The Logic of Dreams

2008-02-26T09:54:00.001+09:00

Hiatus.

Because I've finally caught on, and it feels absolutely terrifying.

aveuglé

2008-01-27T23:55:00.000+09:00

After a week of unproductive scribbling, I gift you with the opening paragraph of my novel! I know it's vague, and confusing, and ficc-ish, but it's something.

Don't stone me. This hasn't been spell-checked.

*

Symphonies of sound crash against his body; songs come in waves and everywhere is the surging resonance of hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah. It frustrates him to be grateful to the differences in pitch creating a hazy outline of the world.

There was a time when he could slice a falling leaf along the center vein blindfolded and it is not so different now. The air speaks to him from stone walls and their tapping acoustics, the sound from his knuckles shooting up and through and inside the great empty cavern in the center of the tower. Sometimes when this happens he almost feels like he can see everything at once, but then the vibrations fade and there is just a blind man in a forgotten hallway.

These are the times of silence, which are never truly so: the hollow drip of water from the ceiling and the empty gust of breathing. People forget that even when all the light is gone sound still remains, gasps and whispers of cloth, wet noises he only half recognizes in the back of his brain. He hears a voice in his dreams, saying, "Sing for me. Please, please, sing for me."

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah. But he keeps his mouth resolutely shut.

Fin.

Pet

2008-01-16T23:05:00.000+09:00

pet: (noun)
1. an object of the affections
2. a person especially cherished or indulged; favourite
3. an animal kept for amusement or companionship

I cried today. I cried for thirty minutes straight with James Blunt's 'Billy' on loop. I disgust myself.

I Can't Even Spell Your Name Anymore

2008-01-12T03:10:00.001+09:00

mood: nostalgic

It's gonna be our 1-year anniversary in a ~~few days~~ matter of time. I'm not exactly sure why we met or even when we met. I can't remember the day you left or the days when you called to apologise. I don't know how I found a friend in someone so different or how we managed to fit.

If you were here I'd never have a fear.
So go on live your life.
But I miss you more than I did yesterday.
You're so far away.
So c'mon show me how.
'Cause I mean this more than words can ever say.

I guess this is an extremely belated apology. I wish I knew how to say sorry without having to rely on My Chemical Romance, though... you hated punk rock.

Out of sheer boredom, a second post

2007-12-26T05:32:00.000+09:00

My brother is sitting a few feet away from me, munching on raisin bread and playing Nintendogs. Not nearly as far away, lifeless, lies my duster. As usual, the duster seems more at home than my own flesh and blood.

Maybe because the duster doesn't scream "Motherf*cker!" every few seconds in a manner that makes me want to punch him right out of the window of our suite. No, that would be even more uncouth than his heinous misuse of Anglais. I don't think such unladylike violence is encouraged in Paris, especially not so close to Champ dé Élyseés.

Galliano might sue.

TOBITO

2007-12-26T05:07:00.000+09:00

As far as unproductive holidays go, my current venture should be in the Guinness Book of World Records. I have done nothing these past 4 days but :

a) eat tasteless veal escalope
b) photograph Parisian landmarks
c) sleep at ungodly hours
d) buy incredibly useless/expensive trinkets
e) tolerate Eminem's misogynistic prose
f) reread LKH's latest catastrophe, 'Lick of Frost'
g) procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate

The whole point of this European venture was to do some much-needed research for my novel. Where, pray tell, can you spy mere mention of 'research' in the above itinerary?

... my penchant for costly things and infinite laziness is positively disgusting.

Joie de Vivre

2007-12-18T12:38:00.000+09:00

"We toasted one another with joie. It is a rare liquer distilled from flowers that blossom in the snowdrifts of the Camaeline Mountains and its taste is indescribable, at once cool on the palate and burning in the palate."

"Both wine and joie were flowing freely, and there was so much to see. Everywhere one turned, there was an array of fantastical figures: gods and goddesses, sprites, nymphs and demons, creatures out of story and legend, animals of all ilk. The masks lent a sense of abandon to the proceedings. One knew who one's companions were; and yet they were strange and unfamiliar, no longer themselves. It made one sense anything was possible."

Where's a masquerade ball when you need one, huh? Where's the goddamn alcohol?

Bang Bang Motherf*ckers

2007-12-12T00:35:00.000+09:00

Tonight, after over an hour and half of queuing behind Frenchmen/women with not an iota of propriety, I got to see My Chemical Romance in concert.

They were incredible. Absolutely smashing. Best thing since ice-cream. The sh*t.

