fake plastic words

All the entries prior to this is a small, modest collection of my old writings. I've decided to keep it here for memory sake. It's only fitting to draw the line, between the past and present, on this date, for reasons I can't bring myself to say.

1:41 PM
Categories: Author: sleepwalker

I love you in ways you will never know. In ways that even I am unsure of. In ways that I cannot comprehend. I loved you before, I love you now, and I will love you for a thousand tomorrows that have yet to come. This uncertainty, this pain, has been carved in the vacant walls of my heart for far too long. I lie to myself with hopes to forget, even for a fleeting moment, these futile thoughts. How can it be possible? How can it ever be possible? It may never be. You and I may never be.

But I love you anyway, irrefutably, irrevocably, unequivocally.

I yearn your presence.
I crave your laughter.
I dream of you.

You make me feel alive again.

(circa 2008)

6:06 PM
Categories: dreams, hopes, life, love, thoughts. Author: sleepwalker

I still remember the very first time I heard Bjork. It was on a winter night and I was up all night studying for a further mathematics exam. The heater was never switched on, so I had to bundle up in a heap of sweaters and made hot coffee every half an hour or so. The marble table felt painfully cold. The carpet was like sandpaper. All I could hear was the tapping sounds of my calculator and the beastly snorefest my roommate cooks up every night. There were also the occasional voice in my head repeating, "There is no such thing as ghosts, there is no such thing as ghosts, there is no such thing as ghosts". I was afraid of being alone in the dark, and I still am.

At around 3 in the morning I heard the door downstairs squeak open. It was Maddy and Bridget. They tiptoed up the stairs and said, "Aren't you suppose to be sleeping, you nut". They giggled and skipped to the kitchen with a packet of marshmallows in their hands. I secretly smiled thinking how sexy Bridget looks in her pajamas and dove back down into triple integration and imaginary numbers and a little bit of Bridget. In between the girls' giggles, the tapping calculator, and that voice saying "Chucky is not going to slice your tendon from under the table", I heard something coming from downstairs. It was a strange noise. A beautiful, strange noise.

I shoved my books aside, went downstairs and replayed the cassette over and over and over again. Her music felt otherworldly, like nothing I've ever heard of. I remember saying to myself, "What nonsense is this!". And I meant it in the best possible way. It was pure genius. It was complete bollocks. It was like a circus of faeries on crack. It was amazing.

I joined Maddy and Bridget afterwards. We talked about Bjork while cooking marshmallows over the fire stove. And I can still remember how hot Bridget looked like in those pajamas.

(7.45pm, 9th December 2007)

6:10 PM
Categories: bjork, memories, music. Author: sleepwalker

I've met my fair share of characters.

The sane, the working-class hero, the soldier, the communist, the successful capitalist, the politician, the racer, the story-teller, the beleaguering idiot, the traveller, the comedian, the garderner, the fisherman, the aimless wanderer, the wicked, the adventurous, the zany, the zestful, the hateful, the cynic, the pathological liar, the nihilist, the faker, the pretender, the addict, the drunkard, the nymphomaniac, the kleptomaniac, the musician, the ballet dancer, the socialite, the celebrity, the model, the lonely songwriter, the poet, the sufi, the god-fearing, the free spirited, the heartbroken, the lovesick, the photographer, the artist, the actor, the amatuer pornstar, the part-time lap dancer, the writer, the out-of-this-world insane, the nutcase, the terminally ill, the hormonally imbalanced, the suicidal, the cutter, the mentally ill, the rapist, the murderer, the unrelenting criminal, the bi-polar, the schizophrenic, the lost soul, the dreamer, the fictitious, and the rest who lie in vague spaces of my self-eviscerating memory.

Some I've brushed shoulders with, many I had drinks with. Some became friends, few I fell in love with. They come and go like seasons, like a river flowing by. Although we may not step into the same river twice, it nonetheless has an impact on us. Some affect us like a butterfly resting it's furry legs on our warm skin, some rampage our lives like a merciless storm. For better or worse, much is there to learn from friendships made and relationships lost. From people you love and hate, from friends and foes.

They have taught me many things. More than all the books in the world can ever teach me.

(11.30pm, 8th December 2007)

6:15 PM
Categories: friends, lessons, life, non-fiction, people, stories, strangers. Author: sleepwalker

I've traveled far and wide.

To beautiful landscapes and foreign cities. Through dreary back alleys and abandoned spaces. Skipping train tracks and lying on asphalt grounds. Swimming in droning moonsongs and existential thoughts. Drowning in the pages of fictional bedtime stories. Into and out of the lives of friends and lovers. To far reaching dreams that beacons my pathway and the mistakes that darkens it. To bittersweet memories that cuts my heart at every replay. To tumultuous journeys of laughter, blood, sweat and tears. To places so dark you lose yourself.

