day 0

on a slight melancholic note,

- so as to be reminded of what happiness is

I notice how easy it is to be self-destructive.
Or
Self-boastful

We either have too little or too much.
We neither have this nor that.

We, <--- it's a melancholic reality that 'We' are not alone.

I once imagined that I was alone - and that the world revolved around me, perpetually.

The theses were:
1. All sequence of events, chance or not, happen in relation to me.
2. There is a causal chain to the events and that chain is tied to me.
3. All persons and objects, those I see and experience directly, are real.
4. All persons and objects, those I do not see and experience directly, are indirectly related to me.

Me.
I cannot escape. Loneliness is such that you heighten the sense of self and lose all the others, even if you gain some form of understanding to the series of events happening to you.

I do this, or I do that.
I did this, nor I did that.

It is a very tiring concept. I was perpetually relating to something.

I was only 13 years old. And had no concept of love.

---

More than twice my age, I have come to a new conclusion.

The person who is I, must give oneself up, perpetually.
It is like a strange allusion to a future, even if 'I' escapes you in the moment of thought.
I, means to think. And to think is to begin the perpetual reconstitution of a unified self. -- you will never be yourself.

I think I am shit today. I think I am excellent today.

There is a calmer way to get out of the subjective.
Truth is not subjectivity. (I'm sorry, Kierkegaard...)
Truth occurs in the moment of its abandonment.

To abandon 'I' and to return and grasp infinity in its finitude
- 'We' must emerge.

it is a positive art as much as a negative violence.
'I' disappears, and 'We' appears, perpetually.

And Paul calls this 'Love'.

Which is, really, also another form of self-violence. Then why is it calmer?

The very fact (and that is its melancholic reality) is that it demands patience.
Patience is at the heart of love.
And 'we' as a body, are clasped in a single mobile body, changing and metamorphosing (careful that we do not suffer the same fate as K.'s final predicament of having a self-centred sister).

No person can go through a love/hate relationship without some form of change.

The thrust of this change must be better off as patient love.

If Truth is love, it is because love cannot reveal itself by appearance and truth is not made known explicitly. This truth consists of quiet and pain-staking changes and adjustments that make us less and more of ourselves.

And if possible, I ask you to patiently read these words with a pinch of salt.
You are not reading a truth.

A love relationship is sacred and divine precisely because it requires sacrifices and a sum total of two or more persons.

We cannot be oneself in a relation that consists of us.

So I think the popular phrase - accept the person for who he or she is - is misleading and extremely self-centred.

(to be born again.)

That is the reality, and a melancholic one, because death and birth are intertwined.
The birth of 'We', is the death of 'I'.
The death of 'We', is the birth of a new 'I'.

And so, as your parents grow old and approach death with each passing night - think again of your birth.

And so, as your lover touches you and whispers a secret to you - think again of your birth and your personal death.

You cannot be alone. Love demands your full attention and surrender.

And this demands you to not accept my words, dear Reader, but to experience love yourself - with another - and yourselves.

Live love; not read Love.

day 52

"I often wonder where the fancy for such ridiculous stuff could come from." - Madame de Sevigne

It may or may not be surprising to the reader of my letters that I have a soft spot for ugly words, long-winded periods, bad taste, stupid pictures, pop magazines, whiny bloggers, bad literature and cheesy melodrama. I am attracted to the opposite of the good taste suggested by my references and my insistence of a restricted audience. I need stupidity, so that I can say that my good taste derives from having started from bad taste. But frankly, it is not so.

What is more intriguing? The bad acting of a Japanese pop idol (Yamapi) or the good acting of Al Pacino? I think they are one of the same thing.

How about Adachi's simple caricatures (every character in different stories looks the same) compared to the Monet's impressions? I think they will always have their lookers.

Perhaps, I don't want to make the distinction. Derrida or ChIaKi-SeNpAi? Every moment has its demands. The fundamental thing is that there will always be an audience - be it one or millions. We are bored and so the distinctions between good taste and bad are a result of that boredom.

If you think about it,

A plate of chicken rice $3 versus a Black Angus Steak $50 - the fundamental difference is the price. The taste, subjective. I won't criticise bad spending. I will only say - there is a season for bad taste and a season for good taste.

