Friday, December 24, 2010

12.24.10 | My Second Lucid Dream

A triumphant smile of realisation breaks across my face.
I'm in a dream! I tell her. I am dreaming!
She twinkles at me.
And you—you're in my dream!
I reach out to hold her hands, and she lowers her head humbly, still grinning.
I have finally learned to lucid dream! It's just like what they say—knowing you're in a dream and being able to control what you dream of and what you do!
I look around.
I know this place: it's based upon the store I went to this morning, and I am currently taking my afternoon nap. This dream has been fabricated from my memories…
I stop short.
But you—I don't know you in reality. You're not from my memories of reality.
She looks up at me.
Or is that 'reality'? I start pacing. Her eyes follow me. Maybe this is reality. Perhaps I have known you all along in these seeming 'dreams' that are truly reality in disguise. Perhaps this is the explanation to my seeming lack of free will in what I have been calling the 'real world' all my life…
Her radiant smile has faded. She parts her lips to say something, but no syllable escapes. Impulsively I continue to ramble.
But then again, both reality and the dream world are mixtures of free will and going with the flow. Before this I did not have much free will in this realm. Before this I just swam along with the natural flow of my dreaming. Speaking of which, before this epiphany, what——

I am interrupted by a memory that strikes me:
Masked men were on my tail before I ran into her.
Many of them, fully armed.
Are they still after me?
Fear has now swallowed the lustre that had been on her face just a minute ago.
I hear hurried footsteps growing louder and shouts echoing through the corridors, ricocheting off the smooth concrete ground to shatter on the shelves of merchandise.
I turn to flee, but my legs grow heavier and heavier with each and every step.

The shelves around me dissolve to walls of dust and collapse in on me, further hindering my flight. I have lost the distance between the masked men and myself. They glide over the debris like ghosts, while the quicksand of merchandise still heavily obstructs my passage. My limbs have stopped following my orders and pleas.

So much for free will, I think.

I wake up.


Sidenote: "Fiction" for the fantastical elements, or "fact" for the fact that I really dreamed this?

Thursday, December 9, 2010

12.09.10 | Sticks and Stones

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

I wish.

I take every single insult thrown at me and magnify it, trying to figure out what drove the person to say it. Even when the person says it for entertainment.

Plus, I am one who believes that words can indeed be very powerful.
Words—these mere sound waves, vibrations of particles travelling through the air—they're more powerful than punches thrown at me.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

12.05.10 | Imitation of a Notebook

(Note: I had first written this on the inside cover of my notebook.)

​​​​​This is an imitation
​​​​of a ‘notebook’.

It appears to be
​​​a stack of thin sheets of pulped wood and fibre,
​​bound by metal rings,
​sitting here in your hands,
​​​​     waiting,
​​​​​          waiting…

​But what does it wait for?
​​               you ask.

​​​Does it await
​​the settling of your dreams
​​​​into this curious integration of squiggles
                         ​​​​​called words?

​​​Does it await
​the spilling of your ink and graphite
​​​​after battles
​​​​​of ideology?

Or does it await
               ​​the true awakening
​of your enigmatic mind?

          ​​​​I say.
It does not await a thing,
for this imitation of a ‘notebook’
is merely a figment of your imagination.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

11.28.10 | Lodged Words That Cannot Take the Form of Words

I have an idea.
Hang on—I always have ideas.
Okay, let me try that again.

I have an idea for a poem. A good idea. (In my opinion.)
But I can't seem to find the right words for it.
I've tried for three whole days to start it off properly, but it hasn't worked.
The page is still blank.

I feel the need to let that idea run wild, but it is still developing, developing, developing...
The idea swells and swells and swells, and I can't get my mind off of it, but it just refuses to come out right.

I wonder what inspires me most.
Emotions? Objects? People? Events?
Or perhaps it is the perfect combination of all of these, with a touch of something else as well.

Am I the scribe of my thoughts and feelings, or are they the scribes of me?

Sunday, October 24, 2010

10.25.10 | Run for your life!

For all your life you try to run faster than the train, hoping not to get flattened along your way to the end of the tracks, but once you hear the train whistle growing louder and louder and feel the crescendoing rattling of the sleepers and the steel, you give up.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

07.27.10 | Amelia Earhart

To delve into a sea of blue
And not get wet
But still feel the exhilaration—
Now, that is the magic
Of flying.

To hear the sound of wings
And imagine
I am a bird, whisp'ring
To the people and trees
That swish by,

I am victim
To the lure of flying;
I am a hobo of the air.

