day 61

Two events demonstrate a theatricality that defies logic -

1. lightning struck the head of Merlion
2. Indonesian/Chinese Student stabbed Professor and leaped to his death

While it is easy to blame Nature and Construct as the driving forces behind the violence,
it is far more interesting and subversive to suggest that alterity (that is always apart from these categories) is the root of our miseries.

Either as symbolic order or as national imaginary -

you may defile the national construct by doing absolutely nothing and extreme effects will still be produced by virtue of what the national construct introduces as a staged entity that does not have to do much but vomit. That entity's passivity (as a statue of empty signification) invites a danger to itself (without being conscious of itself) and we know immediately without a lightning to highlight to us the lack of a brain even as it continues to vomit. This passivity is, really, also its alterity. It can do nothing but vomit. And it cannot swim and must perform without knowing it is performing, assuming eternity, the poor symbol for the tourist gaze and the mechanical reproduction of flash lights. In other words, without the set-up and staging of a passivity (being in a concrete park looking out into a mirror of its own construction by cranes and cement), it cannot be at the right place and the right time to get a haircut without asking for one. It must surely be bald and without its white mane. That is what signifies itself as wholly other. And this wholly other is its own danger.

OR, you defile the national imaginary by doing exactly what is assumed as a "problem with the student," who is internationally displaced but in any case the Master remains sovereign even if wounded. For such an isolated event is surely not common, where we can be safe in the knowledge that our mediation of the event (some students on campus rushed to snap [pictures] ) allows us to take a safe distance back and take [pictures] of blood and its aftermath; precisely because it is an aftermath, quickly disposed, quickly reported, and quickly forgotten by the members of the public who were equally quick to make a media out of it. What this suggests: If the merlion should die from nature's deathblow, we will be rushing to the scene to take [pictures] but as such it will be an indifference since the national is always capable of constructing new empty (hybridized signifieds).

What is truly violent about the above events is the aleatory nature of these events. As much as the National Construct/Imaginary can presuppose the safe infrastructure and harmony that its citizens, emigrants and others enjoy, occasionally isolating similar events as naturally news-worthy, any one such event can immediately cause a chain of unreported events that are in themselves a violent resistant to totalization and the general. The resistance takes on the form of passivity and indifference. I mean, why bother?

What we cannot determine is the Why-answer. We can merely present them as a performance (if we bother) of their inability to fit in - so much so that the Merlion may soon have to get a new hair cut (how nostalgic!) and perhaps even a new brain made up of lightning-resistant material. The logic of prevention and siege, or the mentality of constantly in trauma and crisis is seriously a fear of its own alterity - the irreconcilable difference within itself that must surely defy all classification of its supposed national identity. Nevertheless, we continue to fossilize some form of fused identities, devoid of a historicity that is rigourous and precise. (What is precise is the margins of its construction; of which I mean the wooden sticks framing the facade of so many buildings here) We also continue to assume that people of the same race, religion, ethnicity and language must surely be a community. Hence, it will end up doing violence to those who fail 'to be' the national imagined (or any of the above imaginaries), but at the same time, invite the aleatory forces to act almost instinctively and with scary precision the violence to the construct.


So we must surely learn the lesson inherent in the violent double act - the student stabbing Professor and himself - that there is always something we will never know, in each passing of the person that embodies the tension between alterity and theatricality OR the inward self-identification and the outward response to this inward projection. You may perform all your life but once violence is ultimately produced, it ceases to be a performance. It is a resistance. It is the resistance against totalization. We are intrinsically violent to ourselves as much as we love ourselves through performances.

A student - A master? It's time we leave dialectics where it belongs. It is really more productive to think how each passing of a thought process (e.g. a decision) manifested in an action is really the potential to be different from what is thought. It is violent and modifies immediately when it comes out of its shell and opens itself to the forces that surround it. I can die by nature. Or I can die by construct, by which we should really be weary of the violence that happens behind our backs (E Tu Construct!). The Nation is a honourable idea. It feeds and cares for its people. But the following events happened:

1. National Symbol stabbed by Nature.
2. Pedagogical Master stabbed by Diasporic Disciple who stabbed himself.

Already, we see how it is that we cannot thematize the tensions always at work.
Already, you see how I fail to be honourable to the above events.

day 72

Returning to the metaphors of theatre and the stage (if that is even possible),
'I' has a peculiar narrative to unfold - 'I' is not on stage.

What is excruciatingly painful about this narrative is the impossibility to be a fantastic performer of oneself. It is almost imperative that some form of mediation or medium- history books, journalism, statues and tombstones - must exist before a performance can unfold. Hence, 'I' in a paradoxical way has to be oneself without being oneself.

we can say what we want about 'I';
but even though 'I' can only be physically there on stage, 'I', the single one image-of-God does not know what it means to be an image-of-God; 'I' ends up in inverted commas, a restricted economy of totalizing the image that 'I' is.

I am - that is the infinite projection that does not return to oneself.

For I am - on stage but subsequently, I can be elsewhere. What then is my relation to the stage or the event that has passed? I am - performing but am I performing the pure image I can be or am I reflecting just another non-performance of myself eaten up as if the temporality and fleeting quality of my performance immediately separates me from my impossibility as a living being?

Here is another paradox - the impossibility of my being is precisely my possibility as a human being. And this comedy is not lost when I proceed to perform myself on stage - I must be, and in so doing, I stop being.

The great comedies almost always present this dilemma to us. We take ourselves too seriously, therein lies the comedy.

Perhaps, there is a more straightforward way of thinking this: if everything is performance, in that moment when we can speak of it as performance, we immediately displace it as such into thinking of it as a non-performance. Now, that is not very straightforward.
The tragedy of thinking that everything is performance is to lose the sense in which one can also be incompetent in performing or to be more precise, one is always in rehearsal. But then again, how do you perform non-performance? Surely, the greatest performance (I'm being ironic here) is our own deaths - jumping off building, drowning ourselves - in other words, the stage that is our performance space always have some part to play in our narrativising of our lives. They almost go hand in hand with the performer in providing the perfect ending. It is as if the physical world in which we by accident find ourselves in, provide exactly the resources for us to take our lives. But that is only in the realm of endings. I am interested in the non-performances of everyday life - how we labouriously drag ourselves on stages and perform with varying affects and effects of the self and 'I' in varying roles and responsibilities. Sometimes, they are unbearable to watch. Sometimes, they are so perfect that I cannot suspend my disbelief. It is because there are never good performances or some performances are over-committed to being a performance that makes possible my distinction of performance/non-performance.

Then in that case, Non-performance or the perpetual state of rehearsal of one self is another human narrativising. In fact, I have also restricted the event into a categorical entity in which one can begin to think about 'I'. I has much to say - but like the sun appearing/disappearing over the horizon, only a concept of linear time in cyclical repetition can tell us if it is an appearance or disappearance. In light of this, the non-performance of 'I' is really another performance. The difference, however, is that it almost never marks itself as a Said, a success of sorts; Instead, it is a saying, a doing, a performing, a becoming, being or even a being-unto-death, a process that must in time to come meet its eventual end. Without such a horizon of expectation, one will think one is performing extremely well. For the metaphor of 'Rehearsal' really presupposes that there is a final performance that we must rehearse for. The expectation to perform creates in us (in existential terms) an anxiety to perform, but in this case, we often perform badly and inappropriately. The way in which we struggle towards our own dying (as compared to killing) is really a comedy. A precision that leaves chance to mock us, as much as 'I' attempts to abolish chance. For within each death (taken as the extreme of perfect performances with the intended end), is a duality - a parody (of life) and a tragedy (of life) - simultaneously making us cry and laugh.

But there is also an ultimate non-performance that the performance of suicides exhibits later on - post event. It is that of the non-performance of self. One simply ceases to exist. (At least as a human being.)

But really, if we continue to think in terms of 'everything' with metaphors of performance, we really find ourselves in a loop leaping from performance to non-performance; an irony that is lost in us because we sometimes live the doctrine of performance so religiously.

There is something very straightforward in thinking of existence (or society, where this phenomenon is very prevalent in sociology and anthropology) and that is not by thinking that 'everything is a performance'. To make such a distinction is to immediately perform 'everything is a performance'. It is to only highlight what is already an articulation of existence in our own ways of existing. It is a performative that does not speak for existence. Instead, existence always has its own way to remind how bad performers we are, most capable in the surface of things. Our only saving grace, really, is our perfect performance of death (both as a non-performance that ends our performance, as well as bringing 'to die' its fulfillment.)

And here is the simple fact: We always fail in our attempts to will our deaths - Death is always an accident that must be in relation with the conditions of nature and man-made (our exteriority) most often indeterminable by us.

However, we will still succeed in dying once, eventually, without the need to do anything.
There is something in the inevitable relation between failure and success which makes living, though labourious and unbearable, bearable and so simple that it actually hurts our ego to know that living is simple. Simply put: we don't wish to know that death can take us by surprise. But the joke's on us.

"I am - not on stage" is an articulation of what this simple living means. It is the relation (the hyphen) that makes possible the articulation to even occur. In other words, the capacity to perform (or not) is not only determined by the self and our own absolute alterity, it is dependent exactly on the stage that we don't belong to; there is no stage for us after Eden. We have to create our own.

In other words, I almost always have to imagine the stage in which 'I' can come to fold, whether as a failure, a comedian, a clown or simply a competent actor of many roles. The radical thought that is proposed here is that it is the simplicity 'to live and die' that makes our little narrative of 'everything is performance' seems really trivial and almost a waste of time to think in those metaphors. Surely, we already know that. But what is radical in the simplistic understanding of 'everything is performance' is that we always fail to manifest 'everything' as a performance. We fail; Highly successful in utilizing the tools, rules and functions to manifest something, but never able to reach the core of 'everything', we only 'perform' the surface of things without the depth and profound understanding of 'I'.