OR

There is always going to be the bewilderment that we are always going to be captivated, intrigued, attracted by something we least expect - hence grows a habit - of taste, eat, digest, shit.

day 310

I think of a dog. I could forgive her for peeing
on the streets, corners, pillars, steps,
such we find enhancing the myth of the city,
built over a city, on top of a city of a city.
she moves through her roads and its signs
oblivious to the oblivion, restless to the rest;
Not yet. And she will soon cross the
barriers, walls, labyrinths, blocks
and sniff out her own territory, on top a territory of a territory.
I think of you. And I follow you; And you follow me.
I, under the economical lights,
walk through the right angles and the left turns,
stroll through the tar and the white paint.
I see, you smell; I, red, yellow and green, and red,
you, black and white.
As boring as the roads we thread.

Many leagues past mountains and deserts later,
after the gaps and traces we step over,
I shall meet you again in PEE.
Fly here with Him, and together we shall wait for you
to pee on the streets, corners, pillars, steps,
barriers, walls, labyrinths, blocks
of an airport, God knows where.

If we're lucky, God will forgive us.

day 224

Complete the sentence -

I don't think we should ever complete something. It means to die. It means we have come to an end. Hence, I would like to contemplate death, that I may affirm something that is worth our time to think more carefully and personally.

Hegel's most famous passage:

But the life of Spirit is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by devastation, but rather the life that endures it and maintains itself in it. It wins its truth only when, in utter dismemberment, it finds itself.


Life, for all its procession of deaths, ceremonies of births, creations and annihilations, requires just one principle subject to be absolutely involved: Life itself, or rather the 'I' who is still living.

I am still living, though in due time I won't, and so I am still able to affirm myself as self; I still present myself as utterly myself. That is exactly the demand of living, that no matter how we add and subtract objects, people and ideas around us, the one who does the living is 'I'. No one can live for you. You do the living. And that is what 'Life' demands, it is a sentence that is not complete, it is not yet. It anticipates, but it must not coldly accept it. Life is life even if it is a second of living. It suffers death, because it once lives.

And that is why, throughout my entire life, some way of other, I am finding my life, or life finds me, demands my attention, my affirmation. I then must affirm Life simply by living, simply by putting aside the absurdity of me being alive to begin with - I live on. It is not that death is before my life, but I find death the punctuation mark at the end. Hence, the betwixt of life and death is so important to me. And that includes the breathes, the sleeps, the pauses and the simple gestures that only the living can do. I can't just 'die'. I must live first.

To put it simply, I am be-coming; the coming-to-be. It doesn't matter (it used to) who I am. Becoming, even as I am being, I am coming. I am participating in the praxis of life, being constantly present, in the passage of time and space where and when the only two constants are 'I' and the passage itself.

And that is why I cannot understand why people whine, demand to be someone or something...someone definitive, punctuate the passage of life into a destination of hell, and be so certain about something or identify as so and so. It is to complete the sentence even before the sentence is done. It is to murder.

Perhaps, 'to live' is a romantic notion. It suggests that I have all the time in the world to slowly become. Or, I think that the passage beyond life is something else, and that excites me.

No. Instead, it makes me highly conscious of the here and now; the moment. And the uncertain moment is exciting as much as it is scary. I can do no other but to face myself, find myself, challenge myself, affirm myself as much as I suffer myself, being, becoming, the finite that must meet the infinite unknown of death. In other words, I try as hard as I can to retain the brief moment to decide the possibilities of ending my life. I live, even if I must die. Hence, it is about deriving a strength, a stubborn will to live from the mere fact that I am soon to die. There is nothing else other than that - to live and die, with thinking and doing in between.

Thinking of 'Life' allows me to think fluidly. It is flux that moulds and transforms me. In order to do so, I must devastate, destroy, dismember the sum total of myself. I cannot stand still, because to define myself as so and so, I cease to live; I have nothing left to look forward to.

Towards the end of our lives, we're still learning about ourselves. To ask who we are is a complete waste of time. The question to ask then is, who are we next. We ask: Who are we passing into next, on and on. The passage of identity is what is encouraged here. And I am not suggesting that it is easy. But such a perspective allows us to be flexible and we adjust to the demands of the moment. Nothing rocks us, because we are already rocked.

As Paul puts it: Work out your salvation in fear and trembling, the case in point here is that the command is not the end product (salvation) that matters, since he has always reminded us that salvation comes from the son of God, but the emotional movement of trembling is the moment before the end that must be constantly worked out. A trembling person will never see things or behave in a flat and straight-forward manner. He or she is always moving. Stationary, perhaps, but it is not the external instability that troubles him or her much, but the inner implosion that shakes the very foundations of his or her spirit. He or she knows that death is inevitable. And the price of this knowledge is that he or she must keep moving to face salvation - the present must join up the eventual future end.

