Trip :D

I’m going away for a few days. I’ll be back. And I’ll really have stories to tell and so much to say.

See ‘ya soon!

Wikducated.

Ok. I’ve coined a new word , Or so I claim…

The word is: Wikducated: (Wi’ju’kate’ed) (K is silent) [derog.] Someone who looks something up on Wikipedia and starts pretending that he/she has received a doctorate in that particular subject.

E.g. “Look at Dick, flaunting irrelevant philosophical terms and ostentatiously trying to impress everyone, the fact is, he is just wikducated.”

or

“Tom: Trust me, I’m not wikducated, I went to med school, I am a real doctor.”

hmmm…I’m working on this.

The most hilarious thing this week.

I found this blog on wordpress, and these people call themselves “apostates” > http://towelianism.wordpress.com/contact-us/ Now, the words “freedom of speech” appear in every sentence of their blog, so i posted a few comments, which wouldn’t even seem offending to anybody.

Now, the most hilarious thing is, I HAVE BEEN BLOCKED FROM THAT BLOG. HAHAHAH, which means i cant post any more comments. (You can see my previous comments in the above link)
Such contradiction, and the level of sheer idiocy, is it hilarious or just sad??

Every bloody-minded person who has read a few pages by Rushdie thinks he has become an ‘intellectual’. Aah…things that people do in the name of ‘fashion’.

I have had (just about) enough.

I’m tired of the shameless ignorance and rampant stupidity around me. In every bloody direction i look.

Just about to burst.

Am i waiting for another straw, to see if i break or not??

*grins*

You will know. In time.

On the beach.

Thoughtless and seemingly random sounds of the waves
That come to die on the shores from the vast loneliness of the sea,
Tell a strange story.
They bring back the memories of my childhood,
And of an infertile old mango tree,
That used to grow in a house where I once lived.
A house with large, curtained, windows,
Green grass in the front lawn,
Eggplants in the backyard, and annoying
Sugarcanes that attracted a lot of insects.
What I remember the most about the sugarcanes
Is that they were heard to break
And mostly weren’t sweet at all.
But the sea is a totally different thing
It was the same during my childhood.
The only difference is that the waves used to throw
Assorted useless things like used, faded sunglasses,
To the shores, and when I wore them then,
The whole world seemed beautiful.

Dec ‘05

It was cold; he could see his breath under the orange streetlights. He had his hands in his jacket’s pockets; they were cold. His feet were the coldest and felt wet. Sometimes he shivered sometimes he reminded himself not to. That way he would hypnotize himself into feeling warm. After every few steps he was drenched in orange light and felt naked. He felt that the whole world could see him even though there was no one on the streets. Except a dog now and then. He was afraid of the dogs. They would bark and scream and make too much noise and they might bite, he had always been afraid of dogs.

The best way to keep a dog from running after you is to pretend that you’re not afraid of it.

He walked. It was very late.

He turned right. He was off her street now. Trees, surrounded by streetlights, surrounded by huge houses with new cars. Small walls with expensive security systems, watchmen sleeping in their small rooms. In a couple of hours it would be morning. The strange empty city at that strange hour felt colder than it actually was. There were too many trees, streets were very clean and the large white houses had no personalities. Elegant and fashionable; they were made to impress. The combined effect was not good. He shivered.

…and walked on.

After two hours it would be morning, after four hours, there would be people on the streets. Tommorow will be another day. Next year, I will feel nostalgic. After five years, I will remember nothing at all. And this place will remain here, this night will die here, we became such intimate friends today, and they shall remain behind. My witnesses.

He walked on…

A profound observation.

There are basically three sorts of people in this world; those who are stupid, those who are liars, and those who are both. The third group consists of the vast majority.

There is also another type; the wise and the honest, but that group is so insignificant that it can be safely ignored as non-existent, and in addition to that, where it does exist, it is extremely weak and helpless.

Of smoke and fog.

Forming rings of smoke in the fog,
Imagining a forgotten past,
Or a remembering a future, I don’t know which,
But the smoke is reluctant to leave the lips,
Like bubbles in water, after a breath disappear
Leaving behind a trail of dry and cold air.

Can you see your own hands?
You struggle to look ahead,
Do you hear you own voice?
You try to listen to what she had said.
Pockets are not warm today,
Your legs are brittle, made of clay,
Your shoes take in mud, become heavy,
Wind on your cheek is just needlework,
On paralyzed skin.
But those are just inconveniences,
Just little annoyances, not even a ripple in,
The grand design of things.

Sometimes even the weeds look appealing,
Like lonely footsteps on snow which,
Always reveal a courageous intention.

Does it matter when a flower twirls,
Downwards to touch an occasional weed,
When a tree converses with a simple seed,
A mule races a fiery steed,
Does it matter when a nightingale,
In a crows nest receives no attention,
Does it matter when a lonely cloud,
Over a vast desert, gathers no affection.
Does it not matter when all this suddenly,
Means nothing at all?

And these turnings of nights and days,
Windings of these curiously deserted ways,
Have no real significance,
Just ordinary moments in the grand succession of things,
A season is not a life, just a winter,
Just a little poking eye in your splinter,
Or am I wrong?
Then why do you disagree,
When you too have seen it all,
The way you stand cynically at the gaping door,
Is unbelievable, particularly at such an hour,
When seasons are falling behind their schedules.
Do you not know that winter was late again,
The sand is slowly slipping; or do I have to make it plain?
It is too late for the smoke that is already lost
In the fog to make another appearance,
It is too late for your brittle legs to heal,
You must walk to your bitter end,
And therein lies your salvation.
Will it be too late for the flower to change its direction,
For the cloud to flow onwards, to a welcoming meadow,
To someone who really needs the shadow,
Will it be too late for the shocked faces,
To realize that they did not laugh,
When the punch line was delivered,
Too late to realize that you were afraid,
When your lips involuntarily quivered?
But these are the questions that shall not be asked.
And after the cigarette is thrown away,
After your despair has been carefully masked,
The whole experience will be forgotten, like a childish habit,
Or like a casual dream,
That is how it will always stay,
Because a season is not a life, it is just a winter,
Which vanishes, like a ring of smoke
Dissolves into the indifferent fog.

:(

there was a blog i used to read, dasht.wordpress.com and it was amazing, and today when i came back from my hibernation, i checked after soo long and its gone. i miss it. i wonder where shes gone, the girl who wrote it….

The Mermaid.

A smooth, green rock,
Decorated with seaweed,

Was alone,
On a cool summer night,
In a calm, dark sea.
The moon was reflected,
By infinite ripples,
And illuminated randomly.

At one point during the night,
When the stars were tired and quiet,
A pale mermaid,
Sat there,
And wept silently.