Friday, August 29, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
3. Blinds and Mirrors, See For Yourself
Rays of ultraviolet seep through the blinds and I am awake. It is sunrise, but I have no plan. In fact, I haven’t even began. Sitting at the edge of my bed, like someone trying to get intimidate with their partner but too shy to speak so. I have no such said partner.
1. Place paper filter in brewer
2. Open pack of coffee
3. Pour in filter
4. Press brew switch
6. Let brew
7. Remove filter
8. Empty contents of filter into garbage
9. Pour and consume
It’s hot. Bitter. Watery. Should’ve just went to cafe? But I didn’t, and I needed this now. I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to step out that door. I didn’t want people waving and saying good morning when I didn’t even sleep. I didn’t want to walk. But if I did, my cup of coffee wouldn’t be so...watery. But if I did, maybe I would be wondering what if I didn’t, and that I could’ve had the coffee I gravely needed 20 minutes earlier back at home. To go or not to go, to do or not to do, mundane questions that trouble me way too often. Decision making was never my specialty.
But today. Today, mundane questions do not trouble me. I drink my coffee. My consciousness is thick. My plan was to devise a plan. Then to follow the steps devised as if brewing a cup of coffee. Then pour and consume. Instead, I went off tangent, I wondered why coffee is bitter, why people drink it so often, and why I shouldn’t drink orange juice instead.
Everything is blue as the sun rises. Somebody forgot to white balance. Please remind God tomorrow. No, I am quite troubled. Sever this! He doesn’t need me and I don’t need him. He’s happy to be rid of me. But why does it burden my mind? Does it burden his? Surely not, not anymore. He despises me for being that burden. He despises my mother for leaving him. He despises me for reminding him of her. Surely my mother despised him. Why else would she leave? She didn’t love him anymore. She hates him. He was never there for her, like he was never there for me. I’m sure of it. He merely green-lighted my existence, because it was his duty to. There’s nothing to it. I hate him. I despise him.
My plan is complete. My plan is my mirror. My plan is shattered. The pieces, mingled...misplaced. Some further broken down, unidentifiable speckles that will never be restored. Yet they sparkle, and they reflect. Bits of me in every piece, big and small, a multitude of faces and eyes, fighting...to be gazed upon.
I look away. My knuckles bleed. My eyelids droop. My legs weaken and I stumble back. In the back of my head somewhere, free-floating, like a fragment of a broken asteroid, I scream. My body trembles as my mind shrieks. My father is my nothingness. Without him...I become void...ever-adrift. My consciousness will transcend my ego and detach, seeking a new able anima, abandoning emptiness.
What’s left...nothing.
Être continué...
1. Place paper filter in brewer
2. Open pack of coffee
3. Pour in filter
4. Press brew switch
6. Let brew
7. Remove filter
8. Empty contents of filter into garbage
9. Pour and consume
It’s hot. Bitter. Watery. Should’ve just went to cafe? But I didn’t, and I needed this now. I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to step out that door. I didn’t want people waving and saying good morning when I didn’t even sleep. I didn’t want to walk. But if I did, my cup of coffee wouldn’t be so...watery. But if I did, maybe I would be wondering what if I didn’t, and that I could’ve had the coffee I gravely needed 20 minutes earlier back at home. To go or not to go, to do or not to do, mundane questions that trouble me way too often. Decision making was never my specialty.
But today. Today, mundane questions do not trouble me. I drink my coffee. My consciousness is thick. My plan was to devise a plan. Then to follow the steps devised as if brewing a cup of coffee. Then pour and consume. Instead, I went off tangent, I wondered why coffee is bitter, why people drink it so often, and why I shouldn’t drink orange juice instead.
Everything is blue as the sun rises. Somebody forgot to white balance. Please remind God tomorrow. No, I am quite troubled. Sever this! He doesn’t need me and I don’t need him. He’s happy to be rid of me. But why does it burden my mind? Does it burden his? Surely not, not anymore. He despises me for being that burden. He despises my mother for leaving him. He despises me for reminding him of her. Surely my mother despised him. Why else would she leave? She didn’t love him anymore. She hates him. He was never there for her, like he was never there for me. I’m sure of it. He merely green-lighted my existence, because it was his duty to. There’s nothing to it. I hate him. I despise him.
