.

The true core of having drunken sex is to understand that you're absolutely numb, and that the feelings you're feeling are completely and utterly psychological.

The numbness of booze starts in your nose, and radiates to your entire body, leaving nary a cell or molecule untouched and unmolested by its glorious blanket of unfeeling intoxication.
In the time it took you to pick up that chick you've been looking at all night, youre drunk, and so is she. Its the shared numbeness that brings you together, and you love every second of it.
You reach out with bloodless fingers and remover her top, and with blinded eyes you appreciate the sight before you, 120 pounds of alcohol marinated meat, writhing and twisting beneath the caresses of her lover, a specter that you cant see, even in you inebriated state.

"Let me take over baby" you whisper into her ears,as your hands find their way to her waist, and your lips to her neck.The moans that escape her mouth echo in your hearing,between the space destroyed by the speakers in that club and the region of sounds given to bats and dolphins.
A low guttural yowl escapes her mouth, and without patience or pretense you plug it up with your lips tongue teeth.

In the final moments of your memory playback, you direct her delicate fingers to the clasp on your pants, and then the film in your mind skips a few frames.

All you remember is waking up the next morning, with a mouth tasting like turtle poo, and a head ringing like a fire alarm.
And all that's left from the night before is the smeared lipstick on your dick and the ringing in your head.
And you're grateful for that.

Ive been told by people that I dream too much, that I put too much stock into aspirations and day dreams. And too a certain extent, I agree wholeheartedly. I do dream a lot, I get lost in my thoughts more often than I care to remember.

But more and more, I get the feeling that certain dreams aren't achievable no matter how hard you try. A person will be captured by obligations, and responsibilities, and dragged to the ground, kicking and screaming, as he watches his one purpose in life fly away without him.
This image has been stinking up my mind with fear and self doubt.

I have a dream of wandering, traveling, getting lost, and disappearing. In that order.

So I wonder, can I dodge, avoid and otherwise escape these obligations?
With careful and meticulous planning, maybe.

I need to avoid falling in love, I cant buy a house, I can't rack up too much debt, I can't get injured or sick, I can't let anyone become dependent on me, and vice versa, and I need to save up a metric fuck ton of cash.

Easy as kittens.

But how does one avoid falling in love? If it isn't obvious already, I am an extremely hopeless romantic, so this point provides a particularly difficult challenge for me.
I could avoid all relationships for the next 5 years, but that would just make me a very sad man. I could compartmentalize my emotions...fat chance. Or I could just fuck around, avoid emotional commitment where possible.

Fuck it all.

Its hard for me to think these days, to link threads of perception to those of revelation and realization, where once it was so easy for me, to just take a deep breath in an empty field and know that I would have answers by the time I finished exhaling.

Is this the death of my mind?
Or is the complexity of my problems slowly growing?
The latter.

This internship has made a whole new world of issues, doubts and regrets burst out of me like an arterial bleed. Realizing that I am barely a microscopic speck in the big picture was something I needed, something I had been waiting for. Just a brief glimpse into the wide world, to know how big you really are. This new perspective has been a blessing, and it has been a hard one to accept.

Ive been rambling, I apologize.

back to the matter at hand. Can I avoid all obligations and responsibilities that could tie me down to this place?

Maybe.

is it going to be hard?

Fuck yeah.

Is it going to be worth it?

God willing.

And with that, this entry is ended.

Working hard or hardly working. When I’m in the office, dumb work jokes like these keep popping into my head. And I take it as a symptom of one thing. One, I’m finally here, in the working world, and my mind is mocking my body and brain, mocking the ease at which I allowed myself to be assimilated into the rat race. And I retort, advertising is as relaxed and creative a rat race as there is. Where else could one write all day, and be paid for it. I sit down with other funky people, and we wax innovation and creativity. We talk about ideas, and wonderful dreams. And then we turn the intangible thoughts into paper and spoken word. It’s an invigorating profession.

I can honestly see myself doing this for a good long time, and loving it.

