Fissure

Sometimes I listen
To the watch in front of my computer
Broken, but still running
Running, but still
Broken

Its chimes and ticks are
Inescapable
Seemingly taunting me with time
Or is it the lack of?

Like a dripping hourglass
Or a decaying tree
In a forgotten piece
Of endless night
Of never ending darkness

The stars themselves create
Fissures in my life
The only way
To imagination

Do the stars count
how many seconds
have elapsed
have gone by
have noticeably painfully
ominously
ticked away

Broken is fate
But unknown are the fissures
For it lays within my heart
Yet I have no scalpel of
Courage
To tear open my heart to
Fill in the
Fissures.

The ender stars
Spreading their weak
Ephemeral
Brightness, or dimness
Or the lack of

The nether hourglass
that ticks away
Like waves crashing on sand
Never alive again

Oh the reaper of souls
Never are you caring
Nor are you considerate
Anyhow

I live again
But my armour
My sword
My axe
My
memory
All remained in a fissure
A thousand miles away
A layer of flesh away

The Fall of the House of α (1)

The First Entrance

"But the lute shall sound no more

and collect the shattered pieces

once and forever more."

To venture into the Castle of α is an unimaginable feat indeed. The combination of horror and anticipation should be the correct terms to describe such unimaginably paradoxical sentiment. There is something that allures you so much you have to terminate your very current occupation, or even curtail your unredeemable vacation of the mind just to fantasize about it, yet it dreads you so much that it fails in comparison to any shame or guilt of any kind, whether mental or downright physical and manifest. A phantasmagoric image should float in, or should it not, but rather appear in the most sudden of all fashion, of a house so sickened by the green fog in the vicinity that it chokes on its own atmosphere, yet emits such warmth that it almost would seem to be a welcoming and intriguing residence, despite being the complete antithesis.

And thus he ventures forth to this unimaginable kingdom of sorrow, with her arms open wide o the ever entwined and puzzling pathway ever leading to a chasm in a most cordial manner, or I should say, lukewarm, for none is cordial about this mere duplicitous reflection of the mind. It also does not help him (or you, the reader) that there is a storm brewing at this very moment, ready to pounce on him in the most unpredicted moment, where he least suspects anything to deviate from his plan (though plan would be very unsuitable of a word here simply because of the sheer dread that covers all vestiges of sanity and rationality). In his hand is a saw, a saw that once saved, but now gilded with the essence of sustenance, the very blood of the unknown number of "patients" perished under his fury (and insanity, though he would most despise anyone telling him thus). A very simple goal of this unsuspicious venture is to satisfy sheer curiosity, the driving force of a man to anything other than primal desires, sweeping even through the realms of α. Yet, no rational discussion can be derived from this premise solely because of the unlimited craze that emits forth from this undesirable, most disgusting encounter of him with him on the other side of the tarn of grey matter, and this narrative shall deserve, thus, no logical deductions or breakdown of any shape or form.

An unholy twang sounds from the inner chambers of the House, the void of all emotions. The engineer arrives at the door, the only door to this unfathomable suction of the substance which defines life and distinguishes between cardboard and men. No word is spoken that day, though, as they climb the stairs to the abode of evil. Oppressively humid but pretentiously decorated, yet ruined by the mist that pervades each and every piece of furniture that resides in this hell-on-earth. Alpha, the medic says, alpha is the name of the undeniable criminal that shall be executed today. Perhaps the irony is very obvious here, yet no one in the house, save α, knows of this fact, and is awake to the sanity of such analysis. Meanwhile, the storm is gathering voltage, ready to splice the sky with its blue rays of separation. The most gothic of all encounters, yet grotesquely hyperbolic and wrongly emphasized. As you shall see, the despicable and overly ornate decoration is not a coincidence, but of a reflection, or even a manifestation if you shall insist, though repetition is, though prevalent, never desired. On the second thought of any rationally sane mind, this occasion would conjure up nightmares of all sorts, not excluding the encounter of the most unholy and destructive emotion that can ever be felt. After all, it is the House of α that we are situated in, and it is α that we need to deal with at this very moment.

"Destroy the music, end the song!

The fool would say that

But a discerning ear would know

Never can a piece of music end

Never will a song of sorrows lend."