My plan is complete. My plan is my mirror. My plan is shattered. The pieces, mingled...misplaced. Some further broken down, unidentifiable speckles that will never be restored. Yet they sparkle, and they reflect. Bits of me in every piece, big and small, a multitude of faces and eyes, fighting...to be gazed upon.
I look away. My knuckles bleed. My eyelids droop. My legs weaken and I stumble back. In the back of my head somewhere, free-floating, like a fragment of a broken asteroid, I scream. My body trembles as my mind shrieks. My father is my nothingness. Without him...I become void...ever-adrift. My consciousness will transcend my ego and detach, seeking a new able anima, abandoning emptiness.
What’s left...nothing.
Être continué...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dream Hunting
!!! Yay finally !!! It turns out it's not a comic book but more of an illustrated story <: Very pretty paintings. You will like it. (btw, this is not my photo) I am probably going to be in Chris' section for black and white photography. If i get in =P. If I do get in, I will probably have to drop Marxism course or ethics course...don't know which one though.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
2. The Rhythm of Rain, Chaos
I’m 22. I haven’t done much with my life but I do not complain. These days when you meet someone new they’d like to imagine that you might be the most interesting person they’ll meet. Then they are disappointed and they wonder when such character will show. In such occasions, I would easily fit into the category of the “extremely uninteresting”, and phrases such as “I haven’t done much with my life” can be used often to nullify anyone’s fragile hopes. I’d like to imagine a world where people don’t have to spend so much time worrying about making “proper” impressions to gratify the prejudgments of others. I’d like that.
More people make their way into the cafe, wet from liquid pest. They look uneasy, but compose themselves momentarily. The menu, they should order something for taking refuge in this haven. Besides, they’d want that venti sugar-free non-fat vanilla soy double shot decaf no foam extra hot peppermint white chocolate mocha with light whip and extra syrup. Oh, and cinnamon powder...please.
I’ve conjured a plan. Not really a plan, more like a thought really. I need to do something...about my father. Things needs to be known... How does one go about to reprogramming mindless robot slaves? Perhaps the TV first... In any sense, something must be done. He is no more my father than that of my toothbrush. Yes, he raised me. Why? Well, killing me was out of the question I presume, what other alternatives are left? I haven’t seen him for nearly a year now, and I feel nothing. Our relationship was never...formal. And I need some kind of answer...to this...question? I need the long awaited green light so I can speed forward towards nothingness, I need the clamp to remove the aching tooth once and for all. I need the slap in the face.
The rain dance atop my umbrella. The sound...neutralizing those of burning gasoline and petty chatter. For a second my mind is empty, a random moment of uncontaminated bliss... The scent...the gleam...the emptiness...
Then the sight of a familiar intersection, a familiar building, and the recollection of my home, a contaminated corner of trivial existence. The divided planet, up for grabs for those who can point and shoot. The great cities, built upon the backs of the unfortunate. And me. I am born from the womb of a woman I never knew. I am a virus. I feed off society. The abundance of hope, where everyone has a chance, the brightly lit future of tomorrow. Civilization is my host. The passerby is dumbfounded by the blinding light of hope, he raises his arm above his eyes to have a better look. The light above the commoner casts a deep shadow behind him, stretching towards oblivion and etching despair, the complete lack of hope. Then the light explodes...
By sunrise, I shall have a real plan.
Être continué...
More people make their way into the cafe, wet from liquid pest. They look uneasy, but compose themselves momentarily. The menu, they should order something for taking refuge in this haven. Besides, they’d want that venti sugar-free non-fat vanilla soy double shot decaf no foam extra hot peppermint white chocolate mocha with light whip and extra syrup. Oh, and cinnamon powder...please.
I’ve conjured a plan. Not really a plan, more like a thought really. I need to do something...about my father. Things needs to be known... How does one go about to reprogramming mindless robot slaves? Perhaps the TV first... In any sense, something must be done. He is no more my father than that of my toothbrush. Yes, he raised me. Why? Well, killing me was out of the question I presume, what other alternatives are left? I haven’t seen him for nearly a year now, and I feel nothing. Our relationship was never...formal. And I need some kind of answer...to this...question? I need the long awaited green light so I can speed forward towards nothingness, I need the clamp to remove the aching tooth once and for all. I need the slap in the face.
