Just a Plea

I know I can't stay here forever,
Someday our party ends,
There ain't no dance that last a lifetime,
There ain't no footsteps on the sands.

I know I can't be drunk forever
Someday the smoke will clear,
There ain't no hurt that last a lifetime,
There ain't no sadness to remember.

I know I won't be alive forever,
Someday I'll part with a plea,
Though the dance don't last a lifetime,
Maybe someday you'll remember me.

Proseac: My eulogy?

Uno Silencio y Uno Grito

Listen to the silence, it is but one more sigh to a scream.

The Valentine Cliche

Bouquet of flowers;
Box of chocolates;
Candlelight dinner;
Sappy love-songs;
Love themed movies;
Romantic beach walks;
Hugs and kisses.

Celebrating a day for lovers and romance, we also mourn at the funeral of creativity.

Proseac: I just have this way of making everything look bleak. Ahhh.... fuggit.

Looking for A Female Contributor

I am extending an invitation to a fellow blogger to contribute into this little depressing space. I've kind of figured that I want to do this for a couple of reasons namely:
1) I've figured it is kind of hard to get any sort of continuity with my spasmodemic updating of the blog. Two minds contributing should roll the blog along at an acceptable rate of sorts.
2) I am conducting this experiment just to wonder if there is a kindred spirit out there in cyberspace somewhere that is actually able to share my mind's wave length and thus contribute to this blog
3) I have decided I want a female contributor because I think it will ultimately balance stuff out. Think of it as getting two sides of the story.
4) Dialogues are more fun than monologues.

Now down to my requirements of the candidate.
1) People who know me in person or know me in my alter-ego form need not apply. I am thinking of this as an anonymous blogging experience. Blogging with people I know somehow kills the experience. You know what I mean.
2) I want people to write stuff in ENGLISH. People who write in English variants like 'Singlish' or 'Maglish' need not apply.
3) Please don't try to 'brighten' up the blog. I like this blog as it is, as an indulgent space for the darker things in life. Think of this place as a place where people will come to for inspiration to sorrow, pain, morbid and alternative intellectualism.
4) Don't treat the blog like a diary. I don't think this is the place for people to read about what I've shopped for today, what I had for lunch and who do I know. I certainly don't want to know what happened to the neighbours dog yesterday too. As you can see, it is not really relevant here.
5) I welcome muses, proses, short stories, poems, literature and stuff like that. Personal experiences and afterthoughts are nice too.Be really dreamy and creative with expression and mood play. That is the essence of this blog.
6) This is a blog. Not a photo-log. Remember that.
7) Not all your writing needs to be sad and morbid and painful. Bittersweet entries are fine.
8) Don't involve the blog in politics or current affairs. There are enough of those out there as it is already.
9) You can be dirty in your contributions. Explicit language is fine. Just bear in mind to use it with taste. Remember, the only difference between 'The Birth of Venus' and 'Jenna Jameson XXX' is in it's expression as an art form.
10) Any and all names and characters mentioned on the blog are fictional. Keep it that way.
11) You may be confrontational, but never offensive.
12) Finally, I value all intellectual and creative property. Be original in your creations and don't plagiarize. Please.

I seriously wonder who in the world out there will share this with me. Ah well, gotta try anyway. Interested contributors, just drop me a mail at asketx(at)gmail.com

That Toilet Moment

I wonder sometimes, is it just me or does that toilet moment happen to everyone?

Ever tried holding your piss or bowels in and enduring the agony for long long long moments? The tingling sensation of things arriving at the border. Holding it in cause the toilet is just around the corner and you keep on telling yourself, 'It is just a little bit more, a tiny little bit more!!'
Your face goes blue. The breathing gets rapid. The little hairs on the back of your neck starts standing up as you shiver.
So off you go running as fast as you can as soon as you hit home, racing to the toilet while trying to unbutton your pants at the same time.
Finally, you arrive at the toilet bowl. Staring at it, all your motor functions go limp as you whip out your tools as fast as possible. For that one instant in time in the presence of the almighty toilet bowl, you cannot seem to hold it in just for a couple of seconds more, in spite of the hours you've been holding it in up till this point.
Pathetically you leave a huge mess behind.

