Friday, January 21, 2005
but all we do is question, some leave even before the door behind the secrets are even revealed, others hasten away after discovering the horrifying truth about themselves, about ourselves. and so we tell others "Let sleeping dogs lie", indeed, let them rest in their kennels till night enshrouds us all in her deep swaddling cloth. the day is safer, the night; piercing.
mankind is a pathetic species. we seek companionship and that elusive "Love" that only the erudites claim as their own. how can one be a living testimony to Love's prowess unless he/she understands it; and to understand it, he/she must be so refinely aesthetically cultivated in the works of Shakespeare, deep love poetry, to the fine extent of finally experiencing the love our celebrated poets eulogise of. au courant must we be, these heartlanders, those buzzing mindless mob of hawkers beggars and iraqis, pish.. what do they know about love, some mock mindlessly. leave it to us. the au courant. the gallant, tasteful delicate us.
think you we're the only ones who form societies? no, we're imitators. shameful, high-minded, holier than thou creatures who merely copied from the earlier creations of life. the bees, bats, dolphins, lions, ants. think you we're original? look no further then. trails of blurred light tracing the endless highways and byways of our metropolitan earth. like busy little... what's the word?... Bees. we are the great pretenders of our time, and like a meandering snake, our unopened secrets, our cherished but unanwered questions, or even our answers, coil like a sleeping serpent, snaking itself into the very pits of our hearts. till we find that we can unwrap and hide no more and disintegrate into piles of doddering fools.
and there is no where to hide. Rushdie says so too. where can you hide from yourself? those dark secrets you loathe to the very guts of hell, those endless questions, those flaws that people fail to recognise, or don't bother to enunciate for the benefit of both parties.
and again i feel the angel of lettering slipping away from me and i should end here. i should. but on a lighter note, today is a lovely day. the clouds swarm together like.. what's the word again?... bees. like a swarm of bees. don't you just feel like the old adage isn't true? that mankind rises and falls but the surroundings remain entrenched? watching the trees carrying their heavy burden, the clouds drifting by and then coming back one 360 degrees turn later, you feel like your the one whose literally watching the earth roll by.
i have the curtains stripped away and my little pod-like box, suspended from heaven feels nakedlybare. two sides of square walls, two sides of square windows encircling me. if you've ever been to my room, you'd understand the suspension i feel in midair, a square box that's been tied to heaven, that swings like a swing when the wind blows, and me in my little square naked box is typing away petulantly, diligently, hardworkingly.
Nice.
a dash of jazz, the clear windows with no curtains to opaque the sunlight, and i imagine i'm out there on the dusty road with nothing but endless fields, and one endless road stretched in front to meet the horizon when sun sets. and i'm waiting for a kind driver to drive past and pick this little hitchhiker up, and with the windows scrolled down, we'll drive in that lonely landscape with the hot red wind in our hair, the scorching dust that follows us every mile of the way, and that sweltering sweltering heat of the sun to honey our eyes, lids, speech and motion. Joyce Lim unzipped at 2:44 PM with 1 comments
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