i wonder if it's the society that influenced us or us shaping the society.
like what we are doing spendin our youth, the age of un-extinguishable energy, following society's norm and our mums' words? for i think all those certificates, qualifications only, mind you, only show good you are stuffing otherwise pointless stuff in your mind and regenerating in exams. that's all. is intelligence measured by how much you can remember or the ability to survive the rat race?
it's not cos we dunno how poisonous it is to follow. we ain't blind. just simply afraid. defeated. and over the yrs, simply lost e will to fight. it's sick. to see generations after getting weaker n weaker in the mind. our forefathers climbed trees all the way up to the canopies, we are contented with the undergrowth.
what for?
we are young. we live once. only once. why the hestitation?
i want to hitchhike. not just anywhere, but here. here in our sunny island. i wanna know how many taxis i have stopped before successfully gettin home. or will i even get home?
does it feel like we haven't never been alive? sputnik spunned @6:17 PM
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Lonesome Traveller
Lonesome Traveller.I've stumbled upon these 2 words several a times in a course of a year.
With each tick of the clock, we are swirling, perhaps unknowingly, through the dance floors of our lives. A different style, different partners, mirroring each note and each tempo. From the jovial country folk dance in our early teens, to the hot cha cha at our prime, ending in a slow waltz.
Often, the music changes unexpecting, like a whirlwind through your heart. Leaving you to hastily adopt and change into a new outfit. A new outfit. Who will you become now?
Sometimes you dance alone. Perhaps there isn't a right dance partner to set you grooving through. But then again, your mind may be riched with meanings that you feel everybody is dancing with you. Literally.
And sometimes, you dance with someone else, or several others. But are you really there? Are you really with them?
The mind and the heart. Like fighting bulls with no sign of relention. Leaving behind nothing but emotional scar. Make peace, the battle will wear you out.
Emotional scar. Would the scar of a chickenpox spell feel as much as a slit through your wrist? Each scar, a different story, different sets of emotions weighing down a past. Memories forever trapped and locked up, till you are willing to flip the pages again.
You are a Lonesome Traveller. No doubt. Like everyone else. Each finding the place where you are physically and mentally there. Where you are no longer a single unit, but part of an entity. Where your life is worth living and your future is worth shaping.
Justify. sputnik spunned @5:43 PM
Monday, June 09, 2008
Birthday Wish
It's raining. Crystal droplets of rain came crashing down as if racing each other to the ground. The number of sprinters never seem to end, almost merging into perfect strings.It's raining, like all his past 6 birthdays. His first smell was the sweet November rain. The first thing he heard was the gentle tap on the window pane, like staccatos on the piano. But that's a past that he will never know. A part of him forever buried amongst the synapses and neurons. He will never know the wonderful melodies, only the thunderous slams on the drums.
Another birthday going hungry. Instead of wasting energy salvaging through the dumps, he knows it's wiser to conserve his energy, find a nice shelther and sleep the hunger pangs away. Maybe if he prayed harder this ear, the white cotton clouds will truimph for the rest of his birthdays. If only he had a candle. That's what the other kids do, blowing out colourful candles of all shapes and sizes. Clasping their hands fervently, closing ther eyes in glee and making a wish. He had seen them done it when he peered through their windows.
Rain or shine, they always have their cakes. In pink, brown, white and all the other hues you can imagine. He was sure cakes are girls. Because they love to be in fancy colours and beautiful gowns of whipped cream, hazelnut and chocolate chips. And girls always smell nice.
He remembers what his Papa said: "God doesn't help you if you don't help yourself."
Running quickly through the rain, he grabbed some twigs and stones and headed back to his shelter. His home for the day. His small brown hands grasped the stones tightly. Strike after strike, but still no sparks. No fire to lit the twigs. He sobs, angry that God wasn't helping.
A passerby stipped in front of him. A bearded man, perhaps in his forties. He took out a piece of paper, rolled it up tightly, lit it with his lighter and handed to the boy.
"Quick, before the paper's all burned up."
The boy stares at the man. Mouth opened with nothing streaming out. He blinks. And then he understood. He made his wish and blew out his candle. A rare smile spread across that pixie face of his.
From a distant, he thought he saw a raindow hiding shyly behind the white clouds. sputnik spunned @12:33 AM
Baby
The phone beeped. Once, twice. You can hear it echo down the hall. She looks at it, with little interest. She swung the door opened into another cold winter night. Fumbling her pockets for her lighter, she lit a Malboro. Drawing circles after circles."No matter how hard you cling, it will still slip through your fingers."
Such stinging words.
The evening sky's painted black again, as if robbed cruelly of it's laughter and joy. Just like her heart. Empty, dull.
She screamed silently.
Back in her empty house, the vacuum is overwhelming. She wants to scream the highest pitch, cry the largest drop of tear, run the longest distance. She wants to pull out all her hair, returning back to the innocence of a baby. She wants to slit open her stomach, like the way they did to her mother so that she can have her first breath. She's all coiled u now, foetal position. Naked.
Self-denial. Self-reproach. Self-ish.
Maybe when the Sun rises beyond the glass windows, hers will too. Until then, darkness looms. After all, you come into this world alone, you will leave alone too. sputnik spunned @12:33 AM