping busy with gaming, performances and convincing myself that I've got a job. What a farce. For now, I believe that I have better things to do than this but I am fairly certain that I will be back though.

Where The Yellow-Brick Road Crumbles...

Life is but a dream. That is what it seems to be at the present. A mundane, meandering, slow-boating dream filled to the brim with subtle chaos.

'lo the pressing of those on the other side of the glass as they smear their faces upon the dome of the life I would like to call my own. Watch as they attempt to leave an impression of their hideous grimace upon the frames of my mind. They leave nothing but more; more shit on my wall to face.

It seems a custom I hold to myself that everything I attempt will end in failure. The confidence I portray is but the presence of the Masque or care (which in the case of the latter would be the lack thereof).

Less than a moon has past since I was told that I had spent close to two years working on something which might be deemed insufficient or irrelavent. Would I face the axe for the shame which currently dwells within me? The bile of bitterness returns directed otherwise at not only those which shot me to pieces but to the shards over the ground which made up myself.

Far from eager to learn of the fruit my labour has borne, far from ready to approach strangers and request that I be compensated for my 8.30-6.00 hours and far from ready to deal with everything else being smeared on my face.

Escapist, guide my path. Where shall I hide next?

Standing Alone In Time

Second Upper eh? Good job brother. I am truly proud.

A conversation between a friend and myself a handful of days ago entailed some reminiscing and recalling of some of the memories which I used to run away from until recently. Honest and true. Oddly enough I never believed in running away from problems yet I still ran. I ran for my dear life. Or did I run away from everything else as well?
This new place I find myself in, this strange new place is soothing and somewhat carefree yet I feel empty. As corny as it sounds, I have lost a part of myself. I ran away from it. My friend insisted that I could find it again, I just needed to do some back-tracking. Not true. I have dropped it. I have lost it. It is impossible to reclaim. I could try to rebuild what was lost but I believe that it would never be what I used to be.

The masque. Beautifully decorated and an essential piece of my life. The layers it holds protects me from who I really am, it protects those around me from what I do not wish to share. Friends are beautiful people and they offer to help but this journey, as I have reiterated on countless occassions, is one that I alone have to face. Face. Funny. The masque is something which I still have with me and something that will be with me for the rest of my life. Of that I am very sure.

I do honestly believe that many live like I do. Some keep to their masque together very well, others cannot help but hold the broken pieces of theirs together in the hopes that nobody else is paying attention. There are so many of us out there, we are the same yet all alone. Hiding from something which we do not think we deserve. Hiding from society and cliques who do not need to know, who do not need the added salt upon their own wounds. Common courtesy in some circles, secrecy and mistrust in others. It is interesting how being polite can also be seen as mistrust which is a very unattractive yet unessential component of good manners.

I also finally admitted that I had learnt a thing or two from someone I once knew. Alongside the masque, I now have my very own personal fortress. How about a little bit of Wayne's Great Wall of Shit to hold people at the border? Beautiful. As unfair as it seems, I doubt anyone will get hurt in the process and hopefully I would have let these walls down by the time someone else comes into my life. For now, I just want to snuggle up in my blanket on my bed and in my fetal curl, be lonely, with these four cats.

On This Gusty Night.

How I love the rain and all the stormy friends it brings along with her.
This night was beautiful. It continues to be as the breeze rolls in through my little window and caresses my face in the night as I type this out in my little lamplight. The beauty of the night seems to call for melancholy almost naturally. Nature's own little calling for a dark and slow groan, to remind itself of what within resides.
What a clever cellist the wind is with my steep abode's eleventh-floor windows and balcony.
How the tempo besmudges me with this beautiful state of emotion. How it droops my eyelids and sings to my heart to remind it of the darkness which still resides within. Slowly as It brushes against my lips and my chin does it enchant me with the memory of the requiem my own hollow self would hold if I held it against a listening ear.
I gaze outside and notice how Man's little decorations of light and bricks only seem to feel so still and stagnant amidst the life of tonight. The life of the night and the canvas of the world in symbiosis, in agreement that I should see and recall what I do:
Pristine white, pure and flawless, keen and guiltless, she mounts her ebony steed. To be beside her was a gift for that sun and moon. Quite like this one but with less beautiful scenery. I know not what else would bring about this beautiful little frame to mind and heart other than the yearning of this night. This gusty beautiful night...

Objectification.

Yet another revalation.

It is odd how this one still feels light and freer than it once did yet in not questioning it, this one has no answers for what happenned earlier. It is still confused as to what this all means and it tries not to ponder too much upon it. This one yet ponders. It ponders about what could have caused this great crevasse between the two so great that even a wave would seem hazardous.
It would like to believe that It was over everything that has happenned and that it was free from whatever dredges it felt were holding it back and despite no longer feeling any weight from the little past yet this one cannot help but feel the sourish tinge when it was again reminded of how cold the ice-box really was.
Noticing in how this knot in the yarn is far from unravelled and smoothened out, this one will retract its thesis upon which this one presumed that it was over everything and that it could thenceforth enjoy the gaeity of life's bounty. This one must ponder more upon it.
T'was said that true love be eternal yet they never spoke of what would happen to them if indeed things ran awry. Does the immortality of this silly noun called love carry on and become a walking cadavre oozing with perversions of its former self?

This one gazes upon its wall of shit and smiles at the curves which seek to eke out an intricate design of irony which although appealing, destroys itself.

Ah yes, this one ponders too much, it thinks.