And one day, when I’m content with my legacy, when I’ve left behind enough to satisfy society, I’ll walk away. I’ll walk around the world; I’ll walk into the dreams of the world. And I’ll see it all.

The end justifies the means. In this case, the means is just as important as the ends. This industry might break me, it might make me cynical and jaded, but not without a fight. And if I survive, I’ll be better for it.

There is a girl, as there always is with me. and she lives in a special place, in a special time, locked in a photograph.
This girl lived in a dream, as the best ones always do.

This girl was real, but I loved her in my dreams, and only in my dreams. In the real world, I couldn't stand her, she made me angry, and I her voice felt to me like cats being gutted.

But god, i was in love with her

So this girl, in my dream once told me that if I ever took a picture of her, the real her, I could keep her forever. Sealed away in this place within my skull, to relive and relove till eternity burned the stars away.

I took the picture, in some vain insane hope. The hope of madmen. But after the first day, I realized that she was all I could dream about.

So I took the picture in my hand, and with my cigarette I burned it away, piece by piece. And in my head her screams resonated, her screams burned away all of me. and I was left there an empty shell, with a burnt piece of paper in my hand, and ash around my feet.

This girl, in my dream, doesn't exist anymore, and I feel like a murderer. I murdered a dream, one who came only to me, in my darkest hours.

And with the same vain hope, I wished upon all that I could undo it, I wish maybe I could have fallen into that dream and never have woken up.

A madmens hope.

Too lazy to type anything. So here are some journal scans.

( scansia )

I realized something,I enjoy being alone.
Dont get me wrong, I enjoy the company of my friends immensely, I love partying and just chilling over a cold drink, but I dont mind being alone. I know people who cant stand being alone, I cant recall more than a few people who enjoy it as much as I do.

Solitude doesn't mean loneliness, i guess thats what Im trying to say. At least for me, because Ive always got a running dialog in my head, with whatever embodiment of my mind sees fit to respond to me.

Solitude to me means not having to be ashamed, not having to be self conscious, not having to lie. Being alone is a blissful respite from the expectations and obligations to the world and its people. I feel more secure when I'm alone more than any other time I bother to recall.

I remember having a dream, one of the earliest i remember having, where Im walking in an endless void, I remember thinking in that dream that this void was amazing, and beautiful. I guess my mind always knew that I would be here at this point in my life. My mind always knew that I would encounter a time where I would not have a choice but to accept being alone, and it steeled itself for the long winter.

There is such a beautiful melancholy to this realization of mine, so much so that I am happy to have stumbled upon it.

I like being alone. And that is all that is keeping me afloat in this beautiful void.

I guess this is the first real journal type entry Ive done in a while. Where to start.

(  Start again at the beginning )

I guess I dont really feel the need to write in here as much about life and shit. I scribble enough of it in my paper journal that whats left feels unworthy of a post.

But Ill try to keep writing as much as i can, now that my constipation level writers block has died. I think Ive identified a style Im comfortable with, Im trying to meld Haruki Murakami's flowing poetry-like prose with Neil Gaiman-ish character concepts and dialogue styles. Yea, thats not gonna be hard.

The sun shone through the window in tones of sepia and red. Just enough sun to make out that I was alone. No lover lay next to me, no warm body to comfort this soul. For too long have I dreamt that lover to reality. For too long have I seen something in nothing, where there has always been nothing. If I squint, I can see the outline of what she could look like, real and unmoving, deep in slumber, her lipstick smeared, and a slight noise escaping when she breaths. If I am to have an angel such as she, it will be long after these words have been forgotten. It will be long after I come to terms with the reality of being a person. An unperfect being in an unperfect world.

We strive to find the perfect person in all of this,forgetting that they too will be a making of this world, flawed and grimy, sweaty and blemished. But to us they will always be the perfect thing in the world. Our eyes turned blissfully blind by the need to be for one real waking moment, happy.