I've traveled too far.

There is nowhere else I'd rather be than now. At the most trying of times, this is where I begin to search for the person I lost a lifetime ago. The battles were never this difficult, the pain never this real. The fear of an impossible future. A dim hope. Nevertheless, a shred of hope. Maybe there will be better things to come. Maybe one day I'll find something meaningful. Maybe I still have a chance.

And maybe, there's still time.

(6.01pm, 7th December 2007)

4:26 PM
Categories: dreams, future, hopes, life, memories, mistakes, past, present, regrets, thoughts. Author: sleepwalker

We were on the way to the surau when he told me bout his story.

He woke up one day and decided to leave.

He sold off everything he owned. House, car, furniture, some clothes, everything. With his entire life in one backpack, he set off to Europe with his then girlfriend. They travelled everywhere. Amsterdam, Paris, London, Bordeaux, Berlin, Milan, Rome, Barcelona, Granada, everywhere. They lived together hand in hand, hostels to whorehouses, streets to riverbanks. For 3 years.

For 3 whole years they survived by busking.
(He's one of the best musicians I've ever, ever met)

I wish I had that freedom. And that stupid bold blind courage. To just drop my life and run away to do whatever the hell I wanna do. Wouldn't that just be fucking out of this world insane?

"Man is free at the moment he wishes to be" - Voltaire

(circa 2007)

10:47 PM
Categories: backpacking, busking, freedom, life, music, non-fiction, stories, travels. Author: sleepwalker

The soft wind serenades the trees to a gentle sway of a lullaby. Leaves flutter relentlessly like trapped tiny butterflies. The mixture of loud chattering and soft murmurs drowns the distant noise of cars and motorcycles tearing the asphalt. Such are the sounds that make the urban music of our beloved concrete jungle.

I listen to it everyday. While lumbering down the pavement, sitting silently at my desk, or having lunch downstairs at the café. They help to fill up time and keep my curious mind busy. They accompany me during those solitary hours at lunch when I am alone and left to my ever wandering thoughts. Everyday is the same routine. I leave office at 2.00pm and waste away two nonconstructive hours on cigarettes. I light up a stick, inhale to the very depths of my charcoal lungs and gaze at the swirling dance of the cancerous smoke as I ponder on my latest project’s impending dateline, vanilla ice-cream and the mysteries of the universe.

“Excuse me. Do you mind smoking some place else? This place is crowded enough with people. I don’t need second-hand smoke to crowd it even more.”

Her lips curled and her angry eyes stared long and hard at me. I winked at her and turned around. As I was walking away I caught a glimpse of her through the corner of my eyes. She was still looking at me with those eyes. I shrugged it off and continued walking out of the café.

She walked away in a scurry and headed to the entrance. I gazed at her curvy silhouette gracefully sneaking into the building. Her long, flowing black ribbons of hair danced at every step. As the door slowly closed, she turned. I winked at her and waved her goodbye.

My eyes were still shut. I listened intently to the urban music. Sounds of the streets. Conversations of strangers. The noise of scavenging crows and hungry cats. I pushed my plate away, took one last sip and lit up a stick. As I was walking out of the building I wondered whether such imaginary incidences will ever occur. I thought about Angry Anne. Confused but cute, with a shade of mysterious beauty. I was beginning to miss her. I long for such brief, nonsensical adventures. Even if it lasts for 10 minutes, nevertheless, that is all I need to escape the monotony of this dull, predictable life. All I need is 10 minutes.

That’s all I need.

(circa 2007)

5:55 PM
Categories: daze, fiction, stories, thoughts, wanderlust. Author: sleepwalker

Cheers to the New Age. Whatever that may be.

What is this ‘New Age’ anyway? What is ‘modern’? It is a popularly held belief that today we are living in a post-modern age. What is this ‘post-modern age’? I hear a lot of talk about post-modern this, post-modern that, but never really about post-modernism and what in god’s name is it. That is one of the few concepts in the past decade that has eluded me time and time again. That and, of course, women, Nietzsche and Britney Spears. When I think of Po-Mo, I’d think of Las Vegas, silicone tits, the Endgame Theory, Jenks, post-structuralism, the internet, Warhol, Foucault, de-construction, Derrida, McDonalds, consumerism. Not to forget Mr. Paul who taught me Film History back in 2004. He had the pleasure to confuse the living hell out of me by introducing the class to this whole Po-Mo she-bang thingamajig.

