day 8

At precisely the stroke of 6am, and not midnight, we change sides and cease to be monsters. At night, while asleep, while dreaming, we are probably digesting our food, weaving a fanciful tale, or we have completely blanked out and are done imagining our non-existence; then we wake.
As if a rude shock, we wake.

Do you know who you are?

As you piece together the vague images and the bubbles popping before you, you realise you are once again alive. And perhaps, you remember who you are, what you are supposed to do - choose between dread or excitement - and then you sleep.
In between those activities, you push yourself through, sometimes in touch with yourself, sometimes not.
You drink some water. Eat something. And then you ask yourself what you are doing here. (Writing?)
Or you stay up till 6am, and battle your own metamorphosis. Defy as you may, there is no escape. Pure breathing (whether you are conscious or not of your own breathing), you are strangely familiar in this unfamiliar environment.
And all for what? One part monotonous, one part restful, you could somehow recognise yourself in the foggy tale. Are you there yet?

I reached the enclave and did not know what to do with myself. I cannot hear. This punishing silence, and yet I floated through. Everywhere I went, I saw a shadow of myself - no time, no presence - I was not myself, and yet I was nothing. Constantly mobile, I cease to know if I was moving or not.

You are never there. You can never finish your story. You wake to repeat the dread and the excitement. You wake to see someone or something, again and again.

I saw once again, the enclave. Without pause, I flashed across the barren space and hit a wall. No pain, no sound, just a mighty implosion, a warp of space, and there I was again, at the beginning of my concussion. I exploded, or imploded (it does not make a difference) and found myself not myself.

Night by night, you repeat the cycle of death. You can cheat life. But you cannot cheat your slumber. Before you, this strange embodiment of a world with sounds, sights and sensations, you can live for seasons beyond. But you can own your dreamscape. It owns you - even as you feed it with memories to manipulate.
Someday, at precisely 6pm, you will be able to sleep and wake later at midnight. But it will not make a difference, because somewhere else, the moon and the sun change places, and you are just a tiny fragment of this world of tiny particles, elements and atoms of infinite quantity.
Perhaps then, you can fashion yourself into a splitting image of a celebrity or a world governor - but you can never escape the silent scream of your own splitting image in your dreams - because that is where you cease to be yourself, and die at the hands of your disappearance.

I saw for the first time, you. I had always longed to see you...until now. I could not imagine how dreadful it would be to see you. I knew then, that I saw you before. You were here to take over me, just as you were about to. I was sorry I didn't know earlier. But right then, I was ready to be taken over.





At precisely the stroke of an unknown time, he wakes, only to find himself as himself; not part of a universe, but wholly himself and alone, as himself.

day 1

We were all there at the same time of creation. How else do we explain creation? You, they, we, I, everyone, from beginning to present, we were all there. You too dreamed of there before. I certainly dreamt of it occasionally. I met you there, certainly I did. You were me and I was you. Then, once we established our identities, we stopped dreaming of there. Instead, we believe in now and here. Have you truly left there? You moved on, but we were confident that we would return.

Return we did. But there was nothing much to remember about. What use do we have of a rare glass container of sweets - the precious little that our parents gave us for being children? Now, you can get sweets in plastic bags off the shelves of a supermarket. As many as you like. As little as we like. How does it now feel to pick a stone out of millions along a beach? Just another stone. Another piece to an already complete puzzle.

One day, we wandered off the borders of our childhood. We then ceased to be You and I (us) as one. I have my own identity and you have yours. You went on your way and I went on mine.

Then, you and I met our beginnings. You fell into the pit, as bottomless as you could remember. I fell up into the sky, as infinite as the height of heavens. I cannot remember what happened in between - but I met you in between - for a split second. And the cycle repeats. I saw you again, a second later. Again, we met; you looked different, each second of our encounter. Perhaps, I used to remember how you looked. Now, you have become a stranger. And I am one too.

There are many ways of falling. And there are many ways to react during each encounter. In that one split second, you and I each had a reaction. Sometimes, I screamed at you. Sometimes, you laughed at me. But each scream and laughter was different. I cannot remember exactly the permutations of your expressions. Nor can you.

