I am the chaos and you are the cosmos
Friday, March 25, 2011
For the eighth wonder of the world:
I could really try to write you, but they would never be able to see you like I do. The sinister look on your face when you're up to no good, the way the shadows fall so perfectly under the lines and curves of your skin, the way you break out into random, irrelevant songs that are on your Current Obsession on your playlist at the most inappropriate moments. Above them all, the way you like to think of the world in an alternative light - Could there be someone in this world who is doing exactly what I'm doing right now? There has to be someone mouthing the same exact words as I am now. - the way you're scared as hell about some things yet recklessly throw yourself at it. How is it that you entrust your trust into people so easily?
I adore the way we talk as though we're about to cause a revolution. (We are a revolution.) The way we have created an alternate universe for ourselves while being fully aware of our realities. It softens me, really, when you get so vexed about the turmoil going on around the world and speak with such indignation in your voice, as though you've ever experienced such unthinkable injustice. I often muse about how you'd entertain my feminist ways and put down your own, readily acknowledging the devastation that men have caused in this world instead of fighting vehemently for your own gender, all despite having been hurt by a myraid of oestrogen - driven beings.
You take on the world, naively challenging its force to descend upon you so that I may escape unscathed. Which is it - your over-estimation of your capabilities or your overbearing will to protect me from every, single evil of this world? - I can't decide. (I am thinking of the way you speak of these as real threats out to get me, in all seriousness) It amuses me, the way you are so level-headed and serious(deceiving the world), yet are capable of doing the silliest things beyond my imagination, sometimes to irritate, other times to entertain and try your luck at bolting a laughter out of me. Yet under this sensible layer you can be quite the reckless child that you are, in your occasional incapability to reason out your narrowed perspectives. You take after your father's stubborn, absolute nature. I don't ever want to be like him. Yet, you express the innate fear in every son that resists the propensity governed by nature to propel toward a particular characteristic which you've been deeply scarred by.
I love how you ruminate upon my words and give it such weight and thought, bothering to address it despite being plagued by fatigue. You romanticise me, put me on such a pedestal I dare not set foot on. You're the most captivating speaker I know of in the entire world, screw Hitler. And how you so vividly remember the things that I say, even those in passing. (Sometimes you twist my words in your paraphrasing but I forgive you) You willingly allow me to assume superiority and assert my privileged authority over you. I know you love to be in power. But I know, I know too well how you patronise me sometimes, feigning defeat and powerlessness to satisfy my inherent desire for female empowerment.
You are always self - entitling yourself. As though everything legitimises at your proclamation. You couldn't care less. This had always baffled me, until I discovered that beneath that care-less facade you actually do care, and the facade is your shield, your pride, your vulnerabilities. I envy your ability to detach, and discard the hurting past. What is the point of keeping it if its memory is only gonna hurt? That kind of emotional courage, I can never, ever achieve. But as I muse over it, I realise it's your way of living in the moment.
It tickles me when I encounter the child in you, fleeting, but glorious. That short moment when you smile sheepishly or when I make you a promise. You'd think I, of all people wouldn't know how much promises mean to you? You speak of your aspirations with such a child-like passion, in complete wonderment of the great wonders of music writing and self-reproaching yourself for your inabilities to achieve that. (It takes time my child, I believe in you) Yet you possess such a comforting, familiar, fatherly figure which I've always pined for my own father to be.
You are a combination of all the people around me whom I love, with your occasional words that make me for a moment forget that they're not with me. Sometimes, these words throw me into a sea of nostalgia. (Saudade,) But you would quickly sense it and try your best to rectify it. I want to help you forget it completely so that it may never trouble you again. I would then tell you that while these memories may stir up occasional waves of sadness, they have carved themselves in me and become part of me, and re-living them in my mind can be one of the most cathartic therapies. Which is one thing you could never quite comprehend.
(You confused soul, what do you want us to be?) It really doesn't matter as long as I know our hearts beat in sync and that our souls connect in infinite telepathy. (Let's try finishing each others' sentences.) Me becoming more like you, and you, becoming more like me. Because you are my best friend, I love you with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, and for you, a thousand times over.
I adore the way we talk as though we're about to cause a revolution. (We are a revolution.) The way we have created an alternate universe for ourselves while being fully aware of our realities. It softens me, really, when you get so vexed about the turmoil going on around the world and speak with such indignation in your voice, as though you've ever experienced such unthinkable injustice. I often muse about how you'd entertain my feminist ways and put down your own, readily acknowledging the devastation that men have caused in this world instead of fighting vehemently for your own gender, all despite having been hurt by a myraid of oestrogen - driven beings.