How do I perform 'I'? That is a simple question. So simple that I cannot answer that. By way of escaping the question, I can only say how I intend to end this performance - by dying. (but this text then will only make sense posthumously.

Or perhaps, by asking what 'H' means - when I is in relation with another I.
It's not about the face. It's about the interface or hyphen that we helplessly find ourselves in; the stage that is not a stage but a being-in-relation-to-another and makes possible 'I' to be as 'I' is, in a state of immense simplicity - to live and to die - and without the baggage of performance and ultimately a success/failure narrative of our becoming - coming to death. Really, it's an ethical relation - both inwardly and outwardly without being unable to determine what constitute this tapestry of existence.

YHWH

But that performance or discourse is for another day.

day 82

I like to know what it means to like.
body, body and the souls in between that we cannot
see, along with the likeness of being someone else we fail
to recognise as intimately us
,
which this blindness burdens us with the unbearable weight of liking ourselves.

with the free prose, I traverse from the lightness of non-presence to -
the hyphen and a presence, enigmas that come before me,
I like - and that is the spectral liminal that escapes us,
and in liking myself, I also fail to see the hyphen
-
which this reminder now should also burden us with the bearable weight of liking words.

I like -
the heteronymy of words and marks that haunts and procreates the spectres and zombies of presence and absence
I like -
the cognitive capture that places a being in relation with anOther; hence, possibilities that a encounter posits.
I like -
You.

Choose:
the naked truth of being striped,
or
the covered truth of being sheltered

in this ostensible spectacle that is this world
I like -

I forget to like.

day 93

A says:
i dont like to be reminded that things are huge

A says:
i like to see small things

A says:
so i prefer to walk

F says:
micro

A says:
surely, a toddler learning to walk is more fascinated by the act of walking than of flying

F says:
hmmmmm

A says:
because the baby can actually do it

F says:
hmmmmmmmmmmmm

A says:
with flying comes greater responsibility

F says:
hahahaaa

A says:
bombs, poop and 9 people died in Amsterdam ystd

because a plane crashed.

day 94

these journeys i makes, the wayward leaps and jumps-hold your tears-they fall-and we can smile after the lasting effect of a bubble-POP. they gravitate to the fantasy for today - jollygood-jollyjollygoodtime, if i may have a lime to add to his tea and there will some meaning to hold on to as we join i in the classical journeys. Gute Nacht - Schubert.
are we ready for the show? i is not ready for the repetitions. well, he will never be ready for sure. we'll find some other way, the rude shock of finding no message behind the show. are you distracted? distracted by your own interpretation? there are affairs going on, the weaving and the trashing of the mind; little did they know, how bubbly they are, in the planetary systems, galore with exploding and imploding matter -POP. they fall, just as they once came to being by virtue of Chance. but there is no chance involved in this pattern of writing. you read and read and read, till you find something within it, to point to someone, connecting the dots, that you, yes, you are only capable of. But we won't go as far as to say we all die and disappear. to die - let this be the theme - and we die because we thematize. there is a breathing, very labourious and meticulous movement of the fingers to make possible the black text you now read. And there are connections that cannot be listed down now. But we can know, that many centuries have passed to bring the face, your face, to the screen, beneath and after many faces that came and go, and will come after you. And the words may perhaps disappear, and all we have left is a dark room with pure silence - POP. so what if they disappear?
We'll be sure, to meet, whether with fire burning or with universal experience of forgetting in a room of judgement, we can be sure of a certain thing - totsicher/dead certain - that we won't go as far as to say we all die - because 'to die' is certainly not far away. That is the greatest and more profound distraction to life. Nothing else comes close. (and I loves it.)

day 95

it's lovely isn't it?

Alvin. I heard it so many times today that I got sick. of it. of him.

your interpretation please? Alvin.

it's lovely isn't it?

absolutely.

absolutely. utterly. self-depreciating, sense of a repetition that eluded me, almost as soon as I heard it.

I feel dizzy.
dizzy of that name.

Alvin.

day 96

Who is writing these words?

In anticipation of my death.
I die, as I write.

Who is reading these words?

In projection of a life.
You live, as you read.

When we meet,
the ladder of love procreates the fruits of our labour - our child.
Thank you for reading.

Yours,
H.

day 97

where do these letters go?
no stamps. no addresses. just,

Dear...


Yours,
Friend.

We live with, by, the dots. The silence between an action and a reaction.
Who do I send these letters to?
Does it matter?
What do I write? Words of encouragement or words of malice?
Or words to remind people that we're alive or words to remind how we could once write?
How are you? Where are you?
To write to pretend you'll be still alive when the letters reach the addressee? Will they reach?
No one has the right to receive these letters.
No one should be reading words that belong only to the moment of the writing.
Once received, the words become the readers. Gently or violently.

Have you received my letters?

Hope, is the vain tyranny to oneself, if hope, be not attached to the gift of death.

day 98

As the days turn their back and as soon as we begin to perform the back of clocks,
there is one concept that I learn from such a retrograde step backward.

Love others. As much as you love yourself.

I don't remember how much I love myself. Or if there is such a need.

To love yourself, as I shall explicate, is to ultimately be violent to yourself;

To begin with, we don't love ourselves.

This somewhat sounds paradoxical, for surely the cliché is that we often love ourselves too much.
Whether that is true, I do not have an answer for it. For this excessive love for oneself is not somewhat clear to us, for we are often too busy to know if we exercise the will and the desire to please ourselves, or to be more precise, to be charitable to ourselves. In other words, there is always something going on within us that completely escapes our comprehension and thematization. Surely then, the desire to please or to (love) is not motivated by a strong belief built up from a deep-rooted and rigorous sense of faith in which we drive ourselves to the salvation, or a salvation, that once and for all would unleash ourselves from our mortal coils. But that this egoism has ultimately the painful reality of an entrapment - we trap ourselves even further with the egoistical reversal of the love principle, ultimately, as if ad libitum we could return to the paradise within us, as if there is one whole and solid substance within us to begin with. It is a comforting habit or ritual of doing what is obviously not an answer. But it is still an answer. One who receives the worlds in their veiled presences. One receives, and not to give.

If I do not make sense now, I shall make some sense by disclaiming that: It is often hard to express what is really an economy that is only capable of looking at a mirror. The gaze returns, and therein is the self-confession that no one is truly loved, except one self; Narcissus. In other words, how does one truly thematize what goes on in that mirror stage of ours, if the metaphors continue to revolve around the inside and the outside? The moment of confession, or even pre-confession of love, is a suspended moment in which the Self remains largely intact. It can go back and fro, up and down, and still the existent atom or Being is thrown back to his or her mirror stage without asking what constitutes the mirror and how does one break the mirror.

- BUT to ultimately, be violent to yourself.

This solo economy is not quite violent (to oneself). For the perpetual self-destruction and self-love are always at work within a restricted human psyche - the closed wholeness of the self ,who is safe in the knowledge that he or she has only to love, egoistically. Thereupon one then ventures out of the shell, in a retrograde manner, only to return back into the shell. Perhaps, there is not even an exteriority to begin with, for the mirror materialised outside remains really redundant. The reflections are all already done within us; within the impregnable repository of signs and desires that break out in performances and appearances. So this violence is accepted, tacitly. The performer, in keeping up with appearances, really does nothing insofar as to only hide behind the persona, that may be that face that receives all the violence from the outside, leaving, really, the inside intact - utterly wholistic and unshakeable. There is, really a bitch or bastard outside that can be blamed for all the misgivings and mistakes one does. One breaks and destroys the external profile or face whereas the very elusive internal dialogue remains unloved, thus stablised, even if in a chaotic and fractal manner (which is itself a problematic solution). When one knows there is a profile outside that can be broken into pieces, the trick then is to create the illusion of having divisible pieces of a bigger whole. This really means, that one can always rebuild the whole; or wholly outside.

But this is my speculation:

The economy of the other-to-love then is really the actual violence
that is capable of breaking this economy of self.

We are extremely linear. Maybe there is no such thing as a 'here and now' as theatre practitioners like to say. As much as we acknowledge the ephemerality of performance, we also care too much for the discontinuous effects and affects that performance gives. Surely, there is a linear continuity, or the possibility or potential of an irrevocable presence as it disappears, that makes the actual human trajectory a highly linear one. It is so linear and so inexorable, that we are merely trying to master this linearity by receding into notions of fractality or the discontinuous concept in a kind of post-Hume skepticism. This linearity is material. It is material because the potential energy of our beings to be, in being, in becoming, ultimately creates the presences even as they disappear. But it is not just merely potential energy. Well...I am not being too Newtonian here but one cannot misunderstand our corporeality as something intangible, immaterial and disappearing. It is precisely our eventual death (the accidental linearity or I-who-must-run-the-race) that makes us so linear even if I should fade, age and disappear as a trace. It is this linearity that breaks us.