At the most basic level then, what I firmly believe is that even though man may be alone in this restless trembling, he or she is definitely not doing this in vain. At the heart of such trembling is to be in touch with a strong sense and knowledge of this world where one stands on. It cannot be any other way. As such, we live in this fine and dangerous game of life and death, careful and reckless, patient and impatient. I know no other way that could inform me of who I am or what I will be. I know and I think I know that to live means to face the core of the self and to find it trembling. This, I repeat, makes us strong and able.

And this self passes on, and on... .

day aurora

Today, I will speak of fire.

Now it burns jointly or equally alike in all the qualities of the kindled fire, and the fire burns forth from the qualities; for all qualities burn and that fire is one fire, and not many several fires.

And that fire is of many shades, sometimes red, orange, green, blue, sometimes a white colourless flame. And so the fire has many properties and yet exists in plural and one.

Thus, it generates always from eternity to eternity, changing, burning, destroying, creating...

Out of all must fire be at the heart of it - fire kindled in a creature, a being, in which contained in it both the fountain and the candle, reciprocally moving and making it live, yes, all things living thus are formed and created out of this fire.

The fire burns, or it glows only, even as visible as it is, it does not hurt, but leave a sweet aroma, rising towards the whole body, refreshing it as it engulfs it.

The fire extinguishes; leaving HEAT, pain, disintegrating the properties of the whole body, and disappearing almost without a trace except its ashes. And sometimes, the warmth of that burning lingers, as if to remind us of its former glory - now, cold, with nothing else left to burn.

That said, fire burns without respect, it burns when it must.
Fire is life itself, even if it signals death.
And yet, the cycle must repeat, as a new fire begins; as a fire finds a new place and time to burn.

And that is the manner in which we should relate fire to Différance.

Observe a fire, and you stare at life, death and most of all, Différance.

Différance is Fire.

day Pause

between the strange appearance of a fake smile and the familiar disappearance of a blink of an eye, I find it naturally easy to judge that the person has just lied. And that is an extremely bad thing to do. Perhaps, it calls for me to hesitate, just as the person hesitates, and together, we could form the pensive tension of knowing that we do not know.

Hi.

Hi.

Between two greetings, there is also a pause. Besides the obvious designation and recognition, it equally results in a non-recognition. 'Hi' and thereafter the peaceful words does not in any way penetrate into the deepest troves of the heart. I may say 'hi', but I may not say 'hi' to who you really are.

But let us pause for a second, that we may re-establish how the 'hi' can be a productive act. It certainly calls the person to a response. It demands a response. And with that, we can firmly include (as much as it excludes) the person into a relation. And that is what matters - the relation, which is the pause.

The pause, is in almost everything. The temporary inaction, which in fact may just be a million atoms clashing and forming an explosion of signs. Or they implode, and they cease to be atoms.
I like to believe that the pause is the most important human activity (of inactivity). And everything that is done in the pause, whether conscious or unconscious reveals a part of us we may not acknowledge, know, or recognise. A tic, a twig, a shake, a smirk, a blink. And almost as if these unconscious actions prompt the next action, the next action is never again able to be considered in isolation - it is always measured, prepared, executed. It is judged upon, but we do not produce it willingly. The pause always escape the producer of the pause.

We pause, that we may move. Or rather, a pause is already a movement. A pre-emptive measure. A pressure to go on and go on. And we pause, nevertheless, in anticipation of a movement, a gesture, an action.

A pause demands - what it demands is entirely ambiguous. But we know a pause is at the heart of everything we are about to do. And that is why, a pause is profoundly significant.

I can't help but pause.
I pause to a commitment.
I pause to a handshake.
I pause to a 'Hi'.
I pause to a 'Bye'.

Because we will never know, if this pause will extend to an infinite pause;
or it is an abrupt pause where there will never be another pause for the producer of the pause.

