day 1

H: why didn't you hold me (suspended mid-air).
I: I shouldn't. (from afar)
H: why shouldn't you?
I: I don't know. I just don't think I should.
H: (she falls) now what should you do?
I: I won't do anything.
H: Why.
I: It just is.
H: How could you.
I: You will understand. (because I don't have the answer.)
H: I don't, and I want to understand now.
I: Love is...
H: Oh...so you're using the love excuse again...
I: Love is...
H: Excuse me, what love? Isn't it too soon to say love...
I: Love is to sacrifice.
H: huh?
I: to hold you, is only to satisfy us both, and not love.
To touch, is to make contact, to introduce the private body to another body apart from mine.
but it is still not love. It is only when we are less than ourselves...that to love yearns to be utterly less. I know no better way to put it.
H: And leave me here to fret for myself...
I: No...but to keep you in touch with yourself...and the cold hard surface.
H: And what am I supposed to learn?
I: I do not know.
H: How useful.
I: Pain is...
H: I find your infinitive verb 'to be' as extremely restrictive.
I: I thought you were a bimbo...
H: How insulting!
I: Impressions fail us.
H: Come lie beside me.
I: Why.
H: to make you understand my perspective.
I: I don't see the need to...
H: All you said made a certain sense. Up to a certain sense. But it could happen to you. You...failing and falling as well. And no one is around to grab you, steady you and keep you upright. So what do you do?
I: I will still stand still.
H: You will certainly fall.
I: Still, it does not matter. I will pick myself up.
H: No one picks himself up. It is a composite of reasons that makes it possible for even movement to occur.
I: Woah.
H: Fuck you.
I: I'm sorry, I only mean to express my admiration.
H: Don't get tacky with me. I meant to say...
I: Pain is the best resource of edification.
H: And what if you fall off a boat....Or fall asleep, and die without pain.
No pain. You think there would be pain....but you just die.
I: Then...you are just meant to leave.
H: Leave? To where? I don't even know where I came from. I dare not imagine some other dimension that I would be sent to and be entrapped all over again.
I: ....
H: Come lie beside me.
I: (he lies down, but still afar)
H: I didn't know...that the sky feels so wide...and yet so...small.
I: The universe has been trivalized. Another dimension to colonize.
H: You are too stern. uptight. relax.
I: Now, you don't blame me for not grabbing you?
H: Maybe...you're right. I don't want to be touched.
I: I don't want to too. I begin to see how the human touch does not only connect, it is also extremely frightening. Suddenly, you feel and touch another person, and the person is immediately faced with the raw prospect of various reactions. What is he or she to do?
H: All very nice. But you didn't catch hold of me. My safety should take precedence over such a discussion on human touch.
I: I love you.
H: Oh?
I: I love you.
H: Inigo. All very nice. Say it all you want. I'll stand up and walk away.
I: Haha. It's actually too late. I realise something.
H: What?
I: If you were alive, I would say, you are truly loved.
But you're not. A creation.
H: And?
I: you live, to be separated from your first love, only later to sacrifice next yourself too, that the next love may appear in succession.
H: Oh...
I: And....

H: And

The image of them lying side by side, two together, forms H. As they come closer and closer, eventually interested with what each has to say.
Where is the hypen, you ask, and I would say...it is your gaze.

day 2

"hold me dear,"

"i will,"

streams of consciousness, flowing through, with the speed of sound, not too quick, but quick enough to make more than an impression, tickling the pores of our skins, the gentle caress of invisible wind strings, and we'll do well to hold each other dear, before we fall to the ground, before we faint to the weight of our eternal burden, colours returning, heavy hearts, burning the hard hard cold fists of unbridled - that's why we feel alone - loneliness, and we should hold our hearts together, and somehow we'll find, underneath, the treasures of the mind and heart - because we try - and we'll be the ones who stay, in the race of no return, hard tracks of clay, yellow paint and sky blue cast, we'll follow each other, follow follow, the swallows who kiss the ends of tail, spear-heading, flanking, side-by-side, touching for assurance, the coasts of lands, over bodies, over oceans - we won't fall - we won't cry - we'll soar

*******

snow red, strawberries, or berries, just berries, in the sky above, falling to heal us, dust, from the mountains, the perpetual springtime finally move on to be winter, and we will be home, and we can abandon the gods, we can bear to be on our own - as long as we hold each other dear - and we will watch our hairs grow long (messy), morning, hear my snores, i hear your twisting and turning,

and we switch back, change sides, still loving...