The other-to-love is the ultimate violence that one can take up in a linear project that is simulteanously charitable and violent. It is the I love myself, But - that Paul introduces at every quick succesion of praises and then chatisements in 1 Corinthians. Perhaps, the elusive (and still is in many ways) 1 Corinthians 13:12, next cited out of context, can be understood in the context of my speculation:

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face:
now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

I can't see myself, ultimately, if we continue to pretend to find a mirror within you, that does nothing but to obscure our vision. For the face-to-face (my emphasis) is a violent profit that in every negation of myself, I confront the infinite other that makes me speechless, clueless even fearful and trembling in that short moment of indecisiveness before the acknowledgement, the front, the show, the performance, the speech that makes first contact. These moments of violence, prior to the selfish introspective projections, calls for our immediate attention. And these violences, or painful thorns that make us question who we are, and what we are to do in relation to the other who is simultaneously in question as much as he or she is in relation. For it is not accidental that in chapter 12, a discussion of the anatomy of body is discussed, which immediately paints a picture of physical violence, almost in an imagery that evokes the lamb slaughtered at the altar. It is as if we should be unclear of the notion that if I should have a wound on my body, I implicate every part of my body; my distress is for all of me to be shared.

To be more precise in my speculation: the bodily discharges one finds - the saliva of your childish speech - should in some way find an exteriority or one aspect of exteriority, that does a positive venture that kills you (as a human) as much as it saves you (as a child). For what the Other (Christ as the Other atheist/saviour) and the others who alike you in obscurity and fecundity, potentially does to you is that they make you less, as much as it makes you part of greater group; a member. And it is precisely, love or charity, the altruistical gesture of caring for the other actually makes you less yourself; you become impossible, incomprehensiveable, insofar as who you are to yourself as well as to others. Your alterity, for the first time, in a love-relationship, is the focus and the single thrust unto faith, the perfect asymetry (you are but one member of many) that must only be conceived with faith; absolutely blind and absurb faith. So I "know in part", myself as part of a whole that is not within me, but in a differentiated economy - "I know even as also I am known".

The projection then is dualistic - a return and a forward movement. It is not enough that one just loves oneself. The project (of love) is two-fold - love your neighbour as you love yourself. But, it is also crucial to add that one can also reject this dualistic linearity and confrontation with the radical alterity and exteriority posited in the face-to-face with an Other. What is easy, then is to respond and react with excess, or compensatory movements that oblivate the inner stage of de Anima, and build more walls (like the Berlin walls) around our own individual faces. (Or what Paul would describe as speaking in tongues, healing, interpretations and prophesising, all of which are external manifestations that do more to manifest the personal faces than our identities as members of the body, e.g. face of communism, Stalin, Hitler, faces of tyrants.) This excess, then, is the safe passage that forced confinement brings, with its categories, brackets and symmetries, that return deep into the mirror stage and remain them, darkly, as demons within and external performances.

As a ending note, linearly speaking, is my take on "to follow after love" in chapter 14. To follow after, as if it is always in front of us as much as we are behind love, is to give me the motif and motive necessary to discuss once again the linearity (of this charitable violence). To move forward, and to follow, is really to be less yourself as you perpetually become; or in being, you reduce and you give to the other, as you also receive from the other. In your numerous manifestations, appearances and disappearances, with the thorn in the flesh constantly giving you a rooted understanding of your materiality, which is not possible to think inwardly, except to consider the organs and flesh of your body, the inexorable end (made up of plenty of commas and sentence-breaks) will eventually be a guided venture led what is really the immanent Friend ,or the immaterial Spirit who then becomes the ultimate other who confronts you vis-a-vis invisibly. That is true interdependence in a violent way. For it is a mirror that cannot reflect materially. And the mirror, at this juncture is redundant, as it cannot reflect the spirit. What we are left then is wind, the wind that blows us, as much as we reveal the wind's presence, by trembling, shaking, moving, reacting and in some cases, shaken and uprooted by the immense invisible force that blows at us and amongst us, Who is? are? entirely capable of doing the most extreme of violences, in perpetual differentiation and simulitude of identities:

The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God,
and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with you all. Amen
2 Corinthians 13:14

To love, really, is to suffer oneself; to make less of oneself, as you come to a relation with wholly other that escapes you as much as the other confronts you, such that the other can come in the same Spirit.

How is that not violent to the Self?

a lesson from the 13 chapter of 1 Corinthians from the 13th Apostle; But in need of further proof-reading and editing.

take time, to love, and pause for the But-s.
in short, don't believe my crap.

day 99

Helmi: I am a Pestbuster. Call me if you need to kill some pests.

H: Then everything falls into a literalness of disclosure, into the hands of interpretation.

I: Are you compelled to interpret your identity?

Helmi: Call me.

H: Then everything falls into the realm of performance, or more precisely the performance of an identity where there is no entry into the alterity that always already present in an individual.

I: Individual. Such an elusive word.

Helmi: Call me.

You: Hallo? Helmi? Kenapa tiadek telefon?

I: Sorry? Wrong number. I think the phone company brought his number back into circulation too soon.

I: My name is +65973*****

Helmi: Where am I?

H: But surely, there is never a whole. And never a pure dialectics. Someone gives, as much as someone loses. Not as much. Maybe never as much or as little. Just gone. Just gone as a number. The number that never existed before the mark.

Helmi: I don't know who I am. Can you tell me?

I: Helmi is a figure of speech. No. Helmi is a person I cannot possibly be. But I can imagine him. He speaks Malay. I don't. I can imagine malay. I think.

H: Let's be specific here. Who are you?

I: I can be Helmi.

H: Are you?
Helmi: You are?

I: I cannot be Helmi. I cannot be myself.

H: Wait. Describe yourself.

I: I have a very simple family. I have nothing to say about them.

H: You. You yourself I mean.

I: I am a Pestbuster. Call me if you need to kill some pests.

day 100

It's hard to decipher those words - those onward marching words that do not end. It is not even a matter of subject/object or the consistency of the matheme versus the obscurity of poetry that some like to think is a music of the 'there is'.
There is, none. For the flashes of presence, always must disappear beneath language, the coffin that is the notion of material presence. What if, there is no Subject, or Object and only language makes the distinction. What if, poetry is not an operation but again the blind codification of a world that violently confronts you as much as it goes about with its own thing. And we are just blind men, finding, scavenging through the refuse to find suitable words to bring this world into our submission. So the lesson of alchemy can be useful here. There is no gold when we mix words together. It is, instead, an atheist's operation to counter the divine Sacred so that the Sacred can hide behind words, and forever be that elusive mystery, haunting us, tenderly, wearily or painfully. We endure words, so that we may die as words. Rest in peace - alas, there is no peace, forever those words shall haunt us, and tie us with knots of hybrids of categories.

If you think a child writing his or her name on a book is cute and sweet. Think again.
It is a submission to the word of the name that one has no choice - except he or she could in future change with exactly another word that the psyche can hide beneath.

The unnameable? Just another category, Badiou.

what we should think, if possible, is death that words teaches us through their repetition - there is no pure repetition. We die our own deaths and there is no way of thematizing that experience. And no way of naming.

I am on a redundant and paradoxical project. My words, fly up, and there they stay. They never once belonged to me. If those words disappear as my voice, it is only because I didn't have one anyway. And I won't have one after I die. So may those words serve as a disclosure - of death and the incarnation of traces, with a corporeality that always preceded me, and superseded me. Words were around before I came about. Words will continue to be around after I am gone. I might have arranged them in a particular order, but I am at their mercy. Perhaps, it is that violent interaction that makes life meaningful a la Job, and we can defeat words by pretending to submit to them after 7 days of silence. Is this economy of death through silence just my short-handed way of approaching life - yes it is. Life is short. Words are too long.

The many detours I make. The many words formed, will not bring me closer to death. This onward march, with faith, shall see me through (to death), with words, as a dance on needles and a pool of blood below.

Only through words do I deny myself. Only through words do I forsake myself. Then life after death can be achieved without too many words, except the name He gave.

day 7

to think in a straight line -- is to approach the linear end of a conclusion. But to begin, many full stops before notwithstanding, is to anxiously approach or depart from the influence, which many texts before, as traces, give birth to presence. So as you read my lines --- you should also know that lines in general (firmament or horizon) are violent. The division is prevalent in almost everything. Lines are violent ---- An open space is separated. A body is cut open. A name is written across a blank page. Another tautological proposition is made in a mathematical problem sum. The beginning of a story, where the end is presupposed, is the call to presence. The presence that has not arrived. But on day 7, as we make another leap backward by moving forward, we come to realise, that I cannot make the separation so clearly. Instead,
as if encouraged by fear, line by line, I move forward. Weary by now, that another reference I have drawn for the purpose of my writing, on the 99th day, it will cease to be what I intended before, but as if drawn by the future that will never arrive, its presence is predicated by the call to absence. If lines are finally hidden, it is only to evolve into a deeper violence.
As if blown by the wind, we meet again.
It is more violent to suspend freely in the skies than to sit and stare in a cave.
The shapes escape us. The lines, a distant memory.
All we have, instead, is the pull of your own weight, as you plunge into a finite enterprise, that is the liberty to live and die. And soon you realise, it is indeed linear. It is indeed a line straight down to earth. |
| only that lines do not always go on forever.


266-1 days more.

