I don't. In my first post in such a wonderfully long time, I bring sad news. Perhaps sadness is the most suitable word; a most fascinating one, to encapsulate my entire being right now. I perambulate; I swing from the highest of points in life to the point where I don't know what I'm fighting for; is this the life I am doomed to walk on this accursed plateau of grass and water and mud and people and shoeprints and those that get washed away? Even water erases our footprints in the sand; no matter how deep we bury them, it is only really a matter of time when our cracked defences give way. PPersue excellence, and success will come your way. Don't diversify; concentrate. Be good at what you are good at. Because in this world; people are good at what you aren't good at; that's the downside of everyone having their own talents.
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Flowers in Indelicate Silence.
A petal; in pastel.
Swathed in baby clothes of finest:
Creamy swaddling; green girdle
Divinity held sway; floating in the wind.
As a swallow leaves its nest;
So too, must a girdle loosen;
a calyx rot, a stem soften.
Cries go quiet, unheeded:
flowers in indelicate silence.
The levity of the situation:
not the gravity; the petal falls.
The ground rushed up, unforgiving;
That even in bitterness, death should bring
a gift; An epitaph; a marker, a final home.
Of the roots which shunned you.
how very heaven.
I recently felt the need to muse about this blog again.
Time and time again, I’d always felt that the title was too contrived, the kind of thing an adolescent self pens down when 11 year old you thinks you’ve got the world down at your feet. Yet, in the sophisticated tackiness that the title affords, it provides some interesting insights, and perhaps a bit of fuel for the light on the way.
Everything seems too short these days, with emotions compressed into this impossible space, where the ephemeral quality of the progression of time and space just seems to hit you in the face. We seem to rediscover lost selves, reinventing things we thought we outgrew. Yet at the same time, we have this wistful yearning to return to those which we outgrew, because of this understanding of how to be young was very heaven*
But at the same time, the scars that we wear inevitably stay as a badge of pride: we’ve been there, we’ve done that. Perhaps when we’ve really crossed the threshold known as youth, then perhaps we can reminisce. Then again, that youthful quality, is perhaps something that is distinct and divorced from any measure of age. Perhaps it resides in your soul, ready to be refreshed with dewdrop every once in a while.
Which is why, perhaps longyetshort will stay. With a youthful headiness, yet with this little glimmer of understanding that perhaps, we aren’t supposed to make sense of. Ah.
—
NB: I know we should all have a contextual eye towards those words, but I still think that the connotation of generalised youthful idealism still fits very much.
For the questions
…we might not have the answers.
I do need a dose of poetry to justify my life again. Perhaps it’s just the nature of the discourse, that there would hardly be a reward at the end, and yet the enterprise is justified in itself. Communication is the cornerstone of our humanity; what higher art form would there be to set words in elegance? With communication, the myriad and deep swirl of our emotions can be communicated, to a depth beyond mere abstractionism; moreso than numbers and figures.
Perhaps, one day my dream will be fulfilled. Until then, it’s my calling to go out: and chase it.
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
니가 그와 다투고
때론 그 땜에 울고
힘들어 할 때면 난 희망을 느끼고
아무도 모르게 맘 아-아-아프고
니작은 미소면 또 담담해지고
니가 혹시나 내 마음을 알게 될까봐
알아버리면 우리 멀어지게 될까봐
난 숨을 죽여
또 입술을 깨물어
제발 그를 떠나 내게 오길
Baby 제발 그의 손을 잡지마
Cuz you should be my Lady
오랜 시간 기다려온 날 돌아봐줘
노래가 울리면 이제 너는
그와 평생을 함께하죠
오늘이 오지 않기를
그렇게 나 매일 밤 기도했는데
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
내 맘을 몰라줬던
네가 너무 미워서
가끔은 네가 불행하길 난 바랬어
이미 내 눈물은 다 마 마 마르고
버릇처럼 혼자 너에게 말하고
매일 밤 그렇게 불안했던걸 보면 난
이렇게 될꺼란 건 알았는지도 몰라
난 눈을 감아
끝이 없는 꿈을 꿔
제발 그를 떠나 내게 오길
부디 그와 행복해
너를 잊을 수 있게
내 초라했던 모습들은 다 잊어줘
비록 한동안은
나 죽을 만큼 힘이 들겠지만
너무 오랜 시간을 착각 속에
홀로 바보처럼 살았죠
아직도 내 그녀는 날 보고
새 하얗게 웃고 있는데
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
네가 입은 웨딩드레스
Sitting down.
Jaunty tune playing over the radio. Rain streaming down the window. Coffee swirling, carving out shapes in the air. The arm chair slowly giving in and accommodating you. Age-eaten book patiently waiting to be flipped. The fragrance of morning dew spreading over yourself with a comeliness matched only by the cool-tinged air. Strains of violin scenting the air: Run your finger over the rain and curl out a heart; wish water was scarlet hued, to remind you: life is about vitality.
If only the urban jungle of HDB citadels could be like the poppy fields of the countryside what.
Tired of waxing lyrical.
Well, my latest results are plain for everyone to see, and to be very honest I don’t see how I can encapsulate my feelings into a poem anymore. I can see why people turn alcoholic, that euphoric feeling when you’ve drowned everything beneath the fermented yeast.
It’s really time for me to buck up, if I don’t want my grades to slide lower. I’ll buck up, and put everything I have into pulling my grades back up. I’m really sorry for the lack of updates, but if anything, the drive to capture glorious moments of the past on this blog is enough for me to tell myself, enough is enough. Get yourself back on your feet, dude.
At the touch;
“At the touch of LOVE,
everyone becomes a POET“
Through the window-glass;
Moonlight traces out
the scars of old
ergo; the mind wanders
into the distant twinkle
of yonder. What star;
what planet could comprehend
the magnitude of scourge;
or the platitude of ache.
In the terroir
of jeu blanc; mon amour.
Inevitably, the
Meursault butters my throat;
fly: to the endscapes
of beyond.
Indescribable, quillfeather-break;
Musings.
The holidays have been somewhat hilarious. Charles Dickens has been an almost cathartic experience, indeed there’s the part in Great Expectations where Pip monologues about his life experience, and the whole scene just struck me as something really hard to find these days: genuine. Of course, there’s an explicit irony in that statement that Pip is imagined, the paradox of an imagined truth. But lo and behold, pretty much that’s what happens. I’ve been wanting to write a poem recently, but it’s going everywhere such that I think I might have wanted to put it into a sort of prose-poetry like TS Elliot. But time is rusting the gears of my creativity. Condemned to roam this plateau of a block: writer’s block.
Catharsis:
As I round the bend
the old sentry takes watch
Under heedful eye
He salutes with black top-hat
Transparent face
and reed-thin body
I see the glass face; the mirror
a reflection of the condemnation
of my wandering
of this plateau;
The darkness of this:
mortal world.
Pitter; Patter
Putty: The rain
Butter: The raindrops
rusting into the hinges
of the pavement;
oiling the melancholy
of my soul.
My wrist
hums with a face of twelve
with hands of six;
The devil’s left handed.
It condemns my soul
to wander this world
to it’s marching tick.
Cry not for one
who weeps that
you were not consumed by agony
who mourns that
you were not plagued by disease.
