A Lunatic's Lament

#Last

2011-06-23T23:47:00.003+08:00

#19

2011-06-14T00:09:00.001+08:00

"First quality: you are capable of great things, but you must never forget that there is a hand guiding your steps. We call that hand God, and He always guides us according to His will.

Second quality: now and then, I have to stop writing and use a sharpener. That makes the pencil suffer a little, but afterwards, he's much sharper. So you, too, must learn to bear certain pains and sorrows, because they will make you a better person.

Third quality: the pencil always allows us to use an eraser to rub out any mistakes. This means that correcting something we did is not necessarily a bad thing; it helps to keep us on the road to justice.

Fourth quality: what really matters in a pencil is not its wooden exterior, but the graphite inside. So always pay attention to what is happening inside you.

Finally, the pencil's fifth quality: it always leaves a mark. In just the same way, you should know that everything you do in life will leave a mark, so try to be conscious of that in your every action."

- The Story of the Pencil; Like The Flowing River by Paulo Coelho

#18

2011-06-11T01:20:00.003+08:00

"Our contradictoriness.We are in such a hurry to grow up, and then we long for our lost childhood.
We make ourselves ill earning money, and then spend all our money on getting well again.
We think so much about the future that we neglect the present,
and thus experience neither the present nor the future.
we live as if we were never going to die;
and die as if we had never lived."

- The Funny Thing About Human Beings; Paulo Coelho's Like The Flowing River

#17

2011-05-29T22:40:00.004+08:00

I haven't posted for like about, half a year?
Many things happened, emotions got a little bit tensed up along the way.
After reading my older posts, it's amazing to see the growth in me that I've never felt.
Saw many of my favourite artistes though, the only form of solace for me to get away from reality.
Haven't been going to church much recently as well. Lost interest, lost faith.
So I suppose an idol's purpose is not just to provide entertainment but to fill the void in someone's heart? Not getting personal here, just stating my general opinion judging from many girls' behaviours.
Not enjoying school life, apparently feel that I've been looked down upon just because of my inability to perform extremely well academically with regards to a particular subject.
But after all, that's life.
I'm tired. But I'll persevere.

"I started from zero, unlike the others. I don’t have any talents, so I was told off many times from people for not being able to neither dance nor sing. But I don’t care; just like a weed, I stood up and tried, that’s why I’m here. Even now, I’m still trying." -- Chansung

#16

2010-11-21T22:01:00.003+08:00

“This world was never worthy
But how can I call it unfaithful?
Every promise was fulfilled
As decay crawled from its throat
Like the dead rising from an open grave
Lips of splendor and tongue of deceit
All dying now as our fragile wrists hold only waste.”

#15

2010-11-18T21:45:00.001+08:00

"Life is too ironic to fully understand. It takes sadness to know what happiness is, noise to appreciate silence and absence to value presence."
— Tumblr

#14

2010-11-14T00:01:00.002+08:00

"In a dream I was a werewolf.
My soul was filled with crystal light.
Lavender ribbons of rain sang,
Ridding my heart of mortal fight."

#13

2010-11-12T22:46:00.001+08:00

Nothing is more terrifying than this feeling. It claws at your stomach, burns your heart, freezes your innards and causes your soul to leak from between your eye lashes. It's tear-stained cheeks and down-turned lips and shuffling feet. Goose bumps crawl across your skin, shivers run havoc up your spine, you ache from within.

#12

2010-11-11T18:29:00.002+08:00

“Language is a skin. I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.”
— Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments.

#11

2010-10-31T22:54:00.053+08:00

I can be myself here. I can tell the truth and never have to say, "I'm fine." I can talk freely about it. About how even when I wake up some mornings and am content, I can still feel it tapping silently behind my heart. I know it is there, waiting for something, anything, the tiniest hiccup in my day to claw its way out and spread like cancer through the dark bits inside of me. It spreads from behind my heart, to my lungs (it's almost musical), it rushes to my head and then I am gone, rendered defenseless, helpless. People don't understand it. It's not an over reaction, it's losing a battle in a long dark war. I know, ultimately, I won't win this fight, I am already so tired. I know one day it will take me. My heart will decide it is time to stop pumping its poisons through my veins. That will be the day that people know, once and for all, that I wasn't as strong as they had thought. That will be the day that people will know that every time they asked how I was that the best I could do was spin lies, to grant them the freedom to doubt its existence. That will be the day that it finally decides to bleed me dry, the day that it decides I have become too dull and too lifeless to be important enough to resuscitate, the day it will finally free me from the dark and back into the light that I have missed so dearly.

Emotions are incomprehensible.

#10

2010-10-30T23:11:00.001+08:00

My heart aches for other people's miseries as well as my own. It bounces and stutters and runs wild. It aches with fear, joy, sadness, worry, emptiness, freedom and confinement. It's weak but sometimes strong. Cries but sometimes laughs. My heart; she's ever-changing and a sufferer of rapidly-shifting emotions.

