Wednesday, 2 October 2019

This Will Make Perfect Sense When I Wake

Talking and thinking about Nietzsche makes me feel like I'm in love all over again. And writing even more in thinking about him makes me miss the feeling of love. I'm not sure if I've felt it before, but I definitely feel it now. The efforts of defining love always makes its way back to my very first questions of love, infatuation, eros, altruism- There are too many terms to define the things I am feeling now, but the closest I can emote is total nothingness.

I think I have a confession, but it's not something to condemn me for, nor is it something to even keep thinking about, but talking and thinking about Nietzsche, amor fati, Sisyphus, and how it all ties together, makes me think of you. Makes me miss you. Or miss a part of myself. Or a mere concept.
Because it was always love in our conversations, in our debates, in our reflections, and in how we reflected each other-

But that's the problem of reflections, I guess, it always bounces back. Love bounces back. In the pain, through the numbness of thoughts. To reflect myself. Or a mere concept. Or you. Or thoughts of you.
I think I've written enough about love but I don't think I'll ever stop. Love goes around, forever, within myself and in missing you, in thinking and talking about this great confusion of fate, destiny, love, all sorts of labels that will all amount to nothingness, to eventually make me fall in love all over again, again, and again.

Sunday, 23 June 2019

Andante

Taking too much time on a single book, maybe talking too much about how it's ready to be published when in reality you know it isn't, can be irritating for both the author and eager consumer. I do wonder sometimes why has it become so important for my words to take a physical form and why does it need to reach the hands of others- through excruciating pain of believing nothing is ever turning out right. A voice in my mind whispers, it doesn't have to be perfect! But there is still a little flame that feels it hasn't burned all the way through the page. 

Right now, Andante is made up of crammed muscles as I drag my fingers across the keyboard, typing this. Andante feels as if I haven't found the right songs. Andante feels like a child not ready for his first day of school. Andante tells me nothing rings clear enough, through misty metaphors and voices in other sounds. I am my poems, I defend myself- but Andante tells me otherwise. 

I have read through and through for about five days now as Andante is ready to move. But my fingers drag on still, and I stay awake at night feeling nothing is enough, feeling I'm not enough, feeling I haven't written enough words yet, feeling silence as the only thing that makes sense now. 

I write things halfway, feeling my heart is in some other place unwritten. Feeling my soul is searching elsewhere for better solace. I will go cry some more. 

Monday, 27 May 2019

Balderdash



My pockets were empty. I had already bought the things I could get at home, but there was probably a bit of thrill to bring new things along with good news. The stride to leave felt more calm than ever despite sounds from lost tourists and late passenger announcements. I saw the smile coming from someone who sounded a lot like home as he allowed me to cut his queue. Maybe a part of me has always claimed home even after living off a suitcase for so long. Home is wherever I am, but more importantly in the person I've become.

I sat next to an uncle who reminded me of my old Chinese neighbor, only to find out I was totally mistaken. His accent wasn't from home for sure but it didn't wear off the familiarity I felt, as of now I am accustomed to how everyone's tongue curls different from their mothers. I remember him because he shook his head when I told him I write poetry. 

"I never understood art... The purpose of it," he says, blurring out the view of blue skies from the window behind him. "All that media does is corrupt minds. People get distracted. It's toxic," he spits to my face, but I did not flinch. I was prepared for a debate, but silence felt like a better way to win. I pulled out Orwell's essays and left him dwelling in his own worldview. 

You'd probably blame me for not being the defensive kind of person but I learned a lot more from being silent. It's the Zen everyone's missing out on. The silence is when I hear my conscience loudest and when God's whispers are best heard. It's from writing so much poetry have I learned to dream while I'm awake, to look closer when the world looks the other way, to fight for the things hidden in each of our darknesses. But he probably felt better with the gravity of logic. I get it, with your feet on the ground you'll walk the walk of a thousand other lives. That is a fulfilling life too. I wouldn't blame him for being totally comfortable where he belongs, because I am totally at home with who I am.

"You have your way. I have my way. The right way, the only way, does not exist." - Nietzsche. 
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