It’s sweltering in here, the little voice in my head cried out. It’s impeccable as usual, with the brown dilapidated walls that reek of termites, with its frontiers of interactive intelligence, complemented with rustic decor. All built to withhold a few drunken stupors, a treat to enclose the mind within its boundaries, lest the demons fly away with its precarious thoughts.
Month: December 2019
Just mumble-jumble, really
Sometimes, I write to confuse. A string of mumble-jumbled tied together into a cluster-fuck of innuendos – sexual or otherwise – metaphors, juxtapositions, hyperboles and oxymoronic consistency.
I don’t fully comprehend that practice of mine, maybe it is as much as to confuse myself as to confuse my readers. My emotions, although generally stable and very well-kept, has been of late making a ruckus in my mind. The untangled web of persistent thoughts stacks confusion upon confusion, clouding the light that brings me respite.
Nonetheless, I allow it to do so, possibly to mask the deeper emotions (truth) than lies behind the surface. So here goes, my ode to uncertainty, my cluster-fuck of literary illusions to mask what my emotions (truth) try to tell me.
Possibly this fear of rejection of mine hinders my pursuant of such cravings that I know I seek. For most of my past affections, the feeling was not innate in its conception, but rather settled with as the second-best option. But this time I pursued my initial folly, although (terribly) unsure of its final outcome, which has a higher probability of rejection. I still choose that for once. I would throw my heart into the unknown and let it land amongst thorns, just for the very slight chance, and incredibly slight it is, that it might be caught by that one person that I seek.
It’s Christmas time in the city!
Christmas has arrived. Without foreshadowing, without warning; One day it’s January the 3rd, and the next, Christmas.
Christmas has always been with my family. All of us squeezed into the back of our Alza, cheerfull chatter streamlined across the car, occasionally interrupted by my mother’s sharp retort at one comment or the other. The narrow kampung streets on the way to church, the need to dress smartly (for once) and the nodding off during the monotonous sermon.
This year, however, I spent Christmas morning not in the company of my siblims, but with a glass of milk in one hand and a bagel in the other. Bojack Horseman played nervously in the background as I tried to cook an omelette and failing at the flipping stage (as usual).
Christmas morning was fresh and delightful. The bright and merry sun shined through my curtains, the birds chipper excitedly in the air, which hinted a tinge of orange and snowy wishes.
khaimin 