"hold me dear,"

she faints.

and Inigo stood still.

non-day

in the plenitude of words, (though mostly silently said),
we find ourselves, suspended, refusing to acknowledge, the tangible voices of saying what we feel.

in the magnitude of pauses, excruciating long and quiet pauses, punctuated by yes and no
we could only, defeated, accept to say less, the futile actions that give false promises of forgetfulness.

the longer the pause the better.
the longer the words, the more we hope they conceal.

beneath the surface, you tear, I sneer, the hollow farce of patience. killing me softly
with not only words, but in not wanting to say much,
you close your eyes, pretend to sleep
as I labour through my hypocrisies.

above the pain, you muse, I lose, the deep lust of pleasure. reviving me shortly
with not only mornings, but in the dreary waiting to sleep,
I close my eyes, unable to sleep
as you punish us with silence.

the shorter the wait the better.
the shorter the morning is, the less we realise the dream.


And as I sleep, and as you write,
separated as we are,
less is more, more is less
I find myself, inadequate, to show us, what it means, to be still.

day 3

I should faint;

that is what I must do - my action -

It must be swift, I must gain his attention,

Oh my god, he stared at me, didn't he?

Oh. Why is he turning away?

I must do something!

Oh my god, he is not looking back

I must do something!

Oh my god, he is...

I...

She faints,

it would probably take 2 days to describe what happened in 2 seconds.

day 4

The first controversial issue to arise from my latest interest in my subject is that I suspect I have a crush on her.

It happened when I stared at her eyes, and quickly I averted my gaze away from her. But she saw me. She saw and did nothing. Absolutely nothing! Increasingly, right after that moment of encounter, I have been thinking of her. It is absolutely unacceptable. My course of inaction (inaction because it is precisely a lack of action) departs from my initial intention to merely observe. Increasingly, I find myself emotionally attached to her. And I am greatly disturbed. Were it not be more productive, that she was ugly!

But in that ONE second when I stared at her and averted my gaze...the crucial second second decided for me the next course of action: I should try my utmost to separate my emotions from my philosophical work! I must!

And,
as if she knew, she fainted -

And I stared back, motionless, she fell...slowly...as if to save her with my gaze, she still falls...I move with my gaze, I thought I could....o! the laws proved otherwise.

And she...

day 5

When the two meet, it's always from a distance.

Helen sees a boy from afar. His hair, tied to a nest, with split ends and curly frills. His eyes, perpetually small but surveying far and wide. His bespectacled face, though, suggests a lonely existence but one capable of presenting himself in a light that speaks little of him but more of his performance as a gentleman.

Helen is sad. Departed from her home, she is struck by the gripping sense of multiple possibilities in the alien environment:

a. Should she walk away?
b. Should she approach the boy?
c. Should she just pretend to not notice?
d. Should she just stand and await his approach?
e. Do nothing.

As it is, in the split seconds of decision-making, the boy does not move as well. Helen does not move. She realises, for the first time, that she is powerless in such stagnant moments. A moment when nothing happens. No one moves. No one speaks to her in an assertive manner. No one to tell her who he is and what is going to do to her. She can only stand. Speechless. Unable to act. Well, she is acting. Acting in a stationary way.

Is he staring at her, scrutinising every detail and fragment of her imagination? Is he analysing her, writing a story in his brain? Or is he imagining all the possible ways to approach her? Or has he decided that he would ignore her. Leave her as it is, stuck in her pathetic moment of loneliness, and content to leave her drowning.

They both did nothing. And that was it.

day singapore

Singapore, Singapore.

As a Singaporean, this is absurd.

As an alien in Singapore, this is also absurd.

Which is the country, the city?

day 6

The only possible excuse for writing this story is that it is an answer to the observation of a performance I have been deeply engaged in as a stranger for some time. It can be stated plainly as hyper-bimbotic performance. If given a choice, I would choose to ignore the episodes completely. But my compulsion to philosophicise my encounters leaves me with little choice but to participate in an intellectual endeavour. Have I sufficiently excuse myself? I shall leave that to you to decide.

