Hang in there, Aurelia

..is what I want to say, but writing a script for a film that could only be described as an amateur try at semi avant-garde is UNBELIEVABLY hard when you 're busy lamenting over that unprecedented nap while fighting off signs that just scream out you're coming down with something, so fast that it's probably a free fall from an iceberg into the Atlantic or any of its equivalent.

And that sentence was disgustingly long. Case in point. 

SAR

For a place to belong, in the middle of time itself.

And yet another lines that come up as I was forced to ponder about the modern information era

With all these posts in this blog - well, technically, if some shady secret agencies were to decide to hire people to study my writings here and send a person to earn my trust by behaving accordingly just to spy on me, technically, they could.

But when any of these casual civilians don't even bother to do that, I don't see why anyone would attempt it. It's not like I'm that suspicious or even remotely interesting to earn that sort of attention, really. If anything, this log, to anyone else, would just be a mere specimen to show how one may have performed constant reflections of some selected small parts of a life. An anecdotal experience one couldn't really use in answering GP questions.

Thus this web log (or b-log/blog, as the popular term goes) is just a slightly dramatic way to show how an undramatic person I am and the life I am currently leading. Maybe. Well, technically.

By the way, I can see how it is unusual it is to comment on one's personal log, but I keep the comment button up anyway not only for aesthetics. If anyone by some chance (which is understandably small, given the meagre number of readers I have, not counting the bots) has some opinions or an urge to say something, feel free to use it. If not, feel free to not use it.

As the label says, I am talking to a wall, which is not a Facebook wall neither it is an actual, physical wall.

Personally, it's simple for me.

In the age when you can throw any claims, even the conflicting ones and still find reliable cold data and statistics to back it up, religion stands out as a bright dot that glows with a strikingly undying and constant strive for morality. (at least when you're able to spot an essence of it and ignore more of those nitty gritty trivialities the humans created) If some infamously under complains teachings go mostly unchanged for a couple of millennia is not a sign of otherworldly confidence, I don't think I know what is. It's even better when they sing of the virtues you personally endorse in sentimentalities. Warm and forgiving values that often dismissed as illogical by mainstream societies' standard, yet a gentle harmony from a perfectly tuned strings instrument in your mind. That would be a beautiful bonus.

Confidence can be good. When life tosses you around, everybody is saying different things all at once and intrinsic qualities of the much needed love is abandoned, those unmoved pillars of principles standing out, giving a sigh of relief at the familiar sights. Much like how those confident individuals are able to take a couple of deep breaths and stand up in the time of crisis no matter where they may be, looking straight into the depth of dark catastrophe - when all those frantic rats in their lines had fold over and reduced to silent, anxious side glances and pointing fingers. Ah. Those heroes, both sung and unsung. Don't we all admire heroes?

Check, mate.

Cumberbatch after a car hijacking: "He worried he might just 'shrivel up into a shell and not want to be part of the world.' Instead he woke up the next morning, had a beer and a cigarette, and says he thought, "I want to be part of this. I want to go out and swim and run through the sand dunes and into the landscape. It was a small event in a big country.'"

Small event in a big country.

Small unpleasantness with one individual from a large pool of people.

Made myself a warm tea with milk and generous amount of honey, and then went on to device new plans for some collaborative projects - stuffs that I planned to do yesterday. Check, mate.

And buying good reading materials proved to be a bloody wise investment. Again.

Aftermath

Oh this is just silly. 

And I've spent my coffee allowance yeserday too.

This is a guy who never even bother.

Why should I be bothered again, silly me.

Should I get another cup of coffee?

But really yesterday I've gotten some. It was a good day, really.

Was.

Oh this is just silly.

Composure, composure.

Carpe Diem

Because he's the type that secretly wishes to be surprised, challenged and handed the need to make loops - big, brave jumps; slicing-the-air-with-his-own-living-body jumps - every time he has to handle the routines that he'd done properly to pass the time in between much preferred interactions.

Because she's the type to don those cargo pants and even those wretched waist bags, and go on to enjoy hours of tinkering and doing double checks on the oil levels, all while knowing perfectly that at the same time, she's literally going places around that wonderful and beloved little planet.

It's just that both wouldn't mind a pot of warming drinks brewing on the kitchen for those days when they can afford to enjoy tea time. One day, they probably would have to take care of one of those proper kitchen sets anyway. But for now, the brewer on the small counter in the corner of the cafeteria would do.
______

So one is a silent extrovert, and the other is a friendly introvert! Can't believe this took me ages to figure out.
Told you I can handle (shades-of-white-subtle) romance just fine. Ha!

On Poetic Reasoning of the Unreasonable

All things considered - well, all things that we know at this moment - he is indeed a sad man. A seeker, whose resources or lack thereof restrain him from even acknowledging the act of seeking.

You see, understanding other people is in itself an impossible thing to do, and having the person in enquiry playing a parody of confusion certainly doesn't help.

I'm on anti-depressant

....

I mean chocolate.

Once a band geek...

(After all this time?)

"Always."

After all, I have to thank that era for a lot of things - a decent sense of rhythm, for instance.

