Something from my messy archive of e journals

Reading past journals even though I am supposed to study for South Asian History finals.  Sometimes, I am alarmed at the things I write because I don't know where they come from.  They seem to come from a dark place.

June 2012:

"You know, I long to be a child again. To feel and look at life with that peculiar and curious intensity. To look at her, with that exuberance and to hold her, to cradle her as my friend, my companion. I don't know why, these tears are threatening to pour. That – exuberance, that merriment, that ecstasy, that moment. For it will pass as everything else will? That pain and emotion will no longer be the same. Each sensation is uniquely the interplay of time, character and memories. I can no longer feel the precision of my emotions as I did seconds ago. I could no longer revel in my childlike naiveté notions of art, beauty and the world."

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of late, i have lost myself - in the wildest of all woods where all the beasts take misdirected steps, with all their breathe reeking of molten, slimy and unkind algae. but though their strides are wide, they just do not seem to pant. in the stillness of such dark where crickets stridulate and all other sounds more often than not misperceived, i can’t help but feel truly afraid what the next minute brings.. i ran along the stranded route against the gustling wind. and the lack of clarity showed: all i did was make rounds of turning back to where it all began. i’m still here, i still am - i wish i wasn’t though, i wish.
- Y

\

Of late, I have not been the best in following my quest. Distracted, I strayed off the path only to come stumbling back, caked in mud and dirt. The empty feeling of listless and restlessness lingers in the edges of my straying mind. Reading the disjointed and driven thoughts of my best friend  has quivered my heart. I am afraid too. Fear drives me like a beast, unrestrained. For we tread the kingdom of beasts, distinguishing ourselves as different, as superiors to her citizens. But am I not a beast wearing a human painted face? For our salient difference between beasts and human lies in our thoughts. My human dignity springs from my shaky control of chaos and what am I when these thoughts disperse and leave me? Thumbing the pages of Pascal's Human Happiness, inadvertently sourcing for my meaning of happiness - does this act makes me more human than the animals? Or grasp of the abstract? I don't have the answers. "all i did was make rounds of turning back to where it all began. i’m still here, i still am - i wish i wasn't though, i wish."

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1. That was supposed to be for my webcomic. But heck, I am going to scrap the project and start a comic journal instead.

2. Just sort of realized I journal a lot during the months of June to August. Been trawling through my box of journals. I stopped art journalling which is pretty sad. Hmm and these two months I haven't been very diligent when it comes to capturing my thoughts and in drawing.   I need to organize them after my finals. 

In the infinite (& finite spaces) of the mind, I lost my way home.

The unquenchable thirst and hunger to go home but where is home when all the ancient ruins have faded into dust, into stone and into tales? Into flimsy pieces of tales. I miss home. Is it possible to miss some place that you have never knew, never touched with your barest hands; where you have never touched the soft velvety, smoothed the rough carapace and the restless flames? Where arises my paradoxical longing and listlessness?

I miss home where my soul melds and pulsates into an entity, to a whole. Maybe, this explains my perpetual wandering, my perpetual languor. How would a restless flames burn if it was not sustained by oxygen?

&


They call the Doctor the "Lonely God" because everyone leaves in the end; important, pivotal in the turning axis of his life; and he is left stranded, alone and 1- I. The pronoun 'I' so rigid, so upright, so pertinacious and so inconsequential in its shape; almost a wallflower. For when you write sentences as such, "I have eaten, I have slept and I have laughed. I have cried and I have dreamt of past worlds and anticipating universes. I have left the world to go home." they become paltry.

Truth is, you don't really see the multiple of 'I's while reading, do you? Even with 31 words, the I does not impress; it screams and reeks for attention. the littered, multiple I's. You noticed the verbs, you always do - the actions and never the implied, the hidden. But there in it's characteristic inconsequential, it stands stale and silent. The Doctor misses home. The Doctor misses his companions but they leave and they leave and they leave. Because this is the way with life, doors open and close and people step into the heart and the Tardis remembers; it marks them for life. And when they bade the inevitable farewell, it's always like this: The obdurate Doctor, refusing to cry, wearing his quintessential poker face, clinging to what's left of  his wretched hope; hankering for days whizzing past stars, universes and fabrics of time with his companions.

&

0

english: zero, german: null & chinese: 零

They feel so empty, so void and so sad.
零 : the resembled "rain"  and "cold" plastered, fixed together to evoke the extremity of the rain and the cold?
So cold and empty.


1

english: one, german: eins & chinese: 一

After zero, rising from its emptiness and destitution, stands 1.

1
1
I
I
I

on days like wind

On days like winds,
you stare at the dots forming in the scrubbed bare wall,
Pondering your conception. Who will I become?

*

Because we are fine and so fucking fine at that you do not see the pallid, the lacklustre crawling beneath the thinly veiled flamboyance; cracking under the pressure of their 'could be'. They say, you were the hint of genius; mad, insane and so brilliant in their conception because you are going to be the first in a long generation of failed successes, the diamond child with the sparkling potential of a misshapen gem. The first. The virginal sacrifice. You are going to bring them so much glory. Do it for yourselves. Don't you see your own light? And no, you don't. You can only hear the myriad of their voices, never your voice, because what is your voice in the drowning sea of multiplicity - screaming and vying for attention. Dying.

*

On days like wind,
you wish for the expanse of the galaxies and her stars to fall into alignment, into the right places. And you trace the outlines of the stars, hoping. The Ursa Major and the multiple legends that follow; King Arthur, Callisto and the tales of chinese dragons all crashing and melding into an incoherent whole.

You wish the stars would chart the story of your life.

And on days like wind,
when the world grows quiet and soft,
careless and free,
you disappear into stardust, into myths and legends.