I,

day 13+27 years

About 27 years ago (it was in the morning), I started giving birth to myself. My mother started giving birth to me. My father started giving birth to me. My grandparents were already giving birth to me. And 27 years later, I may be giving birth to a child. * She leaves clues now and then for me to decode her intentions and desires. I sometimes pretend that I do not notice them. Sometimes, I really don't. Then again, why does it matter? * What about 27 minutes ago? I cannot remember what I did exactly. But in 27 minutes time, I know with certainty that I will continue to love her.* Perhaps, it is this cycle of life and death and the in-between, which is the passage, that I find her clues.* I picked up a clue just now.
I read:

sleep shapes
steep shades
- of
slender shield
in- slumber spiel
d-ead not quite
and rest too oft
we take to our own beds
and
sleep shades
steep shapes
- for
slumber spiel
slender shield
a-live not quite
and rest too oft
we take to our feet
and sleep

*I guess sleeping is a pause from love. Sleeping is the skip, the fast forward, that we may live out the rest of the loving; Or live out the repetition of loving, round and round, pause, play, pause.*

Thank you baby.

day 102

Dear Love,

So your name is Love, |


I wrote to say |

| probably we should meet on |

Yours |
A |

day 31

Between the abstract and the material, I have to imagine a world.

I imagine a primary school boy, walking alone in Ang Mo Kio central. What does he see and what does he think? What does he know and what is he about to do?

I cannot imagine his world, and how he stumbled into it and find his place in it.

It is a scary world.

day 333

The seats were placed right next to a conveyor belt, close; with only one of us next to the belt to pick the plates we (I) wanted. I picked one, for myself. The next, also for myself. I never put one down entirely, for there was no plate to put those rice and raw fish down: there were no tanks, aquariums and rivers to make the quick escape. Dead raw fish. The sound of my gulps. Gulp. She turned the pages of the menu, quick to be drawn to pictures that deceive, and as I feared, we were establishing a unity, slightly apart, almost apart, touching, but with our hands busy with different aspect of the same table. A belt, a menu. The upper part for my hands to pick the cycle of life. The lower part, staring, as she picked the linear path of the inevitable and the inexorable. Gulp. White on brown. Together we formed the moving still picture of a cinematic set, like an unfinished cut, contained within the frozen frame, our independent behaviours and dependent symmetry. The word - Sashimi floated up into the air, escaped us, and like the absolutely alien sounds from a pious Zen monk who chants his 往生咒 to the dead fish, I could not guess what those words mean. Raw rotten business - the chef beside me, with the belt in between us, is peeling the meat from a large mussel, an invalid, touched by an unforgiving blade that earlier cut a salmon fish. And so, together we created this haiku convergence, possessed by the precision of the moment - cutting, biting, swallowing, turning the pages of pictures. Sa-shi-ni ....We chose not to say it too quickly.

"Do you want anything?" I stare at the moving meat without looking at her, expecting no answer from her. I took another plate.

"Share with me?" She said without looking up from the images.

And the waitress came and took her order.

The rest of the dinner proceeded to be a comparison: between my efficient and mechanical rendering of raw dead fish as, well, just raw dead fish with soya sauce, and the life-revitalising stare of hers that made the dead resurrect. With a satisfying soft moan, and its fats once again burnt to the flaming tongue of hers, she devoured the tender life to participate as a sacrifice to Poseidon. Perhaps, the difference between my Sashimi and hers, was the simple unconscious gesticulations made prior to the final act of eating. Mine held in my right hand, hers quivering in her left hand, together in some strict accordance to an unspoken composition, we merged in the moment of savoury, lost in our own thoughts of how the fish tasted. Perhaps, the difference was really a difference in our ceremonies, the rituals to our eating and sharing of the same space.

"Nice?"
"Nice."

It's not easy to describe meat and how it tastes. Each bite has its own mix - a mix of salivating, a mix of the portion chewed, the precise cut of the teeth, the slow rot of the flesh, the strength exerted by the chef, and the company. And yet, the meat is not always our actual customer, though it is the great sacrifice that preserves us. It is the company. Who you sit with in the course of a meal. And this moment is grotesque and simultaneously sacred. It is when you open your mouth, and reveal the raw sight of your flesh, and salivate your way into a conversation, which is sometimes secondary to the main event; or vice versa. Whatever it is, to eat together is to be vulnerable to the gaze, the judgment, when the judge is equally the judged. And so, erect as we were, not facing each other, we faced each other by way of not facing each other - we knew, we were one in the same situation. And this is why such moments are precious to us. It is when a breathing can be laboured, a stain can be forgiven, a gasp or a sucking sound can be understood, and an eye contact possible since the next available sight below is not always pleasant to view. There is nothing more intimate (apart from sex) than eating a meal together. It is when the signs of suspicion, alarm, horror, of your nose smelling, your tongue licking, your canine teeth cutting, your forehead sweating, and the meat, yes, the meat sacrificed , enjoyed or hated but eaten. And we all can honour the food, for dying that we may live a bit longer (or choke to death over a moji ball).
And so we all assume our utterly human functions and isolate the meal to more than just a meal, even if we eat as beasts must. Again, between the belt and the menu, exercising our primal senses, and engaging in the most ancient of human acts and name our food in a mysterious language. But sometimes, it does not matter, because the food you eat, will churn itself out as another word, universal and necessary.

