I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—

confession (i)

I didn’t know that studying abroad would be a lonely experience. I am just into the experience so I am not sure how the entire experience will be; yet. And I notice people have more boundaries than me. There are a lot of cool White and Black people – people of Asiatic origins and such and I desire, hunger to talk to them. Talking and intimacy has always been an integral part of me. My being cannot resist it. It gravitates towards it as its gravitas.  People are just good at hiding or at bearing shyness. I cannot. I do not know silences that stretch due to stranger strangeness; due to anonymity. For me, I feel everyone is an adventure waiting to be explored; a university of individualism wishing to be learned and interacted with. Human to be humanly and humanely encountered and understood. But I know many people will seldom look at others this way. In a sea of bodies I am just well, just another body. Not even an attractive one. I am new. My freshness stinks like cleaning soap, disinfectant, like some form of ripeness that has ripened with the irresistible tug of the green. The men and women here are beautiful and presentable. They look healthy, fit, accustomed to walking. They have developed really clean and well attired aesthetics. I saw a woman from East Asia or East Asian origin with painted full lips – colour of poppies and blood crushed into the metaphor of richness and life. I envied here. I am plump. My skin breaks. I am not a beauty. My hair is the wires of a mess, cables of neural electricity refusing to find sockets or comfortable patterns. The climate here is colder. More foreign. My skin has broken with it. I am a noob. The gamer term encapsulates me and my personhood perfectly. I am a noob and it reeks off me like dying fish on some forgotten sands.  I have no sense of direction. Today, I was a bit in shock at looking at an official registration form that asked for my sexual orientation. It was a well definable space; a well defined definition to a sexuality. That hasn’t happened before. It was beautiful. But also a bit difficult to process. Then I giggled like a teen. I am in my 20’s. I am older than most people in my dorm or my class. But compared to them I am stupid. I am a social invalid. I am always at awe at how beautifully people do day to day things. I can’t do anything like that. Not yet anyway.

I was spoiled. Sheltered unreasonably. But where I am from many middle class or upper middle class people are like this; so are high class people. We don’t count money fast. We don’t know how to cook. We don’t know how to clean a bathroom. It just is. It just was. Imagine me. A sheltered weird creature among people who already know what they want from life. What they need in life. How to carve out their individuality. How to carve soul and identity into both paper and flesh. You may be disgusted by it. Rightfully so. I apologise for being so incapable. So immature. Yet, it was so fostered into me. So ingrained. I knew it was problematic but lacked the means to obliterate it. I do not know what sort of creature I am. I am not aware how to live. I am lesser than a baby. I am like Kyle XY without the brains. I am just me. A stupid. But I love the city. I love the openness. I love the liberalness. Love the scope of magnitude of chaos and harmony. Buildings here astound me. I am from such a backward land. I am not really even acquainted with online ordering. I have had so many privations. They are not so private or public. They just existed. I walk so much now. I love it. I wish I could share the walking with a beau. I wish I was beautiful enough both inwardly and outwardly; more strong enough, more efficient enough to be a proper human being. But I am not. And I am sad I was made into this half-formed thing. This failure. This tragedy. This inconsolable invalid.  I wish I could love more freely. Be decent enough to love.

I am like a carnival attraction. I am so carnivalesque. Maybe I look odd to others. Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool. The jester everyone encounters but is so scenic that no one would really pay attention to know. I feel so inadequate. In brains. Beauty. Aesthetics. Brains…I just feel kinda lost.

I don’t know if I am good. Or even decent. I just wish that the “me” I am can change, can evolve, can adapt and become better for myself. Also, for others. I just feel lost and the wideness of this urban wilderness both scares me and tantalises me. I wanna be found and rescued by myself. I wanna meet my spirit, my animal, my spirit-animal. I just want to be more than what I am now

Where does inspiration come from? – LEFT ON SHING WONG – YouTube

Sometimes you see talent. Real raw talent that is both incandescently inspiring and also very intelligent in both evoking feelings and intricately designed. Wong Fu productions is way out of the classic YouTube league — instead of regular parody sketches or comic relief (which I do enjoy by the way) their stories have wholesome comedies but also really good stories written and direction to a perfection only they can achieve as it emits their originality.

Wesley Chan of the Wong Fu team is one of my favourite writers. Though most of Wong Fu videos are in English some are in Cantonese and Mandarin.

The piece below is a beautiful serving of Magic Realism by Wesley Chan. A spirit that collects thoughts of people, as it realizes the human essence of “stream of consciousness”, suddenly gets spotted by a person collecting those beautiful pearls that is our mind fragments. She says to him that these are also the building blocks of inspiration and so she eagerly awaits their birth.

What brings you inspiration? Have you ever seen and been amazed by the valuable and various forms of raw talent?

Where does inspiration come from? – LEFT ON SHING WONG – YouTube.

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

If you haven’t known I have joined “writing 101” I  think I would also love to join blogging 101 too. But at the moment I am doing this. Getting inspired from nicholeq I decided to also write my entry on a memoir though obviously it is not really as heartwarming as hers.

I was pondering when I saw the question that maybe if there was a space to zoom into, maybe, an absolute zero in some outer space nebula I might choose that. I am strange as that. This may evoke an analysis, probably truly, that I am unsatisfied with the world. I am not really, at times I am, it’s just I feel that as time exists in fragments in space probably I could as light bends and time bends have a weird little intraconnected universe all to myself if I had done something of the sort.

Yet as I read the post twist I was wondering that presumably I won’t be able to describe such a place which is an inkling of mortality and a personally constructed, as in mental, nirvana.

Today’s twist: organize your post around the description of a setting.