Piss, crap and all. It must be some sort of strange magic at work there.

Its not all that bad though. Savour that exhilarating moment of relief. It sure beats orgasm of any kind in my opinion.

My Blender Metaphor

I remember giving out advice to a friend of mine once. We kind of got into that conversation out of the blue. He was none too happy with the way he had with the people around him. It seemed like he was dropping out of relationships with girls and losing friends faster than a can of Bygon can make the flies go bygone. The good thing for him was that his career was on the pick up. You win some, you lose some, most might say.

So we were just hanging around having a casual conversation over a cuppa when out of my mind came something that I think made a lot of sense but somehow eluded me all that while.

I think it is funny how books and people tell you to partition your time and get organized. Decide how much time we want to do what and spend time with the people that we care about and doing the things we need to do. Having it mapped out like clockwork and sticking to it like mechanical is the essence to success in all aspects of life.

Strangely, I didn't exactly agree with what books and people are saying. More to the point, I think the instructions were a bit misleading. See, I do agree strategic division of time and devotion to our different aspects of life is a good thing. It is the right way to move forward. Can't move forward unless we're all organized right?

The problem is, most people follow that advice without really getting the right pictures in their head. Most think that their time is like a pie, or a cake.
Take a knife!
Cut it up and divide!
Partition. Keep it all like clockwork.
Follow like machines!

That is where the problems lie. We start getting so effecient, we either start to hate what we do or the people we know start to hate us for what we do. Either way, it is really back to the starting point.

I think most people miss the key message. It is really not so much about the division, it all has got to do with the proportion. Don't divide and partition time. Proportion time! Think of it of like making a martini. If you will only make a glass of martini. How much vodka versus how much vermouth versus how much ice ultimately gives you how good or how crap a martini you end up with.

So I suppose the books and people with the wise advice were right in some sense. They were correct in a way, to tell you to partition your time. The only problem is, we would've ended up with too many pieces of cakes to juggle. The cake would've been too disjointed. It's so much easier if we had all those proportioned pieces back in one cake.

Well my guess is, for all the wise advice, they simply forgot to tell you to put your divided pieces in a blender.

Masks

Masks have a strange strange power over people.

It is either that or most people simply don't like being themselves most of the time.

Putting on a mask puts us in a state of uninhibitation. The mask is that last bastion of security between our inner selves and the wild wild world out there. We will dare to do things that we will never ever of have done. Say things that we will never ever of have said. From the most outrageous to the most insane to the utmost depraved even.

Of course I've thought that the explanation was simple.

People simply just don't want to be recognized for doing things that they shoudn't of have done.
That explains the bank robbers in balaclavas and the convicted felons with paperbags over their heads.
But the mask goes way beyond that.
People don masks and achieve a different state of consciousness. Maybe its a point of contact to our inner self. We play out the role that we really want to be under the shroud of the mask. We play the hero. We play the villain. We are the animals. We are the hunt. We are who we want and are not to be. A being with no readable emotions. An automaton. We become the life
of our masks.
As we go through life. Think about it. How many times have we rejected our true selves just to give life to this mask that we force ourselves to wear? The facade. The masquerade. The deceit.
Underneath it all there is only one truth.
We simply want to be discovered.

And We Drown

As the water closes above our heads
And the icy grip of death pierce us
We stare at mortality in its face
We fear
We tremble

Breath by breath
The air thins and disappears
The beginning of our fade to black

Slowly the fear is overcome
The comfort sinks into me
The image of your courage and love
The picture to my grave I carry

With you in my deep embrace
The grip of death slowly released

Still we let the water wash over our heads
And we let aqua close us in
Baptize our journey
And drift us far away

Precious Tears

Infinite sadness in the night,
Tears well in her eyes.
Each droplet falls,
Like diamonds from the skies.

