Now what?

Alright I admit that I need to grow up. 

I've given up my stubborn illusions about my current state, and admit that I act and behave like a big overgrown and spoilt baby.

Having said that, now what? How do I start growing up?

So Wrong, So Right

There is something so wrong with me, or something so right with me. Either way, it means trouble for the world. Funnily, it also means the world is trouble.

If I'm as wrong as I think and know that I am, that means Me, unleashed and on a rampage, means trouble on so many levels for the rest of the world. Sticks and bones I may not wield, but words, contrary to popular belief can hurt so much. Unleashed, unfettered, and deranged, I use all the wrong wors to say the wrong things, at all the wrong moments to effect a destruction that has all the elements of an emotional and relational doomsday. I am have the equivalent mighty destructiveness of a Decepticon, but a lot less cool, and a lot more deadly. If I'm considered alright by normal standards and everyone out there is every bit as deranged as I am and even more, then it won't be along before we all blow each other up and leave mindless, soulless dust where we used to inhabit.

Either way, it seems we are all in a lot of trouble.

Damn these people

Am I the only one who feels afraid?

Everywhere I turn I seem to see self-assured and confident people going about their way with such purpose and confidence. They look like they're going places and they look like they know exactly how to get to the place that they want to go, no sweat, easy peasy.

They look like they have a check-list and timeline all planned out, checking milestones on their to-do list, and nodding assuredly, murmuring to themselves, "1 down, only xx more to go."

They know all the right answers to all the questions, and all the right things to say and the right times to say it - with the right tone and the right words with just the correct amount of jest.  

Their effort seems effortless; they take 5 minutes to learn what the rest of us can't even begin to wrap our brains around. They are socially adept, and loved by all, even by the toothy security guard who speaks Martian. (These people will somehow be able to speak an alien language that nobody even knew existed.)

They work hard and play hard, surviving on merely fresh air and water; they don't eat or drink unhealthy food, in fact, they cook and pack their own food.

They work, play, cook, personally change the diapers of their half-a-dozen model-looking offsprings, and manage to there's-never-enought-time-we-just-have-to-make-time to go to the gym.

I hate these insufferable people for making it look so easy something that is so damn hard.


In fact, these wonder people can save the world with a snap of their perfect fingers. Why drag me and my ineptness, inaptitude and my reluctance to do non-Zynga work into the picture?

Now leave me and my grumpy lazy ass alone.

"Are you ok?"

"Are you ok?"

Am I ok?

My knee-jerk response is, I'm not sure whether I'm ok. What on earth does "feeling ok" feels like? If "feeling ok" is what I think it feels like to feel ok, then I'm not ok. 

In fact, I've never been ok. Ok, maybe once in that rare perfect moment that almost never happens, when the moment is perfect, you feel perfect on the inside and on the outside, you feel like things could not be better and there's nothing absolutely else you want, or nowhere else you'd rather b, or no else else you'd rather be, and no other food/drink/weather/location you'd rather be doing/feeling/thinking/touching.

Who in hell ever feels ok? There's always something wrong, something lacking, something that's missing, that's lacking, a worry that's nagging you, a something you've forgotten, a niggling at the back of your mind, something you're kicking yourself for doing or saying and something you're kicking yourself for not doing and saying.

It's always never ok.

So I'm not ok.

Honourable Relationships

Rare is a connection between two people filled with mutual respect without mutual suspicion.

More often than not, when 2 people get together to do something together, there's wariness and defensive on both sides to ensure the self-preservation of each one against the other.

Even when a certain trust has been established, most partnerships are fraught with the mine fields of having two distinct personalities, styles, values and beliefs, characters find a common understanding amidst an intimate working relationship. Indeed, rare is the relationship that most will consider ideal, that of complementary-ness, they are almost able to function as a single whole, so in tune are they to each other they function as an ambidextrous entity. And yet there is the inimitable and what I'll deem the perfect and divine partnership where two people, put together are able to multiple their own as well as each other's capabilities, skills and talents so the sum of the 2 parts is more than greater than the multiplication of the 2 parts even.

Now that is what I call divine. 

Words

If I'm too far away to touch you, maybe my words can....

Write, damn it, write!

I'm not a writer. I never was, I'm not one now, and I never will be one.


So that settles it. I'm not a writer, I don't want to be a writer, and I'm not trying to be a writer, never mind how much I like reading; that's a totally separate thing altogether.


But I want to be able to write. Because I need to be able to write in order to give shape and depth to the spontaneous and uncatchable thoughts which are frequently the off-tangent offshoots of normal thoughts. 


I need to be able to write to capture some of that, what I call for a lack of a better word, "seed thoughts"; thoughts that may be seeds that have the potential to blossom or grow, possibly into a fruitful apple tree which others will enjoy feeding off, or maybe even grow into a Venus fly trap or a foul-smelling plant, there's really no telling.


