Musings. Ex Libris

* Joanna Newsom sounds like an enigmatic robin trapped in the webs of a harp. His mistress rubbed his forehead gently, fingers drenched with oil balm. His exhausted body planked down before her like a long-rooted tree under defeat. The sound of humming mantras swerved with the smoke of a burnt-out candle. "Just lay down and relax, my lord," he heard her said, "just take it easy." His eyes blurred. She took an odyssey to a foreign land with a rumbling hope of meeting her long-lost father, but hope dusted away. Loitering aimlessly on a street packed with esoteric hurly-burly, she tried to put up the easy-breeziness by forcing down the mingled, nondescript feeling While stomach still churned. Dismissing love before disillusioning the pain without love, the thought tumbled in her head along with the punishment of her imprudence. Drawing up the curtains unconventional for a heavy nightfall, she perched on the sill and waited patiently for the lights to come. Trouble, wea

But I did see him! And her! In the mirror! He greeted her, in a pleasantly robotic manner. She showered him with much-belated condolences and inquiries- for his health, for his mood, for his living condition(wouldn't that wench just browse the house herself?) and for the weather!? Ha, the weather! He replied absolutely nothing saved that of a constant bow-head and idiotic smile. She was crushed by his idiocy and reticence, and also the fail attempt to display her notorious ardency(Hypocrisy!Idiocy!) Complete noises. He crooked his head somewhat, still keeping that idiotic smile which feigned a pure form of innocence. She was also notorious for her low boredom threshold; she lost the patience to coming to terms of his indisposition so she knocked the table with her knuckles, hoping the loud sound would psych up the numb soul. The escapade worked, for he held his head askew as a dying fish struggling in a net and let out a shriek. A shriek I wished I had never heard unless I was born

The climax of my story finally reached, and I warn you my readers, there are not many pages left till the end of my story, but more empty pages yet to come for my restless, ceaseless life. I confess to you that I did, from time to time, think about destroying both of us. I suspected it be the best way to stem that fetid evil. It was beyond horrific when one day it came to your disillusion that the practice of exorcising the evil spirits must be done at the expense of your own self. You and your own self, to be more precise. Or to say, the evil spawns in you, in that reflection of you in the mirror. Then one day came was the neighbor who used to drop by with baskets of tomatoes when my mother was still alive. It must had been an eventful day, for the frail wooden door hadn't heard its knocks for years. As I stood up and was ready to make my way to the door, all in a style of complete insouciance since now the curiosity of how my alias would react overrode the astonishment of my unwe

You were always certain that those preternaturals did exist, although in your life you might not have the privilege to witness them within a nail's distance. You knew they would exist, although your mother had been trying desperately to wean you from those 'ominous mumbo-jumbos.' You read them in havoc-wreaking stories by Allan Poe; they were all fairly familiar to you: ears on walls, cat in walls. You sneered, dismissed them at times but still, you had to admit that they did give shivers down your spine. It's like a tribal statue, looming, standing stock-still before you. It has preoccupied your mind for ages to remove the statue, for it triggers unnecessary fear. But every time when you happen to glance at its eyes, red-beaded, infernal perhaps, in a shimmering way, your plan of dispelling the statue freezes up. So I lived with him for days without taking any measures or extending my shocks. I lived with him, that phantamagoric image of mine. He was there while I was

Now if you're sitting comfortably, I'll tell you my own story. That thing came unexpectedly. One morning, a slightly unordinary day it was, the sun-frazzled day when I saw three instead of two albatrosses perching languidly on a tree. On this serene morning when even the paperboy was self-conscious of making scratching noise with his bicycle, that thing encroached upon me. Like a disease and stealthily it was, it slid in from under the door and mounted up my body, a pace resembled that of a fox hovering around its prey. Despite the intricate process of my transformation, the consequence was unarguably simple. That is, I was split into half. It was such a pity. It certainly was. I would rather have my own replica: someone doing a send-up of me so we can laugh, talk, whisper our secrets together, like my twin brother as to say. That is presumably what people will commonly assume when they are informed of me 'splitting into half,' but no! One must understand that I do fanc

One's mental journey flows like streams. They start out smoothly; their surfaces glisten like transparent lids. Sunshine be the first one to bid them farewell, for it has the strong belief that the odyssey will definitely augur well. So they flow, with the illusion of meandering in a fairyland. Then the streams run into pebbles, freckled at first but permeated the next. The waves therefore occur. At times they can grow so strong that the initial pureness of the streams' colour is muddled. The streams race at full tilt, as troops of horses fleeing out of a conflagrant barn. The aforesaid case should be diagnosed as some usual undulations human lives, but their nosy friends can hardly care no straw of it. They stir up the waves again; verify the eternal delusion. The streams are propelled into gushes. Despite of how the others might consider them- to be mad, their words can still be sane and genuine, just like the notorious Septimus in Mrs. Dalloway . But who will lend ears to th

In his odes John Keats eulogizes the immediacy of emotions. Pleasure, joy and melancholy go hands in hands, and there is merely a translucent film blocking each compartment which enables the fairy of sentiments to skid liltingly in-between, gently tapping them with her sparkler. It is both importunate and inexplicable, of how instant a transformation can take place of a person's temperament. In the blink of an eye she is both evil and angelic. Wallowing merrily in the mud like a pig but the frill of her subtly-made dress reminds her of her extravagant past, and she is duly aggravated. You and your shadow. You are fretted about it always tagging along you so you trample it, with repugnance you trample. But it is with little wonder of the impossibility of casting off your shadow, so you learn to accept it and include it in your life, even when it can be the major culprit for your incident of caught-red-handed. Sometimes things are trapped in a web of intricacy t