*

I'm very happy right now.

Grumble

2007-12-11T01:11:00.000+09:00

Angst cereal. About as nutritious as pig slop, twice as foul, and full of undiluted self-loathing.

Why, then, do teenagers shovel it down their throats in great mouthfuls that seem to hinder the mortal reflex that is breathing and expect all the absolute garbage to somehow morph into something essential for the normality of their youthful cognition?

I don't know. I most certainly don't care (to some extent, naturally).

Je t'aime

2007-11-29T07:36:00.000+09:00

“This is what you do to me.”

*

The rapid beat of his heart thrums against my hand, a romantic gesture if not for the smothering cloak of regret hanging heavy on my weary shoulders. Our eyes meet, a sudden clash of brightest emerald and dull black, his eyes the only recognizable colour in this gray, gray world blurred by tears of shame.

“Je t'aime, mais vous soyez trop en retard.”

I love you, but you're too late.

*

His smile fades.

*

Mandy

2007-11-12T19:02:00.000+09:00

The microwave emits a soft beep, reality sharpening with haste unkind, peaceful daydreams interrupted by mundane human routine. She uncurls from the almost foetal position on the bunk, legs feeling strangely alienated from the fleshy bond of human muscle, walking made difficult. Odd. Stagger to the microwave, empty the packet of basmati into a mug, and stagger back to the bunk. Suddenly ravenous.

Steam curls around her slender neck, a wispy collar against flushed skin; an imprint of a time long past. The fragrance is different today- ‘Spicy Mexican’ stares up at her from the packet’s broken seal. She likes life to have some form of variety, no matter how subtle or unnoticeable.

She rummages around under the covers, surfacing with a stained teaspoon. Adequate. The first bite of rice burns its merry way down her throat, a wave of heat emanating from that single mouthful and penetrating the mortal barriers of blood and bone, rushing straight to numbed toes and finger tips that tingle not uncomfortably.

*

“Doll?”

Fear.

“Mandy, doll… where are you, baby?”

Fear.

The rice loses all flavour, suddenly an ashen pile of refuse in the maw of her mouth as she fights a rising tide of nausea. Both mug and spoon land heavily in her lap, spilling scorching heat over the front of her jeans; a pinprick of awareness in a haze of panic, a hidden trapdoor in the recesses of her mind, a fleeting diversion from the horrors of her darkest dreams taking on earthly form.

“I said, ‘Mandy, doll! Where are you?”

She panics, a blur of movement; clutching red-hot silverware to her front in the hopes of being able to still the frantically-beating appendage lodged deep in her chest, fighting its way up into her throat, choking her to the point of pain. The sheets are no longer a comfortable den, now twisting snakes of flexing cotton and scratchy synthetic chains waiting to swallow him in a tangle of imminent screams and, surely, death.

“Hey! There you are! Leah sent me back to check on you!”

Idiot. Just Bert.

She relaxes imperceptibly, spoon clattering to the floor, forcing a smile, face losing some of its original pallor. Just Bert, very drunk.

“Hey, Bert. You okay, man? You look a little sick.”

She sees Bert’s usual grin, compelled to offer a grin of her own. Smiling seems as unnatural as walking in this state of awareness, the past looming all too close for her liking. Lips twitch in a parody of expression, hoping to convey some emotion too complex for words to ever support- that she is scared, and not scared. Wary, and not wary. That she is not a kid but needs to know that her demons are truly exorcised. Lips twitch again, and then freeze.

Bert leers.

*

She started to cry, then, her hands fluttering in the darkness like little birds with broken wings, sobs taking on the desperate note of the damned.

*

'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone;

All just supply, and all relation:
Prince, subject, father, son, are things forgot,
For every man alone thinks he hath got
To be a phoenix, and that there can be
None of that kind, of which he is, but he."

-John Donne

In memory of What We Once Had, February 2007-April 2007.

God bless.

Gone

2007-11-03T19:20:00.000+09:00

The room is a garish nightmare of peeling wallpaper, stucco, and scarlet plush, the undercurrent of gossip steadily rising above the buzz of the television, black and white figures staggering across the pixellated stage in a smear of static interrupted by violent flashes of sudden colour and hisses of dismay. A multitude of different voices entwine in this whirlwind of irrationally loud noise- a hundred and twenty-seven different girls discussing a hundred and twenty-seven different boys with varying levels of interest, a hundred and twenty-seven fake smiles pasted onto impossibly glossy lips.