DAY 6

WE FIND A GREAT SPIEL OCCURRING AND PEOPLE SCREAMING CHANGE WITHOUT A CLUE TO WHAT CHANGE REALLY MEANS. IT MEANS BIG BOLD WORDS WITH NO REAL CONVICTION AND INSTEAD WORDS WE SAY AND SWEAR BY IT, ONLY TO DISCOVER HOW THERE ARE FORCES OUT THERE, MOSTLY DEMONIC, SUCH THAT ONE CANNOT JUST SIMPLY SCREAM CHANGE, WHEN CHANGE IS ALWAYS ALREADY GOING TO HAPPEN, AND THERE WILL STILL BE OTHER PEOPLE BUILDING BOMBS AND KILLING LIVES. SO IF FOR A MOMENT WE FEEL SAFE IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT WE ARE SAFE, THEN DISASTER IS AT HAND. WHAT WE HAVE ARE BOLD WORDS FROM THE CONSTITUTION AND IMMORTALISED AS PLAGUES IN GARDENS, WHERE FORGOTTEN ARE THE OLD DOCTRINES AND ORTHODOXIES OF FAITH. INSTEAD WE HAVE GREAT MEN KILLING OTHER SMALLER MEN, READY TO SACRIFICE THE LAWS AND PLACE NEW ONES OVER THE OLD ONES. HOW DO WE RESIST THIS? WITH MORE BOLD WORDS. AND ONCE ALL THE VIOLENCE CLEARS THE WORLD, PERHAPS, WE CAN THEN BEGIN TO RISE FROM THE ASHES AND REPEAT HISTORY ALL OVER AGAIN, WITH BOLD WORDS. happy valentine's day.

day 5

the splendour that is the passion for passivity, manifests in ways I will never understand.
the breaths I take, each step I take, yea, the fools will be proud that they're smarter than I am.
gently, the boats have their passengers, who jump, at the slightest rocking, and I'll jump up and down and I will drown for you. Hurray, just be what you want, someone will always watch out for you, least you do not know Him, He troubles himself, to take your breath away. Yes, He kills you.

the mystery that is your own identity, which you reach out for in your endless misadventures, Wearily, with a chance of meeting, our encounters, releases us from the slavery of gravity, the only road we've ever been down. He'll take you there. he'll take you there. she'll take you there. We cannot change. We cannot change the mould that we are. but nothing can take away the last breath, as you say out the name of the quiet day that breaks you, your strength, your courage, your faith to live. Oh, you'll live. surely you'll live. then we can reach out for the safest place ever: where we are forgotten. Don't look up nor down. Ahead, it shall be, in the room of our asylums.

I've never heard my name, in the same way as You call out. Will I burn while touching you? For you have taught me ζωη, and materialised faith in flesh. Will I burn while I hide away? For the axis of knowledge can chained me, but the axis of faith can lift me, and take me to the four corners of the world. With faith, yes, I can. Ahead, it shall be, the four corners of the asylum. Kill me, that I may live again.

day 4

Where is the other that eludes me? Who is the Other that totalizes me?
Are there other ways out of this?
I confront the other; and infinity presents itself as a limit of chance.
and it still eludes me. may I express this alterity?
may I know this alterity or am I simply doing violence to alterity?
I face the other; the other sees me as much as I sees the other. Therein lies the loop of infinity.
and also the beginning of the I that violates with the formal logic that is the Verb.
So what do I say?
Or what do I hear?
I have no voice, and He refuses to say much.
So what we have left,
is the face-to-face with the writing of revelations, and disasters.

day 3

I constantly feel that,

there's something left undone.
there's a sin not confessed.
there's a person I didn't thank.
there's a person I didn't love.
there's a story left unwritten.
there are words left unsaid.
there's a death left to die.
there's a life left unsaved.

but I constantly feel as well that,
too much is done.
too many sins.
too many thanked.
too many loved.
too many stories.
too many words.
too many deaths.
too many lives.

so I constantly say to myself:






,

day 2

Alas, alas, that great city, wherein were made rich
all that had ships in the sea by reason of her costliness:
for in one hour is she made desolate.

revelations.

under the notable influence of Chesterton, the precision of Borges, and the love from Spurgeon that haunts me till today, in one of my sleepless early mornings I imagined a plot of a dream that I thought I would endeavour to dream about the following night (when I get about to sleep without truly sleeping). Somehow the ingredients to imagining the plot were insufficient and I had to set to task ordering myself in a manner of a pattern with a chronological logic, that its sum total would suffice in replacing the tedious act of imagining in random. This pattern, or logic, would replace the meticulous weaving of foreign and veiled narratives, and it would run on its own to give the satisfactory conclusion that always come with all chronological plots. It is entirely automated and it never fails me.

The order, or the ticking of the clockhand or the changing of numeral digits, followed as such:

8 Feb 2009, 04:02:29AM

8 Feb 2009, 04:03:01AM

Without much a fuss, I managed to begin a plot. Only that this plot would appear to me as desolate. For what matters was not the content but the method in conceiving one. Time is in the essence of all fabrication. For without time, or at least the passing of time, there is no effort or even the potential for time-space to occur and for a content to fall within that time-space. For I forsee in the next hour, even if there are absolute silence and a lack of imagination, the plot will unfold on its own:

8 Feb 2009, 04:06:32AM
Singapore

Alas, my first stimulus occurs. It triggers immediately a set of possibilities that is inherent in the conception of Singapore.

Singapore. Singapore. Singapore. I have absolutely nothing to say about her.

8 Feb 2009, 04:08:04AM
I might want to formulate and justify here some sceptical proposals concerning the imaginary nation that is Singapore. And I can justify it, though weakly, with the number 1965.

1965. I have also absolutely nothing to say about these numbers. But in that particular sequence, I realise immediately the significance that is endowed by others to maintain the rhetorical elaborations that would go on, till this day, to efficaciously affect the imaginations of so many who came before me and more to come after me. (I've just suggested that I'm the bottleneck of an hourglass.) Even if I have absolutely nothing to say, many others have said so much that I can't simply ignore them.
As a matter of interest, I could pick either Fidel Castro or Che Guevara to comparatively study between two nations that also had two significant figures who did the fighting of independence in the 60s. Who would you choose? Personally, I like to think that the plot begins with an individual. Whether it is the individual who threatens to nuke us all, or the individual who duped us all with telecast tears, what significally began a plot now evolved into a poliferated form of a performance. The news at 9 and the soap opera at 9 too.

8 Feb 2009, 4:16:46 AM

Time, which generally attenuates memories, only aggravates that of Singapore. (Borges)
I never quite found the coin that was marked as 1965. (I only found a 1967) Perhaps, that is my way of ensuring its immortality. As long as it remains absent, I can imagine it and it can safely fulfill its function as my next stimulus for my plot (of time). Whether it is 1965 or 1967, the difference of two years is actually enough to suggest a distance that is needed for a trace to be noticeable and to continously, in a discontinous sense, refer itself to the forgone year that changed history. After all, they cannot make any more coins that are from the 1960s. In fact, they cannot make any more coins when a year has passed. But I don't think some people are particular about this. Years are meant to be gone. Just as the supply of money can increase or decrease. I often wonder where unwanted money goes to after it goes out of circulation and fashion. Money disappears. Money is used in transactions. But at some point, besides those that end up in museums, money disappears. Sometimes, they appear once in a while. But nostalgia alone cannot preserve them. If I could in some way gather all the coins of the 60s and ask every person who holds a 1960s coins its story and how and where it had traveled before it could reach me, then perhaps I'd be more than a millionaire. I wouldn't need to queue an hour to buy toto or 4D!

When I stare at a 1967, I stare at its loss. And I stare at a time that is gone. It is desolate. They are mostly melted. I didn't live with it. I couldn't. Nonetheless, it is significant to me by virtue of a gap.



When we think of gaps, we think that they are entirely empty. No gap can be empty if not for the borders that flank the gap. After all, trace is only trace when we can conceive of something that it traced. Trace of a trace? What if, there has never been traces. Instead, within an hour of its appearance, it has already disappear. It is an empty shell but we still enrich it with empty signifiers. Or perhaps, the original is in itself always a trace. A healthy person who wants to treat a sick must be sick himself or herself to give the best treatment.

which reminds me.

"my friends, we may defend ourselves, at any rate for still a time, against the two worst plagues that could have been reserved for us - against the great nausea with man! against the great pity for man!" (Nietzche)

Perhaps, it is not the plot that harms us but the very imagination that we are masters of some sort, and that we could master plots. This nauseating sense of an imagined presence, is best experienced in the most advanced of hospitals here. Everything is in order. You die with the best care. Or you prolong your life with the best forms of payments (not treatments). You're shielded from death. You live long enough to finish the next part of the plot and someone else will pay the premiums for you. You then reduced yourself to ashes (the same fate as coins of 1967!) to make space. They don't bury you for eternity. I think it's better to conceive an eternal heaven or hell than to dig a hole to fill for eternity. Please, stop pitying for our deaths. Stop pitying for our money.

But you may ask:"Why this cynicism?"
That is the wrong question to ask. The tragic course of the national plot is that it judges its own sin with a sequence that is cyclical: gain, loss, gain, loss. Free trade and increased taxes. We're hit by a double whammy. We kowtow to the powerful cooperations of the world: first the EIC then Westerners and then Chinese which is amazing considering how the Malays are forgotten in the equation. It's like a dildo that satisfies all the wholes there are, where we are obsessed with filling up holes and imagining simulations of sexual intercourse. Forget giving birth. I just want pleasure. Childless and impotence. that is what happens when you masturbate. The question to ask really is:
"Why the fall in fertility rates?" I don't think we ask enough about fecundity rates.

Which is fine really. the plot thickens when the same ships that she made rich mourn for her abortions and impotence. Not only could they not have orgies with her, they cannot even go near her. For all the costliness that she had once blessed them with, it has returned to haunt them all, almost HIV-like. Only that it is airborne. It is what you smell when you walk through Raffles Place at 6pm. The intergration of HIV and Confucian ethics seems a bit farfetched and as sudden as my random introduction of Confucius. But when you soon bother to think of hierarchies, casinos are only symptomatic of the confused state that do not when to give free sex or free condoms. So they do it top-down. No wait. Since construction is going to be delayed (which makes a lot of sense), we're strictly holding back AIDS by being belatedly aware of global forces. Since we can't seem to attract Westerners to patronize our red lights, then we shall illuminate our most colourful streets for our neighbouring countries that we have been courting since Mandarin was nationalised. The desolate Tang Dynasty amusement park or the ultimate simulacrum that traces our future without having to wait for our future to arrive, is demostrative of this simple process of courtship, STD and abandonment; then repetition. Not to forget the spreading of the disease to other parts of the world where we can sell guns - both phallic and bloody violent.

