And the red queen’s off with her head
Remember what the dormouse said
Feed your head, feed your head

White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplanes

03.12.12

We are all the same. We laugh, we cry and we feel. We all bleed red. We all have two eyes to see, and one mouth to speak. We have more similarities than differences. And yet more core to our nature is this urge to belong, to have a group to call your own. But by having an in-group, by default there is an out-group. By sorting together all our commonalities, the differences are leftover to be seen more visible and explicit. It is easier to see the black stain than the entire white slate. And so mouths will speak against one another and some mouths will be silenced. There will be blood loss, but no love lost. The world goes blind as we take an eye for an eye. But we’ll still see red.

restless

03.12.12

He tires. A fatigue not remedied by rest. Even as he wakes from sleep, he is tired, only to want to go back to sleep. It is a fatigue of simply being, an exhaustion from existence; He tires of the world. And his escape is running through dreams of adventure, wandering through that utopia. But yet he wakes to this world everyday, only to want to go back. For when he wanders that other place, the weariness wears off. As he runs through such stuff dreams are made of, the fatigue fades away.

I’m on a roll, I’m on a roll
This time, I feel my luck could change
Kill me Sarah, kill me again with love
It’s gonna be a glorious day

Lucky - Radiohead

birds of a feather

11.xx.11

Every time I walk through a park, there’s always a senior-aged man on a bench, looking down at the flock of pigeons below him. He continually reaches into his brown paper bag and throws bits of bread to their outstretched beaks, as more birds come around. They fight amongst themselves for their share, but always return their gaze back towards him, looking for more. We used to do this as kids at the local park where we grew up, but now I don’t see the point. Feeding them just leads to an even larger population of dependent pigeons, and then more birds will simply starve. It’s a short term fix, but a greater problem in the long run. Then I wonder about third world countries. The families have numerous children, sometimes more than they can manage, few survive, and then this cycle continues. The kids are brought into this world almost as easily as they leave it; thousands die every day with no thought spared. They’re entering a room with no more seats left, waiting in line for food that has run out. Should we leave them to the elements, and let natural selection strike the balance between population and resources. Or are we still feeding the pigeons? The hand continues to reach in, yet we only offer breadcrumbs to the starving. The paper bag is running thin, but more are still coming around. And they always return their gaze back towards him, looking for more.

02.22.12

I’ve given up on my old spring-mattress, or rather it’s given up on me. A testament to how much I sleep, I’m pretty sure it’s permanently concave inwards now. It’s almost as if I can see a faint outline of my body engraved into the mattress. And I always wake up aching, tired and grumpy. Maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but then again, there is no right side of this bed.

12.xx.11

The newspaper - a daily reminder of how messed up this world is. It’s always the same, something about politicians going astray, economies going down, and people dying. The news is getting a bit old, don’t you think?

It’s that time of night again. I don’t wonder why do I do this to myself anymore, or wishing I had started earlier, or hoping to do the best I can. I don’t find myself questioning at all, I just do; I’ve been programmed to memorize and regurgitate for so long that it’s almost second nature. This test is like every other, it’s the same test I’ve been writing my entire life. But these good marks smile towards bad behavior, every correct answer comes to love my mistake, and every ace holds me close and reassures worse days to come. Procrastination is a bitch I’ve learned to live and lie with.

Dandelion, blow my soul out into the sun
I’ll take the breeze to big cities to see everyone
even though we’re all gonna die here
you’re my kind, dear

Confetti - 1, 2, 3

01.09.12

This is the train ride I take each day. Every day for the past four years. As the doors open, everyone rushes towards the window seats. They like to look out and stare at the outside world, in awe of the sights and sounds that pass by their window. And as the seasons change, the onlookers witness the spectacle of green turn into a flurry of blues. The shifting tide of new highrisers built to the sky, and old ones crushed to the ground. It is captivating to watch the world and everything around you change. If only the train ride stopped here.

But it doesn’t. The ride begins to decline rapidly, as the passengers hold onto their bearings. They take one last glimpse at the sky overhead before the train descends into the tunnel. Shades of grey turn into shades of black. There are no more sights to behold - except one. It is only darkness outside the window, and herein lies the most daunting view of all. Your reflection. When you come to realize that you yourself have changed.

I move closer to the window apprehensively, as if meeting an unfamiliar stranger or an old friend I have not seen in ages. and as I stare at my reflection, my reflection gazes back at me. On this train ride, I watch the world pass me by. The weeks, months and years have come and gone. And as the train comes to a halt and everyone grips onto their seat, I too must come to grips.

Aldous Huxley - Brave New World

“Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.”
There was a long silence.

“I claim them all,” said the Savage at last.