But like I said, there's really no telling, as to what may come off of those seed thoughts. Some of them may turn up to be the start of some stupendously brilliant or new project, idea or whatever, who's to say.


I need to be able to write because otherwise I have no way of further developing a body to that seed thought. My mind is so pathetically fleeting and uselessly flimsy and flippant that it can't hold possibilities or potentialities or eventualities, much less hold water. So I need to force, make, train, discipline myself to give form and shape to tentative initials. 


I need to write, to face my fears. For the longest time I've always been reluctant to relinquish power, because knowledge is power, in my writings and I don't want people to know me better than I know myself. Funnily, it's this same self-absorption that is preventing me from seeing that people already know what I am and they actually know me more than I know myself. I've been so intent on hiding that I've become less than subtle in my attempts to hide you see. (That's how not to play hide-and-seek.) The irony is that my own actions are causing the very reactions and repercussions that is my greatest fear. Irony? Or maybe more stupidity. Anyway, it's become embarrassingly ludicrous. The only to restore balance is to upset the very apple cart that I'm trying to keep balanced. Don't ask me the rationale behind it at this point of time; I don't know what is the logic, but I just know I need to upset the ridiculous house of cards that I've managed to build. As to what happens next, well we'll see.


I write for the sake of trying to do something I know I cannot do, just because I'm allow to.


I write because I refuse to believe that i cannot write, even if I think I cannot, and others agree too.


I need to write to force myself to do something I don't like doing, because I have to start doing things I don't like doing.

I need to write. And I need to stat writing now. Uncensored, uninterrupted, unedited. Uncouth, unsavoury, unleashed. 

I need to write. For the sake of staying living and staying alive. For the sake of not cutting myself off at the cusp of something possible, some future, something, anything. 

I need to just do something with the only thing which I now know I must do, and can do. 

I need to write, damn it.

Strange Bed-Fellow

I've been living with someone new.

For the last few months, my new companion has been quietly keeping me company. Whether asleep or awake, I feel a hovering presence and know I'm never far from his gaze.

Even during my most private or vulnerable moments, when I thought nobody else was watching , the presence of my bedfellow lies strangely heavy on my senses.

In the evenings, in order to avoid his insiduous attentions, I potter around the room - picking things up, adjusting my make-up, picking my clothes for the next day, trying out a new hairstyle, reading a book, watching TV, and scurrying to bed while his back is still turned. Despite that, in the moments when my mind and body relaxes and eases itself, slipping through the veil between wakefulness and sleep, he's the last thing to leave me.

There's no avoiding him in the mornings, his presence even intrudes on my awakening. He coolly allows his presence to seep into your sub-consciouness and then as your body starts to respond to him, he consumes your body soul and spirit with an almost shockingly suddeness and intensity that can be almost terrifying. 

Fear, is a strange and unpleasant bed fellow. 

I've not been able to get rid of him for the last few months. Sometimes when I think I'm rid of him I wake up to find his increased presence in the morning or suddenly appearing at a peaceful moment, leaving me in tenterhooks and constant dread of a re-appearance.

I want to get rid of my bed-fellow.

Poked by Nostalgia in the eye

Invoking memories is like eating dodgy food. The food in question looks and smells dodgy, and something at the back of your mind screams "Noooooo!" and the same something tells you you're going to be feeling so sorry and regretful and sick and stupid in a couple of hours time, but you eat it anyway.

And true enough, not too long later, you find yourself feeling sorry and regretful and sick and stupid, whilst hanging over the edge of a toilet bowl.

Dumb asses. Sorry. Well, I didn't mean you, I meant me.

Seriously, why do we put ourselves through this nostalgic merry-go-around?

To be fair to myself, I didn't drudge all all those best-to-be-forgotten memories myself; somebody else brought them up during the course of conversation, and as a polite person, I had to sit and listen and REMEMBER! What was I to do, how on earth do I stop the spontaneous popping-up of images in my mind as he persuaded them out of hiding by his talking?! What chance did I have?

And so they materialised in my mind and whispered in my ear and tickled my fancy and my imaginations. I was stoked by Perhaps and Maybe and What-If and got lost in a world that is not my own for a while.

At first they slide easily into your conscious mind as you savour the flavours of memories at their beginnings - of new experiences, people experimentations, exploratory conversations, furtive looks, fresh sounds, tentative touches. The initial thrill of remembered memories soon slide further into the unfolding of grotesque revelations. If you don't stop there, you slide further into the abyss of the churning up of all related and associated memories invoked to feed the nostalgia which has since transformed into a monster hungry to be fed emotions and memories that soon leaves one shrieking and moaning with the horror of unwanted memories.

And before you know it, memories come in an upwash and you hurl memory after memory which were suppose to be deeply buried and forgotten. And you find yourself feeling sorry and regretful and sick and stupid.

And there my analogy runs out.