A Reason to Wear Trousers in the Morning

Now that I’ve got your attention, fear not. I’m not going to be walking around tomorrow trouser-less, nor am I trying to convince some pantless acquaintance to change their nude ways. I’m just talking about a particular moment that occurs to me on an almost daily basis. I often pause while doing very mundane things, and I reflect on my life. One of those moments is after I wake up, and finish my everyday morning rituals. Coffee, drunk, face, washed. No more procrastination left to do, and I am left facing the overwhelming inevitableness of work or university.

It only really dawns down on me when I’m sat at the edge of the bed, staring at my jeans below me. Do I really have to do this? Why am I going to wear these? I know that my co-workers and friends appreciate it, even though they’ve never told me that. It’s just one of those favours you do that you expect nothing in return. Do it and throw it into the sea, my grandmother would say. Don’t get me wrong here, I like working. I hate university, but I like to think I’m mature enough to know it’s necessity. And there’s nothing I like more than hanging around with my friends, each in their own respective pants, even if we’re doing nothing of consequence.

I still wish I had a stronger reason, a particular person who would make this everyday morning chore a little less troublesome. You could argue that for most cases, that person I’m looking for is out there, trotting around in their trousers and I’m not going to find him if I stay pantless and in my bed. I’m just worried that one day I’ll just give up and decide it’s just not worth the effort. Just count yourself lucky if you’ve found that person.

On the Art of Writing and Living (or lack there-of)

I often read the things I’ve written and wonder how they came about. All I remember is that I slip into a trance, stop thinking and just let the words flow out. Sometimes the words simply refuse to come out. More often that not though, they do, and some of the times, when I’m happy of the outcome, they don’t get destroyed or hidden, and some people get to see them. Some of the times, they tell me they’re good, and only a few people criticize them. Those are the people I love the most.

But recently, I haven’t been able to write as much, simply because all I want to do is bitch about some things. For those of you who know me, I complain a lot, and as some sort of a reaction, I began feeling very self-aware when I complain, and I try not to do it so often. This self-awareness stops me from slipping into my writing trance, which in all honestly, if not in the most articulate wording, sucks.  I’ve promised myself in the past few months that I will refuse to, over and over, to censor myself, yet I keep doing it. I think I’ve reached the tipping point. I will rant with all the bitch-juice God gave me, and if you care enough read it, and if you don’t, then you are no friend of mine. Just kidding, we’re still friends, but I just don’t like you that much any more.

First of all, I’m confused. I don’t know where I’m going in life, but I really want to get to there fast, because I already packed all of my crap, and I’m sick and tired of waiting. I’m confused because I don’t know who I am any more from the masks I keep wearing. I’m utterly and profoundly confused because I don’t know where I stand in the eyes of all the people I know (welcoming any self-affirming comments below.) I’m confused because people keep telling me that being in university is the best time of my life, yet I feel like a monkey’s poo-poo hole.

I’m confused, and I’m not ashamed to say it. I don’t no where I’m going right now, but I seek glory eventually. I need to be precise. I seek glory, void of vanity and evil. I don’t care if people don’t remember my name after I die, and I don’t even care if they do know my name before I die, but I want them all to know, nay, feel the impact of a guy who stood for something, and it was good. I want bards to sing about “That One Guy who did Great Things but was Cool About it.” I don’t want to “gently go into the night”, I want to go out with (metaphorical) pyrotechnics and fake explosions.

Yet there are many good things I stand for, and no stable ground for me on which to stand, so that will have to wait. I wouldn’t mind a healthy dose of focus any time soon.

That’s all I have to rant about now. I feel much better. =D

The New Old Lie: Tolerance

I’m a person who stands between two worlds, the old world from which I come from, and the new world in which I grew up. In the old world, personal views don’t exist. If you don’t conform to the ideals, morals, views, and opinions of theirs, then you’re a demonic being, because in their pristine existence, alternate point of views don’t exist.  In the new world however, they’ll admit you get your own opinions, they’ll still judge you for them, but at least they’ll admit that you get to have them. The difference between those two worlds is tolerance.  They’ll call my old world “intolerant”, and their new world “tolerant”.