Every tear a dying star,
A measure of broken dreams.
Sauntering gently downwards,
In trails of stardust streams.

Every droplet from your eye,
Shed in love for he.
A sigh, a wisp, a breath,
Tear drops falling free.

Precious are the tears of love,
Liquid diamond drops.
She weeps now and then again,
Will ever the sadness stop?

Proseac: The inspiration came from the art piece that I came across while surfing the web. The original artpiece could be found at www.fullmoongraphics.com.

Two Skies, Two Worlds

Loneliness speaks to me
Gentle whispers in my heart
My deepest fears are true
We were meant to be apart

Our different worlds exist
Under two seperate skies
Where yours is clothed in velvet
Mine is draped with lies

Where you have a world to live for
A life fulfilled in full
Mine is a nihilistic world of loneliness
Where I play the fool

The princess and the harlequin
Coupled paradox we make
Not a fault of you that we part
Another cruel twist of fate.

For Every Moment...

For every laughter that escapes my lips
I am reminded of an orphan crying in the world somewhere,

For every sip of wine that I drink
I am reminded a child dying of thirst in the world somewhere,

For every morsel of meat that I eat
I am reminded of a man suffering famine in the world somewhere,

For every festive cheer I feel
I am reminded of a mother in sorrow in the world somewhere,

For every easel of comfort I know
I am reminded of a family tragedy in the world somewhere,

For every moment that I live my life
I am reminded of someone dying senselessly in the world somewhere.

Proseac: I am so utterly thankful for my life, however depressing it may be. In this season of festivities and holidays, take a moment to remind ourselves how truly blessed we really are.

A Bruise, A Cut and A Haemorrhage

A bruise goes beneath the surface, a mark left behind after a bad knock. It hurts quite a bit right after the first knock, but it tends to recover rather quickly. Usually, it does not hurt after that. It only starts hurting again when you prod, massage or exert the bruise. Sometimes, even with prodding, you are not even sure if it really hurts anymore. It tends to tickle a funny bone and makes you laugh. When a bruise heals, you forget that it ever existed.

A cut is the opening of the surface exposing the tender bits underneath. It hurts a lot more after a cut and it recovers a lot slowly. It hurts even after it starts to heal. Prodding and exertion on the wound will break the scab, and the healing process will have to start all over again. The pain is absolute, that you won't ever think its funny. When a cut heals, it sometimes leave a scar, reminding you of the day the cut was made.

A haemmorhage is buried deep inside, a mark of a potentially mortal combustion. It hurts like you've never been hurt before. Usually, even when you have stopped hurting, you still aren't sure if you have healed completely. On the surface everything looks calm and steady, but deep down inside you bleed. Bleed and die. It leaves no scars and you won't even realize that your life and hopes ebb away. The only signs of what happened will be in a post mortem report done in a lab while you lie on the slab in the morgue. In other words, it will always be too late.

Consider the above. Look at my heart. What stage of hurt do you think it is in?

New Year?

Ahhh, the end of 2005 and a 'fresh new start' for the year 2006.
Seemingly I feel compelled to write simply because this day is like a bookmark of sorts. It is supposed to mark the beginning of a 'new chapter' and also bookend the 'old stories'. (Pardon the cliches)
I prefer to think of it as an interlude that temporarily changes the time signature of things. Slowing down the prelude and setting the tune for the coming climax.
Anyhow, to break out of the box a little, I have decided to cheer up my blog (at least a little) with sprinkles of optimism.

So here is to another year ahead.

Cheers,
Proseac

Hurting Too Much to Care

This is the season where everyone harps on caring and sharing (it is Christmas afterall), but is it just me or the fact that caring really hurts.
For those who believe in unconditional caring and loving (like parents and saints) I salute you.
For the simple and ordinary me, I really don't think I am up to it.
Caring less means I will hurt less, and hurting less sounds just about good to me for now.

