old english.

i want to go deep into the "language" i am still learning. the history is not as boring as i thought. it is tempting me. i wish we had opportunities like some who had it easy since birth.. hmph... there's always a way. i'll find one.

that's a pretty picture.

noisy talkers lined up to pick; pluck out words to form

shapeless sense--

their echoes were mountains high

and looked for blind substance

blindly

they chatted and engraved their wrinkles

like my aging skin

prematurely raging against conventions:

there was a door

slightly open. i didn't know what to make of it.

the bricks fall in the right place.

you really don't have to read to show your eagerness.



i've been consumed by a newer headache after having the grumpies converted to thawing ice-caps. things are okay for the moment. i have decided not to wrinkle my eyebrows and travel the conversations that occur in my head- these involve too many heads- too many eyes of eyes. am i successfully confusing you- you can actually figure out shit from crap if you are attentive enough. trust me on this.

let's go back in january. what have i consumed from the trip to shantinagar? i am too tired of going over that again and again. smaller houses smaller dreams; people feed off of people; hypocrisy led by hunger; niceness in smallness and God nothing citylike and the ghoststories. i recall everything- do you? i tore all the pages, dear jupiter. i wrote the letters to nobody i figured. but i still have them posted in my virtual reality-- perhaps somehow that will make me come back to this world one day and discard the remains of your image. i am tired of make belief characters. YOU ARE NO LONGER, honestly.

i remember feeling uneasy over matters which were blurred till i came back from shantinagar. it made me draw lines for my own good. someone died inside me. but it was-maybe- worth the journey to the underworld of one's shattering illusions. at least i am not Magritte's shrouded man anymore. well, i would be too offended to be a man in the first place.

i need to rant down everything. i am keeping too much inside i guess. i don't really care that you and you are not going to read an epic blog entry-- that is safer in my eyes.

i killed sami again. he was never there in the first place. i am tired of hiding that fact. i mean it was not my lie to be begin with but i had to lie even after i knew the reality. i am happy that there's no one who would use reverse psychology to fuck with my mind. she was a bad friend to use it. i forgave her eventually but i never told her which and what made me hurt the most... here, now i will... i hope by some twist of fate she reads it. she should know that i don't want her to feel bad but she should be told that i acknowledge her mistakes-sins... because they were deeper than what i actually made it look to her. i don't care if she never considered me as what she said i was-- i can say that our relationship was indeed built on a superficial level. i was too blinded by her words, her delusional world and her hypocrisy. she rebuked my traits and called my naivete hypocrisy-- but dear friend, by the time it all ended, i did learn something. i am never going to trust people so blindly.

it's like everytime i "sojourn" i have to "loiter" "palely"... i am doing justice to Keats's knight... but i am not hurt broken by my experiences. i do know that stand right back up and walk on -- who cares how fast i am walking... at least i walk and i know how to. every experience teaches me something- once i go through a marathon of heartaches, emotions, dramatics... i get a little stronger. the bricks fall in the right place. they always do... but we all point at the sky and make God the scapegoat. "oh what did He do to us? oh oh oh!"

to hurt one's ass.

(google image^)

i am not calculating in numbers now.

i woke up to switch off the ac because it was killing me... it really killed the rear of the bottom flat. i jumped up and fell. ouch.

the incredible pain of the moment-- the grumpies becoming more sore. i hate waking up like this. i wish i could somehow transform the vessel so to salvage the soul- it's not happening anytime soon. i have to disclose to the grumpies about my next year Egypt trip. i am saving money. i really need to go to Egypt. i mean why there-- i wish i knew.

trying to figure out eyes that don't smile.

painting by Shahbuddin... photograph taken by me... haha... who else could be that bad in photography?

all the poetry is sleeping. i have to be the flesh and meat of frosted hands and guts-- they are people o's and i's and vowels cluttered in their throats-- they are like themselves and i am in between. i try to drown in their glass windows... but who could penetrate ice? i am no water, i melt but i am no ice too.

murky.

you know,
it's really hard to dissect simple things. let feelings curve their faces...
think, if the water was too murky, would you put your feet in it and start walking toward the inkbloat bird?
think, in the tiny gaps between words and try to breathe a little. i know you can't.