The Perversion of All Morals that Ever Existed

I crept
From green to grey
From light to dense
From bright to dark

I crept
From grey to white
From dense to roads
From dark to twilight

I crept
From white to black
From roads to roots
From twilight to eternity

The Fragile Reality

How insipid can one get?

Dirt-filled fingernails, metal-filled bullets, yet nothing to grasp on but concrete. Miles of concrete and tons of debris filled the sight of the fallen city of the unimaginable. Blood fills no more, but flows, staining my eyes red. At last, my circulatory system merges with the ground. This land.

This country. How am I supposed to feel right now? Perhaps, a dancer revolving around her axis of symmetry. How perfect, how quaint. Perhaps, a tree of blossom, of life, where we shall sit together under the shades, and gaze at the crimson sunset. Ah, no. Your pale blue dress would be more suited for the very morning. The colour of awakening, of undeniable forces of life and survivability. Perpetually hopeful, you shall be. Waltz around more please.

Debris, more of it. I start to feel a haze overcoming me. She is no longer her, I reckon. Forever will she not indulge in such dull and trite activities as such of... Who am I to judge, though? The "she" that I yearn for, no longer present. Instead, a metallic, lifeless and unreflecting persona, a statue of unknown origins. How is this transformation possible? I closed my eyes, but I would not die. The life within me is still running. The heart within me is still pumping blood, albeit not inwards, but outwards.

But your smile is so... so touching. Perhaps, it is too simple of a word. Perhaps no word can do this job of unravelling why you are attractive to me. The most pure, serene, unpolluted fantasy of mine. I dare not touch you, for my presence will adulterate your calm. The blind me shall look, but not see, for eyesight alone is enough to desecrate this irresistible charm that steals my soul.

Now my heart feels really weak. I fear that I can no longer write anymore. Your black dress hid blades, and it pierced me right in the stomach. Not fatal enough to die immediately, but chronically saps my life. And you mercilessly walk, nonchalant, accompanied by the runner, walking under a mask. My gun falls out of my hand. I have failed to defend you, and I have thus fallen. The crack within me permeates, until it touches not my skin but my heart, where the most pain is received. Flowing... flowing... ever flowing...

Bury me under a tree, for life is never too sacred.

Midnight

(Poems are fast; Prose is slow. But I would definitely prefer prose over poem anytime on this blog)

Midnight is never too late, make it an hour more
To my love you lit a match
A tiny match
That shone dimly
Threatening to topple in time
Tread slowly, tread lightly
For the flame is scorching
At a mile,
The radiation emits forth
Guiding me to the pleasure
That I know will die
Oh! Late and later, Bright yet brighter!

Love is never too intense, make it a month longer
O how much you linger
Forever
Tiny
Relentless and undefeated
Feel deeply, feel fast
Feel this everlasting scorch
The torch does burn
Near an inch,
The heart retreats back
Trying to erase this memory
To no avail
Oh! Pain and more pain, burn yet burn forever!

Eternal mist (Or, anachronism)

1945

It was desolate. The destruction, the decay, the destitute. Where was the great leader when you need him anyway? A revolver I have, a pill of cyanide I also do have. What I don't have, is humanity. You see, what place can humanity rest in this disturbed world torn apart by pure ambition. The pillars of morality, the arches of civilization, the trusses of consciousness... all collapses in one followed by tens of millions of Soviet explosives. All men reverted to beasts, committing crimes that no man would ever imagine they could do. This gun I have... 6 bullets: no more, no less. Enough to kill 6 people, yet not enough to kill 6 beasts. The city runneth over with red paint. Is it blood? Blood that is frozen with the deserted coldness of the machete. I witnessed the turning of man to beast, but to witness the transfiguration of a beast to man: To see him realize what crimes he had done against humanity, the fabric which he tore apart violently, decimating 6 million threads (and counting)... I suppose that if anyone would go to hell, this person would be the first of all. Nonetheless, tyrants are tyrants, and there will be no end to any sort of person, not excluding such a malevolent kind. I suppose that the one thing I cannot construct is the story which I am telling you now. I am an architect, but to build a story so tragic, yet so lofty, is of the most difficult thing I could imagine.

