Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show...
but wonder on, till truth make all things plain!
thus have I, wall, my part discharged so
and beign done, thus Wall away doth go.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
I am the movie
god.
i miss st pats like hell..
i miss the music.
i miss the friends.
i miss the feeling of being home.
the sublime of late late nights.
i miss the chill down my spine as i learn about life.
i miss the way everything was so fresh.
i miss the potential i felt.
i miss those months on end, of pure magic, current and life.
i miss my life,
i miss what i left behind.
i miss feeling myself grow as a young man.
its the something corporate and jealous sound. the first time i strummed a chord on my guitar. its the flow of creativity on scraps of paper under random blocks in pasir ris at 11 at night. its the taste of speeding on my skates without a second thought or care. its the st pat's heritage room. where i fell in love, where i thought i knew what i wanted, where i opened my eyes to a magical new world of stars and prayers. its re-discovering my childhood in pasir ris park, the beach the sand and the coconut breezers. its the air conditioner and the pool hall, and the smile on our face when we said to ourselves, "this is gonna last". its beyond myself. within my reach. its those early morning prefect assemblies gazing at the still lingering moon. its those people i met, that life i gave and the life i saw.
its the life i still strive for. but grow further and further away from.
its amazing how going through my friendster pictures can evoke so much.
its amazing how true i was, when i said adolscence is the best time of anyone's life. especially now, as im slipping further and further away from it.
sigh. and i also missed the ways my 'sigh' would be interpreted.
i miss st pats like hell..
i miss the music.
i miss the friends.
i miss the feeling of being home.
the sublime of late late nights.
i miss the chill down my spine as i learn about life.
i miss the way everything was so fresh.
i miss the potential i felt.
i miss those months on end, of pure magic, current and life.
i miss my life,
i miss what i left behind.
i miss feeling myself grow as a young man.
its the something corporate and jealous sound. the first time i strummed a chord on my guitar. its the flow of creativity on scraps of paper under random blocks in pasir ris at 11 at night. its the taste of speeding on my skates without a second thought or care. its the st pat's heritage room. where i fell in love, where i thought i knew what i wanted, where i opened my eyes to a magical new world of stars and prayers. its re-discovering my childhood in pasir ris park, the beach the sand and the coconut breezers. its the air conditioner and the pool hall, and the smile on our face when we said to ourselves, "this is gonna last". its beyond myself. within my reach. its those early morning prefect assemblies gazing at the still lingering moon. its those people i met, that life i gave and the life i saw.
its the life i still strive for. but grow further and further away from.
its amazing how going through my friendster pictures can evoke so much.
its amazing how true i was, when i said adolscence is the best time of anyone's life. especially now, as im slipping further and further away from it.
sigh. and i also missed the ways my 'sigh' would be interpreted.
sigh.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
the fate of thomas paine
Jeff buckley's hallelujah is a lovely song..
but for my list of recommended songs to play on a rainy sunday such as this, i give you..
"come on" ben jelen
"so impossible" dashboard confessional
"why georgia" John Mayer
----
sometimes i hate conversing.
its just so tiresome, if you know what i mean.
and it really depends on who your talking to at the same time.
everyone has their own annoying habits. their own individual innovative way of pissing rishik off.
like plugging in their own opinion into any random conversation they strike. regardless of its relevance.. i mean to be opnionated is one thing. but to be single minded...
like people who talk like they have known you all their freaking life... sometimes its really not the intention thats wrong. but the extreme annoying way it comes across.
like people who talk to you just to pass the freaking time. "so... hows.. CJ..." "...Im in TJ, (asshole)"
like people who say the same story again, and again..
like people who are condescending.
like people who are patronising.
like people who are hypocrital, ignorant, prejudiced, close-minded.
like people who dont know what they are talking about.
like people with bad logic. and who dont care.
like people who dont know taste.
like people who cant take jokes.
like people who sulk, when they realise how wrong they are.
---
i always appreciated the power of silence.
---
time for more sneaks. from the one and only...