After all, we both cease to be ourselves. You are someone else. I am no more, no less of myself.

And yet, we repeat the same falling - so much so that we cannot tell who is falling up or down.

But who are we? It does not matter anymore. Someone else will repeat you and be you. I will always have another me to take over. It will serve no purpose to remember our identities - we simply do not exist. We shall, in another split second, do our little part to fade away, and perhaps, this falling may somehow cease to continue - as we finally touch ground and blow our brains apart.

Adrift in the universe, independent of human signs and signification, we can at least be one again - as if creation repeats again, and we find ourselves united as one. But that is a distant dream. And this is a wistful writing. As it is, when you count another second, the writing ceases to exist and you and I can continue dreaming and pretend that you and I never existed; just as this writing will soon be a distant memory - fades - and disappears over the horizon of our disappearance.

Day 000

I can't string a proper sentence.

I used to think it was easy to write - how horrific the revelation was when you're told nobody could understand me!

Perhaps, I can excuse myself for the ignorance that surrounds me;

Or I can, perhaps, admit that I cannot write.

(Then what is this writing about?)

It is hard to imagine a world where no one writes.

There will be fewer misunderstandings, and fewer misinterpretations.

It is probably easier to string a mathematical equation together.

But, no, I cannot string a proper sentence.

What else can I write?

It must be extremely boring to read -

 

Ceaseless, there will always be another word.

I actually prefer speech over writing.

Because, when I hear her speak, I know she's there, before me.

When she writes - she dies.

day 67

Our faces split the world into unequaled

    parts;

Perhaps, one to give us a firm standing,

And

    another to submerge us in perpetual

drown            -ing.

 

Our minds merge the coasts with the crushing

    waves;

Perhaps, to wall the mysteries with sand,

Or

    to unleash the fucking, common typhoon

- oid

 

        don't hold back,

    cry.

The worst is yet

                to come.

Day 100

Am I there,

    When the river flows

        From there to here,

        With its highs and lows --

                    ?

        The quiet meandering, less tortuous to the

Eyes --- nothing much to be said, except

What you wish to hear

Yes, I'll go easy on you.
Yes,

I promise.

I promise, to be there when you need me.

I'll flow, all the paths and boulders before

Me; From me, ----     To you.

        You sense, the sequence.

        How they all channel to the stream of

            Consciousness; according to the nature

Of you, and me, and all those

                    Around me.

                Around us…

                That way

It won't

end

.

 

It won't end.

 

                

day 131

I don't know what to do with my body -
all tall and cumbersome.

This limb goes to here, dark elbow rings, extended to fingers that hurt and touch.

This limb goes to there, dark elbow rings, extended to a middle finger, scarred for life.

This organised face - almost symmetrical and blessed I am, for that is the case.
other than that, stuck beneath it, is my jelly brain, most of which gone to waste.
(eyes that judge)
(EA- can't...stop...the..m.fro...m he.....aring...WHAT... I...i..i...heeear....-RS)
(nose that sneeze)
(mouth that swallow)
|fragile|bones|
My chest, hotspot for pus - sometimes I breathe too hard.
My penis, all stained and dark in complexion. He does not know what to do with himself.

That limb goes down to here, a hairy affair and most of my weight leaned towards it.

That limb plus titanium goes down to there, contract, expand to the atmosphere.

These toes,

I can only move them so much.

THIS GROUND, THIS IS WHERE I STAND, NOWHERE ELSE.

What impressions have I made so far?

day 66

I assert that there is no way to know Truth - You live the truth.

(which recycles the doubt, and refurnish the lie.)

Day unknown

[     GOD         Religion

Faith     Culture

Hope                     Social

Politics

God

LOVE

History

Society

Literature         Philosophy

Time

World

Theatre     Film

Chinese

World

Psychology

Space

 

Science

 

Nature

Shakespeare

Mathematics

Peace     Hope     Hell

Heaven         Female

Sexuality         Globalisation

We

Economics

One                             Two

Three

Poetry
Being

Matter

Male

Performance

 

Language

Linguistics

Capital

Ideology

god

]

I

day 200

I'm getting closer to the dead-line.