8 Feb 2009, 04:57:08AM
I don't have to think far to come out with a plot. Time has conveniently provided me with one that is so bloody rich that to avoid imagining is to be blind and dumb. Though many laws, rules and objects still elude me, if it didn't prevent Kant from being confused, I think I should also try to grapple with theses and antitheses. After all, I have started this story that you may follow me to the end. Because the end is always near as much as it escapes you. Singaporeans belong to Singapore as much as they don't. Maybe we should push our luck as to see how long it takes to make something so solid and material; so real and with a history coming to half a century of narrativising. Perhaps, despite her impotence, a birth (that is not a virgin birth) may still miraculously occur. When the abbots stop pocketing money. And when less trees are cut down. Perhaps, we'll live short enough to know medisave don't save us but preserve the durability of Temasek (and the American!). We don't need to live long enough to know. The nation-state will take care of itself. You've been taken care of.

8 Feb 2009, 05:03:01AM

but really. It's not so bleak. It may be depressing to know the following: that time is the irrevocable factor in any imagination of a plot. (We're going to die anyway) But at least, you know things happen with or without your understanding. They don't give a damn about you. Therefore, the highlights of your life should consist of more such revelations than plagues. If you can't awake to them, then you might as well don't dream. Dreams are precious really because of the impending end that waking brings. Dreams don't just beautify things. Dreams actually haunt and frighten us into a reality that we dare not behold. (Think Daniel) If every trembling and quivering has to be met with tears (Alas! We are alone! without Allah to provide us with material goods), then the more costly treasures that are blood, sweat and nails would never make sense to us. It takes courage to face a dying body. Therein begins life.

day 1

tis' be an occasion for renewal,
perchance to inflict a mortal wound.
with fingers we weave threads and shed blood onto the battlefields.
I jerked myself unto my position. A standing one, to look afar and face my enemies.
Aha! I see her, with her flag and call for revolution. Her nipples suckled and red from feeding those fools who follow her seductive call. What is revolution? I can only resist and fight with my orthodoxy. There are rules unspoken here. Rules that writing eventually unveils. I may, with the disaster of writing, write back and kill us both. I may, with the etching of my knife, carved out the paths of bloody cuts, with thousand daggers and pointed phallus littered all over the landscape. Are you Babylon or the golden sun? Are you Oracle or are you Luck? I cherish nothing but the moment that brings us the encounter. I cherish the projection and the breaking of the day. When lights meet darkness, and triumph over her. I can, with words, unleash a thousand plagues, and a swarm of locusts and have the serpent bite their own tails. In circles they shall tremble. And the quivering of the earth shall invite them to slide, and the dungeons of the world open with the mouth of the bottomless pit, a cage for each cardinal sin. My world is silent. My world is dark. Thy footstools fallen. I can conjure up images and signs that do not have to materalise in full. All I need, is to suggest. And the designation of your doom is at hand. Then...

Alas! The truth turn upon me. All I have been doing is just to imagine. All I can do is to write. And write I shall to slay the giants. My puny hands to cast the stones at them. How cold my hands. How I can strike them and myself twofold. I kill the giant only that I may place myself in the position to lust for more power. All I have left, is the desert of my own designs. Awake! Awake! Spurgeon beckoned. And I ignored the trumpet of his call. Awake! Awake! Babylon is here again. And I, undressed as I am, naked and soon to be pierced by her sting. What do I have left? My words. My written words. My last defence. My sword and my trowel. And with the arrows of faith, I unleash my last poison and breathe my last.

day 7

我，一切占据了我。
I, everything else occupies me.
我们，一切忘记了我们。
we, everything else forgets us.
单，独自，当我化成双时，
singular, alone, when I dissolve into a double,
双双，成双成对，当我们双成单时，
doubles, couples to doubles, when we as doubles into a couple,
一切都斗专心移，
then I will be able to translate,
双成单，单成双。
sixes and sevens, sevens and sixes;
没关系。。。
doesn't matter... ...

day 6

We do what we do. We did what we did. That is all there is to it. There is no success or failure but only the mere chronology of the deed to be done and done - my breathing, my short existence. That is the ideal state of the ephemeral and infinite trace. Where all there is to it is our heart-wrenching, gripping and gasping need to do - hence, to be. So let us not focus on the past (enough to project forward) or threaten ourselves with the need to manifest the future (it lasts too long). Instead, let us focus on the sentimentality, the emotional and the performative affect the doing has on us and them; On the moment in which one tears without a reason, and the moment when one smiles without a reason. Let the doing be the transitory force that brings us to nowhere but alike the mere washing of our feet for the exchange of immanence and transcendence beneath the doing, let us suspend the binaries and exist with love and peace - the violent possibility that peace brings and the healing sentimentality that love provides. Let us then do, that in doing, multiply the possibilities of grace and chance. All there is to it, is peace within and outside of us - inside it is all calm, outside it is war (man kann auch auf Deutsch lesen).

Do you.

Written while listening to
Rachmaninov ~
Piano Concerto No. 1 in F sharp minor - Vivace

day 5

I prefer an imperfect moon
which remains to be my own ocular perception
and cyclical forces I do not how they come about.
The imperfect moon presupposes a perfection
which leaves me with an ideal to dream about.

I prefer an imperfect Child
which remains solely in the care of a miracle
perchance to grow up with grace and faith
The imperfect Child presupposes a perfection
which my temptation to write will never reach. Yes, it will never reach.

As a child, I sleep, far away from the imperfect moon.
Sleep is almost unconditional. Sleep is the perchance to dream; to be the ideal state of semblances that I have no proper ties to;
to be 'He' and not entirely be 'I'.
Where the dreamer is not there to dream its own dream. He is in it, as well as outside of it, drifting from one universe to another;
perchance to be the ideal that he does not recognise.
in a strict sense, dreaming is so imperfect and elusive that it is all there is to it; hence, Perfectly divine.
To wake, those terrible nights of insomnia and the days of drifting presence, the simulacra of absence in dreams remind us that we dream alongside our waking dream. I can simultaneously be 'I' and 'He' or even 'She'. And 'We' misidentify and fade, sometimes we disappear, or we take a backseat and witness how resemblances fade in and out.

Dream, your imperfect dreams, usually unsatisfactory and inconclusive. You may have shot a person. Rape your own family. In short, done things you could never have done in 'Reality'. And then what matters? Real or symbolic, semblances of the Same. The difference is in the Touch.

So I prefer to be reminded by imperfection. So I can fly through and know I will never tangibly touch Perfection. Hence, it is simple to love. Imperfect as they are. I don't have to strive for higher places. I will never reach them. I will only dream of them.

Wake me, when I dream. Dream, when I'm too awake. I can love and hate myself simultaneously. I crave for more introspective violence.

I dream, therefore I am.

day 4

we, are, perhaps, not sorry for the things we do.
we, are, perhaps, sorry for the things we didn't do.
we, are, perhaps, a little apprehensive of the things we are going to do;
and a little jealous that others are more sorry than we are.
but, really, perhaps, we have never been sorry.
and perhaps, we have not done anything.
and we are merely little molecules flying around with nowhere to go.

we got to be kidding ourselves. but we're not sorry.
we're sorry that we're not sorry.
or perhaps, we don't even know what sorry means.
we don't believe in doing.
we do anyway.
we open doors to reveal another door to open.
there is a certain logic in there that is beyond my comprehension.
but no matter, we're not sorry that we don't understand.
we're not sorry that things are elusive. we are elusive.
we're not sorry that people stick themselves to other people.
adhesive people are not sorry that they're adhesive.
sorry people are so stupid that they're beyond sorry.
we're not sorry we are stupid.
we're not sorry to hear of people dying and murdering themselves because we'll follow them soon enough.
we're not sorry that we're such pests.
we're not sorry that we're such saints.
perhaps, we're too good, and humble, and meek that we learn nothing. (Chesterton)
perhaps, we doubt so much that everything falls into place and we are safe in the knowledge that we can doubt and be true about it.
perhaps, we are not sorry to know that we are virtuous. we know we have things to fall back on: virtues and morals. We know we can be forgiven. We don't have to be sorry.
Someone or something else will do the apologies. We just be ourselves. All too human.
The content of human life is made up of instances of us pardoning ourselves and compensating the lack of tangible repayment with lip services of apologies that fly away and never come back.
We are not sorry.