So, I decided to vividly go back into a time when I was I think six or seven years old. I had taken a nap in a semi-dark room. The room was partly lit due to small square windows on top of the room. The larger window was curtained as not to interrupt a child’s nap. I was woken by my mother to eat. My eyes blurry I went into the dining room. The windows, large and unclosed, were sparkling with life. There outside Allah Almighty had ordained the sun to be warm and gold and it engulfed my little soul. The smell was warm. The food was inviting. The trees was bathed in warm and their green was on fire but not burning or hurt. They were the earthly angels and I was their companion. I think the feeling made me feel I reached a slice of paradise and made me love nature and the world so obviously I would love to go back to that blessed blaze and the clear blueness of sky and all that. The world felt a quiet yet alive and buzzing, paradoxical but true, haven and we were allowed to be part of it. No one was excluded. Even if we were all asymmetrical in sizes our symmetry completed and complimented life. My young soul was filled with that joy, unhampered, unperverse, of knowing love and life can so easily intermix and synchronize and be one, without artificiality, just organic and a wholeness that is a satiation to all laws implemented on the universe…Allah knows that is my space, my moment…my fossilized amber…a mirth in a moment that is both kaleidoscope and a harvest for my heart…

censorship boaerd


sometimes my heart feels broken
by the avoidance of the cracks of perfection
but by my constant tutoring and coerced adhesion
to a smoothness that is deemed, fit and proper…

shrouded and glared by an apotheosis of tears
rather than an apotheosis of blood, sweat and spirituality
— my teachings from religion squandered by the petty
fashions of a society neither democratic in a minority
nor major in its humanistic promises — the orthodox pulpit
has been now occupied by vulpine commerce, manufactured agnosticism,
manufactured gnosticism, and manufactured awareness and manufactured
subconsciousness concentrated by an artificial orbit by a mental probe
which preoccupies you in Jamais vu and Prosopagnosia or Fregoli delusion
as easily as one matches oil with a match flicker; immolation and Sati by a consumer
demon that plagues the moors and rain forests of a dialogic individual.

the virtues of a society and its ethical bond make Shylock shirk
for even a fleshy pound cannot secure the torments of an eviscerated persona;
there were promises that abnegation is the liberty of self — no it was not religion or
spirit who taught me this  faux-cursive — it was social hegemonic anxiety in its dress of
piety that told me so. If you are away from the herd you are the wolf or the boy
who cries wolf — no one chastises the boy’s boredom or loneliness; though fibbing
is wrong is not ennui wronger? I am just an economic index, a social index, a census —
my body and mind and sex censored and clipped by a stool pigeon on some GDP rat race
to God knows where? I knew that life, here and hereafter, has to be full and green and ripe
—- but, what is this “ripeness”? When I am told to go after Frederic Jameson’s Postmodernism than communicate, pray and/or study am I not as vacant as the policy of freedom that tortures Free Speech and decorum without, as a person clearly stated,  an agency of my own, a privacy, propriety, property, proficiency and practices that are my own?

each ideology popular in this era feels dry as the carcass of consumerism — I saw that I was afraid to tell who I was ,for a Muslim is to exploited and hurt like muslin; kept only as an objectification but not any skill or talented principles of Soul and Thought and Life. It is hard to be coloured too when Whiteness and Fairness is the metaphor of absolute salvation, absolving, solutions, clarity and ablution; even if White is beautiful as the clouds the clouds
that are rainy are a bit coloured thus can we only say one is good and the other bad? Can a Manachaeistic or Cartesian lifestyle really only elaborate all that this world keeps in its belly and breath?  Binary matter only matters when it can be cyclically contextualized and understood deeply as not only oppositional  and complementary but rather in some cases two roads leading to the same river or tree for we incorporate a “Yggdrasil” as a metaphor for a branched leveling and connotative deduction of a world both suspended in space but also engaged with it.

the world being flat may have just been layman tongue for a ground waiting for plants to grow and seeds to be sown and plucked and discovered. In a world subtracting metaphysics and multiplying the material the greenhouse is flat is layman tongue.

I have said many things. I have done  a cathartic crying or weeping if you may say to avoid alliteration fallacy or fondness. I am a scribe to myself as each person is to themselves — so even if history erased the journals-memoirs the psycho-emotional historiography will eliminate its own manufactured extinction. ▬

mocking bird


—– sings sweetly, tries to be heard even though they say  that you are not worth even the court’s time because your veracity cannot be ascertained —–  what! Why! What do you mean!? I am telling the truth! I am not at all lying about this! Trust me, please….what is the worth of your trust…. why am I even asking this question. … This feels wrong… very wrong…. why am I —- you are not famous nor an esteemed member of society… you got no talent —- how do you know—- you received no critic acclaim, nobody knows you… you are a third world by yourself… you are meant to be used like a laughing automaton and yes you were born to be exploited and broken. … you were raised to be killed like a genetic freak of nature…. you have no heritage you are but a simple pebble in the gold sands of gloss and jewels —– oh, well you are wrong;  you are the slaves and we are the masters even our bodies dead and minds torture our blood will paint your body’s canvas—- we are the dam, the fortress and the dress of bravery and love, we need no bit coin heritage nor a plastic spine to move us about we are the true emperors of this world for we live in flesh and blood and soul epiphanies and our music is not a gaudy nude but a gauzy vapor that rings out in the heavens! While you name your world divisions we have embraced to form the arc that cradles the vast intelligences and endeavors that we may receive from our God…. When the hill of monetary cataclysm gets destroyed our mountain will rise for we will be raised to the peak of all zenith… we will rise._—–