(it's just easier when you know when the line will be crossed)

I'm always closer to the dead-line.

(then again, it can also be more difficult when you know when the line will be crossed)

I pass a dead-line - only to find another one before me.


At some point, I think I prefer to deal with just the line.
(Death does its own burying.)

day 111

I've never seen them before - these ghastly apparitions.

I'm perpetually haunted by them - night and day.

I'm fearful of being devoured by them - soul and body.

I'm left with myself to ward off their advances - all of them.

I fear I.

Day 177

I had words to write

;

Dropped

From

The

SKY

I showed an intense need to manifest my thoughts, which soon - they will escape me and you.

I showed an intense need to manifest my thoughts. which soon - they will escape me and you.

I showed an intense need to manifest my thoughts? which soon -they will escape me and you.

I showed an intense need to manifest my thoughts! which soon- they will escape me and you.

I showed an intense need to manifest my thoughts! which soon -they will escape me and you.

I showed an intense need to manifest my thoughts; which soon they will escape me and you.

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 

Yes,

YOU

I

Came

C    

r

        a

                    s

 

                        h

                            

i

                                    n

 

                                                                        
 

                                                                                                                                        g

 

DOWN

FLAT AND WAITING; TO BE PICKED UP. IGNORED FOR A SEASON. TILL THE RAIN FALLS DOWN AGAIN.

Beneath.the.surface.I.discover.a.neatly.tied.series.of.expressions.-once.hidden.now they.appear.to.me.as.quivers.and.burrowings.as.if.they.penetrate.deep.into.my.skull.one.by.one.

I.

Think.

I.

See.

You.

At.

This.

Point.

Pain, is beyond,the surface- skin deep.

Something else comes after                         after.

 

(Don't ask me what something else is.)

Day 4

Si

 

I love the sound of

Si

Si

Si

Si

 

 

COLLECTED

In the mute sense of the word

Bet    -ween the     white                     spaces

 

AS IF,

 

            It doesn't matter how ' sounds

YES,

How                         ,             sounds

Or, how death sounds

As one threatens the image with writing,

Numbering and multiplying it four times

 

You'll get a long passage

Tall enough to almost reach Heaven

standing

 

slanted to the

touch
of my
teeth

 

And possibility erases itself to the bated breath of my hiss-ing

Yes

 

,    And -

I     

will

give     IF

up

to

a    I    r…

 

 

 

day 149

(fragments from a diary of a Pastor)

Maybe...
Despite all my measured criticism of Religion in general, I write to mask a simple truth about me: I'm afraid that they are actually true and I'm the one wrong.

"I love mankind," he said, "but I marvel at myself: the more I love mankind in general, the less I love human beings in particular, separately, that is, as individual persons. In my dreams," he said, "I would often arrive at fervent plans of devotion to mankind and might very possibly have gone to the Cross for human beings, had that been suddenly required of me, and yet I am unable to spend two days in the same room with someone else, and this I know from experience. No sooner is that someone else close to me than his personality crushes my self-esteem and hampers my freedom. In the space of a day and a night I am capable of coming to hate even the best of human beings: one because he takes too long over dinner, another because he has a cold and is perpetually blowing his nose. I become the enemy of others," he said, "very nearly as soon as they come in contact with me. To compensate for this, however, it has always happened that the more I have hated human beings in particular, the more ardent has become my love for mankind in general."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. David McDuff, p79.

All the same, it boils down to my insecurity: of not knowing what to do with myself. Of not knowing who to love. And so I write to the general (pretending that this does not go out to the particular) that I may somehow participate in some higher realm and escape from my personal jurisdiction and punishment for my impatience with the particular 'enemies' around me. Yes, I write, that I may be left alone. And ignore the person right next to me. I address instead to an invisible reader...



How I love this cruelty! I love how I reduce particulars to a general whole - and hence, address to no one but myself.