"Day dreams and noir nights" by rishik
when i walk I become exposed. I become alone and scared and scrutinised, in three mutually exclusive manners. when i walk i feel the cold of the after shower wind grip my hands and cloak my back. there is no escape from this wind. and if there was, i wouldnt ever have know it. i was always too busy courting it in the first place. and loving every moment when the breeze comes and washes away my thoughts.
i truly think, that i only think properly when i go for my lone walks. its just impossible though trying to explain to you what its like. its all in that one moment, stretching from each silent step to silent step. so i say, what its like. its like flying. its like racing. its like the ultimate sublation of consciousness. its the dark red sky singing its praises to whistling moon. it went from jazz chords to elvis, but the horn was constant in the horizon. constant.. but in flux. as it morphed from musical to utility vis-à-vis the lighthouse at the harbour. so electric, the lightning and currents in the wave were indistinguishable and only the constant blow of the horn kept my pace and rhythm as i walked, the long walk. the hurricane of my mind was endless. constantly on the verge. on the brink. the flight of darkened souls and dried up leaves (where poetry found home), were the symptons. but i was never allowed the full blast of the alpha. cause once i was allowed to, i knew it would have to end, sooner than later.
.
but for my list of recommended songs to play on a rainy sunday such as this, i give you..
"come on" ben jelen
"so impossible" dashboard confessional
"why georgia" John Mayer
----
sometimes i hate conversing.
its just so tiresome, if you know what i mean.
and it really depends on who your talking to at the same time.
everyone has their own annoying habits. their own individual innovative way of pissing rishik off.
like plugging in their own opinion into any random conversation they strike. regardless of its relevance.. i mean to be opnionated is one thing. but to be single minded...
like people who talk like they have known you all their freaking life... sometimes its really not the intention thats wrong. but the extreme annoying way it comes across.
like people who talk to you just to pass the freaking time. "so... hows.. CJ..." "...Im in TJ, (asshole)"
like people who say the same story again, and again..
like people who are condescending.
like people who are patronising.
like people who are hypocrital, ignorant, prejudiced, close-minded.
like people who dont know what they are talking about.
like people with bad logic. and who dont care.
like people who dont know taste.
like people who cant take jokes.
like people who sulk, when they realise how wrong they are.
---
i always appreciated the power of silence.
---
time for more sneaks. from the one and only...
"Day dreams and noir nights" by rishik
when i walk I become exposed. I become alone and scared and scrutinised, in three mutually exclusive manners. when i walk i feel the cold of the after shower wind grip my hands and cloak my back. there is no escape from this wind. and if there was, i wouldnt ever have know it. i was always too busy courting it in the first place. and loving every moment when the breeze comes and washes away my thoughts.
i truly think, that i only think properly when i go for my lone walks. its just impossible though trying to explain to you what its like. its all in that one moment, stretching from each silent step to silent step. so i say, what its like. its like flying. its like racing. its like the ultimate sublation of consciousness. its the dark red sky singing its praises to whistling moon. it went from jazz chords to elvis, but the horn was constant in the horizon. constant.. but in flux. as it morphed from musical to utility vis-à-vis the lighthouse at the harbour. so electric, the lightning and currents in the wave were indistinguishable and only the constant blow of the horn kept my pace and rhythm as i walked, the long walk. the hurricane of my mind was endless. constantly on the verge. on the brink. the flight of darkened souls and dried up leaves (where poetry found home), were the symptons. but i was never allowed the full blast of the alpha. cause once i was allowed to, i knew it would have to end, sooner than later.
.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
this lack-life this kill-courtesy
wow. how do i begin this post. so many different sides of me screaming so many emotions, i swear, i am lost and know not what to say.
so ill start with the most significant emotion. i must say ive been pissed countless times. ive dealt with ppl being pissed at me. ive been annoyed, sad, frustrated stressed. ive been scared, lonely, calm, distanced. yet, in my 17 years to date, i doubt i have ever, EVER felt as hated as i do right now.
its suffocating. but not the same way, when ive felt stressed and overworked.
its hurtful. but not the same way when im sad or depressed.
its belittling. but not like when ive been embarrassed or taken an ego-bruising.
its beyond all that. its just. utter. dry. fire.
and i dont cry. cause its sad and pathetic.
but i wonder if i should. would it make their hate go away?
at the same time, i know its not gonna help anything.
at this stage. no.
i wanna get pissed and yell at someone.
but i dont.
not cause anyone doesnt deserve to get yelled at.
hell no.
but its cause ive held it in far too long. and at this stage. its not worth it. no.
i feel surging with regret.
for decisions made months, weeks and years ago.
but i dont share it with anyone.
cause in this context, all im gonna get is more.. hate.
fuck la. i cant stand this. this "you know who you are" bull shit. cause i dont fucking know. these off the cuff questions that reveal so much more than intentions would belie. this.. this lack-life. this kill-courtesy. its made me dead. its reached a point, where my conscience and intelligence have reached the verdict that to hate myself is the best way out now. just to shut everyone else up. and now im dead. Dead.
so here it is. the declaration. fuck you rishik. you fucking suck. you dont deserve fucking shit. so fuck you.
gosh. im really new at this. or maybe im just new to realizing it. either way, it doesnt make much of a difference.