Cheers.

Love Lost In A Hail Of Gunfire

The only love I know is the violent kind
Lost in the liquid red that stains the snow fields
Every emotion I've ever felt
Loaded into the chamber of this gun
The only declaration of love I know
I proclaim with a pull of this trigger
Till the sands are written with my calligraphy of blood
My love is declared with a dynamite blast
In my mutilation
I know my love is made pure and clean
In a hail of self righteous gunfire
My message of love is made louder still
I transcend all and forsake all
My ultimate sacrifice
My life for my love.

Proseac: Say no to terrorism. Love enough to live, not to die.

My Rationale on Everything

I deduce that 'Everything happens for a reason';
Some reasons are acceptable and some are not.

Applying the theory that 'for all action there is an opposite reaction';
'Everything also doesn't happen for a reason'
Again, some reasons are acceptable and some are not.

It is also a well known fact according to the 'laws of perception';
A reason can be viewed as an excuse from a different perspective.

Hence my rationale,

Everything that happens or doesn't happen is caused by a good reason or a lame excuse (or a good excuse or a lame reason for that matter), that is either acceptable or unacceptable depending on your perspective.

Proseac: And that is everything really.

Hope Lost

It is pretty sad to see people losing hope.

Generally, my take is that nothing in life is predictable or is anything for sure. Some people have it easy, some people experience a flush of bad luck, where mostly people just suffer from self-inflicted injuries.

Still, I've always thought that it is wiser to just sit back up, spend a little time to wallow in the pain, daze a little bit and then its time to shift the butt and move on. It takes a lot of determination and will to accomplish and definitely it is something easier said than done.

Nonetheless, life is a continuous stream. There are just milestones in which we evaluate ourselves. There is no perennial failure, only continuous self-inflicted pain. Learn to make the right choices. When we grow wiser, there will be less pain.

In all, life is about hoping. When hope is lost, life is lost.

Your choice really.

Beautiful Moments

The beautiful moments in life are the ones that last the shortest.

The explosion of a firework,
The lush pink and purple of twilight,
The candlelight on a birthday cake,
The glow of a firefly in the night,
The first snow drops from the sky,
That moment of genius on a football pitch,
A baby's first word from its mouth,
That moment of vows exchanged in a wedding.

Cherish it while you can. The beauty only lives in memories.

Memoirs of a Deadman

I wake up wondering what time it is...
Looking out the window, it's twilight. The sun looks like it's setting, or perhaps it's rising. I have totally no more recall of time, space and date.
I've had a heavy trip. I can still feel the taste of puke in my mouth. The worst part of tripping is the reaction of the body to the atrocity that it has to endure. Sometimes, it doesn't take kindly to what it's been given.
The stomach churns like a whirlpool and the head splits. Everything is too loud. Sometimes, I can't bear to open my eyes. The vision always returns like an oil painting awashed in solvent. It starts coming back in whirls of technicolor. More often than not, it just encourages the body to react as violently as possible.

Can't seem to get up and walk. The best I can muster is a pathetic crawl to the washroom.

I stare into the mirror now. Somehow I don't recognize myself. I can't remember myself being so withered. My eyes are bloodshot. I look bruised and battered. I wonder where did I manage to get that cut lip? Must've been an accident. Things like that happen when you're tripping. I've had worse falls, sometimes, face first on to the concrete floor.
I turn on the tap and wet my palms. I need to wash my face. The wetness stings my cut lips. I flinch a little, and then, I continue washing. Feeling the pain is better than the emptiness.
A smell comes to my nose. The pungence is suddenly so striking, it almost gives my stomach another reason to purge itself. I must've been sleeping in my own bile and urine for the whole of my trip. Then I realise the stink is not of the overnight bile and piss. I just shat myself. Somehow, I've not yet retain the fine motor functions that control my bowels.

This is so pathetic. So very fucking pathetic. I feel like waste and I know I look far worse.

