Je T'Aime

You sneeze a little but it echoes as if in a cave. That's just how vacant my place is. No warmth seeps into you from the world outside, no warmth of any kind. You see beautiful things and marvel at them in a subdued manner, always in a subdued manner. As if looking through a window because that's just how you live your life. You do not participate. Instead, you let the world build itself around you. The way you juxtapose yourself to minimize external contact, it borders on perversion. Who else but the twisted peer at life through such narrowness and derive pleasure so little from it that it's never enough?

I have venetian blinds in my mind and rose coloured glass in my eyes but fret not, my soul is not a cave. I am not hollow. Quite the opposite in fact. It's not out of lack of interest or awareness that I not participate, rather it is a stagnant state of lovelessness. A heedless frothing of uncaring that stems from ignorance. I declare myself passionately dispassionate.

Word: Lunacy.

On the way back from terawikh tonight, at the tram stop, in the cold, the Moon is bright. Since INTEC I've fostered quite a relationship with the moon. Mainly because I could see it through my window as I lay on my bed. All those sleepless nights I spent staring at the Moon ( so much prettier than my goddamn ceiling) I've grown to be quite fixated with it. A bunch of my poems had something to do with the Moon back then.

I'd think how there's just dust on its scarred surface. No sound, no wind, no nothing. I'd then think of it as a sentient entity, not just some suspended rock that orbits this world that's made of many little worlds just like mine. If things were bad (as they often are when I took to contemplating the Moon), I'd imagine myself running as fast as I could to the edge of the world and jump off, floating into the inky, star-studded space and landing on the pearly sphere. All the while, I'd have my hand stretched in front of me, towards it, just, you know fantasizing.

To reiterate, the Moon is bright tonight but it seems more distant than usual. It's unfair that it looks exactly the same here, as it does at home. I feel like now that I'm in Melbourne, the Moon should look different. It's cruel that it looks no different. Something within me aches but really, it's probably just the cold. Lunacy, such a lovely word.

The artist.

Because all we want is an extent of realism in our art so it may be cathartic in effect. Revelations of the unconscious by means that grants us self-actualization in our world of alienation. It is not a direct connection that we seek but something more universal and ambivalent in nature. Self-serving, ambitious, indignant fools we are. Never a naked reference to selves, for 'we' is but a disguise.

A pitiful one.

For You & Her.

Note: I know I said I'm never posting my silly poems anymore but this is not my usual silliness. This is a letter.  Just in case.
_______________________________________________________________

Of heartbreak I know nothing of
for Love I never have.
You gave your heart but
she gave it back.
Your first flight, your first fall.

I can only imagine
what sweet assaults to your sanity she must be.
I confess, for not wanting your beauty
I think her silly.
But don't be mad I just want you happy.

To harbour affection for one unattainable
must be a labour in itself.
To be quite so miserable,
made to feel so ornate and fragile
like cheap crystal.

Even then, you weren't pining
just silently, patiently, waiting.
I could see that
but back then she was simply not yours.
Now, she might never be.

For what it's worth, (for we're never
open with each other) I'm telling you
I'm here for you.
Dear brother, I too will pray for her.

Is This It LP

This arrived in the mail today. I bought it on 31st July 2011 in light of the album's 10th anniversary. I feel that it is only fitting that the first LP I ever own is of my No. 1 band, The Strokes debut album.

Now all I need is an actual turntable.

Front & Back cover

Inside Flap and the record in its paper envelope

The 12 inch LP in all its glory

MBTI

That is what roomie is. ESFJs are the counterparts of INFJs. It means we perform similar functions in totally different realms. I find this amusing haha.

Another one of my housemate's an INFP, which surprises me. Thought she'd be an ISFJ. Supposedly INFPs complement INFJs. By complement meaning we have compatible strengths with opposite emphases. Whatever that means. Meh.

The ugly truth.

I feel that in my poetry lies insolence, disquiet, dreams and desires. It is not art. It mimics it, poorly I must say but that is the extent of my miserable attempts at 'craft'.

It is all hogwash. Yearnings of an asinine fool (forgive my redundancy) to be wise and comely. Sometimes it even verges on- I dare not type it out because then it will all be true.

I fear change but I want perfection, which is idiotic (perfectly expected of one such as me). Most of all I think I'm just a damned lazy bum. 

It all comes back to my anti-social nature I think. It brings me conflicts that deeply stirs me. Is it possible to go on a quest for knowledge, art, love or beauty without having to move oneself to align with the rest of the world?

All this profundity of thought makes me suspicious of my own mind. Of my own intent. To be capable of pure sincerity surely one must cleanse oneself of one's own vices? Rid oneself off one's own trivial knowledge of the superficial?

But I have to start somewhere don't I?

Spirituality is something I find myself again and again attracted to yet simultaneously repulsed from. All is my fault of course. The One does not play tricks on His subjects. 

Hence, I go back to what comforts me most in this prison my own mind construct around myself; Books. May guidance come to me when I seek it as often as when I need it.