There is a creed mounted as plagues in many rooms of children which writes: Carpe Diem.
Not to mention the Zac Elfron and Twilight posters that form the tapestry of contemporary adolescence. Anything (one) can be idolized in our age. Any universal idea can be crowned by a tiara and we can champion them as talents, spokesperson and the icons of our new generation. Wait. Men are not easily convinced by philosophical theory unless proven by the life that informs such a message. I shall, hence, partake in such a life and see fit that my subject performs with admirable elegance, the act of being a bimbo.

If we take seriously the lines of words written above, then truly we have an issue that needs to be addressed. Admittedly, it is not of my concern if anyone is misquoted. The truth is, at some level, I have to write my analytical theory as universal. And the thesis is as follows:
If a person is a bimbo, it is actually due to his or her subtractive accumulation of factors that are not his or her own. To put it simply, one is not born a bimbo. One is also not a bimbo by choice. For the thesis to hold true, to put to test with effect a statement of intent to prove me right, I suggest we suspend our disbelief and consider the subject from a transcendental point of view.

The correlation that we are interested in then, is between the bimbo and the qualities or properties of the things that made him or her so. I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that it could be due to lack, that which an excessive need for substance to fill this absence is then profitable to the subject for the actions he or she makes. To remain in a transcendental point of view, the corelation is taken as a priori given. Between the person-in-itself and the thing-in-itself, there can be no self-dependency. To put it simply again, we can only know because there is a knowing involved that makes possible a (knowledge) relation. Hence, I propose this, in the comfort of my transcendental seat:

1. that bimbo X is in relation to factor A
2. factor A exists with or without the existence of X
3. but existence of bimbo X is only possible because factor A has played its part to induce a reaction from bimbo X; it made possible bimbo X

The task ahead, in the coming days, is to determined, then, what could possibly cause bimbo X to be bimbo X; and not person Y or Z.

Instead, let us muse about the definition of bimbo, which has an etymology that eludes me, as much as the actual relation I have of it is dubious. It is an eyesore. A word that I must first understand even before I could write the thesis proper. Is there such a word? Is there a meaning to it? Have we over-generalise it? Have we, in vanity, in order for us to make sense the mysteries of performance, make a fool of a person who is human, o so human? Have we no heart, no finite sense of what it means to be a human? O reckless gaze! we fathom the sun, o gorgeous sun, at your dawning, all those things illuminated we view with a conscious mastery. I know thee! That I can perceive you, impulsively I touch you, in the morning star that is invisible to our eyes. We, us philosophers on our arm chairs, peace be to us all, the demons of our yester-wars.

day 7

Helen believes she is born for great things. A sufficient number of events and factors convinced her so:

She is the yoiungest child - having experienced and thought that she would avoid all the mistakes that her siblings and her old folks made, the privileged she has is that she will always be young enough to learn from those older than her.

She loves to act - and the passion for acting, convinces her that she can soar and perform at every given opportunity, any pedestal and the great outdoors; anterior to her inner workings of the mind will give her exactly the stage to do so.

She is convinced that her parents are the last persons she wants to be - they broke up and are divorced, convinced that they would waste no more of each other's time (and that their children are old enough).

She is pretty.

Her winning factor is her youth.

She moves to capture the moment of her glory.

We are given this unique opportunity to step into her life, seeing how it is that she makes the surface aspects of her life plainly obvious.

As she slides and glides to the stage that is her world, we ask ourselves how we can judge her.
Yes, we judge her...sometimes by not judging her, making her thirst even more for that attention.
Sometimes, it's the simple way of saying how idiotic she is. But frankly, we should sympathize...no...the way of going about is to engage her in the way she wants...another performance to highlight her performance.

we have a story. A fabula that fabricates not her life, but her life that fabricates the fiction.

Helen believes she is saved by her performance.

We'll do well to convince her that. So the story continues, without her meeting Inigo.

And it is from here on that we introduce Inigo, tomorrow.

day 0

Helen moves.

Inigo stays.