You take on the world, naively challenging its force to descend upon you so that I may escape unscathed. Which is it - your over-estimation of your capabilities or your overbearing will to protect me from every, single evil of this world? - I can't decide. (I am thinking of the way you speak of these as real threats out to get me, in all seriousness) It amuses me, the way you are so level-headed and serious(deceiving the world), yet are capable of doing the silliest things beyond my imagination, sometimes to irritate, other times to entertain and try your luck at bolting a laughter out of me. Yet under this sensible layer you can be quite the reckless child that you are, in your occasional incapability to reason out your narrowed perspectives. You take after your father's stubborn, absolute nature. I don't ever want to be like him. Yet, you express the innate fear in every son that resists the propensity governed by nature to propel toward a particular characteristic which you've been deeply scarred by.
I love how you ruminate upon my words and give it such weight and thought, bothering to address it despite being plagued by fatigue. You romanticise me, put me on such a pedestal I dare not set foot on. You're the most captivating speaker I know of in the entire world, screw Hitler. And how you so vividly remember the things that I say, even those in passing. (Sometimes you twist my words in your paraphrasing but I forgive you) You willingly allow me to assume superiority and assert my privileged authority over you. I know you love to be in power. But I know, I know too well how you patronise me sometimes, feigning defeat and powerlessness to satisfy my inherent desire for female empowerment.
You are always self - entitling yourself. As though everything legitimises at your proclamation. You couldn't care less. This had always baffled me, until I discovered that beneath that care-less facade you actually do care, and the facade is your shield, your pride, your vulnerabilities. I envy your ability to detach, and discard the hurting past. What is the point of keeping it if its memory is only gonna hurt? That kind of emotional courage, I can never, ever achieve. But as I muse over it, I realise it's your way of living in the moment.
It tickles me when I encounter the child in you, fleeting, but glorious. That short moment when you smile sheepishly or when I make you a promise. You'd think I, of all people wouldn't know how much promises mean to you? You speak of your aspirations with such a child-like passion, in complete wonderment of the great wonders of music writing and self-reproaching yourself for your inabilities to achieve that. (It takes time my child, I believe in you) Yet you possess such a comforting, familiar, fatherly figure which I've always pined for my own father to be.
You are a combination of all the people around me whom I love, with your occasional words that make me for a moment forget that they're not with me. Sometimes, these words throw me into a sea of nostalgia. (Saudade,) But you would quickly sense it and try your best to rectify it. I want to help you forget it completely so that it may never trouble you again. I would then tell you that while these memories may stir up occasional waves of sadness, they have carved themselves in me and become part of me, and re-living them in my mind can be one of the most cathartic therapies. Which is one thing you could never quite comprehend.
(You confused soul, what do you want us to be?) It really doesn't matter as long as I know our hearts beat in sync and that our souls connect in infinite telepathy. (Let's try finishing each others' sentences.) Me becoming more like you, and you, becoming more like me. Because you are my best friend, I love you with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, and for you, a thousand times over.
Labels: i want your hands.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
New age contortionists
kite kat
kite1
[kahyt] Show IPA
noun, verb, kit·ed, kit·ing.
–noun
1. a light frame covered with some thin material, to be flown in the wind at the end of a long string.
2. any of several small birds of the hawk family Accipitridae that have long, pointed wings, feed on insects, carrion, reptiles, rodents, and birds, and are noted for their graceful, gliding flight. Compare black kite, swallow-tailed kite, white-tailed kite.
3. Nautical . flying kite.
4. Finance .
a. a check drawn against uncollected or insufficient funds, as for redepositing, with the intention of creating a false balance in the account by taking advantage of the time lapse required for collection.
b. a check whose amount has been raised by forgery before cashing.
5. a person who preys on others; sharper. (!!!!!! :D :D I'm a kite!!)
–verb (used without object)
6. Informal . to fly or move with a rapid or easy motion like that of a kite.
7. to obtain money or credit through kites.
–verb (used with object)
8. to employ (a check or the like) as a kite; to cash or pass (a kite, forged check, etc.).
Use kite in a Sentence
See images of kite
Search kite on the Web
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We were completely fascinated by the black fowls perching on the electrical line in the rain.. Addy thought they were showering.. Va and I dismissed it completely but she might actually be half right. It could be a spiritual shower; a form of carthartic cleansing we all seek.
-- I just realised that kites and birds share a correlation in that they both involve flight and aviation!(it was unintentional) Besides, don't you think that the electrical line in the photo looks like the string of a kite?
What is the modern world doing to adolescents like us anyway? It seems to me that the entertainment in our definition is becoming so..commercialised and superficial..at the very core, transient. (I don't even wanna use "we" now. Some detachment is necessary from this point onwards). When did the individual become so vulnerable to the permeation of a warped culture that has distorted the definitions of enjoyment? Whatever happened to his love for simple, beautiful things (like kite flying and water-drinking competitions? Makeshift homes with blankets and bamboos and burning stuff to see what happens to it?) Why do some allow themselves to be freely controlled by temporary illusions and imagined liberation, only to feel worse after that?