.
so ill start with the most significant emotion. i must say ive been pissed countless times. ive dealt with ppl being pissed at me. ive been annoyed, sad, frustrated stressed. ive been scared, lonely, calm, distanced. yet, in my 17 years to date, i doubt i have ever, EVER felt as hated as i do right now.
its suffocating. but not the same way, when ive felt stressed and overworked.
its hurtful. but not the same way when im sad or depressed.
its belittling. but not like when ive been embarrassed or taken an ego-bruising.
its beyond all that. its just. utter. dry. fire.
and i dont cry. cause its sad and pathetic.
but i wonder if i should. would it make their hate go away?
at the same time, i know its not gonna help anything.
at this stage. no.
i wanna get pissed and yell at someone.
but i dont.
not cause anyone doesnt deserve to get yelled at.
hell no.
but its cause ive held it in far too long. and at this stage. its not worth it. no.
i feel surging with regret.
for decisions made months, weeks and years ago.
but i dont share it with anyone.
cause in this context, all im gonna get is more.. hate.
fuck la. i cant stand this. this "you know who you are" bull shit. cause i dont fucking know. these off the cuff questions that reveal so much more than intentions would belie. this.. this lack-life. this kill-courtesy. its made me dead. its reached a point, where my conscience and intelligence have reached the verdict that to hate myself is the best way out now. just to shut everyone else up. and now im dead. Dead.
so here it is. the declaration. fuck you rishik. you fucking suck. you dont deserve fucking shit. so fuck you.
gosh. im really new at this. or maybe im just new to realizing it. either way, it doesnt make much of a difference.
.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
hope fades in ink
seeing stars in my mugs
by Rishik V. Menon
soldiers we were
conscripted around
our own round tables.
not knights. for it wasnt crusades
in which we engaged in.
twas nothing noble
bout our battles.
combating elements of
sleep and dreams
into arcadia to flee
from our trechery.
the agent wasnt orange
but deep roasted brown,
though the outcome was identical.
a legacy of pyschological
damage unshakable by
attempts to replant life.
but that greeness of life
was a misnomer. for our rifles fired
only at the sight of the green
of the eye's of the enemy:
reflections of the emblem
of the siren on our coats.
you cannot blame us though
for this compromise.
how could we settle for martyrdom
and lose the dreams we were soon to poison.
So we were taught anyway.
Intricate ironies, that seemed so subtle
inititally, we hardly noticed how we
ran our own graves. but that wasnt how it began.
it started with a tango of promises.
oh how, they helped us
discover the art
of challenging awkward expression
in confines of long drawn
caffeinated sketchpads
where the scribbles and hours
matured in sync, in beat
(near harmony) to the
off angled rhythm of
the loop-tracked sonata.
with the sharperner thrown into the package
we signed on, without question of the fine print
and allowed the onslaught to occur.
we were soldiers we were,
and how ignorant soldiers be.
releasing those butterflies in rio
to send those storms into our
singaporean cups.
victims of circumstance
victors of certification
and soldiers, from the start till the end.
by Rishik V. Menon
soldiers we were
conscripted around
our own round tables.
not knights. for it wasnt crusades
in which we engaged in.
twas nothing noble
bout our battles.
combating elements of
sleep and dreams
into arcadia to flee
from our trechery.
the agent wasnt orange
but deep roasted brown,
though the outcome was identical.
a legacy of pyschological
damage unshakable by
attempts to replant life.
but that greeness of life
was a misnomer. for our rifles fired
only at the sight of the green
of the eye's of the enemy:
reflections of the emblem
of the siren on our coats.
you cannot blame us though
for this compromise.
how could we settle for martyrdom
and lose the dreams we were soon to poison.
So we were taught anyway.
Intricate ironies, that seemed so subtle
inititally, we hardly noticed how we
ran our own graves. but that wasnt how it began.
it started with a tango of promises.
oh how, they helped us
discover the art
of challenging awkward expression
in confines of long drawn
caffeinated sketchpads
where the scribbles and hours
matured in sync, in beat
(near harmony) to the
off angled rhythm of
the loop-tracked sonata.
with the sharperner thrown into the package
we signed on, without question of the fine print
and allowed the onslaught to occur.
we were soldiers we were,
and how ignorant soldiers be.
releasing those butterflies in rio
to send those storms into our
singaporean cups.
victims of circumstance
victors of certification
and soldiers, from the start till the end.
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