Helen likes to walk next to someone, outside, next to places she has never been to. SHe moves, and follows the people as they appear to her. She just travels, to make a new place hers. newly hers.

Helen cannot choose her partners. They come and go. But it is still out of contingency that compels her to stay.

Inigo does not like to stay. But he remains as he is, with or without anyone next to him. Perhaps, he was already there when new people appear to him. He just stays still. wholly still.

Inigo does not need to choose a partner. He ignores them. But it is still out of neccessity that he can make the choice to face the new stranger or face another direction away from the newbie.

They are our two species that we shall discover in the next 7 days.

day void

there is an irrevocable pull - of the future, which lasts a long time , and we'll do well to forget that there's an end.

if I remember the past, it's only because it's gone.

if I remember the future, it's only because I have yet to exist.

beyond those words of gratitude, I find myself speechless to the faces I forget.

Where are they, when time bends towards the relative recognition of their varied presences?

patience is the essence of yearning, of a false hope that never returns you to whence you depart.

If we find ourselves lonely beyond words, and cold beyond any new hide that covers us, it's only because we had once the contact with words and tanned hides that truly warm us, comfort us.

To ascertain infinity is to neglect what it means to be human. Only some sense of finitude does infinity feel more infinite, eternity more unfathomable. But what if there are just convenient binaries?

I dreamed that I was drowning, only to realise that it was rain splashing through the windows and landing on me.

when we return, admirably but still impossible, we push ahead what cannot be returned to, and gather the remnants of a lost peace - instead we find ourselves suffering from that peace. Because it is not perfect. Peace cannot be perfect.

In loops and circles of words, do you know where you're heading?

Turning the heads of people does not make them look back and reflect on their actions. Instead, you're still allowing them to look straight ahead.

If sometimes you find yourself in a ditch, a bottomless pit and dark abyss, it's really because you thought you witnessed some glimpse of infinity, and immediately you found yourself unworthy of such a possibility. Ironic. You then chose not the infinity, but some substance of infinite - you chose an expression of despair.

So try not to despair, try to achieve an even more deeper despair - face infinity and despair at the impossibility of infinite repetitions.

Having said that, the tangible thing to do is to do nothing, the narrowest way of escaping infinity. It cannot get as a finite and liberating as that.

Of course, that's just my excuse to slack. But it is extremely labourious to do nothing.

really.

Try not to think or remember past events, people, structures and phenomena.
(did I just remind you of those past events, people, structures and phenomena?)

We'll do well to just be. Because that is the most gruesome and violent resistance to our human vulnerability to time and space. No one knows how to face us.

Frankly, I don't know how to just be, and do nothing. It's a paradox.

I can write about this paradox. Already I perform. I do.

Well. So I shall end. This conversation will last a long time.

day eternal

my watch is 4 seconds faster than the official time.

4 seconds.

I wonder how it is like to live 4 seconds faster than the rest.

Perhaps, the uncle standing next to me lives 15 minutes faster than me.

It's unfair to compare. After all, he lives his life and I live my own 4 seconds faster.

Perhaps, the time difference does not really matter.
Perhaps, time itself is an over-rated determiner in the course of our lives.

If I have 4 seconds less than you, (some live seconds slower than others) it really does not make much of a difference. We live through it, as it should be, aware that time does determine certain behaviour and attitudes. (I wake up earlier to be on-time)

"Now is your salvation! that eternal life be yours!"

As it is, the bad comparison of eternity to the minute details and workings of time is truly redundant. What we fail to see is that time, as it passes, is truly a great and profound force (I'm not talking about the time we construct). The day and the night that kickstarts and abruptly ends our time are truly things we cannot shrug away and ignore. For there is a strange abandonment when we stop to stare at the dawn and dusk of the day - it reminds us of how abandoned we are with our existence, so concerned with the seconds of life as if our lives depend on them, yet 'now' always certainly abandons us. And paradoxcially, I cannot think of my being without this sense of abandonment. I abandon my time, this time, that I may partake in the time of eternity, the cycle of everyday, staring at the sun that carefully remains still, as the world glides past it in due time. (The ancients thought otherwise.) I think eternity is truly meticulous and tenaciously repetitive yet profoundly unique. I think I see eternity when I see the precious sun and moon, bent by the will of mass - massive love.