If I have to die, I want to do it on an old boat, floating effortlessly on the Pacific Ocean. I will build it with my own hands, this funeral boat. It won’t matter that I will be alone, it only matters that I will be there, on the brink of eternity, with nothing around me but what my mind makes of the world. I will have the eternal blanket of stars to cover my dead body, and I will have the rocking of the ocean to put me to eternal sleep. I will have the lullaby of the sea, the song of whales and birds to still my soul forever. I want, if even for a moment to be in a moment of absolute peace, even if that moment is the moment of my death. Life has too long denied me this peace, and I will find it in death.

When the sun sets, and the night falls, I find it hard to imagine that I am living in the same world that I was in when I woke up. The world I woke too was bright, and loud, and filled with life, and the world at dusk becomes a magical place, and stays that way till I wake again. I see in the night unlimited possibilities for life. In the dark corners, under the brown light street lamps, and in all the places that people avoid. Darkness is the secret to the human soul, light is transparent, light is known and understood, but darkness is infinite, and beautiful. Darkness is so heavy it can be felt, it can be seen, it can be touched.

When I wake to the dark world, I walk aimlessly, music playing in my ears. I hop from oasis to oasis, noticing the absence of life, except in the small pockets of light. I shun these places and wander the dark. I see homes, warm homes, abandoned homes, and I imagine asking them if they would follow me, leave the light and travel the darkness for one night.

And finally the darkness holds stars, o how they shine. The infinite dark, and the infinite night sky with its blanket of eternal unblinking beauty. If I’m lucky I see the hole in the sky, a perfect circle of nothingness, and my eyes tear, and my tears reflect the most amazing sight in the world.

Till the sun comes again, I will cherish the night. Gods gift to me, and me alone

I painted the wall with chalkboard paint. To leave messages to myself, to let others leave messages to me, or at least to give myself the dream of other people caring enough to talk to me on this wall.
I came home one day, and the message was there, from someone I don’t know, and it asked me “Who are you?” I left it alone, and walked backwards; I left my room, telling myself it’s a dream.
I returned, and the chalk scrapings described the girl of my dreams, in meticulous detail, in flowing verse, in beautiful sonnets. The wall said, “This is me”
I nervously picked up a bit of chalk, and in shaky handwriting wrote out the me that resided within my heart , I shared my dream of meeting her, of waking up with her, and letting the morning sun turn darkness into the world. “I love you” was what I wrote at the bottom of the words.
I slept that night with my body pressed against the wall, imagining it was her, and that she somewhere was doing the same the wall that faced her. I could feel warmth, alongside the cold of the night; I could feel warmth on my flesh that touched the wall.
She told me later that she never existed, that she never will exist. That this was all a dream. Finally she wrote, “When you wake up, I will die”
And I did.

I see through the window people who will never know me. They live their lives in absolute ignorance of me and each other, and yet I craft a story for them. They’re star crossed lovers, divided by cement and mortar.And sometimes I put myself into the stories I make, I dream myself to be their hero, swinging in to save the day. Liberating them, and watching them embrace for the first time. Its warm, the feeling inside.
All the while they live their lives, she adjusts her TV antenna, and he does his homework, his football banners hanging loosely out his window.

Sometimes I perform to them, my audience, and I enjoy my fantasy where they know me, and applaud me, she in her night gown, he in his boxers. “Bravo!” they shout across the alley. I take my bow, gracefully and without shame.

And when their curtains are drawn, I imagine the secrets they don’t want me to see, his drug problem, and her secret lover. His porn addiction and her bondage gear.

And when they’re not there on some nights, when their rooms lay empty and abandoned I stand by my window and wonder where they are. My close friends, who will never know me, nor each other.

I asked myself 3 questions before I left the house this morning. And as I walked, I answered them.

The old man answered my first question. He was shambling along in the morning sun, barely conscious of the world around him. His lips were muttering words only he could hear, or understand. The second I walked past him, I found my answer. Yes, the day will come when you will no longer even remember the problems today , or yesterday, or all the yesterdays before. By that time I will have had so many years on my back, that I too will be like him. Shambling along, barely sane, or almost insane.But for now, I still remember yesterday, and I had to know. I turned around and mouthed my first question, why do I do what I do? And having already answered he walked away without even asking for a thank you.

