Like a script he lived his life. Looking for a moment, just a glimpse of the world he saw on screen, in rusty thin papers. By words he lived. And for words he died. And as for that moment he looks for? That glimpse? He found it. Every day of his life, he found it. But he never once, not once, saw it. No. Maybe he never found the horror or the thriller or action genres but romance and drama and comedy. He lived those. I suppose, when one lives the world, he doesn’t see it. When one lives his world, he only sees others. Maybe that’s where the phrase “Grass is always greener on the other side” comes from. You stare straight forward like you’ve always been told to, so your line of vision limits you from your own patch of land. You never really saw how green your own damn grass is. Look down sometime. Be humble enough to. Because by the time you’ve crossed that fence, and realise how luscious your side was, and try to climb back over, it’s dead.

But I apologise. Too much metaphors, and besides, this is about him. And his longing for the worlds he saw. The thing about real life is, it’s never scripted. Perhaps in your head but unless you’re talking and interacting only with yourself, you’re never going to be able to script anything concrete. And unlike the written, the said and the done, cannot be backspaced or scratched out or erased. Time doesn’t turn back like pages of a book. He learned that too late. But he learned. Or so says this chapter of the book. The next, like any good story should have and given that all life stories must be good simply because it has life, a character flaw or a twist in the plot may prove otherwise. He’ll always try to script his world. Paint it into a picture he’d sign his name on because that’s where hope is born. But what he’s learnt, is that with each brush stroke, each word typed or written, the reality form of its interpretation, will almost never, be the same and almost always, be the opposite.

I type and backspace, I draw and erase, I paint and redo. But I live and can only regret. I learnt. My world is scripted. But not by myself alone. But by others. All I hope, is that the write the way I do or at least, that I write well enough and smart enough and sensitive enough on the parts I control, to evoke a kind of writing in others, that will lead to a happy ending. And yes, in life, there always is an ending. Only sometimes, it isn’t at the last page. Sometimes, the book or the movie dies before the last page is flipped to or the credit rolls. Because sometimes, the story that mattered, ends too early and the rest, are just hollow words of a lonely author.

With that, and with hopes of understanding from fellow authors on the incoherence of my words today, this writer will take a little hiatus to get some shut eye. The pages will be filled again. The movie will resume. When these eyes flicker open, to see the world around him. End of chapter.

I rambled rambled rambled at 8:56 AM

It use to be I could write like an artist in seclusion. It use to be I could write like a poet in love. Now that I'm in, well, whatever the hell it is I'm in right now, can I still write? Well so far, I'd say no. I sound like every other fucking blogger out there. Not even like the ones that attempts to flourish their posts with pretentious, unbelievably fake vocabulary. Just the ones who emo-s about and essentially, the kind that I would completely and piously abhor. And to those who might wonder (whoever the hell reads my blog anyway), yes. I did and DO hate the shit I write these days.

Well here's a sum up (in better, proper writing I hope this time round) of my life these days. Ok... Let's simplify it as best I can huh? I'm totally disappointed with myself and my work right now, but I'm not unhappy about them. Cause you know, you can't be either happy or otherwise about anything, if you couldn't really care less about it. Besides, there's so many other things to be unhappy about. So many other things to care more about.

Then, at the end of everyday, and the start of every morning (or afternoon, depending on what time I wake up), you realise... All those other other things. Are the little things you've always noticed. The little things you never took for granted. The little things you miss. The ones you lost, because despite it all, you always thought the bigger things were more important. Even if you took those for granted, and you don't find yourself missing those that much, and you don't really notice it for long. But in your head and I'm gonna assume everyone's head here, the bigger things just seemed... more important. So here's a toast to all of us who thinks that way... "Fuck us all for being so god damn mother fucking stupid... but somehow, cause we didn't mean for it, we're not to blame."

I love our species for our ability to justify every wrong shit we do. "To the little things."

I rambled rambled rambled at 6:16 AM