I personally think tolerance is evil. Sure, tolerance is a lot better for people like me with alternative point of views on the nature of life. I’ve always felt more comfortable in the new world than in the old. But the problem still exists, people still think they are absolutely right. Which pisses me off even more, because if you believe someone is wrong, and you “tolerate” it, then you’re as wrong as he is. Tolerance just gave the self-righteous a haven, a safer high ground if you may, for them on which to stand and preach like they always do.

Don’t tolerate my opinions, and even worse, don’t tolerate my right to have such opinions, instead embrace my right, and go ahead, tell me I’m wrong. Just understand that no matter how different we are, we are both equal as humans, and don’t let my opinions dehumanise me, because that’s the first step towards your tyranny against me. If you still can’t do that though, keep the tolerance though, it’s a lesser evil.

Note: This is still in first draft, I ran out of rant-juice midway, but I think there is still more to say.

Happiness and Loneliness

I’m happy when I’m alone. I’m happy because I’m alone. I’m happy despite being alone. Loneliness brings me happiness. I’m happy even when I’m alone. All these sentences makes sense to me in some way or another. Perhaps I have a little bit of lingering disbelief at the fact, but it’s true. I no longer feel the need to surround myself with people in order to enjoy my happiness, despite what TV keeps telling me.

It’s not my own disbelief either. I love the expression on the faces of the waiters after they ask me how many seats I need, and I say, “just one please.”  I love going out alone. Even my sister doesn’t accept the fact that I am going alone somewhere. I don’t choose to be alone, but more often than not, it’s just easier to be alone. I feel sometimes that I need to take a course in event coordination in order to have a simple outing with a group of people.

I just think it’s nice to be able to be comfortable enough to sit with yourself, and I really feel bad for people who can’t do that. But still, these precious few moments when you feel happy and alone go away, and then you remember your friends. I’m a person who greatly values his friends, and very often do I feel sad if I can’t see them for some reason or another. I always carry that bit of sadness and yearning in my heart, but I still feel happy when I’m alone.


Writing is merely friction, is it not? A pen pushing against a paper, leaving a trail of ink, thoughts, dreams, ideas, and facts behind. Yet, I’m still not used to this kind of friction, the one caused by these words as they leave my brain to my hands. Words used to flow through me before I… before I… before. Now, I have to force them out, like the last few drops of toothpaste in the tube, before you throw it out.

I have no regrets. I have no fear. I have nothing more to say. I’ve had no regrets. I’ve had no fear. Before I’ve… before I’ve… you’ve broke me, left me in shambles. I hate you. I really hate you. O’ Hermes, the words flow again. I wrote before of great desire. I wrote of the beauty and the beast. I wrote of the night queen in the forest. I wrote of the tiger in the jungle. I wrote of love, lost and found, true and fake, eternal and temporal. I wrote of all that before I… before I myself was burned by the great blaze of love.

Oh how I hate you. I hate love. Now I can only write of hate, though I’ve vowed never to. Still, I want to thank you. I’ve never wrote of hate, with any conviction. I’ve never put any thought into it. I’ve never really explored that one emotion I’ve viewed as useless. Hate was never worth the effort for me. Now, I love to hate. Who said one cannot find beauty in hate?

Hate is the strongest emotion I’ve felt. I’ve always thought it was love, but when I’ve really loved, I discovered that love is only the strongest form of hate. Hate is driven by all of man’s desires. There’s no greater feeling of satisfaction than seeing those you’ve once loved get hurt. A concept so cruel, that only the Germans could find a word for it. Schadenfreude. The word itself brings great joy to my heart. I’ve become both beauty and beast.

I have died. I’ve had great love for you, and when all this love turned to hate, it was too much hate for one man to handle. I’ve died and become your Frankenstein. O’ Hermes, the words flow again. I may never love you again and I may never be the person I once was. But as long as the words flow, I know I’ll love again.