The individual becomes so narcissistic; so absorbed by his own indulgences. Almost every neutral event related to adolescent fun has got a negative image attached to it. Of intoxication and delusions. In his futile attempts to surround himself with people, he paradoxically feels even lonelier, emptier. What would then truly satisfy this vacuum in them? He mistakes it for the lack of love and attention,self - reproachment. This longing to be desired compels him to turn to another individual, a companion, for refuge, for mutual completion. (You are already whole my child, not a half being or a jigsaw puzzle.) But when two empty souls come together and suck each other dry, what happens when this process is over and there's nothing left to burn in the aftermath of their depletion of the sweet incense of each other?
Everyone needs that separate world from which they seek solace and refuge in, blocking out the cold, real world. But what does it take for one to be in this world, but not of this world? To be aware, and sensitive to the intricacies of their surroundings but not be a part of it? I believe it's a spiritual force that we need. The force which the world thinks is "given by the Universe". But the Universe is but a vast cosmos with gazillions of stars and a few planets, what is it going to do to rid us of our narcissim and fill up our emotional vacuum? This spiritual force lies with the God who is able to instill in us that transcendental peace that transcends over the worldly chaos of temporal love and satisfaction. A force so incomprehensible and powerful that draws its creation to that one direction; fuelling them, making them whole.
They will try to make you just like them but you will not align yourself. You will resist that in all your adolescent recklessness and irrationality and divert your attention to things that are much more meaningful. You will be highly scorned at but you'll be happy. Free like the blue kite in the vast magnolia sky, with the thread of glass spool our only limit that bounds us to this earth.
Feel, not think.
tubster
I wish i could capture pretty words and phrases and their tones attached to them and keep them in jars for keepsake purposes. But then again their beauty lies in the fact that they're so fleeting and intangible and if you were to fail to capture that particular moment, when it's being said, you lose it forever.
Tubster~ My bright morning star, Ms Taahira the teacher-tourguide-camp facil. I don't even want to begin to contain the spontaneity that you exude within these confines of my blog space. But I have to let you know this. Your bursts of flamboyance never fail to amaze me, intrigue me, and there's always this captivating sparkle in your eyes - the windows to your soul - through which I naturally fall so gracefully into your world (and crawl under your skin and walk around in it). I'd compare you to a mimosa plant (your fetishes about wanting to be a plant), that sprouts out so confidently in flowery patterns, yet shys inwards so quickly when touched; much like your little random spasms. How i admire your courage to simply let your emotions take over as you attach them like stamps unto your experiences, with each attachment you so willingly share a part of yourself with the world - your world. Book a plane ticket to Bali, colour your hair red like the fire that you are, and be the irrational and reckless(Clementine) that we are all receding from; what with our propensity to consistently align ourselves today. The world needs some of Ta's Spontaneous Potion. Give it to them.
I see us in a cosy, quiet, random place with tiny food(your courtesy) - yogurt, berries, nuts, bread, energy bars - just being us. We'll write each others' eulogies. We'll write women out of oppression. But most importantly we'll write to free ourselves and perhaps attempt to figure out the makings of our noodle brains. And when we're done with our self-ethnography writeup we shall get on the train and drown in Haruchi Murakami's magical words. And perhaps right there and then, in our unplanned moments such as the one you guys encountered with the full moon, might we get struck by epiphanies and revelations.
I love you my princess.
Tubster~ My bright morning star, Ms Taahira the teacher-tourguide-camp facil. I don't even want to begin to contain the spontaneity that you exude within these confines of my blog space. But I have to let you know this. Your bursts of flamboyance never fail to amaze me, intrigue me, and there's always this captivating sparkle in your eyes - the windows to your soul - through which I naturally fall so gracefully into your world (and crawl under your skin and walk around in it). I'd compare you to a mimosa plant (your fetishes about wanting to be a plant), that sprouts out so confidently in flowery patterns, yet shys inwards so quickly when touched; much like your little random spasms. How i admire your courage to simply let your emotions take over as you attach them like stamps unto your experiences, with each attachment you so willingly share a part of yourself with the world - your world. Book a plane ticket to Bali, colour your hair red like the fire that you are, and be the irrational and reckless(Clementine) that we are all receding from; what with our propensity to consistently align ourselves today. The world needs some of Ta's Spontaneous Potion. Give it to them.
I see us in a cosy, quiet, random place with tiny food(your courtesy) - yogurt, berries, nuts, bread, energy bars - just being us. We'll write each others' eulogies. We'll write women out of oppression. But most importantly we'll write to free ourselves and perhaps attempt to figure out the makings of our noodle brains. And when we're done with our self-ethnography writeup we shall get on the train and drown in Haruchi Murakami's magical words. And perhaps right there and then, in our unplanned moments such as the one you guys encountered with the full moon, might we get struck by epiphanies and revelations.
I love you my princess.
FUN TIMES
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HOOK-A-GEEK PARADE
JOY BUTTON
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