Season's Greetings and a Ho Ho Ho

Christmas is a time of sorrows, where we are constantly reminded that Christ died so that there is no entropy, and we have no end to our misery in life insofar that we have to continue it even if we are dead.

We give presents to one another to comfort ourselves only to find out that we have absolute no use for the things that we receive, and it ends up in the storage room, the purgatory of inanimate objects, before we assign them to the dustbin.

We put up trees, decorate them in a bid to cheer ourselves up, except that the glittering and shining cast a darker shadow over us when we stand at the foot of the green monstrosity. And we wonder how much money and time was spent to put that all up, only to lug it back to the storage after everything was concluded, depriving the people of any further meaning. Meanwhile, another tree was killed for our 'pleasure'.

Year after year, we are cursed to repeat this sacrilegious practice and to complete the horror, welcome the dreaded new year where I inch closer to my grave, seeing it but not able to step into it, despite the assurance by friends.

Small wonder Santa Claus says 'Ho ho ho'.

Simple feat

Everything sucks. Big time.

Once more, my friend, once more

Despite the dictionary explanation of the term 'quaser', the word is easily confused with 'goals' or 'aims. But 'quaser' is more than that. It is a synthesis of 'goal' and 'meaning to life' combined. It is a state rather than an event. One cannot say my 'quaser' is to have a dionysian party replete with sex and booze. It's a 'goal', definitely, but no quaser. A quaser is a state of the situation that completes a person, a source of the answers to the purpose of a satisfied, content human being. Job fulfillment is a quaser. A spiritual quaser, so to speak.

I had the opportunity to be ridiculed over this invention, but nevertheless, the word 'goal' seeks to be reinvented for its lack of sufficiency in this aspect. It is thoroughly hoped that whoever out there is reading it, finds his or her quaser and thus finds harmony in their lives, for all the discontentment out there in the messy reality of life.

Surprisingly, all these are coming from someone who looks at the mirror everyday and wondering when the bodily husk is going to change.

So there

This is the kind of melody/video that pervades this blog here so the raison d'etre. Et voila! C'est comme ma vie!

The Player

The plain old tunes
strummed off the
dirty cracked guitar
Troubles the player not
For it still beckons
the unsuspecting plebian
The player mocks
The recalcitrant sounds
In his ditties and mickeys
And the silence ensues
The slight wind blowing
Across dusty ghost towns

December wordplay

The December winds blow in a certain ennui that leaves me shell-shocked as I mull over my innate capabilities to function as a human being, the exaggeration and downplay of particular characteristics that tease the boundaries of morality and sensibilities. Or rather, tease the Davidian reader in my wordplay.

Inconsolate whimpers of a flighty fancy

Ring-ring
Wake-wake
Oh no!
Eat-eat
Bathe-bathe
Wear-wear
Rush-rush
Bus-bus
Come-come
ufed on enal
Work-work
Lunch-lunch
Work-work
Yippee
Bus-bus
Leave-leave
Home-home
Bathe-bathe
Dinner
Blog-blog
Sleep-sleep
Savvy?