So what then could keep us from being just merely humans and beasts in one?

"Oh no, I'm full and pregnant."

"I'm pregnant too!"

In eating, we come very close to ourselves, our needs, our sensations, our proper and natural calls and pangs, and our reactions, affects and effects from start to end and its repetition. And it is during this moment that we produce the secret language of love; such that eating goes beyond the food that we eat, but convenes back as the unison of our teeth moving and the shape of our tongues changing, kissing passionately as if the seasoned meat will never be fully consumed; no, as if meat is always meant to be gone, shared and eaten. We merged, instead of eating each other, full after rituals and ceremonies of the human-animal. Food was gone from the plate, and we were once again placed in the convergence of mouth to mouth, eye to eye, nose to nose, person to person.

For that to happen, one must always just give food its due place - in between the belt and the menu; the salmon and the rice. Wa-sa-bi. (She loves it, I hate it.) In between lovers, friends, family, and strangers.

day 44

What do you see.

The national narrative boils almost to a farce, a grand carnival of the cabaret sort; but what do you expect?

I only saw an eye looking back at me, and suddenly I realised that this is a Singapore I did not know.

What do you see?

MM Lee closed his eyes.

As if to take a quick rest of his eyes, perhaps, overwhelmed by the bright lights and the loud music. Sparkles everywhere; an image of the future he once envisioned and now could not recognise. Is this still his vision? He is no longer the master of his vision. The vision has taken over.

What do you see?

MM Lee coughed.

Perhaps, before him was more than just the lightning and the thunder. A chocking smell had filled the air, adding another layer to the haze from the neighbouring countries. Without dampening the spirits of his white party, he waved his singapore flag and followed the rhythm of his own imagination materialised by the acrobats, dancers, cabarets, costumed testicles, divas, and nonya kuehs, of all shapes, sizes, colours and races. Happy as they were, he coughed. As if to remind us of our underlying predicament - a huge budget needed to pay for these excesses, and to trouble ourselves to share the same space filled with germs from multiple coughs. He coughed, and at once, many of them around him had to breathe in his air without really knowing.


At those two precise moment caught on camera, we returned our gaze to the screen - the screen, shaped of an eye, reflects - and all we can see is a microcosm of nothingness. It performs nothing. Nothing - that is its fantasy. A fantasy to mask our apparent insecurities. (His son did no better, holding his hands loosely as he tried to convince himself that he made sense; hence, the camera zoomed in and we are only made to remark at his honesty. He really doesn't know what he has inherited from his father)

And we look, in between, a chaotic and organised performance simultaneously. Are these really Singaporeans? Or are they meant to keep on performing, performing to this endless loop of simulcrum (of Singapore and Singaporeans). Simulcrum or what? The performances mime nothing. (or perhaps repetition of people after people, chapter after chapter, who will be replaced each year) They, however, give us the reason to perform unfathomable joy -the kind of joy that goes up in flames and smoke and never returns as something concrete. So we smile, clumsily as if that is the most appropriate expression. Because, other than that, we know no other expression which shows our confusion and our inability to see beyond the present and into the future. We must eternally look back, and find our visions tempered by vision itself. We cannot differentiate; was it us that had the vision? Or the vision is something other than us, and pulls us along into the unforeseen future, which some people like to call nostalgia. Are we the one looking at, or the ones being looked at? And so, we forget the bones we exhumed, and the progress towards progress, without ceasure; without destination. We bounced to and fro; and if we should fall and disappear, someone else will take our place, jumping and falling as if we were never gone.

The pursuit of a nation is manifested rigorously as deferments, as if we could seperate our narratives into chapters. Singapore is disappearing; or Singapore is appearing as something utterly unrecognisable. It is simultaneously the work of a creative imagination, a staged cabaret set, and a mourning for a loss. It constructs the technological house in which personal memories and narratives reside partially and grudgingly move on. The National Parade must loop its national narrative annually, playing itself in slow repetition, reducing each event to technological pyrotechnics. The National parade must materialise the nation’s pledge to be united and yet it reduces its materiality into flames and fleeting sparks. The performance undoes the knot that ties the bonds together. The house of Singapore will continue to perform a home for its citizens - and the homes of Singaporeans will continue to reinvent the house of Singapore.



