> crushed breadcrumbs
an obscure sunday noon awaited me as i leapedup from another round of dreams, so clear and yet so featherfaint; it hangs from the tip of my tongue and the corner of my mind ... the images taunting me so, moving in and out of focus and i've forgotten it so ... dammit ... and hence set the stage for yet another sunday in this life of mine ...
realized not a lot of blogs are written on the weekends (yes i've mentioned that before) and that puts me in a spot of bother, since i've nothing much to read from anyone, innit? (and yes, i i know they are not meant to please nor entertain just me, duh) and as much as i myself try to conjureup something remotely "writable" and hence "readable", i'd inevitably endup falling flat on me face with nary any hint of grace, innit? (much like where this entry is going rapidly, can you say: "i see the concrete floor rushing up against me"?) and i'd endup multi-clicking multiple blogs to see familair old pages where i'd read the night before ... and sure, there as quite a few exceptions, but hardly any comments, which ironically (for me anyways) has become part and parcel of a "blog entry" already ... a "complete package" ... for a blog is not a complete blog anymore; without it's various regular-blog-commentators. and they are always there, like a buncha friends hanging around a kopi table, bantering and trading jokes/insults/having fun. regular faces to a blog ... something that one has to reconcile with, at this day and age and grudgingly accept and understand ... tis not just a person you'd be chatting with in a singular blog, tis his/her friends as well ... heh ;p
... i recognized i am but a kopitiam table just beside them, and all i do is listen ... oh sure i might try to edge in a word or two, but that is the past, for "intrusion" is not taken lightly, i reckon ... tis a good thingunfortuantely really and i blame no one rightly so, tis my "delivery", i surmise and i get back to my cold kopi and sip from it's crackedporcelaincup ... and come off sounding like a sore-loser, innit? ... once bitten forevah shy hahaha ... i says it as it is and there's no way else of saying it, i insist ... and peeps choose to understand the way they want to anyways, so i dun bother as much as i should becoz after so many years walking this miserable land, i care not as much what other people think or say anymore, and hence i liketa digress so ... muahahahaha
and that it's a sunday and peeps can do and say anything they like on a sunday, wot? :)
hey! i remembered my dream! (sort of...)
i was back in school, which also happened to be my work place! maybe reading much into blinkymummy's entry on workspaces (which i will rip off laterz ... tho tis something i'd planned for a while, but who gives a shitte what i think anyways, right? BAH) ... anyways, in my dream, i was explaining to someone ( a reporter maybe? or a new collegue?) where i sat everyday, and which table my drawings were kept seperately instead and one that was my standby table yaddayaddayadda ... i have things all over the place hahahaha ... and im back in my what seemed to be my classroom back in ye days of vocational institute in queenstown, at the same time, looking deceptionally like my initial days in the interior design company down shenton way ... and i remember holding a white folder (with gold embossed letters out front), the inside filled with ink sketches ...
... this one thing which always sorta is the same for alot of my dreams; i always have a book of sketches, or in a folder, a portfolio, pinnedup on the wall etc ... and i'd flip thru the pages in my dreams, knowing they are mine and having the feeling of pride whilst i flip thru them ; is immeasurable ... but when i awake, the feeling is no more; with a twitch of an eye and replaced by a melancholy sadness (which happens way too often nowsadays) so exquiste, i can taste the bitterness in my mouth ... the dreamfeeling of pride and joy; faded but not forgotten ... but also the realization that; the drawings are not done by me (not in the real-world-physical sense anyways) and i reckon tis my subconscious desire; to be able to create and draw like that ... and mayhap the reason why i digup and pour thru sketches and drawings of my past? to see and recognize if any of them had actually existed and/or that i've only just forgotten they had existed? ... one thing i do consistantly is: i try to keep as much, if not all; of my sketches ... however large or small, plain or elaborate ... i try ... but recently, the burst of freedom and desire to create, which resulted in loads of pencilled-sketches had came and went away, with yet another twitch of an eye, a snap of a phantomfinger ... and suddenly; i sketch no more since ... and i am actually quite saddened so ...
i guess tis this constant current hurdle, this invisible barrier that stops me somehow from bursting free, from breathing, from evolving, from breaking thru ... and i end up whining about it online, again and again ... breathless in real life, a constricted chest; heart-heavy from a weight i cannot see ... feets encased in a cement-block underneath my entire room at home ...
and the more i think (as of late), that maybe all i need to do; is get away from computers all together! to realize myself of this invisible featherheavychain that binds me to the online-realms, so much so; first thing i do when i awake is to go log-online and that is getting to be a muthafcuking problem, innit? ... hence this weirdout sunday, for having jumpedup from a dream, i halfdreamwalked to my Mac and started it up ... how fcukedup is that?
