I hereby welcome myself back to my long forgotten world of the blog.
Turns out every blogger has to churn out one of these meaningless self-conversational posts, and well I stopped swimming against the tide of tradition long ago. Infact I stopped swimming an year ago, of course I miss the shallow blue waters, maybe I will get back to it. All those wasteful hours my father spent teaching me to flap like a dolphin only to turn me into a turtle should be honoured.
So, boys and girls, let's enjoy one of those 'personal posts'. Insert applause.
So well, film school is life, home, love, destiny , enter other words of praise and pride. I am old. Hell I am old. Not necessarily a bad thing but it needs to be proclaimed in any trivial form as it can be. The reversal back to infancy will begin after eight more months. All words of wisdom should be censored and any words of wisdom will not be found on my carefully censored blog either.
Technology keeps moving on, emotions keep trailing behind, life remains and so does words.
I write now in a disciplined manner, I make films with a similar sentiment. Someday soon you will read me on your e-book or regular book, watch my film on Youtube or cinema, remember me or keep me on Facebook, whatever works as Woody Allen said and now I say it too.
Come back for more fiction.
Photo you want. I give.
Poetry you want. I give.
Lost and found key and chain all the children smile but love with refrain we say goodbye and kiss the rain
It hit me on a Friday evening, how it becomes impossible to turn around on your heels without hurting your back and starting anything new, anything at all, ever. Apart from the rotten joint in one of your knees or that strange tingling in your molar that you have been ignoring for the past eight months, the strain from the last year's right foot fracture to the back that will give way the minute your spine takes the shape of an airplane's economical seat, there is something else that gives way when a particular Friday evening hits you the way it hit me.
You see, I the twenty nine year old, sports columnist, ill-equipped traveler, trained corporate lawyer, amateur golfer, wine hater and nicotine addict, had a sudden, if you may allow me, itch to wheel around my black carrier, step off the escalator, throw the Blue Label at the ninety year old woman on the wheelchair (waiting for her loved ones to join her through immigration) and exit through the sliding doors, back to where I came from. Obviously, it was impossible as I would indeed need to go down those very metallic stairs, board the sterile flight and make it through a another set of sliding doors to be anywhere close to back, back to where I come from.
Things couldn't get any worse, considering I was complaining about nothing, yet, the black cloud descending on my not so black heart was beginning to trouble me. I had eight hours of flying, one twenty milliliters of whiskey and a bad Nicholas Cage movie ahead of me, but my feet seemed to not really care. They should, faced with the imminent danger of me getting either sucked inside the escalator shaft or being mercilessly thrown all over the red white tiles. There was the Blue Label also fighting for its existence. I still had a few seconds on my side, so I decided to regress into my past when my limbs had decided to freeze of their own accord and I had overcome the disability.
Drawing upon that wisdom seemed pertinent today, but for the lack of time. My enemy, my sole enemy, the invisible enemy, crawling upon my years like an incurable cancer, marking me with dark circles per annum like aging trees, stretching the nerves of my eyeballs to near breakage, stealing away precious moments a man devotes to his penis, all but for him -- the lack of time. And since he had reared his ugly head once again, and I had failed to find a cure for my newly acquired invalid status, I hereby lay sprawled on the shiny concrete, watching the ugly air-conditioning ducts hidden behind a honeycombed ceiling, but not for long as people had begun to gather and block my view with their oddly raised eyebrows on expressionless faces.
I expected the control of my limbs would have returned post the trauma, but as my lifeless fingers felt the trickle of golden whiskey grow into a puddle, all thoughts did a reverse osmosis on me and began to trickle out of my brain. I decided I am fainting and it would be futile to recall a previous fainting spell and save myself public embarrassment as there again was not going to be enough time to draw upon my memory’s rich advice.
I was too busy falling down after you, while you hid your wax wings and kissed me at the bottom of the star lit universe. You swept me off my brittle feet, held the wind like a baby in dead arms and rose up.
I smiled and watched you soar up, up, up and away.
I am waiting for the stars to die. They are getting dimmer by the century and my black eyes can't shine without them.
I wish I could watch you sweep around the world, enthralling your lovers under those golden wings. Your eyes are splitting into asteroids green and brown, my reflection cracking in each speck.
I can see you pass by sometimes like a comet without fire, a spent soul searching for my black hole.
Life has a way of coming around and lifting you up imaginary wings. How can you ask for more? It has a way of finding you the one place, that one place that makes you so happy.
It is beautiful, to have your dreams, to live your dreams, to know you are going to live it to your fullest and more. More than you ever dreamt or dreamed.
Everything has a reason, to be, to play out.
Sorry Hamlet, maybe you got it wrong. Yorick was the one.
He laughed, he made you laugh, you knew him, more like you had the privilege to know him. He told you how it was to live, but you got it all wrong.
Stick to your ideals, your ideals, your heart knows it all. It knows it right. No matter how wrong it seems.
There will be you, changing the world, smiling in your grave.
Remember what your heart knew, what it felt.
Live.
Just live.
For we are the few people who know how to. Your life is not measured in coffee spoons.
You know how to live You know how to write your destiny You know how to love So how can it be that you don't smile It's you Only you Not your words Only you Only I
Yeah baby! Dream comes true... my life has become a Radiohead song.
Been thinking about you Your record's a hit Your eyes are on my wall Your teeth are over there But I'm still no one And you're my star What do you care?
Oops! Wasn't hoping for this one.
I've been thinking about you So how can you sleep These people aren't your friends They're paid to kiss your feet They don't know what I know And why should you care When I'm not there
Funny thing... this life. Goodluck with all the words you borrowed.
He is no longer nameless or unknown. John tried for the past one year to find an original notion that could explain the current state of affairs. The stagnation and apathy that has become John’s life. Hence John borrows the same words again, what if one day you find that all your hopes and dreams were the wrong way around.
Wow!
It is a crazy place to be. Crazier than a school, more maddening than ambition, worse than ageing cells. It’s not that John has become old, nor has he matured. John has simply left behind pieces of himself, for no reason at all. As if he was too lazy to carry himself forward. Better to shed your identity than fight for it. John doesn’t lament this unknown loss. John just doesn’t understand how it happened to him.
This was John. Take it or leave it. John was perfect, untouched, lucky and brilliant. Oh God what did John do to himself.
I am John – John Doe. I have lost myself.
And it’s alright. I am like everyone. I am happy like everyone.
They say not belonging anywhere is a good and creative place.
The proclamation document of the State of Delirium adopted such a principle in word and spirit.
The island is situated not on a map but in the points of agreement that its citizens agree upon in their sub conscience.
A great surge in the population was expected since its formation hundreds of centuries ago, but lack of written archaeological proof has left its legitimacy in tatters.
Besides, the inhabitants are too static to venture on a validation trip.
People just belong, without signatures and anthems.
The politics are numerous, none superior to the other, hence rendering it all absent.
Religion was rejected sometime in its turbulent history, again lack of documentation has led to mere resignation amongst the populace.
The geography is complex, with constant transformations, eruptions and extinction.
Each generation re defines the topography, from empty forests, to boiling oceans.
However, the creative extinction of the rest of the world, points to mass emigration, causes of which can't be investigated due to lack of will and widespread delirium of affected parties.
Visitors are hence forth discouraged from seeking the El Dorado of the insane.
Wandering in a city of dead ends ... a broken chunk of the asteroid ... the bitter taste of discontent ... unknown creatures indebted to a magical imagination ... destined to shine in paradise ... silent words smelling of propaganda ... don't even dare to ponder lest you find this cynical non-conformist mocking you ...