I'm sorry for writing this.

day 3

later, late, and always too late.
where comes the confidence to believe in later?
love, lover, always love
where comes the love to love the love?
bye, bye, always byes
every bye is always a last bye.
i won't love you later and I won't say bye.
i'll love you now and always

day 2

Who will I be, if I am there? Where would I go, if I was forgotten? I have too many voices, each a whole tied to another whole. Where will I be, when I remember? Don't remember me. Don't give me a voice. I'll hide behind a mirror. I'll be gone. What is the question? Where am I, when the question is asked? I'll be there, where the answers float. I'll go on, if you stop listening. I'll go on, if you stop reading. I can't say more, I'll say more.

day 1

H - the ladder of love,
for two I-s, met, and tied to the aleatory hyphen.
I'm Happy I met you.
for chance or fate, parallex view of the same,
was what brought us together.

neither up nor down, on the ladder of faith,
we are suspended and given the leverage to behold the in-between.
She's always been there, now Here by grace,
the auxiliary force that accompanies one and the other.

thank you. each dying day, in passing brings alive the dialectics.
(it is not dialectical then), But simultaneously an imagination and a substance.
We are Here. neither Heaven nor Hell.
for all that matters, is Her, the interval between future and present.

day 99

luxurious, ellie, plum, house, tonight,
we' d do welld. welled. el. al. rel. hallo.
may-hem. harem of sin. po pi. pop.
pot. re-, I take my cue. fee. pee. dung is.
the new. in. pin. fin. take.
care. will be. there. no more. no words.
ho. ha. ha. tell. peelie. care. ll' y. y. hallo.
mein. eins. ein Moment. zu. toten.
zu. vless. bless. b-less. less. gu. guess.
al. hui. bye. say. hi. yo. yo. you. a. y.
e. emergency. know. how. low. jow. yow.
wow. they say you'll be fine.
lim. million. , ra. ar. argh. Hi!
Laugh. laugh. laugh.
re- pee. pea. pea.T. The End.
we'll continue.
to suffer. the sr. sring. syring. e.
arrows. OUT. ra. ra. ra. geous.
fortune! we. whee. wee. wheel.
heel. heal. yo. go. ro. rondo.
do. do. you. do you know. you.
how r, you? hol. lol.
we; tr. try. trea. sure. Sure. pure.
? no more diamonds and waterfalls.
ras. rash. pu. put the in with the tin.
breath.e. co-co. coco. Co-ld.
we'll do well without you.
Kin. Bes. Bes. Bes. Bestial.
O. O. oh. Oh. Op. Opera.
We'll have the greatest show put up!
Do you understand? Do you understand?
Qi. zi. za. zl. zell. zeal.
I don't believe in princes.
Words, fly up.
and dis. diss. dish. dil. dilu. dilut.
salut. hallo. lo. low. loo. pee.
cee. b,ee. ha. ah bee. gee, gee.
you're gone faster than I expected!
Par. Para. llex. there we sep. erate.
maybe. ta. ta. ta. bun.
i'll eat' to be alive for tomorrow.
I'll eat my dung.

I'd.

day 362

Now.
all I am.
disappear.
No.
I can't.
disappear.
repeat the performance of emancipation
Now,
I,
give myself a voice.
set myself free?
my hands,
sealed
by the fate of my words

I'll pretend to be me.
I'll pretend to be me.
I'll pretend to be me.
I'll pretend to be me.
I'll pretend to be me.
I'll pretend to be me.
I'll pretend to be me.

I'll forgive myself.
I'll forgive myself.
I'll forgive myself.
I'll forgive myself.
I'll forgive myself.
I'll forgive myself.
I'll forgive myself.

it's good to be me.
it's good to be we.
it's good to be me.
it's good to be we.
it's good to be me.
it's good to be we.
it's good to be me.

looming mother's words, silence pleases the game to end; conflicts galore, though they have their last seconds to announce their ends. how do we escape words? please don't wait. please don't wait. I am a child. I am child. I cannot stay awake. I cannot.

I may not cry.
I may not smile.
I may not clap.
I may not sing.
I may not laugh.
I may not scream.
I may not say, 'Oh.'

there. here I lie. looking up at stars that disappeared light years ago. what's real? what's fake? The mystery is not the answer. it's my perception. recklessly feeling my way, which way, sowing seeds as I stand, I pee in my pants. Sorry soul. eluding me, perpetually. I don't get myself.

I don't get myself.
I don't get myself.
I don't get myself.
I don't get myself.
I don't get myself.
I don't get myself.

there. the disappearance is never complete. the erasure is never complete. There is nothing to erase. Never begin. already moving. I move. the words move. there. beside you. the words lie beside and apart from you.

today. This day. (which day?) today. again. I shall break apart the seal that ties us both together. to gather words, enough courage to say, and I will repeat my voice, by virtue of my silence in writing; hard keyboard, cold monitor screens:

I ignore myself.
I ignore myself.
I ignore myself.
I ignore myself.
I ignore myself.

I fade with the blinking of my eyes. Flickering lights, departing souls that enliven the hasty nights. To company me, wisdom departs with bitterness. If it is true, I have to believe in the false too. Nothing is left for me to hope; despair. We're next to each other. We're also not next to each other.

We'll reach a conclusion.
We'll reach a conclusion.
We'll reach a conclusion.
We'll reach a conclusion.

Sun will not rise. Comes and goes in linear repetition. I won't return to see you yesterday.
Moon will not set. What moves? Who moves? Stop lying. You won't see the universe from there. there. I see you. Do you see me? Alas, the real, fleeting us with blatant disrespect. I'll govern my resistance from now on. Restraint. Perspire till death.

I'm on a threadmill called rainbow.
I'm on a threadmill called rainbow.
I'm on a threadmill called rainbow.

My blood, child's tears that reached no one. The arms, broken branches, forests with no names, there I venture. Tired of exploring. It's getting harder to get. It's harder to sleep. I'm finding. I don't want to find anyone other than you.

I'm cold.
I'm warm.

I try too hard. No. Life is hard. My head touches my toes. I lick my toes. Then I sit up. I raise my arms. I stand up. I walk on my hands. I fall. I laugh. No change of perspective will stop something essential. I am I.

I meet you.

Then we shall disappear. Death comes like an accident. Seven times we try too hard. Perfect death. It is chronological. It is excruciatingly progressive. River flows. Carry me to my last words. Drift. Then I die.

day 182

fusion of conceptions, of sleep less taken, and gentle the night blanket falls, and we'll all be safe.
we all let go, belatedly.
but we move on, on Godspeed.
i'm happy.
I'm happy.
Hi.
Bye.
Hi.

day 130

in a word, say what you want.

in a sentence, forget what you want.

in a paragraph, erase what you want.

in a page, return what you want.

in a book, die when you're done.

are you done?

any thoughts?

take the test and fail it.

and again, take the test. and fail it again.

how are you?

sweet pies, butter, and milk to toast the bread.

how are you?

mornings, with the tea cooled by your blowing.

how are you?

on a tree. the ball won't fall down. another ball. remember, I did. I hit the ball with another ball.

how are you?

I'm not yours.

how are you?

going, gone.

how are you?

we're still going.

the white sheet won't stay long.

we won't stay long.

how are you?

this is not the first time I wrote.

I will put on a smile.

don't worry.

I will put on a smile.

how are you?

my words, not mine.

I'm fine.

your words, not yours.

I hate you.

Yes. I hate you too.

please don't, gently, hold the boat, and we can steady this.

Yes, complete my sentences.
don't try to appeal my senses. appeal to reason.

write an apology with your eyes closed.

I'll read with my eyes closed.

say yes or no.

Do you love me?

Correct.

Do you hate me?

False.

Do you know what yes and no is?

Affirmative.

What is yes?

Negative.

What is no?

Positive.

Are you dumb?

Maybe.

You're sick.

Possibly.

Why?

it just is.

you fail the test.

maybe.

tear the pages. remove your results.

I can't.

Why?

I don't care.

Why?

This is a blog.

Delete it.

I can't.

Why?

I'm still alive.

invent something else.

I can't.

Why?

Something else is always being invented.

Hush. Hush. Hush.

it's always difficult to end.

Why?

I can't answer.

are you done?

soon to be done. No. already done.

day 365

voyages to nowhere. that is somewhere. where I meet, aporia, and filled landscapes of broken trees, rootless and leaves-less. imaginations filled with visions forgotten. just lines and words that don't make sense. don't have to make sense. say Sinn. and I understand. how do you exorcise demons of yesterdays? don't have to. be young, so young that death is round the corner. and voyages are always planned journeys for accidents. and tensions galore, filled with raining fish and they are a blessing and a hazard. gravity can kill. no. a body dropping from above can kill. A corpus of texts. no. A corpus of imaginary heavens. free me, then, of generation of transgressions and mistakes. who's left, to fill my soul, with the inspiration of silence. knows me, like You do. so I shall, then, learn to not expect. and fill my bubbles with obscure lines and references. which no one hears. and enlist the cherubims as well, with double-edged swords and shields of irony and parody. free me with the violence that is destined. burn me, whiteness, clarity beyond reason. Daniel-like witnessing, and the lunatic with his horse chants. don't whip me. don't chain me. I won't be nice. within me, obscurity that hurts. together with the tree that murders me; and the tree that regenerates me. Boehme-like. I won't forget me. I will forget You. and in so doing, know You. Then, prism of love, we meet, with sharp fecundity. to productively and creatively, venture and invent, what cannot be imagined. but hoist up our bloody palms, with our bleeding stigmatas, we may profess, before the cock returns, that we always never knew, only led by faith. unlike anyone. but lost, in hopeless and peaceful colours mixing into a radiant and blinding force we can only paradoxically call it love. Voyages to return, after the writings are done. with words to hurt and bury us. So. I conclude: I know love. I hate love.