and writing in inconsequentialialities ... mayhap meaningless to you, tho it might mean something to me? the fragments of a person's words, might just be a trail of breadcrumbs to the person's mind ...
time now is 1pm: time for a late brunch :) ... breadcrumbs, anyone?
realized not a lot of blogs are written on the weekends (yes i've mentioned that before) and that puts me in a spot of bother, since i've nothing much to read from anyone, innit? (and yes, i i know they are not meant to please nor entertain just me, duh) and as much as i myself try to conjureup something remotely "writable" and hence "readable", i'd inevitably endup falling flat on me face with nary any hint of grace, innit? (much like where this entry is going rapidly, can you say: "i see the concrete floor rushing up against me"?) and i'd endup multi-clicking multiple blogs to see familair old pages where i'd read the night before ... and sure, there as quite a few exceptions, but hardly any comments, which ironically (for me anyways) has become part and parcel of a "blog entry" already ... a "complete package" ... for a blog is not a complete blog anymore; without it's various regular-blog-commentators. and they are always there, like a buncha friends hanging around a kopi table, bantering and trading jokes/insults/having fun. regular faces to a blog ... something that one has to reconcile with, at this day and age and grudgingly accept and understand ... tis not just a person you'd be chatting with in a singular blog, tis his/her friends as well ... heh ;p
... i recognized i am but a kopitiam table just beside them, and all i do is listen ... oh sure i might try to edge in a word or two, but that is the past, for "intrusion" is not taken lightly, i reckon ... tis a good thing
and that it's a sunday and peeps can do and say anything they like on a sunday, wot? :)
hey! i remembered my dream! (sort of...)
i was back in school, which also happened to be my work place! maybe reading much into blinkymummy's entry on workspaces (which i will rip off laterz ... tho tis something i'd planned for a while, but who gives a shitte what i think anyways, right? BAH) ... anyways, in my dream, i was explaining to someone ( a reporter maybe? or a new collegue?) where i sat everyday, and which table my drawings were kept seperately instead and one that was my standby table yaddayaddayadda ... i have things all over the place hahahaha ... and im back in my what seemed to be my classroom back in ye days of vocational institute in queenstown, at the same time, looking deceptionally like my initial days in the interior design company down shenton way ... and i remember holding a white folder (with gold embossed letters out front), the inside filled with ink sketches ...
... this one thing which always sorta is the same for alot of my dreams; i always have a book of sketches, or in a folder, a portfolio, pinnedup on the wall etc ... and i'd flip thru the pages in my dreams, knowing they are mine and having the feeling of pride whilst i flip thru them ; is immeasurable ... but when i awake, the feeling is no more; with a twitch of an eye and replaced by a melancholy sadness (which happens way too often nowsadays) so exquiste, i can taste the bitterness in my mouth ... the dreamfeeling of pride and joy; faded but not forgotten ... but also the realization that; the drawings are not done by me (not in the real-world-physical sense anyways) and i reckon tis my subconscious desire; to be able to create and draw like that ... and mayhap the reason why i digup and pour thru sketches and drawings of my past? to see and recognize if any of them had actually existed and/or that i've only just forgotten they had existed? ... one thing i do consistantly is: i try to keep as much, if not all; of my sketches ... however large or small, plain or elaborate ... i try ... but recently, the burst of freedom and desire to create, which resulted in loads of pencilled-sketches had came and went away, with yet another twitch of an eye, a snap of a phantomfinger ... and suddenly; i sketch no more since ... and i am actually quite saddened so ...
i guess tis this constant current hurdle, this invisible barrier that stops me somehow from bursting free, from breathing, from evolving, from breaking thru ... and i end up whining about it online, again and again ... breathless in real life, a constricted chest; heart-heavy from a weight i cannot see ... feets encased in a cement-block underneath my entire room at home ...
and the more i think (as of late), that maybe all i need to do; is get away from computers all together! to realize myself of this invisible featherheavychain that binds me to the online-realms, so much so; first thing i do when i awake is to go log-online and that is getting to be a muthafcuking problem, innit? ... hence this weirdout sunday, for having jumpedup from a dream, i halfdreamwalked to my Mac and started it up ... how fcukedup is that?
and writing in inconsequentialialities ... mayhap meaningless to you, tho it might mean something to me? the fragments of a person's words, might just be a trail of breadcrumbs to the person's mind ...
time now is 1pm: time for a late brunch :) ... breadcrumbs, anyone?
