Beautiful Letdown

'tis the season of the festive yet again. Every year brings difference which is both merry, refreshing and new but that solemn feeling of these 3 months is still with me. I may not have gone travelling far and away this time around but even the short trip to Bentong and the time I get to spend alone brings the same sour taste in my mouth and the long drawn breaths with their flavour of inadequacy.

Is it true that there is a difference in silence? I could swear the silence in the air of Bentong and in the countryside of fair Taiwan are vastly different from the silence I share with my room in which I sit at this very moment.

The year draws to a close yet I feel I have accomplished nothing. I have been told I am prettier, I have been complimented upon by some yet I feel I have let down so many more. I look to the turn of the decade to tell me where I stand in the world. I know that it is my choice and effort which places me where I want to be in the big bad world but what if I just want to know where I am now? Oh wait, I know where I am. The bottom. I guess I can almost see it (*wink*).

Why the Kookaburra Doesn't Laugh Anymore.

The Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree and a very merry king of the bush is he but why can he no longer find reason to laugh? Has his song gone awry? His little equilibrium had been disrupted. He had found something that changed it all for the better. Laugh Kookaburra, laugh but why can he not find the slightest chuckle easy anymore?

Equilibrium was what he rejoiced in escaping from. His vicious little cycle had been broken and maybe instead of sitting around the bush all day, he found a friend to visit the billabong with. Someone he could swoop the swoop and loop the loops in time to. Laughter alone always ends up in horrible blight to the self.

The mate he had found himself to laugh with seemed to have been there by accident and maybe through a chuckle-gone-wrong, he had scared his newfound friend off. Maybe the loops were too loose, maybe his perch was awkward but he was still King of his Bush.

Equilibrium again. His old gum tree. Himself. Let us now laugh at him.

Blah.

The past three days I have been without Internet in my humble abode. Every night I wanted to blog. Every night I had an entry in my head that I was determined I would get down here. Now that I have my Internet again, all the artistic and cryptic content which had so easily found its way onto my mind's slate is lost to me.

I am certain that I will come up with something suiting to weave into an intricate little boy scout badge to stitch upon my sash here but for now, I believe that one phrase will suffice.

Fuck me.

I will further elabourate at a later date.

Propagation of the Truth.

Midnight. All is quiet. The silence is both soothing to the soul as it reeks with its indiscreet slither of insanity. All is still. All but that silent thump. *thump* *thump* *thump*, it goes slowly and - as if growing impatient - it slowly becomes louder and louder until *CRASH*.

What began as an innocent little pat would slowly become an incessant flurry of mad flailing and pounding upon the walls. The masons, the guards and gatekeepers are diligent. They stand fast and hold the fort. The walls will hold. There shall be no defeat this day. This day. What about the next? What about the month ahead? What about the future? Will fatigue not find its way into the souls of these obstacles? These shields of meat? Will not we succumb?

The city will soon tire of the ringing in its ears. Blow upon blow, it grew from a silent rhythmic harmony to a skippy beat and when the cacophony reaches its crescendo, will the city still be there? Will the walls hold? Not on this day. We are tired, we are hurt, but we have yet to be broken.

Hold fast and still my dears. Perhaps they can't see us shaking from the outside... We will win and they will never know of this...

D.A.R.D.

What we can always rely on with confidence is who we are - our own personal Northern Stars to guide us through the sins we commit. The blank slates of our life continuously imprinted upon by grace, marred by betrayal, caressed by romance and love, defaced beyond recognition by loss and missed opportunities yet embroidered with memories of beauty and the mystical. The sins of our fathers, they haunt us like they were our own. Countless folds upon folds of unvoiced agony alongside the multitude of tears shed for joy, sorrow, grief and anger emanate within us. Silently dictating which path we take along the labyrinthine journey of life. Every step one takes along their path inevitably becomes an indispensable part of them, becoming one with the traveller's personal vat. Personal. Who we are. Who are we?

Some believe that we are the product of what we are put through, twisted metal scraps regurgitated from the grinder. Others believe that we are what we were taught to be, perverse images of flamboyant ideals.

Although I cannot invalidate the two, I must add that there is more to the equation. We are also the fruit born of what we want to become. Our capability to learn through interaction and through observation allows us to take a look at the bigger picture and decide what we would like to become. What I speak of has been labelled as intra-personal intelligence. Such introspection exists but is not practiced by all. Looking into one's self is not always simple and may be harrowing for some.

It is the examination of what we have become as a result of the collective trauma and glee which we have seen and been put through. We do actively choose what we become but it may not always be a choice we readily or even consciously make but there is always a choice. Heavily dependent on what one believes in for him or herself: True Justice, True Love, True Peace, True Joy, the list continues. The quest we embark upon is for the personal development of ourselves as engines of our beliefs.

Alas, through the twine of some lives, there is not time enough for such petty self-indulgence. Life carries on and little or no concern goes along with the decisions which are made with repercussion to the neighbour. The road is rocky, worn are the wheels but the truck which is them will still trample upon the livestock it ploughs through. The collateral is of no consequence to the actor. The injured lie broken and spiteful and decide to bring their truck to the fields...

Thankfully, I have no car yet.

The incoherence. I love it! I love it!!

True.

It's true, when I am not so exasperated with my life, I stop posting here. Not to be mistaken, we all have our little exasperations in life. It's just that I believe that I can deal with this exasperation for now. So much so that I feel no need to spill my heart out here. There have been times where I wanted to but could not be bothered to do it.

I've found myself angry, moody, agitated, enraged and sad but lacked the initiative to bring it here. Been keeping busy with gaming, performances and convincing myself that I've got a job. What a farce. For now, I believe that I have better things to do than this but I am fairly certain that I will be back though.

Where The Yellow-Brick Road Crumbles...

Life is but a dream. That is what it seems to be at the present. A mundane, meandering, slow-boating dream filled to the brim with subtle chaos.

'lo the pressing of those on the other side of the glass as they smear their faces upon the dome of the life I would like to call my own. Watch as they attempt to leave an impression of their hideous grimace upon the frames of my mind. They leave nothing but more; more shit on my wall to face.

It seems a custom I hold to myself that everything I attempt will end in failure. The confidence I portray is but the presence of the Masque or care (which in the case of the latter would be the lack thereof).

Less than a moon has past since I was told that I had spent close to two years working on something which might be deemed insufficient or irrelavent. Would I face the axe for the shame which currently dwells within me? The bile of bitterness returns directed otherwise at not only those which shot me to pieces but to the shards over the ground which made up myself.

Far from eager to learn of the fruit my labour has borne, far from ready to approach strangers and request that I be compensated for my 8.30-6.00 hours and far from ready to deal with everything else being smeared on my face.

Escapist, guide my path. Where shall I hide next?