The street sweeper glared at me. He couldn't have been much older than me. And he was sitting inside a drain, his face drenched with sweat. He glared at me. Who am I? He answered me, I am not you, you will never become me. So why do you ask?. You will always be you, and you will always ask stupid questions.

The basketball rolled to my feet, at the bench at the corner of my park. The ball made made me aware of my surroundings. And I knew why I was alone. Because I chose to be. I tossed the basketball back to the kids playing by the swings.

Why do I do it? its because I am unaware of my world. I walk in a fog of self deception and imagined worlds. To an outsider I would be a rambling useless retard. At least the old man has served society.

Who am I? I am a fool who knows nothing more than to ask stupid questions, and to look for the answers like they were the greatest treasures in the world. Asking them takes no effort, requires no strain, and serves no purpose. And thus I am purposeless, and have been for a long time.

And finally, I am alone because I choose to be. I long ago decided that for this period of time,these days and these nights, I would be alone. For penance, or poetic justice. I do not know.

And I do not care. My questions have been answered. And now, I cease to be.

Have you ever looked fireworks and thought that they were temporary stars?
That we as a people so engrossed have forgotten what real stars look like. We live in these huge cities, and its so obvious that we miss the stars and the open sky because we litter our buildings with them, we make our buildings themselves shine with lights.

We blocked out the sky in the name of progress, but we never hide from the decisions we made.
We put them on display, and we remember the good old days.

I have always had an interest in the stars, ever since I was little. I once remember back in my old uni, out in the middle of no where, there were nights where the stars would shine and engulf the sky. It was one of the many good memories i have from there.

There were nights where you could almost here music playing against the night sky.

I guess stars remind me that I am little, and insignificant, it grounds me when I feel I have the weight of the world on me. It reminds me that my problems are minuscule against whats happening all around me.It makes the world easier a more tolerable place.

Im rambling, but rambling feels good right now.Returning to old things feels comfortable.
I submit this feeling to the aether.

To you ladies and gentlemen of the night, I bid farewell.

*insert flashy exit with fireworks here*

As I smoked the joint, i turned to the man next to me and said "Do you notice that there are two teams playing?"

"I've been watching for a while, every night, two teams play here. One plays under the lights, and one plays in the dark, both mirroring each other perfectly. The teams play without abandon or shame, they play in complete and utter rapture."

"When did they start?" I asked as I passed him the joint

"I think in a way we created them, we who don't dare to find this passion for ourselves. We who blame the world for being to hard, and too dangerous created these teams to express what we cannot. So at the very least... we get to witness it and bask in its glow"

He took a puff and exhaled, the smoke blurred the image of the lights. It was as if the lights were the eyes of a great beast, kept at bay by the men playing on the court.

The man stood up. And ashe walked away, he said "May the night hold many more wonders for you" .
And just because he said that, I knew it would.

A good gig can be felt. Anyone who's been to one will agree with me, its in the air, its in the smell and feel of the crowd. They're ramped, just waiting for the opening chords, or that thumping bass line.

This gig I was at, no wait, this experience I had at a gig has really stuck with me. The music was banging, post rock melodies. And the crowd was mellow, indie scene hipsters and quasi indie enthusiast all. The venue was smoky and dim, just the way I like it. The music reached peaks at all the right moments, and if you closed your eyes,even for a moment, everything seemed to vanish, and youre left alone with the music, hammering you from all angles.



The drum and bass rocked next, and we shook and jumped with the tempo. Sweat was pouring and splashing, my shirt was drenched, but I kept finding the energy to keep keeping on. When the sampled vocals came on during the downbeats it resonated with all your bones, with all your teeth, with all your hair, eyes, ears.



The cowman crowdsurfed. He was happy, to be up there.



The wallflowers bobbed their heads and snapped their fingers.



It was a good gig.

Its been an awesomely productive week, Im almost done detoxing, and Ive picked up a camera again after 2 months. Feels good to hear the clicky-click of the shutter again.
(even tho the click sound comes from me, cos Im using a digi cam =P)

I share with you now, the fruit of my lens.

