He asked me, "Would you like to go and see a clinical psychologist?"
I took a long pause... Dreaming of swimming in a rainbow pool of Prozac, Xanax, Valium, Zoloft, Lithium, Tramadol, Erimin, Subuxone, Stilnox, Nitrazepam, Lorazepam, and some sugar and spice. I thought about staring at the know-it-all doctor, reading every nuance of his poorly engineered body language. I thought about reading the script of what he'd say at least 2 minutes before it spits out of his mouth. I thought about the sky high fees he'd charge per hour, and imagined what I could buy with a few hundred Ringgit every hour. I thought about walking off at the end of the fruitless session and telling him, "Go to the wet market downtown, score yourself a tube, lose your mind, crawl through a breakdown, and then you're qualified to come talk to me".
After the longest silence, I said,
"Well... I think that wouldn't help much".
3:05 PM
Categories:
conversations,
fiction,
madness,
non-fiction,
stories.
Author: sleepwalker
What can be more alluring that her warm sweet smile carved by such sweet sultry succulent lips wrapped around her soft porcelain face. Her braces twinkles just as her eyes sparkles so adorably. Her silky, jet black, bobcat hair she wears bounces on every careful rhythmic step.
Like a cup of moist chocolate mousse. Soft, tender and melts ever so gently in your mouth. It melts onto your tongue, flowing gently through your body, and into your heart of hearts.
She walked up to me, smiling widely, and politely asked in completely disastrous broken English, "Some tea or coffee you like having? Very nice very warm, on the house no pay you are guest".
I asked for some coffee instead. She walked away, presumably to get my "very nice very warm, on the house no pay you are guest" coffee. But after a good 20 minutes I figured she must've forgotten all about it.
Idiot.
11:46 PM
Categories:
beauty,
daydream,
encounter,
fiction,
non-fiction,
stories,
strangers,
travel,
trip.
Author: sleepwalker
I love writing here.
I can write and talk about anything I want. I can be whoever I want to be, whoever I can and can't be. I can play games, confuse and twist your thoughts. I have the power to put assumptions and unnecessary speculations in your head. I will allow you to judge me, my words, but of course, I will have the last laugh. Because all that you can possibly achieve with such a meek self-righteous crusade is to judge a mirror, your very own reflection.
I have the freedom to write complete utter nonsense, speak of lies and half-truths. Sometimes I write about my own real, actual, true experiences, thoughts and frustrations. But, of course, that's not always the case. There would always be a lie, or two, or more, behind every story. There would always be an abstract, hidden meaning behind even the simplest sentence. There would always be some doublespeaks, dichotomies, oxymorons.
We are all liars. And in here, I intend to be nobody but myself and everyone at the same time. What's the use of pretending we're all perfect angels without flaws and fears? That we don't have skeletons in the closet. That are always happy. Why are we so afraid of telling the truth? Of what we think, of what we feel, of our fears and frustrations. Why are we so afraid to open up and seem vulnerable? Why are we so afraid of being judged? Why does what other people think or say matter so much?
But then again, I do contradict myself. Even now.
In here, it's like I'm having conversations with a stranger, a friend, an enemy, a lover, a cat, and with anyone and everyone and no one at the same time. I can talk about myself and not have to worry that I'd make my friends nauseated with my self-indulging stories. This is a place I can come to and hide when the world outside starts to scare me.
In here, I'm free.
4:46 PM
Categories:
fiction,
non-fiction,
rambles,
rant,
thoughts.
Author: sleepwalker
I don't want you anymore. Not you. Nor you. And definitely not you. Not any of you. Can't you just leave me alone?
3:55 PM
Categories:
fiction,
non-fiction.
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