Must compassion only be shown in the white mist of metal and sulphur?

Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars...

1964

Drunk, I suppose. What could sorrow do to a man? Forsooth! I was born without a purpose, and I drink also, without a purpose. Oh. I suppose these crude syntax and broken sentences are not suitable for an intellectually challenging environment such as... wait... are we in the mess hall now? Anyway, thank you for tuning in for my monologue, a soliloquy I suppose. Who in the history of drama has had a soliloquy as finely written as that of the most evil ever? The finest, yet the most malevolent. Enmesh them all... ha! Fly me to the moon, baby. Indeed, people are black clothes, drifting on the surface of the always permeating white mist? I cannot tell you what this white mist is though... possibly a mixture of sugar, alcohol, fruit, and decadence. A yellow car runneth over. Ah yes, also the revolver. 4 bullets I have. What happened to the rest of the two? Who knows! Probably used to shoot some Nazi bastard halfway across the planet. Why do I have a gun? I'd say, a sudden connection I had with this gun, that I knew I had to pick it up. No particular reason. Just for fun I guess.

Let me see what spring is like, on Jupiter and Mars...

2003

No one showed his face today. All were covered by a fine white misty visage (I suppose, not very fine). What a horrible name for a biological entity, a ch... but I think that it should be rightfully given a horrible epithet, for its horrible acts it commits against humanity. I propose that there is a cure for this disease that spreads itself so rapidly, and in such a deadly manner. I cannot yet find it though, just give me time for that, till rationality finally would take into me. Eventually, the voice of rationality should dominate us. Else, why would we be so good at capitalism? Capitalism is reason, and is the very basis of the free market we see today. The voice of reason, very true indeed, just like the revolver in my hand, with 2 bullets. Such a perfect number, the number of duet, of marriage! The program of reason, If-then-else-end. It is so logical, so numeric, and so ineffably consistent and perfect. Immaculate! You can almost smell the sentiment of joy I had with reason in my mind. My propositions runneth over. Unreasonably planned! Insanely sane!

In other words, hold my hand...

2105

Two hundred years. Of solitude.
(A video log on Vlogger.com. Date: 19 March 2105)

This is my two-hundredth birthday. What should I say really... There are so many robots in my stomach and intestines now that I don't even feel that my body is mine anymore. I am made of metal and sulphur, if I recall correctly. Chekov's gun is still here. It is, though with no bullets left. We don't need guns here in this peaceful age, man! The fine white mist is still here, but it is water vapour, as I learnt from the new-fangled science books on sale near my bunker. Oh, yes I live in a bunker now. It is quite small if you look from outside, but really spacious inside indeed, thanks to something called virtual reality (?). The physics of the present, haha, such great inventions.

Here is my piano. I almost forgot what a piano is - Man, it has almost been 60 years since I saw this old timer! For some reason, a person signed T sent that to me. I suppose that is a birthday present of some sort... I don't know how to play, I swear. But when I sat down, I found myself naturally hitting the keys, as if there is some internal motor within me, driven by... history? Oh, sorry for my blabbering, the future me, or the future you, or whoever/whatever will be viewing this Vlog. My memory runneth over. Signing off now.... bye future guy!

Fill my heart with song, and let me sing forever more.

2220

All dead.

Piles of cadmium, lithium, iron, chromium, silicon... Lifeless elements. Fragments of uranium too. An eerie green mist engulfs me. I suppose these are my last few words before I, too, get suffocated in this lov........ Another atomic bomb... It is alright, we are all used to it. 2000 years of civilization... what have we come to. Another beginning, right? No... I see no light at the end of the tunnel. This is THE end, I suppose. No more architects, no more drunkards, no more mathematicians, no more of that ordinary folk that is suddenly electrically shocked by history. All dead. We have come a long way, and this is the end. Embrace it.

Chekov's gun is here. It has no bullets, but let me lay down the hammer, pull the trigger... and die a nuclear death.

In other words, I love you...

Blue

Look not at the walls
Of black, grey and white
Until the seeming eternity passes
And the clouds do disperse
Into oblivion.

Glut yourself in the azure sky
For blue is the colour of forgetting
The walls soon forget their eternal colours
Of black, grey and white.
Look up! for it is the time to forget.