If we were to mean what we say/pledge - a democratic society - I suppose we would need to do exactly two things - to democratise and to make a society.

And this democratisation means to destroy our society, even if we are to make a new one; always a new one.

We pledge to destroy/create Singapore.

day 202

though strange, where the edges are rough and the ashen brown surfaces suggest age and neglect, I feel a strange connection to these found letters.

One letter wrote:

"Patience is not a virtue, but a terrible lie to make us wait for our deaths."

Another wrote:

"I have no friends. I am as lonely as these letters that no one would read."


In a sense, these are not letters. They have no addressees. There are no addresses and every letter begins with just:

"To whom it may concern,"


To whom it may concern! Now it seems, they concern me. I feel the pull from a subterranean realm, grasping for my attention with such diabolical breath. Slip - Slip - Slip
Each turn of the page, he breathes. How do I know it must be a male who penned these words?
I only wish it so.

"To whom it may concern,

Though strange, I have often found words flowing down like a peaceful stream when I write to no one. I prefer this solitude, a tranquil sense of not being known. I hide behind my words, build my defences, and henceforth I could disappear beneath them. Mysteries of myself I no longer have to be responsible to. Contend to cheat myself that I never lived the life I lived. I think to myself, 'how awful it must have been to be me!' and the passing anguish that comes with my waking goes away, for a while. When I write, I cease to exist, even if I must exist to write. That is my paradox that I have to live with. Just as we have to contend with the lack of an audience to follow through my entire life."

It is a pity I never got to know who the writer was. But his words have always given me the inspiration to pen my own. Each lonely word; each dense and loaded word with the mood of that evening. That evening, how long ago it feels now! I do not know when I shall end this endeavour. But his words also fade away as his letters begin to represent a man going mad:

"How slow the day is! How breathing becomes a chore and hunger a disadvantage. I must tarry on, and leave no trace of immortality even if I should sit in this chair and write, 'I live on'."

He is a very brutal man. He predicts his death and cheekily demands my patronage. I must stay with him for a little longer. I miss myself dearly. I miss having my own words. And now I must write like him. It is all strange, really. But I slowly feel my fingers moving, replicating hands that I never once saw.

"though strange, where the edges are rough and the ashen brown surfaces suggest age and neglect, I feel a strange connection to these found letters."

the letters remained hidden away from its intended reader. As elusive as their writer.

f
f
f
f
f \@/
f
f
f
f
ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

there was a time when the personal computer relied on text alone to create text-based games.

day 319

to cure,
precious wounds, those no longer pure
but sunken to the deep allure
and marked forever as a mysterious curve

or curve s
pressing against some unknown nerve
paralysed with blood swerve d
past redemption, past the flow of those reserve ed

kept for patient dripping but soft dew in deed
indeed, the flow won't stop - so we weep
reverse our order of living and inside of us, deep
blood, emptied,
lovers pushed to the brink of overflowing haemorrhage
no band, no tape, no stitch, no band, no drape, no leech, could clean this mess
without return, departs in the dripping fashion, to flow out of us in passionate streams
to the end of words, and to the beginning of a requiem, we sing to our own flood
left as only a stain, a dried up mark of now less than precious wounds
vapour
with a stench that lingers
just for a while
a while,
a curious case of a while.

day 310

(
past caring

quiet troubles brew when quiet words swallowed.

past caring

feverish waiting ends when the fever subsides.

past caring

one imagines oneself as a burden.

past caring

pretence attends to the weak-hearted.

past caring

no one to tell us:
it's okay. it's okay. I have my weight over yours and yours over mine.

past caring

I once too was moved, by the expectation of having nothing to look forward to.

past caring

I now have to look backward and forward for the next silence and automated recording.

past caring

self-tied-to-the-single-bed.

past caring

a lack of faith, lack of faith and everyday a reminder of a fate-less day

past caring

row row row the boat gently down the falls

past caring

trust me to deny you your daily love and indeed you trust

past caring

cares of yesterday - today fills the caring

past caring

what you think of me, your assumptions, your conclusions

past caring

to care nonetheless, even if they cease to care.

past caring

all fatigue and jaded by the pressures of caring

past caring

the next outburst and uproar

past caring

past caring
)

bubbles burst when we can pretend that bubbles don't exist.
since, no bubble in this world can fill a void that is as infinite as imagination can be.