If eternity has a time, it is in a day. A day when we wake up, love and sleep, loved.

day 109

when I was young, I could say I was confident of waking up the next day.

How confident.

Now, I am confident of sleeping, and not wake up the next day.

(Waking up is like being dragged out of existence to be in another dimension.)

day 140

maybe the curse is not that we know little or nothing.
but that we know too much.

day of confusion

Dear blogger,

I cannot understand your reply. Could you possibly elaborate? What do you mean by "anthropological machine"? And I do not understand how we move from talking about religious men to humanity. It's quite confusing.

Which is my point" how do you talk about religion to the masses?

Best,
Alvim

day of wrath

Dear Reader,

Thank you for your entry.

The darwinian social evolution of rhetoric occurs precisely at the point when we start to believe that there is a common humanity - and this common humanity must strive towards excellence. Failing to do so just means been cancelled out in due time.

Sin is personal. In so far as you may think everyone needs to be saved (and that I agree whole-heartedly), the subjective relation to sin cannot be undermined by such a massive, and wide-sweeping manifestation of the gospel. To concede to the appealing is to conceal the many inner mysteries, the parables (of which one so favours the prodigal son) and the performance of faith as a paradox that cannot be performed.

When we attempt to essentialize humanity - into an anthropological machine that separates us from animals - we make the mistake of placing ourselves in stark terms without actually getting closer to our core plurality. As much as we are humans, we are beasts. The beasts of the night that prowl in search of lust and pleasure. In other words, when we think we can distinguish one from the other, we always certainly shock ourselves with how close we can be to the 'thing'.

I do not want to condemn humanity. It is humanity that condemns us. And humanity cannot just be wholly together and historical. The personal, that which God searches and judges must be made answerable. Therefore, I cannot agree that we give humanity credit. I can only agree that one must constantly search ourselves, and bear the cross when it matters. Who we trust most are as susceptible to sin as any prowler.

Best,
Lim

day of meekness

To whom it may concern,

Your entry on religious men seems to be a little contrived. I, personally, feel that they deserve a little more credit. After all, the style of preaching, which is very much the trend now, is justified. Considering the massive number of people involved, it will be extremely difficult to speak to them without some form of mediation. Please do consider the hard work they put into His work and it is true that they have produced results. I believe you would also want to see us all in heaven. If God sees fit that His word be preached in this manner, and many have indeed been saved by such a manner, who are we, as human beings, to judge?

Best,
Alvim

day of judgment

Typically, a religious man enters the stage last. His presence will be mediated first by either a legitimising commentary by another religious man, or a voice-over, playback of some form of multimedia, manifesting some faraway and past deed and glorification of the deed, and he finally walks up the stage, all suit-up and ready to proclaim some hidden mystery.

But it's no mystery. We learn later on, that a voice always speaks to him. When he brushes his teeth, when he drives around in his posh limo, when he eats in restaurants' suites with his fellow religious men. There is a simple match going on - God's word and the apparent life that he lives.

Typically, the religious man would speak in a voice, some booming voice, acting like a spokesperson, to proclaim some mystery revealed through him, the annointed him. We return to a familiar matching - that with the divine word, cut and paste out of convenience and the context briefly mentioned and placed aside, and the contemporary autobiographical story. The past is substituted by a convenient present concern and we find, how often, this booming voice, mediated by speakers, to be a comforting voice, telling us, how heaven is filled up and hell will be empty.

Tell that to the warmongers.

How often, as if the simple preaching of the written text without the framing of some worldly design is always insufficient, we try ever so hard to invent and include the things of the world, to dramatise the word. As it is, "Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear." Hebrews 11:3 And I too, am responsible for taking this text out of its context.

Enough shouting. Enough screaming of Allueia or some latin song that tells us so little.
Tell me that I would betray Him. Tell me that I am always tempted. Tell me that I will forsake Him. Tell me that I once murder my own men. Then as it should, my repentence will be a thorn and a weight in me, so heavy, that I await perpetually my final rest.

But enough of the personal pronoun I. As if it always about me.

Instead, the differentiation of identities should have already taught us how we shift from one to another, unable to perform. Always inadequate. Enough performances. Enough preaching.
We don't need another word.