And as a bonus cos I love you peoples sososososo much, a journal page


now, onwards to the pictorials.


a pointless bucket


a pointless bucket du


the man, he sleeps



the lady who cleans up my college, tankoo for removing the stink of despair from the classes


o,look, a train station =0


I secretly have a feet fetish
shh, dont tell anyone


caught this sky on the train back home


ekmund and jon, my smoke time buddies


sherman, my other smoke time buddy



And thats that, theres nothing more.
Im amazed at how quickly I resumed normal life again after weeks and weeks of endless partying and not-being-sober-ing. I guess the mind only needs a purpose to work properly. Without one it withers away and seeks the comforts of booze and other substances. I guess I caught Matthew Arnold's strange disease of modern life, a sick hurry and divided aims. Rushing everywhere without a thought to the past or the present, a sick sick hurry.

When the hurry is gone, one notices things that seemed trivial before, but now have become all encompassing.
Thus is the curse of perception.

And now there is truly nothing more.

Ive taken to scanning my journal for preservation. God knows Ive come close to losing my journal so many times, and in the event that I lose it for good, I want to at least save some of the pages, the pages that have something to say.

So here they are, scanned pages from my journal, nothing personal mind you. Just thoughts and scribbles from random moments in my life.

Enjoy.

( Pages X3 )

Im trying something with my writing.
It isnt great, and honestly, i don't really like it myself. But practice makes perfect no. I cant stop now just cos im not happy with my writing. Like someone once told me, writing is a matter of perception, yours and your readers. What you see in your work isnt necessarily what they see.

So here dear readers, look upon it and tell me what ya think. This may be the last piece I write using this form of narrative, Im thinking of experimenting with different styles, maybe use more dialog in my work. Cos honestly, im growing tired of the whacking out the same old mental masturbation narratives. Like I said, Im trying something.

So here it is, my last bit of mental masturbation before I up and move on.


The Forest Road

I have been on a long journey, I have been many places, and seen many things but now I am going home.
The trek back is long and dark, and I cannot see the road clearly anymore. The darkness is something…solid, and it kills all hope of light and thought. It envelopes me so tightly that after a while I lose all sense of my body, and I become a specter, floating a meter off the ground.
I float in this construct of the mind, vaguely aware that somewhere far away I’m walking down a road, to somewhere important.
In this form I rise slowly off the ground. And I make my way into the sky, rising higher and higher till I see the clouds, white clouds that rise with me, and like twin shooting stars we burst across into the heavens. The world between the clouds and eternity, the realm of the supermen and the birds.
There is a silence here, high above it all, that is…soothing. Here I remember all that is important to me. I see a face defined in the clouds, smiling at me.

Then I remember where I was walking to, and immediately I am there, in my body. As real as the damp earth. The light from my house shines in my face. And I see the person I saw in the high place. She smiles at me, and takes my bag.

“Welcome home” she says to me.

I am home, I think to myself. I kiss her on the cheek, and walk into the house.
Once again, like in the other place, I feel the soft wind of peace blowing through my hair.

“I am home” I say out loud, and I sink back into the warmth. Engulfed by this box of wood and concrete, I sleep.


Now that thats done with. On with the show.

The moonlight coming through the window shone on the figure of a man. His body was swaying to the tune of his guitar. His fingers caressed the strings like a lover would. And they sang for him, a deep rumbling chord.
The man moans a song about the woman who stole his heart.

Before him sits a girl, and she is in rapture. Caught up in the wail of the Fender, she is trapped in a world where the Blues fill the air, a world of lost lovers and a sad pain.
She is in rapture.

The man plays and the girl writhes. This is how it should be, this is the world made right. And in the music they share their souls, let loose to ride on the notes from the guitar.

The song ends, and the man and girl slump forward as if their very souls were burnt to the core. All energy, gone but the deep twang and whine of the strings hangs in the air. Lifting them to the world they sought all their lives. Giving them peace.

Freedom, at last.