The rain dance atop my umbrella. The sound...neutralizing those of burning gasoline and petty chatter. For a second my mind is empty, a random moment of uncontaminated bliss... The scent...the gleam...the emptiness...
Then the sight of a familiar intersection, a familiar building, and the recollection of my home, a contaminated corner of trivial existence. The divided planet, up for grabs for those who can point and shoot. The great cities, built upon the backs of the unfortunate. And me. I am born from the womb of a woman I never knew. I am a virus. I feed off society. The abundance of hope, where everyone has a chance, the brightly lit future of tomorrow. Civilization is my host. The passerby is dumbfounded by the blinding light of hope, he raises his arm above his eyes to have a better look. The light above the commoner casts a deep shadow behind him, stretching towards oblivion and etching despair, the complete lack of hope. Then the light explodes...
By sunrise, I shall have a real plan.
Être continué...
Monday, August 11, 2008
1. The Tick Ticks Slow at The Cafe (rough)
My coffee is bitter, the sky is grey. Lightning followed by thunder. Droplets on glass window, bending light through warped lenses. I look beyond and people scatter. Those with umbrellas walk fast, those without- faster. Rain...another good reason to hurry along, for God said only 24 a day.
As I sit here alone like any other day, my father is busy. He is always busy. Blends in with the rest no problem. Nowadays the only way you are somewhat different, is for someone to know your name. Otherwise you look the same, walk the same, buy the same things, watch the same movies, read the same newspaper. You’re one of some.
I remember back in the days. He tells me “time is money, son” as if he coined the phrase. Then he’d put on his long coat and walk through the front door. I don’t say goodbye, not since the day he decided it was a nuisance. I walk over to the door and stand on my toes, barely tall enough to peek into the warped lens, he’s already gone.
A young woman in a bright red coat walks by my view and into the cafe. She is beautiful. Probably has a large circle of “friends”, companions. People like pretty things, and the media corporations only took good advantage of it. I am not going to talk to her because I am nobody. I’m not going to bother describing my features to you, I’m just another guy. And this young woman in red, I’m not going to bother describing her features either, she’s just a pretty thing, and surely you know what a pretty thing looks like.
She ordered a latte and left...too quickly. Half of the people watch as she leaves, the other half pretend not to care. The rain continues, but I don’t mind it. I like the rain. I’d like to think that it’s cleaning this place. And the world feels much smaller when it rains, everything much closer, more intimate. The beauty of water falling from the sky, if somebody would just stop for a moment and see! But they don’t, they hurry along like it’s some sort of pest. Their luxury coats and luxury cars and luxury umbrellas can’t take it.
Être continué...
As I sit here alone like any other day, my father is busy. He is always busy. Blends in with the rest no problem. Nowadays the only way you are somewhat different, is for someone to know your name. Otherwise you look the same, walk the same, buy the same things, watch the same movies, read the same newspaper. You’re one of some.
I remember back in the days. He tells me “time is money, son” as if he coined the phrase. Then he’d put on his long coat and walk through the front door. I don’t say goodbye, not since the day he decided it was a nuisance. I walk over to the door and stand on my toes, barely tall enough to peek into the warped lens, he’s already gone.
A young woman in a bright red coat walks by my view and into the cafe. She is beautiful. Probably has a large circle of “friends”, companions. People like pretty things, and the media corporations only took good advantage of it. I am not going to talk to her because I am nobody. I’m not going to bother describing my features to you, I’m just another guy. And this young woman in red, I’m not going to bother describing her features either, she’s just a pretty thing, and surely you know what a pretty thing looks like.
She ordered a latte and left...too quickly. Half of the people watch as she leaves, the other half pretend not to care. The rain continues, but I don’t mind it. I like the rain. I’d like to think that it’s cleaning this place. And the world feels much smaller when it rains, everything much closer, more intimate. The beauty of water falling from the sky, if somebody would just stop for a moment and see! But they don’t, they hurry along like it’s some sort of pest. Their luxury coats and luxury cars and luxury umbrellas can’t take it.
Être continué...
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
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