I am the only one who remembers a time when there used to be a hundred and twenty-eight girls discussing a hundred and twenty-seven different boys with varying levels of interest, a hundred and twenty-seven fake smiles pasted onto impossibly glossy lips, and a single earnest grin directed at the gawky Asian girl in the corner.

I am the only one who remembers waving goodbye. The only one who remembers complete silence. The only one who remembers that farewell is no laughing matter.

I grieve alone.

Think

2007-10-28T17:34:00.000+09:00

(i).

"Tell me, please"

Who the f*ck did you want me to be?
Was it something that I couldn't see?
Never knew this would be so political.

"No"

Sure, everyone has their problems
You get on my nerves: that's reality
It's not always kisses, hugs and beautiful words.

"Tell me, plea--"

They say time will heal everything;
I'm through with doubt, I've paid the price.
Why can't you just get over it?

"No"

Seasons are changing, stars are falling
Days grow longer and nights grow shorter
Please tell me you'll stay.

"Tell me, pl--"

f*ck.problems.hugs

"No"

heal.falling.stay

"Tell me. Please."

f*ck.problems.hugs.heal.falling.stay

"If you insist."

i.love.you

*

(ii).

Who the f*ck did you want me to be? Was it something that I couldn't see? Never knew this would be so political. {Please-Staind}

Sure, everyone has their problems. You get on my nerves: that's reality. It's not always kisses, hugs and beautiful words. {Make It Work-NeYo}

They say time will heal everything; I'm through with doubt, I've paid the price. Why can't you just get over it? {Not Ready To Make Nice-Dixie Chicks}

Seasons are changing, stars are falling. Days grow longer and nights grow shorter. Please tell me you'll stay. {Your Guardian Angel-Red Jumpsuit Apparatus}

Maddi

2007-10-27T12:59:00.000+08:00

She is plenty of things.

She is a connoisseur of K-Pop, somehow finding coherence among carelessly uttered ‘saranghaeyo’s and mangled English sentences with irrepairable grammatical errors. She is very much a child at heart, frequent renditions of ‘Put your left foot in, put your left foot out’ and frighteningly enthusiastic performances of the Chicken Dance testament to her carefree spirit. She is a talented writer, staying ever modest even as complete strangers pay homage to her fanfiction with all sorts of remarkable YouTube videos. She is a top-notch procrastinator when it comes to completing reports of the scientific kind, much more content to sit and brood over the latest fandom cliché incited by not-so-outrageous claims about Lucas Grabeel's homosexuality. She is (possibly) schizophrenic, a multitude of alter-egos making it almost impossible to distinguish reality from fantasy.

She is Mazia, Meomi, Madelyn, and occasionally Idiot.

But first and foremost, she is Maddi.

Jonah

2007-10-23T17:59:00.000+08:00

This is what our X'mas Dinner skit is based on.

Honestly, could humour get any more crass?

Georgia

2007-10-22T22:33:00.000+08:00

We lay sprawled in the courtyard, sunlight lapping at the red brick and lulling us into the welcome lethargy so often associated with lazy Sunday mornings, the discordant mish-mash of garbled words and pulsing synthetic waves blaring from nearby speakers at a volume too loud to be soothing but too soft to drown out the syncopated rhythm of our beating hearts; a disjointed harmony interrupting the comfortable silence constructed by teenage awkwardness and mutual contentment.

Beside me, Georgia stirs- stretching languidly, tousled hair further mussed by slender fingers, fluttering eyelashes shrugging off the last vestiges of sleep; every artist's model of debauched innocence, complete with hooded bedroom eyes and swollen lips from the illusion of having engaged in encounters of the more passionate variety. I smile, indulging my little fantasies, imagining just how amusing it would be if someone happened upon the two of us in such a state; Georgia smiling devilishly, both of our legs still closely entwined as a result of attempting to play Twister while lying down.

She laughs, a carefree sound not unlike the tinkling of many a yuletide bell, thoughts reaching the some conclusion as my own a split second later. That coaxes another smile from me; she is still an innocent, still able to laugh at the frivolity of the idea and still able to forget such a thing crossed her mind in the first place. And while I cannot ever hope to regain the childish naivety that she possesses, I keep on smiling. She deserves this- the opportunity to look at life through a child’s eyes and to experience everything from behind the carefully cultivated barriers of society’s ideals. Her reality is untainted as of now, the cloud of bitterness trailing my own gratefully absent from hers. It is not my place to piece apart her perfect realm of existence.

That is something she must do for herself.