(Note: the last line is a quote by Earhart herself.)

Monday, June 28, 2010

06.28.10 | Brave New World

And then the sky opened, and a hail of melancholy poured from the gaping hole. The torrent was sent to cleanse the city, but instead seemingly took away the denizens’ pleasure—everything they valued melted away.
Along the boulevard, buildings started dissolving, showing the steel skeleton of the structures, but those, too, evaporated as soon as they came. Cars and buses and bikes did likewise. The things in the buildings—the beds, the writing desks, the computers, the carpets, the toilets, the Frigidaires—all of them evanesced, as well.
People looked upward at the strange aperture in the sky, regardless of where they were at the time, feeling the rain beat down on their hair, their skin, their clothes. Those who were inside the buildings were brought back to their senses as they realized the floors they were standing on and the seats they were sitting on all started crumbling. They ran outside onto the street.
Strangely, no person disintegrated. Neither did the dogs and the cats and the canaries and the rabbits—neither did the trees. Even the concrete pavements they were standing on began turning to dust, and their clothes disappeared like cotton candy on your tongue.
Grown-ups hid behind trees, whereas children stayed out in the open, intrigued by the oddity of the shower. They waved their arms, as if trying to speed up the vanishing of their clothes, and they jumped up and down to see what splashes and puddles the precipitation made.
The grown-ups stayed behind the trees, hidden, trying to usher their children over without revealing themselves.
The children did not care.
Soon, none of the denizens were clothed at all, and nothing was left but the people and the animals and the trees. The ground became dirt, and the rain ceased. The puddles on the ground evaporated, leaving behind fresh, new soil, endowing the people foundations of a brave new world.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

05.09.10 | Alphabet Soup

I am swimming in a sea of commas and semicolons, trying to reach punctual shore, but these raging asyndetons and clauses and appositives and polysyndetons keep crashing, crashing, crashing at my power of will, trying to push me below literal surface. What is the meaning behind all of this?

But I don't want to drown in its seemingly bottomless sea. I wish to just stay on the surface, to make my way to Euphoria as soon as possible, where I'll finally be free of the strict rule of Syntax. Just swallow the words, I told myself. No need to digest—just keep going.

There are now predicates on my tail. Looking for their subjects, perhaps? But I have none to spare, for I am trying to survive; I have a goal.

I swim faster to prevent their action-verb teeth from chomping off my toes and feet, but homophones are straining me, pulling me in all directions but up. Who commanded all these actions?!

My body is tired. I have gained quite a distance between the predicates and myself. I take one gulp of air and decide to let go for a moment, to immerse myself briefly, just once. Beneath the surface I saw monsters - metaphors, similes, symbols, allegories. Terrified by their overwhelming complication, I resurfaced.

The shores of Euphoria are closer now. I see the waves of words crashing on the shores and breaking into letters and sinking into the sand to settle there as forgotten lore, meaningless. I could feel the sea loosening its grip on me, but due to my fatigue, I could not swim much faster.

After a while, I finally am washed ashore, out of breath.

Friday, April 16, 2010

04.16.10 | I Must Have Been a Bird

I must have been a bird
In my past life,
For I love feeling the wind
Splash on my face,
Lapping it as a dog licks its owner.

But somehow something happened
And I lost my wings.

I sinned.

I wonder what it was
That deprived me
Of liberty,
Of the purest state of being
There would ever be.

Was my crime a theft
Or a blasphemy?
Or was it I who chose to lose
My then unbounded freedom?

Why would I have left it?
Why must I want it now?
Why must I now remember
My past life,
When I had wings?

This pressure
Of being human
Overwhelms my fragile mind,
Restricts it from flying
As wildly as my imagination does.

If only,
If only my mind could be
As free as my thoughts.

Within this cage
Of promised "equality"
Has washed away
Almost all
Of what is left of my mind.

My wings—
I long for them,
To have them once more,
To fly, again,
With birds of my feather.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

03.17.10 | Yet Another Human Being

God, I am such a hypocrite—
Such a damn, damn hypocrite.
I deserve to be in hell—
Forthright hatreds I must quell.
But how will I succeed,
When so many hearts have been shattered,
When so many souls have been scarred?
I realize my countless, countless wrongdoings,
(But those of others, too.)
My misanthropy backfires,
Now 'tis death that I desire—
To forget my lurid discovery
Of the essence of mankind.