Don't write.

day 96

dizzy. dizzy as full stops generally. are. dizzy. dizzy with love. as love can break free. can bind you. elusive chain. it don't tie you to songs that make no sense. dizzy. because love can lift you to places unimaginable. i love you. i love you. we'll sit on our comfortable trees. jokes. mesmerizing clouds to fall in circles through. and full circles. and return to the progressive linear. dizzy. i severe the longing for the faraway. just follow death. just follow death as it continuously comes nearer. dizzy. we'll touch on sunset orgasmic freedom. there be no need for sense. there be need for senses. hold on, the dizziness will pass. passing strangers. lonely as strangers can be. we're here, together. lonely as lovers can be. beauty in the depths of the smiles. we won't know who they are beneath. but breathe we all do. dizzy. ascending through the underground. mortal men don't get it. but mortal men also have a better chance to get it. lose it all. dizzy. dizzy with the bleeding blood. losing it all. lost it all. dizzy. dizzy is the forsaken bleeding naked man. dizzy up on the four corners. dizzy on the way up and down. dizzy is a way.

day 340

those who fell are not cold, but warm with the aggressive polemics that consists of reckless actions and hard emotions. They know the ways, elusive mysterious paths of perverse destinies that we only struggle to make sense of. Yes, they know, and they move as human as they can be. They know exactly the way to go, the freedom to go, but they can't help it, they are just being themselves. But we mock each other, even when we might know that there is more than meets the eye. We live, in a village, where all are strangely familiar, similarly strange. They know the ways, where others are there to veil the ways available to them. She sees, the mysterious as clear as snow, with dried blood spill on the white sheets. and they still know the ways, the ways in which they can walk blindly without guidance (too much guidance) and find a certain perverse position to look at things with a new perspective. they face up. the heart still beats, and they see the sky, clouds floating by. if dreams float by, that is because the sky is as it is and the clouds move where the winds blow. such is the (polemical) orthodoxy of nature. Nature as she confronts us, them, her.

They are us. And we, the painted creatures who suffered for answers, born again from the lightness of the volcanic eruption that is the implosion of our souls. Unleashing the behemoths of antiquity, yes, the confrontation begins with the monstrous forms and atoms of the void within us, raining with fallen angels. the parentheses were introduced, and regimes of knowledge in place to block us from the paradise. the confrontation is necessary. So perversely necessary. We know the ways, as humans, as children of sin. we could not help it. The war began even before they knew. As children, who as monsters of and against humanity, they could probably be the one resistance to humanity. Precariously living, between the child-likeness that makes us adults look over-elaborate and the clarity of thought that makes us adults foolish, we struggle to contain the beasts of humanity. We do not know children. And they continue to deconstruct us, as much as we rape, starve, disable and murder them in order to construct us. But no amount of violence towards them can be compared to the judgement destined for those who slain the beauty of the child. Certain infinity, tossed in the cauldron of perpetual knowledge that is fire - the ironic bringer and destroyer of life - is the most profound violence to humanity. "You will burn for eternity and listen to the gashing and crashing of bones and teeth."

The concept of eternity is scary. Trembling so. The concept of the child, in its transient quality, is also scary, productively so. For in that conflict of ephemerality and infinity is the monster that releases itself from the void within us. And living once again, we co-exist with the ghost who haunts us, as we are baptised by the burning fire (as well). In between human life and death is neither transcendental eternity nor immediate and chanced accident but the inward subjectivity that is never repeated, never outwardly performed and in its quiet way, goes about, ghost-like, into the orthodox order of nature: trinity. Idea, human, and haunting.

The child is probably the embodiment of the trinity: that which is to come, and that which is the blessing of the word that came before, and that which will forever be perpetually subjective and relative to the individual human being. The child remembers as well as it forgets. The child is the atheist who is forgiven because it cannot believe, not yet. The child is loved, regardless of what he or she has actualised or can potentially materialised. It is materiality in itself, that which has no say or plays no part in deciding to exist. Pure material existence. The child gives itself as itself. It is the neutral that threatens the dead and the living. It is a composite of differences. It is the mystery that we proceed to later attempt to assimilate and master. But this neutrality (and orthodoxy) is polemic. It is aggressive. It confronts us. It manifests the pure act of unconditional grace. Nothing is more painful than seeing a child multilated, destroyed and violently violated. But nothing is more beautiful than seeing a child saved, loved and kissed by the seal of faith.

When we fall, an image of the child haunts us.

day 244

sit, they two,
and put to rest,
the moment
of loneliness,
and lie
as we dream
with dark curtains
blue painted walls
and warm quilt
(words in books)
even if they are too much
those moments
can be
too little.

less
is
more
less is more
less is
more
less
is more

lonely,
are those
with too
many.

day 333

with hands, wet with poisoned blood,
they wiped, the thirty coins,
and left the inside to the outside
as the delicate trees should one day benefit.

delicate, hands, we touch, unable to bear
the weight of commitment and responsibility
so we sink, in with the rushing tap,
and we disappear, and appear with renewed fear.

words, destined, foretold, the disciple departed a season,
returned, the touch, kiss, and giver and the giving, confused -
betrayed, such love! to give up and to be given,
the condemnation that pre-empted salvation
we cannot understand.

trans-finitude, we skip and shift, one to the another,
fish, a galleon centuries later, we meet near shores,
and we become less and more, you and I, who are you,
why did I care, why did I give; I give, hence I do not give.

to those we care not, or care with an indifference inherent in their performances,
you will not know Him unless you betray Him.

Un-less,
where less is more; not less, more than less, always more.
sufficient grace.
only the human can forsake God.
only the atheist can meet God.
Where the radical Neutral (the Other who is not other) stands in between
the poles of difference.

day 55

imperfect moon, incomplete sentences,
serious tones, nonsensical conclusions, if any
live, live death, tensions fly,
where we stay, and stay we soon dwell
simple, gentle, moon has veil
to shade it from,
what, yesterday, the moon, rounder.

the core of the imagery is an absence that does not transpose into a different presence. I don't know what this core is. I don't know if Judas is a betrayer who is eternally condemned. I don't know if Paul really belongs as the 13th apostle. I don't know many things. Things don't know me. absence is not presence. stop this dialectical impasse. Stop this reversal. Something else. always something else that escapes, eludes me. I am a performative betrayer.

day 75

I jumped against the wall, and it cracked.
I jumped against the cracked wall, and it broke.
I jumped against the broken wall, and it crumbled.
I jumped against the crumbled wall, and I went through!

Apart from the slight bruises I received, the plunge down the building was short.

Quick to fish out the little postcards in my pockets, I scattered them as I fell.
Patient to await the impact, my skull to crack, to break, to crumble and for blood to go through.
I wouldn't call it suicide. I had too many things to define.
But there I lied, as dead as a dead person should be.

Who were we? Yesterday's questions are irrelevant. The deferred answers now seem too belated. We should have treasured the short commune.
A moment lasts long.
A moment as long as life.
This is an occasion to print an obituary.
But we wouldn't want to immortalize it.

There is a pattern emerging here.
So let's be patient, let's remember less.
Should we fall, should we slip, we know where to look.
Stop rewinding, stop repeating, we can only move forward.
when we reach the end, we'll meet. soon enough. always too soon.

The hands are holding.
the holes are filling.
and we'll rest when we have to.
We rest while falling.
This will not be a fall from grace.
Falling, is a gift.

W....E.

a
r
e

f
a
l
l

.......i

n
g

day 158

Hush to the volcanic burst of the hollow flourish of a noise from deep within: we'll never be able to express the limits of our limitations - RELEASE!

Cherish the never-ending xerox of the paper-life of the going and raining gold coins that fall from the uncorked skull and the mind has its musical notes that wriggle and spread out, like bees that know their destination but we cannot decipher and follow the beating of their wings - does not matter.

stare at paintings that you cannot replicate and we may in multiple gestures find more alignments with the strokes of the dead masters' brushes than our unattainable dreams of reproduction that do not meet the requirement that is the aura of the return. So have you made up your mind to follow the notes and release yourself from your ocular shackles?

we meet at places you cannot imagine. And the entrances are at places you cannot see. (maybe there are no entrances and exits. Just Openings) we'll rock with a progressive method that we can no longer trace the origin and decode the marks that form in our ears so let us then believe, blindly, that the music must end, surely it must end that we may embark once again on memory lanes and not allow dementia to ruin us - instead, it is our return to our child-likeness, with unicorns and carousels to once again imagine ourselves in merry-go-rounds that go round and round till fantasies are on repetition and meaning has no standard form except the pure blindness of the mind that lead us to only be on LSD and not mind walking 7 steps to and fro without a sole purpose.

So you should notice by now, that sense is the last thing we need (it is) and we will then venture further (and nearer) than we can ever imagine. We won't regret for we cannot regret. focus and the world will present itself to you. Do not paint it. It is already painted. Do not admire it. Live in it. Cover us with lights we never see before, and blind us.

And we release, soon after, the forgiveness that we long so much for - forgive yourself - and we will retrieve what we lost. transmute me, with the perfect alchemy of blood and substance.

Last, two sense of the word. Last is the first is the last.

day 89

would be punished if the wind did not blow tonight - and painted the sky blank -
impossible it was since the wind blew and the sky was painted red
and I could not see the half-crescent moon, veiled behind the angry clouds.
O, aggrieved by the torture that it would be forgotten and the colour would change again,
I see no reason to look forward to the blue morning sky.
pity that the wind did not blow through your low windows in the house,
while those curtains veiled nothing and protected nothing.
are you knocking on screens that will not break?
are you singing songs that no one understands?

we grow so silent, so silent, so patiently silent.
we grow so still, so still, so desperately still.
So,
if the moonlight steals into your dark paradise, beware that it's only half-bright.
we are lighter, but not light enough to float.
if the sunlight steals into your dark paradise, beware that it'll be full-bright.
we are heavier, and the weight holds us to the ground.

silence or stillness are not the only necessary conditions for the appreciation of our future.
lasting psychic hypotheses, proven not by the necessary past events,
but by the mere raging fire that could not be put out (we refuse to put them out).
we remember too often, the things that hurt.
we remember too little, the things that heal.

be touched not by the perturbing orbits of celestial shooting stars that must certainly and eventually swerve into oblivion.
be touched by the gentle and firm hands that are forever invisible and does almost nothing to comfort us.