We only need His word, that which do not appear.

day 77

there is a very simple reason why I insist on commas, more than full stops.

the former resists closure,
the latter, utter closure.
or am I wrong?
that perhaps, the comma is actually a prolonged, extended suspension that prevents us from ending when it had ended long ago.
and the full stop, is a pause; to end so we can move on.

there is also a very simple reason why I insist that we love ourselves.
We either talk too much: "O darling! I love you!"
or we talk too little.

moderate love, or the absolute discipline to love, and only love, (otherwise we 'love' for the wrong reasons, desires and fantasies).

I believe love has a simple ring to it. A hum of a throat in anticipation of a voice that utters the simple message. It's not to demand that extra mile, but to supply the self as standing apart from another. When we love ourselves, we know ourselves - all the sweat, shit, pangs and purls; the extremes and the excretions; the pain and the sorrow, the whims and whimsical. there are too many reasons for us to despise ourselves. But there are also many reasons for us to stare in the simplicity of laws and nature. that in every relative experience, there is the bend, the twirl, the swerve that makes possible imagination. When you love yourself, you imagine - and you leave it as it is, without hurting yourself, or others.

R;J

day 123

I have been given this simple task of writing a blog. That's fine. well. so far.

It occurred to me that I do not know how to end a blog.
It seems logical to follow some chronological order. The blog has most certainly started but the problem is with its ending. One cannot just declare an end to a blog. It's almost certainly to remain as a log, a remnant floating in cyberspace to remind me of my irresponsibility. I can't just end a blog. A blog almost certainly remains. The difference could be that it ceases to have new posts. But it just cannot end just like that. I could remove it, pretend it did not exist. Then why should I write, knowing that my words would disappear?

It seems that this is not a simple task after all.

But if you know me, this is really a simple task.

Write.

There. It doesn't matter what you write. The mere act of posting something online, is sufficient to create the illusion of a presence.

What is not so straightforward is the tyranny of this simplicity. To be committed to a blog is to be committed to a presence, a face. That is the problem. This presence or face, screws you up almost immediate. You can't just remove it. It's there. It's there to be remembered, while you recede into the background and the identity takes over.

So I decided to have various characters. Unknowns and incognito. Generic aliens walking through space and filling them up. So when you search for the author, you certainly will not find him or her.

Then I have a slight problem: how to make them stop talking when the blog eventually ends.

But let us leave that dilemma to the authors. I doubt everything will fall into place. (as it is rigt now, they all stopped signing off as themselves!)
Perhaps, let us instead be safe in the knowledge that the blog never exists.

This is where I make my declaration that this blog is going to end in time to come.

day 260

praise a little,
one word at a time,
Hi.

the mere word of 'Hi'.
enough as it is.
enough to acknowledge.
enough to want to say hi.

Hi,

before we say bye.

day 300

You are wasting your time reading this.



Thank you for staying.


That still does not take away the fact that you're wasting your time.

I just wasted my time writing...

Now, give me a reason why I must write.

When will I stop?

(I'm leaving you to decide why you must read)

There is an economical reason for wasting time - Otherwise, we wouldn't know how to fully utilize our time.

So, if I'm wasting your time, please know that I'm spending some quality time with you.
At least, time is spent, in a manner other than just plain utility.

Have I written too much?
If you follow this
train of thought,
we venture,
so far,
we come back to an equation -

one of order,
and one,
of desire
to give presence much credit than it deserves.

Enough performances,
Abra-ka-dabra!
wait, this is not going to resemble a futurist manifesto.

we'll come back to that later.

Amithaba.

- release us, from the shackles of life.

1. either you stop reading.
2. or you read on to accept that there are alternatives.

or simply,
mis-read me completely,
find me a nuisance in the flow of your time. this time. your time.

just this other day, I overheard some students say,
a complaint about the rigidity of the system.
Sad to say, this island is associated with
a generic over-bearing force,
that clamps poor youths down in a downward spiral
of evolution,
changing them into mechanicals.
how they miss the point,
that the system exists, as soon as they talk about it.

some dreams, told, unfulfilled.
I wonder if it was about the dream.
or about the free association, to find themselves an enemy to blame
the poor circumstance they are in.
These students thought,
that they have only lived a quarter of their lives.
but they did not know,
that they lost a quarter of a minute,
with the silent pause of a contemplation
and a thought running alongside the speech.

every gain that vanity brings,
comes with
a silent pain, a gasp of air, and a release soon after.

just this other day, I overheard the students pray
an empty wish to get what they want.

pause.

