Friday, May 22, 2009

Writing. We're all inspired by someone. Anyone. Something. Anything.

Now, a combination of keys, and every "Enter" will make a breathless thud. Inspiration drawn from all that I have ever known, at no pressing demand, materialises. Not more what some deem a faceless picture, but to some credit, pointless banter.

All literary merit is incidental.


They've never related, understood? Less so.

It is a law of nature that no life shall be a carbon copy of another. Mimicry is permitted though. Just like how three-leaved clovers, no matter how populous in clusters from Asia to Europe, each one is similar but not the same.

Perhaps writing might induce some notion of understanding. Then again, only those who listen with an open mind will be more likely to go home with enlightenment. I'm a fool. I'm expecting inconclusive, cold judgement to do the impossible.

We all make passing remarks, but we never fully understand. Automatic thoughts spill off one's tongue as fire would consume a building. By then, is it too late?

For some, it has been. I live to tell my story until mankind stops belittling the wisdom of the ancients: The tongue is the most poisonous part of the human body.

Having never expressed this clearly enough, depression is the parasite of the mind. It never has enough; it never eats its fill. By the time it has, all that is left is an empty shell, or memories of the strange fellow who once was.

Some have sold their souls. Similarly, you sell your mind to control. Yes, you control. Unfortunately, you are also controlled.

Not everyone makes a shrewed businessman. There is great potential in the human race. Almost every hour, an idea or a shadow, is born that will someday revolutionise the way we live. Now, if life is about the extremes... there is the extreme alpha good. Then, there is the opposite.

If we are capable of one, we are not incapacitated of the other.

You clutch the sheets of your bed. Keel over. Breathing to keep the body alive, and all else melts away to oblivion. All the drama of teenage angst. At some point, many would feel its trail. Hormones bubbling over the angry effervescence of water on a hot stove. However, less would go to the stage beyond typical rebellion. Even less would perish, but they still do.

So there you go. Dread awaits you everyday, so you live a life so surreal... you're not even sure if you truly exist...


Now, isn't that awful?

Now you know.

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corny in a paradigm where sense and non sequiturs go together, taking it in like vanilla ice cream on a banana split, or sand on a boot. whichever goes.

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