I slowly strip myself, taking care not to agitate my already broken body. I turn on the tap and let the ice cold water wash my body. I feel suddenly pierced by icy fingers that jolts me into consciousness. Suddenly I am aware of my wasted frame.
My body is shattered. Blisters and scabs from the frequent hits cover my arms. Most of them are not even healed yet. Some of them are slowly rotting away at the skin. All of them, didn't hurt anymore. I let myself wash in the water and tears.

The cacophony of pain envelopes me.

Why am I fucked up this way?

I heave a sigh.

I dress up and lay on the mat. I really don't feel like doing anything at all. I curl up, holding my knees close to my chest. I cannot control myself.
It started with a sob. The volume of sadness amplifies louder. It ends in tears running unabated. I cannot help myself. I cry hard, shuddering,choking on my tears.

My throat feels parched, my lips are cracked and dried. I reach around and took hold of the nearest liquid. Per chance, it happens to be a glass orange juice. The glass is chipped. I take a sip of the orange juice and cut my lip even more on the chip. The blood flows on.
The juice tastes funny. Probably its fermented. Probably its just how orange juice tastes like when mixed with blood.
It didn't matter. I doubt anything much that I consume will actually kill me now.

I am mostly dead anyway.

I spit a wriggling maggot out of my mouth.

I feel the urge coming again. The withdrawal. The all too familiar cold sweat that breaks from my brow. The shivers coming all at once. I need a hit. I need to feel alive again. I rummage around. Good, there is still enough here for one more hit. One very heavy hit. Very very heavy hit. Maybe my last ever hit.

Like a ritual, I even out the grains expertly, prop the contents on to the crude aluminium foil and set the candle alight. Slowly, I rim the foil containing my life over the candle flame. I stare at the dancing flames as if in hypnosis.

I remember someone calling this shit "Angeldust". How ironic.

Slowly, I watch the powder melt in the crucible. The beautiful white now settles over the foil in the form of a rich dirty brown liquid ooze. It is slightly charred black at the sides, but it does not matter.
I grasp a spent syringe from my side. Greedily, it sucks and slurps the rich liquid as I draw it in like a pump. I inspected the needle point. It is slightly blunted, but still usable. It might just hurt a bit more, that's all. I pump the syringe a little bit. A fine thin stream of liquid sprays out of the needle point. I smile, satisfied that the passage in the syringe is unblocked.

I look at my arms, searching for a spot not stained by scab or wound. Found one. Right there on my right arm. I strap my arm up with a belt to stop the blood flow a bit, so I that can see my veins where the beautiful sharpness will impale in a while more. The shivering is getting worse. Mucus starts to drip from my nose. I need to get this over with fast.

I smack myself a little bit. Smacking works like antiseptic. It lessens the hurt a little. I flex my right arm a bit and smack myself a little bit more. The skin over my arm starts to redden. Good, that should do.

Slowly I insert the point into my flesh. It stings a little at first, and then it was alright. I pulled the trigger and pumped it slowly into my blood. I can feel the gush. It feels so good. I pull the needle out.

After that, I just pick my spot and lie there. All the pain, sorrow and sadness is slowly disappearing.

I see flowers. I see her. She just stands there. She wilts, petal by petal. She looks at me. She beckons me. Everything feels alive now. Everything is beautiful. This is my world where no hurt will ever touch me again. I see the distant light. It feels so warm.

I drift and drift away.

Delirium de Infinium

It has always just been me,
Facing the night that goes on and on,
The heart of frost, an eternal winter,
Wall of silence left unpierced.

In my mind I fall inwards,
Drifting inside further away,
Spiralling, twisting vertigo,
Reality torn asunder.

I have lost the hold on me,
Going under the surreal waters,
An ocean of sorrow, a lake of tears,
Drowning in this sea of despair.

I fathom those that are real,
I fathom those that are not,
This is my invitation to me,
Into my delirium,
Into my dementia,
I shall be be swept with my friend of misery.