Your weight is a consequence of forces and their sum.

We create friction!
SO,

Be thrown, into the being that you will be.


twirl,
swerve,
deformed into a ball of fire.
We won't have time,
to be;
returning to who we are
twirl,
swerve,
broken down into pieces,
We won't have time,
to stop.

We are suspended.
drop,
and we'll be fine.
top
of the world that we are to about to leave from.

no country for us.
but somewhere beyond our imagination.

(We may not always have the right words to say - but since they have been uttered, they can only be right and are thrown into a momentary existence.)

(Be kind to yourself, you only die once.

Grow up, grow up.)

day 250

Dear Paper,

as we run our fingers on the edges of your body, the fine cuts leave an impression on us, teaching how it feels to hurt so subtly that pain is not a suffering
but a fine line and wrinkle that can be healed (incompletely). did the blood taint your rough white skin? we twirl and print our now blood lines and form little
unknown
shapes

and we know that in time, the small cut will close and the blood will dry but you will no longer be the same white paper. But you lacked colour prior to our meeting.

White is such a tempting colour
and yet so frigid that you

repel us, unresponsive and those unimaginative us would cer
tainly ru
n away th an to wr ite a ter rible word or sh ape on you. And yet , we constan tly rape yo u.

No whi te i s pu r e w hi te. J
ust as no pap e r is flat, wit ho ut c r a c k s a n

d c r e v i c e s. You ab sorb u s. Y ou can n ot r esist if w e were to be cou r
ageo u s to w r it e .


s o we fol d
you u p and you kept very quiet and we shall send you to somewhere far away. That perhaps, it is not that the words really matter. But that simple gesture of remembering someone far, that makes

blood and paper
so precious to us all.

Yours,
Ink.

day 1

I wanted to know what yesterday was for you when stars were brighter and flowers were more fragrant and cupcakes were hot while I made Milo for the impending tomorrow's cold weather which I knew would make you shiver if you did not wear your jacket and had not my warmth to embrace you through the days that we both think are happier, much happier to live with without the usual pauses unless we bother to think and think we did, daily, and we believe we're still happier, at least that's what I want to believe and continue to believe that it endures and how you mean to me and how I mean to you when the days will eventually be shorter and the night skies painted with ivory and sparkling tears fall like they do in snow globes and we will be infinite and fleeting as if we didn't exist but together we hold our hands tight as we blow our dreams to faraway places to show that we still believe in them because we have faith. And the short pause the full stop brings is not an end but a sign of peace and fulfilment as if that is all we need. Faith. And with thanksgiving and daily communion with Him I will pray and pray that the clouds lift us to places we never dream of but confident that we don't really need high dreams but just the immediacy that You bring and how we look so crazy together that no one will stand us which remains to be shown but we can now think in multiples as we are not alone in this and we will be admired by those who bother to admire and hated by those who bother to hate but we will not care and faith is the new trend as much as it is ancient and I will continue to be talkative because I now can boast and have faith and we will be absolutely still and glorify You. Pause.
I will not know what tomorrow is for us except my perpetual obsession to write and talk profusely about us but let me pause and be still after another long paragraph and believe that we're happier and happier we shall be for as long as He wills and I shall not complain because a day with you and You is enough to reveal eternity to me even if it were a blink of an eye and we will be happy and that is really all that matters, even if the unknown brings us commas and uncertainties but a pause will always bring us back together through Faith.

day 0

i need you so much closer.

day 0

day 301

Here we are, as comfortable as you can be. As naked as you can also be. The pillars support us. The roofs shelter us. And one day, you can be assured, all that are here will be taken away from us. We will disappear like these buildings will. Nothing endures except what nothing cannot touch. We sit here not because we have nothing but we have everything in our faith to survive the ordeal that is our humanity and the dreadful despair that ensnares us daily, even as we tried our very best to flee our temptations. We sit here, not because we are truly comfortable, but we fear that our seats will be taken away from us, and we shall trip and fall, terribly and infinitely. We have everything that is for us to escape, to rest and to be very still, while the world fades away and disappears into nothingness. You do not want to be forgotten. You will not. He will not forget you. But let us pray once again, that the touch of infinity begins our daily communion of what is immediate and directly personal to you, as it is to those who care and look at us, face to face.

O Father in Heaven, while the seeds fall and though everything will be taken care of, you sent your only begotten Son to nurture those seeds, that they may grow and strengthen themselves for fruits to bear in time to come. Surely your Spirit dwells in these fruits, that the new seeds of new fruits will continue your work and glorify You as the circle of life and death continues. The flow of sweet succulent wine! May the Spirit continue to lead us into the houses of need, that we may conquer the unforgiving cold and lonely nights of our stay in this world. We need you, dear Lord. Come. Surely, You come!

We pray, not as mere seeds, unable to grow and sprout new life. We pray, because we are almost there, almost able to be stand tall, and bear the fruits of our combined labour. The rain, the sun and the air. And our hands. The repetition of grace is the most extraordinary thing ever. And yet, to Him, it is most simple and ordinary. That is the very reason why we can believe and be assured of our growth. Let us not choose to believe in extravagant and excessive means to reach you. For the fundamental reason that marks us as Yours is precisely our unworthiness as seeds; but hand-picked by you, thrown into the soil one fine season, we grow, not by our will, but Yours. For the wind and the rain can blow and pour all their might at us, but we are safe because You protect us. And that alone makes us worthy - by Your grace. So let us not fool ourselves, that any operatic and decorative ornaments can make the fields more blessed, more beautiful and worthy, and more ready for what is to come. For by itself, through the unconditional divine attention You give to us, as we keep to Your ways, we find then the balance of Your will and our wills, shared in the common aim of glorifying You; till thy Kingdom come.

We pray, not as mere plants, unable to do anything without your divine attention. For we know You are always there, caring for us in Your own way and in Your own time. For there can be a season when nothing happens but patience and a steadfast attitude will see us through. Let us live in this world not for worldly possessions or achievements but live for the mere presence of You. You alone shall be all we need. As long as there are seeds. As long as there is a field (even if that field is a desert). Your love reaches us and delivers us from the most oppressive situations. Let that be our steadfast faith. Our strength comes from you. Our bursting from the ground happens with Your will.

We pray, not as mere fruits, vulnerable and pitiful. We give abundantly unto others just as You have given to us abundantly. Let us not boast that by our strength alone, we could grow to a state that we can be independent of You. We have grown. But in heaven, we are Children. And may you bless us, Your foolish children, of wisdom. Some seeds may fall and be forgotten. Some seeds will be taken away for evil and economic wants. But some seeds will be like us, that drop to the field of Your grace, and grow up just as You see to it that they will.
So there is nothing that is not unknown to Him. Everything is awaiting us. And everything we need to grow up is sufficient. Nothing are the things of the world that fade away. Nothing will come out of nothing. He is everything. The Alpha and the Omega. Everything begins and ends through Him. Let us not add anything new that replaces Him. (That is impossible.) And yet, we foolishly altered ourselves to suit invisible gods and idols.

No one can get near to Him if we do not actually believe that we are mere seeds, just as you are now sitting, helpless and too comfortable. For we do not fall just by our own strength. We fall that He may pick us up or begin the work of life in us; that we may reach high up into the skies, as trees and as capable trees that bear fruits of His labour. So let us not do anything exceptional or believe unto things excessive. We have to keep still, and believe in our destined growth. A growth that is courageous. A growth that conquers storms, droughts and hails. Grace alone ensures our growth. Faith alone ensures our own seeds. Look to the Spirit as it dwells in us. Inwardly, shall the seed of life do its own great work. The water is within us. The breath of God is within us. Seek the things of the external world, you only ignore what is potentially within us to be the trees of life of this world.

But even trees will fall one day. So look not for symbols of this world to prove our existence. We live because He lives in us and for us. We live because He died for us. Everything awaits us. And He is everything we are waiting for. Come, everyone who sits here. We sit with a kind of blind idleness. The path is narrow but His grace is able. You cannot run from Him, even as you sit there on the ground, un-nurtured and uncared for. For already His will works in you and you will take root, and burst into the sky like the new born seed. Yes. That is the message for today. The seed of life lives in you; the infinity of everything awaits its manifestation through you. You insignificant and finite being, now made significant and infinite by Him. Let us reconcile this with a humble and meek gratitude that it is through His blood, the great work of His grown human body as the container of our Saviour’s blood, that we may today drink His wine and feel that warmth and comfort within our cold shells and believe that we too, may be like His wine, bring His good news to those seeds shattered and unable to grow. Let us then pray again, for these seeds, sitting in their own rooms, houses, great plazas and dark places. And we silently await, our return to the field of Your garden. We are not harvests of cities, but Your own harvest.

Forgive us, for saying too much. Forgive us, for the sins that hinder us. We are forgiven. We grow, in Your Name.

Amen.

day 223

we crossed paths where the swords met.
we met sirens where the waters crossed.

we stood afar on the cliff by the sea, reading about
dear creatures once roamed, today's fossils.

we reached skies where clouds rose.
we rose lanterns where fireflies reached.

we stood nearer on the fields by the river, reading about
dear creatures once roamed, today's fossils.

be there where you need me.
be there where you see me.
be there where I can take care of you.
be there when you finally cry.
be there when you finally smile.
be there,
even if you don't know me.

day 111

W walked into the room with his eyes closed.

anyone there? he asked.

no one. a reply came.

Very funny.

Really. no one is here.

Then who are you?

just your imagination.
why don't you draw the curtains? You're up next.

I'm up?

May we present to you, the legendary 'World version 2009' in all the right colours!

'ahem'