!y punto!

to prove a point.


i have done something good to feel "alright"... i think i am getting addicted to the process. am i too ambitious? perhaps.

at least we are writing now.

let's be colourful this time.
no wait. that will mean i have to stop writing and change the colours. i can't do that.
is poetry being recognised more important than just expressing it? is any form of art, art, if it is not recognised? is that why we can sell art and be famous and those who don't they ain't artists because who saw them really?
i mean... do we have to shape an image of "art" like we shape a book or a pen or a paper or an eye when we say those words? do we shape word when we say "w-o-r-d"?
these are gibberish right? i never liked crowds but i like company. i like to talk about things i think about--- is that trying to sell my whateveryoucallit. i wanted to "grow" as a "writer" ... clearly i am not one. really as long as i live... the struggle to grow will make my life worthwhile. i don't want to sell my words. i don't try to create poetry to get applauds and admiration... i just write at times... i don't know why.
i hate to suffocate in other people's better opinions of what i do. i like criticisms... but i don't like it when you try to throttle something that my subconscious mind frames consciously...
i also almost always love to stay alone... hide in a room for days. is that normal... will you say that i am trying to hard to be something i am not? really... stop it.
i don't care anymore.
i like my pen and paper. i'll shape my own universe... if you recognise it and call it shit, then it is perhaps shit in your world;eyes or views. if you recognise it as art... perhaps it is art. and aren't you glad it breathes?

?comer algo?

don't ask me about the title.
so this is how it'll be after a year or two. i will have to give up everything i have now and form axis of confinements and build a house out of leftovers... it won't be as bad as the addled sentence. i don't know yet. but i have to give up on everything- the imaginary world and people i only got the chance to imagine and make bonds with that had less expectations from me.
it will be tough- not too fair. i mean it's been days... i can NOT for the fear of being judged write. before that fear had no significance.. now the fear is all i have. i mean it has taken over me. perhaps i was always delusional to think i could "imagine" -- who can't though?
the reculse should be a mouse till she bloats herself to death. but Witty never mentioned such a mouse. he mentioned universe in every mouse, didn't he? but who was i to think he could a prophet?
i will be a fair bargain for my parents' happiness. i won't call a person that-- i mean i will give my full consent to people to do whatever the hell they want to. i think, i am too fearful of breaking their hearts. but in the long run... Allah knows best.
perhaps there is a Jupiter somewhere. i mean, i don't even give anyone the chance to become one. and even if i would, i would be "sacrificing" in the name of my parents. it's better to have NOT loved at all.
dear Tennyson,
i loved the whole idea about Victorian poets. but really i can't be that bold to comply.
sorry, love. things are not so happy inside my universe.
esha.
i talk of freedom and equality. but i am a hypocrite to not fight for something i don't want. i don't want to commit to a "school" and bondage where i would have to completely lose my words. but if that's the only way to keep that one person sane and healthy... the person for whom i stopped myself to attempt something "stupid"... why not?
so i will be cooking? i have never done it though, but i never condescend. it's a brilliant way of expression too. but i just can't be at peace with the idea... but i guess ...yeah, i will be cooking. wearing jewellery perhaps, umm raising children(i would love to) within a confinement (wow shall i raise a finger)...

i can't. no no no. but i should stick to my words "i will never make you unhappy Ammu"... will she be happy if i end up with an incestuous sexist bastard?


dear Ammu,
i can't sacrifice my words.
but i love you the most. i think i have grown up to be a narcissist. i can't school myself further than this, that's a new promise.
esha.

i'll keep this alive.

i promise. i promise.
i need to.

my advance writing course is giving me the chill. "we are going to deal with formal aspects of writing essays" my motherlyfaced course instructor smirked and swallowed the last word. well the motherly part depends on whether she wears professional materials or not! damn that sounded angry, didn't it? not really, i can't forgive her for what she said after masuma's uncle died. forgive was perhaps a harsh word. but i can love Mks for the rest of her(haha)- inconsiderate or not, she is very much fond of us, and i guess like other "good" teachers she wants us to give our best. my best, this time, is threatened, inn't? i mean what is "formal" writing? why do we have to "school" the writing? why can't everything have freedom- like the word "spatial" she used for "descriptive essays" ... "you need a thesis statement for your essay"... yes yes i have heard that before. but the buster gave a B+ because i insisted on sticking to narrative form even though the final paper needed a little "organised" shit here and there.
"oh you gave a wonderful exam. you got the highest in the final! i think you made it to an A-"... no i didn't, liar with a grandpa smile.

it's funny how we use the notsoright words in front of Mks. we repeated in turn- the word "pee" and i explained the process "urination". now she knows where the disjointed fragments come from... we are all retards. she should be happy we are a little "creative" that way... but do we need to create this time?

if only i could answer all my questions...