The Butterfly in me

Being a lucid dreamer, I've 'experienced' many things. Once you realised you're in a dream, you basically know you can do literally anything, in any given situation. I've escaped an apocalypse, jumped off a thirtheen story building, flew on the spot (took a lot of imagination and concentration, but the sensation is simply mindblowing), watched a war rolling on by the sideline and kissed a beautiful stranger on the street, among other things.

Of course, I have to be sure it's just a dream. Sometimes I just have to stop whatever I'm doing and somehow, double check that I'm absolutely dreaming, because in some dreams, it's not that obvious. It wouldn't do if I start throwing myself into the air, in the reality. I'd be a mental. 

Dreams can be a sweet one, a boring one, a surreal one or even an absolute nightmare. In the sweet ones everyone keeps wishing on each other, admittedly there are instances when you know it's going to end, yet you somehow don't want it to. The butterfly has been having too much fun and is unwilling to retire for the day.

Once upon a time,

..there was a man whose dream is to find a little Undying Hope for the future. The rest of the world ridiculed him for that, for they refused to listen to such dream.

When the Hater learns to love, whatever happens to the Lover?

And in that respect, the term 'childish' is an insult to children... because children, especially with proper moral upbringing, do not behave like that.

So they say I have to be more... tolerating, as a female. Sure, accommodate them all the time, and look. What. Happened.
Pride - whatever it boils down into is a egoistical solidarity of the like. Perhaps there's a reason for it being one of the seven vices.

How many people that have to suffer - how much tears to be wasted, materials to be spent and walls to be hit - until one can get a bloody simple concept into that thick lump of a brain? Does the clear water of tears not moving enough; what, is this another case of that twisted comedy of this era - short attention span syndrome - maybe only bold colours like say, rusty crimson, that'll do the trick? Please. No human should regards himself/herself that low. If any, I'm not insulting anybody's intelligence, not when one does not need any help doing it. Hardly a murder and more like an assisted suicide.

God. How frustrating it is to not have a voice. And I'm not even talking about my sore throat.

C'est tellement mystérieux, le pays des larmes.

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.

Grown-ups love figures. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, “What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?” Instead, they demand: “How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?” Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him.

If you were to say to the grown-ups: “I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof,” they would not be able to get an idea of that house at all. You have have to say to them: “I saw a house that cost $20,000.” Then they would exclaim: “Oh, what a pretty house that is!” 

One way or another

After yesterday, I knew I was bound to come up with something. Starting with a sore throat, and of course it had to rain in the afternoon when I'd put away my umbrella in another bag instead of in the one I was carrying. Of course I had to sleep over the last hours of canteens' opening hours. Of course the sausages I have is located in a friend's fridge, hundreds of metres away. Of course my room has to be absolutely -not- soundproofed, and there are a construction work and a Halloween party with their big speakers and loud pop songs playlists (speaking of which, why would one play cheery and melodramatic pop songs at a Halloween party?).

Nevertheless, one way or another I have to start working on this writing assignment. One way or another.

Waltz, though, is fun.

Still loving my sleep, oh yes

Regardless of all, I've been there. I've watched casual verbal trends come and go. The regretfully short but good ones (e.g. literature-based jokes), the painstakingly hard-to-go ones (e.g. the extended slamming of some harmless "sub-standard" literature and music, mainly pop ones) and the annoyingly immortal ones (e.g. the tendency to matchmake two members of seemingly close individuals with opposing genders - cost me about four to seven potential great friends so far; yes I am still bitter about it), among some other types.

Let's face it - one man's comedy can be another's tragedy. It's perfectly normal that there will be people who are not caught up by the mainstream trend, especially when it pokes fun on their pet peeves and all.

Such as the latest trend to slam people's preference to live healthily by associating it with personal weaknesses.

To several people who had been so kind to indulge me in this latest trend, I love my sleeps, thank you. It's a great luxury that some people cannot afford and a a very effective way to keep my mood and stamina above the water level. And you really don't want me to get all cranky, depressive and ill-tempered. Neither I do, in fact. It's not to be associated with childishness also, because it is quite reasonable. On the other hand, overworking yourself to the point of extreme physical and mental fatigue - only to randomly annoy and/or snap at others is childish. And yes I'm weak enough; once or twice I nearly lost my life due to compilation arising from lack of rest and proper diet.

And now I'm probably just doing a quick ranting here, due to me getting a bit snappy - because of me being a bit exhausted combined with a slight lack of sleep.

I rest my case.

Dash away, dash away, dash away

From a long soliloquy to a series of explosive jumps... oh no I'm overloading. Again. Gotta go - class in two hours!

"The grass is greener on the other side.
But you are an honest guy and I'm a bloody honest being.
So I call green when I see green,
and you do, too, you insensitive clot!"

Mange wisa ko?

"Wehane, wehane, wehane toyo."

"Zeime siapa, ko tare mahaley."

If I survive this, Dear Me,

I'm treating myself to another round of proper coffee.

So don't mess up and just walk that walk on that narrow, tight string of timeline.