Musings. Ex Libris

Objects focused: fruits poised in a red bowl placing against a black screen. Music sashays in: free jazz, notes drop in an abrupt curve at every bar. Figures silhouette on the screen because night falls. And the rare lights, traveling from the moon, sift through the somewhat worn curtains. Lights slant on the fruits; their silhouettes thrown onto the screen- they imprint each other. The apple crookedly distorted into half, one in dark and the other in light. Angles and depth thus testified. Funny no questions are posed for the apple’s substance, for it is truthfully flat, as flat as red smears. With the aids of light the flat apple simply conforms to the tradition of concreteness- one side in dark and the other in light, a shape is virtually born. The fact confounds everybody, of how the flatness extends and predominates. A hulking something shrinks into a blob then some turbid water cocooned tentatively in hands. A blotch the thing might eventually land in. That banana, a perfect yell

Sometimes when a story is so powerfully fabricated, it horrifies you. This eventually leaves an imprint in your memory that galvanizes you whenever some evocations appear. The fact well-applies to a story I just finished reading, and a subsequent reference is drawn between the deserts in the story and the world I’m situated in. I hate to dredge up world-weariness when there are actually so many other things I can relate to. It is such a self-centered awareness to impose every story onto oneself. So I will only make it brief by concluding that my conception of the world is like a desert where one is encompassed by hazards, and it is impossible for him to escape far since supplies must be begged first. But nobody will be that benevolent to lend you anything when every entity is on the fringe of demise in this dreadful desert. I tend to stay in one spot and shut up my mouth so I won’t be overcame by thirst too soon. Most of the things I’ve read are abound with people. Vile bodies, goodie-

One night I was waken by the noise of a couple bawling to each other outside on the corridor. Being galvanized up at such untimely moment, I resolved in switching the channels desultorily while the bawl heated on. Motions and images flipped through the screen like batches of vignettes. The ebb and flow of the noise outside kept with the fleet of the channel, thus a comical consequence was induced. It is funny how people are implicitly inclined to match their lives onto the screen, and into the screen however they result in. Some concierge, I presumed, settle the argument briskly and everything restored to its order like every yesterday. People can be categorized into three: one with those who are always brimming with confidence and wielding their dominance wherever they go- they are the victors. Most people in general should be in the second one, who surface and sink just like every other but refusing to sail close to the wind, they secure themselves a perfect spot where they can witne

As I drew out the curtain I saw almost nothing before me but clouds of white smoke predominating the scenery. It was one of those few days when fogs descend the city. I have an inexplicable penchant for fogs, which are impressively neutral, positioning between the drab clearness and the radical inclemency. I saw the fogs cleared before me, gradually, in dribs and drabs. Without any assistance from the sun the fogs petered out until dim traces of buildings or every-day-matters crept their way back in their forts. I’ve been aspiring to do music and working diligently for years to hone my ability and knowledge just to make me eligible for the career. Owing it to my volatile taste in too many genres I have yet pinpointed of what direction I should tend to. The problem surfaced as well on my writing, which are frankly a batch of desultory rots that offer no fruits for your grey matter. It is a topic or a concept that I’m constantly stressing upon and groping for, or else things just litter

I felt forlorn watching the calamity of Japan on the telly since months ago I just spent my most brilliant time traveling around its capital. It was one of those chill but not bleak days when I strolled about the streets of Tokyo. I had an image of colours instantly, of a swaying white and grey. For me it was the cleanest and most impressive combination of colours, and the one that exuded the most contented serenity. The titillated image of white and grey rarely popped up in my life. Besides the aforementioned the closest one I can conjure up is when scouring around the vicinity of my house after a washover rain. I deem the white-and-grey incidents my happiest moments in life. When such moment occurs the colours are wrought in a most cliché romantic veil where they will dance and swirl around me like bubbles. And like bubbles they pop and vanish within a blink of an eye. Everybody has his own definition of what a suffering will be. It would be indubitably ungrateful for me to acknowled