#09

2010-10-29T22:25:00.003+08:00

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over-dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
— Sylvia Plath

#08

2010-10-26T23:37:00.007+08:00

We all have little dreams in our heads -
Words in our mouths,
Stories on our skin,
Ghosts in our hearts.
We are little haunted houses.
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

#07

2010-10-24T23:39:00.004+08:00

Love is not at the beck and call of our fluctuating affections.
Love may forgive all infirmities and love still in spite of them,
But love cannot cease to will their removal.
But honestly, who can really define love?

Hearts can be well hidden, and you betray them with your tongue.

#06

2010-10-23T21:48:00.002+08:00

"Awake to the sound of emptiness.
Alone in a room that is filled with the darkest of light.
I was told there was nothing beyond here.
How do I know what side I'm on?
Breathe!
A captive with nothing but the thoughts increasing,
Worsening I dont belong here but I cant find my exit.
Weigh out the options, pave the narrow.
I know what you're thinking.
Come on man I swear you can do this.
I break free from this room they built for me.
This is where they all come to hunt me down, hunt me down.
Where they go to hunt me down, they hunt me down.
So they locked me up, I tore out my lying eyes
So they locked me up, preying on the innocent."

#05

2010-10-14T18:50:00.007+08:00

“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight and a half years ago. Dare not say that a man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.”

— Persuasion by Jane Austen

#04

2010-10-06T19:14:00.001+08:00

There’s a stranger in the hall he sits and smokes his rolled up cigarettes without contemplation.
He holds the remote control, lifts it to his tired palm as with Prozac he would.
I don’t believe there’s anything worthy of attention on screen, really,
But he’s riveted and melts into fictitious characters at most, football matches and fouls
-impossible are these imaginary television roles.

The stranger has sat in an old wreck for a chair for far too long;
Tobacco and pheromones staling into cane, living and non-living,
Aging and withering, letting Technicolor inspire his inert campaign.

I think the stranger would like to talk.
Perhaps once in a while when he’s got something more significant besides ‘Pass me the coffee’,
or muttering ‘Shit’ after sneezing.
Stranger’s got his pulse affiliated to failure and depleting existence chained through his veins.
Life’s annuity never went beyond the paid cigarettes and the old cane chair.

7 years he still sits there and stares, cigarette in hand and brain with cracks.
Trying his hardest to pretend I’m not really there, even as I walk through the door.
through these years and through television re-runs, wearing his blood like a curse in this life.

One learns people through the heart, not the eyes or the intellect.

#03

2010-10-05T21:13:00.004+08:00

"I wrote you a song Mississippi Isabel, I even sent you flowers when you felt ill. You've the strength of the Greeks; you are God's masterpiece. You are every triumph, every victory, I believe in every breath you breathe. And I always imagined you'd be by my side, whether I'm hiding in the city or tearing through the wild. You're only an older noose on my throat. If your beauty is a fortress then my love will be the boat. Oh, fall in love with you, I must. I'll consume every part of you to indulge my love lust. Never let a woman go even when you know she can always be replaced. Oh, lust only grows like anger and revenge or beauty comes and goes but love stays until the end. Whether a flower in my hand or a gun in my hand, I'd give it all up for your hand in my hand. For the sun on my skin as the morning begins, id die in the dark just to feel your skin on my skin.
Your soul, your love, your blood;
Treasure every beating heart that sets your soul on fire.
Love will set your soul on fire."
♪ Love Lust - King Charles

#02

2010-09-29T19:07:00.004+08:00

Love is the scars on your knees, the leftover food in the refrigerator, the song the birds sing, the pain you inflict, the sweet nothingness which flutters from your lover's mouth, a half-complete cigarette, diet coke which fizzles on your tongue, the rainbow sprinkles on your cupcake, the pattered package you received in the mail the other day, the sound of wind escaping through a small gap in your window, the dampness in your hair, the chipped red varnish on your fingernails, your grandmother's musical box, the ballet shoes you've had since you were five, the music playing on your car stereo, the flaky paint on your walls, the bubblegum stuck under desks, the tooth-fairy, your hands and the things you can make with them, the kisses you blow, the clothes you wear, 5am morning breath, your sensitive teeth, the tingly feeling you get when you get touched at certain parts of your body, the tangles in your lover's hair, sleepless nights, overdosing on painkillers, undeserved success and recognition, telling lies and not getting caught, blacking out from consuming too much alcohol, being desired by multiple parties, solving a mathematical problem, watching the people around you, watching the people fucking up around you, screaming out of your window in the middle of the night, flaming your lover's ex, make-up sex, smudged mascara, dishevelled hair and smeared lipstick, the coffee and bagel you digest on a daily basis, little children, silence, recyclable materials, trees, photosynthesis, growth, development.
No. Love is you, I, and a careless mixture of everything else we worry about.

Sometimes, we have to forget what we want to remember what we deserve.

#01

2010-09-14T21:46:00.006+08:00

"Oh start, send me grieves and before breathing.
I have your voice on tape in a southern accent screaming at me,
I was only one and we weren't prepared for people screaming,
Holding back, now and forever sweetheart;
Know things look lovely lonely you,
Holding for midnight and I deny.
You were walking so peculiar like you had something to hide;
Sweet penance for a sound - it might explode in our hands.
I'm falling in a brown pigmentation of where the element marked cut short, turned in and stopped
I've been watching rose giving in that's when I started savoring the sound."