Thoughtful Brain, Troubled Mind

Tag: Humanity

In dreams, in memory

I dreamt of war quick and fast
Of sanguine faces
And whirlwinds of dust

I pray to thee
Imploring whence does humanity
Gain its infinite glee

To a sickening dismay
As with all other prayers
On that bed I lay

Without an answer I slept
Ruminating in the limpid air
There in the far distance a lady wept

To whose horror! To whose gain!
Are flesh and blood harbingers of pain?

Mayday

This emotion will be unintelligibly, improperly and unjustifiably transcribed. Oh why do I even try! I can no longer figure my way through words; I am undeniably handicapped. These are growing dissatisfactions of which there are no ailments, no solutions! It is a biological disorder; a tumour growing and hurting the insides of my gut, my lungs, my valves, my skull and possibly culminating in the glorious penetration out of my skin—screaming in absolute liberty! Oh why do the bones want more? Is skin not enough?

They ate the cake while I kept the candle


Humble Abode I
If grandfather was here, everything will be different. Perhaps, more make-believe and a greater satisfaction for food. If cancer was kind to my uncle, everything will be different. Perhaps, less situations to worry about and a greater satisfaction for food. There were conversations needed to be censored, of fury that needed immediate quelling. There was happiness to be found, of joy buried.

Humble Abode II
Dover Road. A homespun aroma of fresh wood and glazed floors. Of displaced books all around. Each apportioned a dying moment of joy, a phase of torture, all to an eternal growth. Curtains that cue privacy, a quasi-hermitage of sorts: for times that impel an imperative stroke of paint on canvas, mixing dark colours with bright ones, reflecting the deliberate mess of what we witness, of what we so unwillingly want. People of the arts! How detestable! Be real! Why can’t they be normal? In the house, there was a visual arts student, a student adept in design, a history graduate soon-to-be, but all men in the army. I was observing more than I should. What manners! Everyone glistened with impure talent. He talked about admiration for Kerry Hill, how his masterpieces made us—both pundits and greenhorns—sway in reverential wonder. It was above all, a climate best for detachments. I will set foot there again, with certainty.

Humble Abode III
Imbibe! We drank Pu Er with over-sweetened pineapple tarts from Johor Bahru, conferring with a mom and daughter about inter-racial marriage, about politics, about relations that are brittle and fading soon, about you and I, about those that made us sigh. She was wise, an archetype of post-suffering. A growth out of grief and utmost torture. 2 years ago, back in Literature classes, I couldn’t quite fathom a notion about death. But now I understand: “death is nothing but a great leveller”. We end up in coffins built in uniform dimensions, of space largely similar. Every man becomes equal. Nothing follows, nothing can be followed. And then we left—with a sweet aftertaste on our tongues, tranquillity ruled yet again.

The Wrath of Hades

It’s a mystery how sad and suicidal music are ever so intriguing, evoking pangs of woe and melancholy that are perversely gratifying. Its slow and paced melody resonates strongly in the heart, heartstrings dance and the heart palpitates rhythmically (mayhap that’s the rhythm your heart uncommonly makes when a certain sort of incomprehensible blue seeps in). As our eyes begin to see, the grotesque sight of reality becomes ever so lucid, making her poignant stench awfully overpowering, intoxicating and in many ways, virulent.

We’re given limbs, only to be treated like marionettes, given eyelids to blink, a mere portryal of being alive. We’re given a heart, to contain and bottle the vice and malice thoughts that are not prohibited by forces to expound and articulate. Remember, “Nothing can truly be answered, even if so, it breeds more doubt.”

In an idealistic world, Aristotle’s theory of happiness is perhaps pertinent, yet written to feed us mere mortals with dusts of hope and streaks of inspiration. The more I contemplate about my aspirations and goals, the more I feel divided — stripped off bare and vulnerable. We seek validation more than ever before, seeking to be lauded by forces that are competent enough to elevate us and bring us to this platform of grandeur. We articulate even when thoughts are nothing but sheer hot air, donning a seeming concrete coat of intelligence. (I am sorry for the burden ye have to carry) Everything is either blown out of proportion or ridiculously glorified in shared contrived smiles.

The inherent desire to dominate is not worth the talk but dire. The stench has become acidic, turning gardens into deserts, backed by the sun’s sweltering rays, they rip the ground open, releasing the wrath of hades. We land ourselves in an extremely hapless situation where helplessness is our pillory. We can only resort to broadcasting them on the media, write about them in newspapers, hoping to engender some sort of reform. (But are we?)

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
that vile thoughts are ubiquitous

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
that lusty thoughts are pointless craftsmanship

If only skin could reflect
Man would realise
how inherently bereft of compassion
they are

Soon, the wrath turns murky, covering the faces and inadvertently, morphing our most pristine and innocent selves into carriers of vice. The hypocrisy of creatures is simply revolting. It’s as though we’ve gotten intoxicated by the poignant stench of reality. Filling our stomachs not with food but with a bag of conceit air. We engage in small, contrived talks as though our lives depended on it. We’re not reliant on bread and butter, but on mere intangible things that are not even quantifiable; circling our lives around frivolous things and seeking admiration. We don’t realise the very fact that we are living, only when we rest on the gurney do we come to realise the fallacies that have been committed. We can write pages about them, sing a multitude of songs or cry a bucket of tears. But pathetically enough — and quite truthfully — we are nothing but creatures thrown into an abyss where we acquire nothing but mere phoney traits.

alas

Gale, blow away the melancholy and sadness.
Cloudburst, wash the calamities with your pristine water.
Fill the noise with hypocrisy no longer but with naturalistic echoes.

Humanity

deadly poison from a pipette
acidic solution soon to add
poignant stale atmosphere
mad scientist don’t you dare interfere

fuelled and metallic men were accredited
yet carbon copies copied and edited

it’s done
slowly they dump it in a terrarium
‘n manufactured an auditorium

produced marionettes
pulled ’em
left ‘n
  right

only should thou be a copy
would thou suit the system
vitiligo is unlovely
deemed due rules that restrict like
  frenum

‘n angels clasped
  virulent arrows

it’s done
they polished the conical flask
like magpies to diamond glass

there the flask was shelved
together with the rest

  they named it: “Universe”.

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