The treasury in us, is to be found with just doing the simple things well -
to live.
and that includes, wasting our time, with the simple actions in life, that keeps us going.

I find living so exquistively labourious, that anything else just feels too much.

As life is already, I'm fine wasting it away.


Ah. just this other day, I started to live.
then all the performances I put up become so vivid,
that I began to see, what it means to live.
that all along, everything else other than living, is extraneous.
a distraction!
patience is small.
in relation to an anticipation for something to happen.
you will be certain that something always Happen.

So, we return,
after reading,
to another time,
to waste.
in this place, where we belong
whether you like it or not.

He's sure. He's loving it.






, I place this comma here, to remind ourselves, that to continue, as we are always continuing anyway, is an irony - in order to introduce the continuation, you give a punctuation mark , .
(I wasted your time with this explication.)

day zero

I refuse to believe that one can simply write a heteronym into existence.

"the poet is a faker."

the bottom line is that it still comes from the same person who materialises the words.
In the end, the pen that writes a person into existence, dies together with the first person, I.
When the maker ceases to exist, is the made still produced?

Or, perhaps these heteronyms are borrowed. Borrowed from real people who themselves once lived and existed, either on paper or in cities or villages.

"the one is real"
you lose one, you lose all. the simple fact that drives all of these pens together.

whether by method or by order, there is a ferocious force that kills the authors. And we are left to submit to that will, even if someone may continue the pen and write as if the heteronym lives.

- Pessoa

But he is dead -
That is what he cannot say with a honesty.
That has to be written by someone else.
the next performance begins where the previous left off.

- Alvim

There is a method that is persuasive, precisely because it is linear.
It can only happen because after one dies, while the other is /born.

day 109

we have words to say,
then say,
we say, the sayings come closer
of words they said,
then we say,
the words
to say
offering nothing
but the words that haunt us.

of words that haunted us,
don't say,
they said, and we can ignore,
or not,
the words,
to ignore
offering, nothing
of words that cool, with an afternoon siesta...

that spills into a game, a spiel between two chess players,
leading into a stalemate, but by stroke of chance, the earth
shakes, tipping the pieces over the table, and the game ends
with their memories failing them, of the original positions,
and all they can remember, is the act of the future move,
between the step to take, and the step to counter --
that is my dream during my nap,
that ceases, the dream, and the earthquake.

what next?

the next siesta,
if time permits,
another daytime, to sleep, confident of waking.

day 314

"dog on my lap, and your voice into my ear...it's very comfortable" - she

we have a way of making connections with our senses, even though the experience constitutes of really disparate and disconnected entities and emotions.

Perhaps, that's it. Emotions are the roots that connect us, desperate to reach further, afraid we would lose out on the neccessities of life.

but there's nothing necessary except our growing up, no, not old but up even if we will eventually drop, fall, wither, or just drop.

I like to think that we are afraid. extremely afraid that we will lose touch.

but we won't. every moment alone in our sleep, we enter into a tree-state. A state where-when we hug ourselves, and spread our roots - making connections.

she - makes possible the connections.

day 41

Feuerbach does not know faith.

Perhaps, the reason (or non-reason) why the fruits from the Tree of Knowledge were taken as the prior condition in which faith could later be introduced, is that it is through humanity that the human can come to know its own being (or mis-being), or better, the being of God. Knowledge, which separates us from animals, is the condition that conceals the paradise or closes us up despite the notion that Knowledge is necessary for progress. So from the narrow state of recognition, the introduction of Knowledge drove us out onto the open state of misrecognition, which Adam and Even then needed another masterstroke, and this is the non-knowledge condition of faith. This rapture, then provides the excellent condition for divine intervention, or the faith in which love is manifested as the absurd property that does not do anything - Abel versus Cain.

To this end, it is not enough that proper names are given. Knowledge alone is insufficient.
It is not that faith contradicts love.
Faith is love.