Now, don't trust me when I say, "I love mankind." Because, I love the person next to me not.


signed,
Renegade Pastor (who is against all other Pastors)

day 1 and 8 years later

The truth is - after so long - we still don't know anything, except that we are somehow trapped in our bodies.

day 1

People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of miracles as if everyone is given a right to live to the fullest and the grace to achieve such a lofty fantasy.

I'm too sceptical for that. There was never a thing as grace to live - living is itself a long tiresome dreary progress from birth to death - and everything in between a promise of a single premature death.

I'm also too bored of that. Beneath the surfaces of all charismatic speeches and pedestal performances about grace and earthly blessings are mere distractions. The thing I need is a death notice - of the specific time and method of death. Then perhaps, I may be thrust into some desperate attempt to live 'life to the fullest'; Or, I may just sleep through the waiting time and wish for the last minute to come sooner.

I've desperately tried to live long enough to know when the day I die will come. The fact that we don't always get a death notice is because we already have one noose tied around us. I probably don't need to know; I already do. And I'm bored of knowing the certainty of death. I'm really left with the waiting time.

And that is what makes it so perilous or so exciting. I choose, in very simple terms, between danger and excitement; between loving life or hating it. After all, there are tons of things I can't decide for myself. My innate will to sin, o so desperate will to sin, is one of the many. Between a curse to die and a blessing to live, I am stuck in the moment, crying with all my might, the same force as a baby crying for the first time.

I'm nowhere closer to knowing if I live to die, or I am dying to live.

I maintain, thus, that all promises of a wealthy and prosperous life are ludicrous and are absolutely lies. To clarify, all material gains are mere distractions from the inexplicable demand that living produces. I kick, with all my might, to exist. At the very least then, don't tell me that I am free to choose - even my kick lands its blow on the immediate surroundings to which I have no say or control. The truth is, I'm pretty much thrown into this world - and all the world's stuck with me.

It, therefore, irks me to be told that we can be totally free from the shackles of this world. Or, worst, pursue the things of this world because it brings us closer to some form of immortality. If, we cannot handle mortality, do not, I repeat, do not even fathom the thought of immortality.

There is nothing more saddening than the appearances of certain people who look on with dreamy eyes, perform shallow performances of faith and try desperately to be supposed recipients of some form of grace. They cry, in some form of gibberish, as if they are born again, as if they can once again be tenderly caressed and cradled. They fail to understand, that the first cry of a baby is the call of fear:"Why am I born?" "What am I to be?" "What am I doing here?" Or, it is just an announcement to the world: "I demand to be known," leaving a trail of blood, sacrifice and the painful scream of a brave mother.

I don't believe in this call to arms against death. I believe, fundamentally in the romantic notion that death sets us free, but, not without the pilgrim's progress in life doomed to the martyr sceptre. I believe, that life is a parody or an imitation of exactly the same foolish behaviour of our predecessors.

Don't read me wrong - we do not need to be martyrs and foolishly seek for the elusive stigmata on our foreheads and wrists.

They won't be from Him.

The only credible truth anyone has taught me is my ignorance - and the rest are just my futile attempts to justify my existence.

And I believe that is the amazing beauty of life - the unknown. Enough of boxes - "God consists of four sides and think 3D." Enough of some grand narrative of how great and wonderful your god is. Faith works not because it has been thoroughly explained to you. Faith works when the trembling of the soul demands (not miracles) the explicit humbling of human pride, and the confrontation with our stinky oily sensation of sin. Thereupon we can only give up on our humanity, our lives, and confront our mortality.

The fundamental difference that sets us apart from every living thing in this world is that we sin and we actually have a notion of doing something wrong. (Keep a pet long enough and the poor dog also knows it's wrong not to obey a master's call for it to sit)

There is nothing more cruel than life itself. And so all plain and simple messages of peace, love and hope are just acidic pamphlets of ignorance. Life again, demands more than giving up certain material things. It demands giving up on yourself. It means giving yourself up to death - o fatal death, where is your sting?

Until we shed this mortal coil, do not expect a miracle. Your life alone, as long as you live and given the chance to say 'I believe', is enough a miracle. Anything else just distracts. Anything else just cushions the blow of our childish kicks.

signed
I (18 years of age)