Maybe there are just too many ideologies and complexities in this melting pot with a capital M smacked on it. There’s just too many of too much going everywhere at the same time. Today’s world seems so endless it’s scary to think that we might not be far off from the tip of the bell curve. It’s even scarier to read Fukuyama’s teleology-buttered ideas. I don’t know whether we’re about to hit the brakes or that we’ve been screeching for the past few decades. Either way, it still boils down to the fact that we might be one of the last generations of this great yet sometimes benignly stupid family of humanity.

The global warming clock has long started. Mother Nature is pissed (think El Nino, Katrina, the recent 30-minute mini storm in Subang Jaya). Invisible forces like the internet, the Secret Police, corruption, intolerance, are taking over. Capitalism has humanity by the balls. The end of days prophecies of Judaism, Christianity and Islam are steadily being fulfilled. Children are growing up (or rather pushed into the adult world) far too fast. Groups such as women, gays, blacks, Jews that were repressed in the past have now finally risen and are taking over. MTV, drugs, consumerism become new religions. Globalisation has bridged continents and is quietly bringing the world suffocatingly closer together. So close that we willingly let foreign forces through our membrane (in it’s most primary form, membranes ensures the security of cellular identity) and risk losing ourselves.

Theology and secularism are both still stuck in an endless war. Pollution becomes the new ignorance, a kind of an intangible version of your friendly neighbourhood treehugger. Reality TV programmes are mushrooming from every ridiculous microscopic cell of shit ideas known to man. Girls are becoming boys, and boys are becoming girls. Fashion is starting to look like “oh dear lord you poor soul, did Ray Charles climb out of his grave and dress you up?”. Music is the same. There’s even a music band, with two band members who look the same, called Same Same. I mean for the love of god the road nearby my place is called Jalan Bot Laju. That’s Speedboat Road in English. Can it possibly get any worse than that?

It’s a classic case of ideas running away from us. That infamous phenomenon called the writer's block. We are so running out of ideas. Wait. That’s all I needed to say actually. Ignore the whole two paragraphs above. All I had to say was, “We’re running out of ideas”.

We are running out of ideas.

And that my friends is exactly why the world will end.

(12.23am, 25th May 2006)

7:29 AM
Categories: capitalism, end of days, fashion, future, global warming, globalisation, ideas, life, media, philosophy, post-modernism, religion, rhetorics, thoughts, zeitgeist. Author: sleepwalker

Envy is a terrible emotion.

Envy reminds you of the freedom that you could only wish for. It whispers to you deceitful thoughts of hope. It talks to you in a foreign tongue, in a spiteful tone, mocking you. Envy envelopes you like crawling flames on scraggy old blankets.

The realm of 'envy' does not constitute materialistic endeavours. At the very least, it should not be of primary concern. I'm envious of people who are free. This sacred, precious space to be free is further and further eroded by today's zeitgeist of my-cock-is-bigger-than-yours. How unfortunate it is that the sweet smell of money and power overcomes the need to be who we really are and the preservation of the sanctity and sanity of Man, among other matters of concern. I'm envious of the very few that dare to seek such a freedom. Tell me, how many of you have the courage to do what you truly want? To paint. To write. To travel the far seas. To contently lumber down the road less travelled.

Street performers. Sadhus. Standing Babas. Street painters. Shaolin monks. Sufis. Singer/songwriters.

I admire people like those. And many more, surely. There is, in each and every one of us, the urge to rebel. There is that yearning to be free from all the shackles of mortal life, of all conventions and expectations of society. What separates the black sheep from the flock is that bold step taken towards rebellion. To be free. Spinoza said that "order is against the grain of our minds, we prefer to follow straggling lines of fantasy". Such honest statement cannot possibly contain more truth. We are all, I believe, endowed with a streak of madness. It is imperative, no, it is crucially essentially irrevocably important that we retain it. We must retain it.

"The world will be our immortality", Wilde said. Those unconfined souls live that 'immortality'. The ones who goes against the grain of order. The sadhus and sufis, the street painter and performers. To them, THIS IS IT. To many others, maybe tomorrow will be my THIS IS IT moment. And in that latter flock lies a trapped soul that is condemned for all mortality to merely bounce within the confines of what is right and what is normal, within which societal peer pressure sways them like hypnotised eyes under the command of the absolutism of a pendulum.

Normality becomes the norm. Life, as we know it, passes you by like a runaway freight train. Nobody wants to fall into the ever so repeated trap of "living a life of quiet desperation". We all want to be special. We want stories to be told of us. We want to be remembered. We want to be our own person and dictate our destiny to our heart's content.

Envy is, no doubt, a terrible emotion. But nothing is worse than cowardice.

(12.19pm, 8th April 2006)

5:30 PM
Categories: capitalism, conventions, emotions, free spirit, freedom, norms, philosophy, thoughts, zeitgeist. Author: sleepwalker

This is the beginning.

4:08 PM
Categories: Author: sleepwalker