The Mistakes Continue

It is that neverending vicious cycle of mistakes that drag me further and further down into the depths of condemnation, from which there is no redemption. There is no purgatory in the workplace, only the extremes of heaven and hell. The situation damns me much as I damn the situation.

Is it what I want, what I desire? Does another job await? I wonder yet again.

Why I Run

The pain that afflicts each runner, the cramp that threatens to cripple the run to the finishing line, yet, every one wonders, why do we still run despite the tortuous pain? The taxi driver comments, one must be crazy to sign up voluntarily for the race, instead of spending time dating, or whatever. Or whatever indeed.

I run, to test my limits, to test my spirit. I am the runner, the gazelle and the mustang. Running is Life. To tune out the pain, to withstand the anguish, to grin and bear it, as with Life.

The Pain is Good. I am the Pain. I am Sparta.

Despair

The numerous mistakes plaguing the works that I complete, the utter dismay and dissatisfaction with each task, the sheer idiocity that accompany the errors seem to collapse in one day. The tiredness, the anguish and uselessness converge and I wonder if I am better off in that small wooden box again. All these point to my incapability to deal with reality and to be the worker they perceive me to be. Disappointment arises as words too, fail to express my thoughts, befuddled with the surging emotions of conflict, as the fatness, idiocity, and ugliness find a focal point. I have no worth.

Left to my own, left to my own.

I am so tired. I am alone.

After all.

At That Corner

I thought I would be free from the inane politics that befuddles the workplace. Such is the stuff of humans. O to lead a simple life where one lives out the innocence once again like the children whom I face. But no, this is reality, an escape tainted by the stains of adults and power struggles and ambitions for that lofty place of prestige and bloodied honor. The issue of capability is always at the corner of the eye, hovering and waiting in ambush. I would have to invoke the Blue Mageborn again.

The Reign of the Iceman

I numb myself to the endless deluge, the frost now blows stronger than before. Let the snow reign. There shall be no fires burning left, but that bitter coldness in the biting chills of everlasting winter. I am the Iceman.

Taboo

As I spend time alone, the carnival beckons like never before, that senseless escape to a temporary Wonderland, where no one sleeps in that mind-numbing music. It dulls the mind to a mechanized drone, that self-induced trance which forbades any other action other than the repeated motions of crazed intoxication. In short, it's a taboo.

The retaliations against public sensibilities, the drowning of which is the opiate of my innermost protestations. I am that lone Mustang in the wildeness of improbabilities, yearning to test my limits like never before, to indulge in the untried vices of worldly temptations; sex, cigarettes, liquor, fights, you name it. Especially the fights, that leaves one bloodied and emancipated. Life is never more inglorious, a true bastard.

I detest the leashes of social correctness. Instead, as Gaga professes, let's have some fun, this beat is sick.

Dumb-dumb

I have often wondered about the essence of intelligence, having watched my neighbour grow up in that state of vacantness in the Room Upstairs. And I have often wondered if I do belong to that club of theirs, seemingly normal enough yet probably deserving of membership due to my ineptness in certain capabilities.

There are many instances of some adults who are normal enough to function in mainstream society, yet marked as dumb in their actions. Am I a dumb-dumb? I know I must do something to escape that branding. Five languages are never enough. Or should I remain so?

The Boy in the Pimple Mask

The scars are a testament to the nefarious struggles against the infidels of the system. There can be no perfection, no control. The blemishes stand stoically for that. Will my quaser be attainable? Am I to wear this mask forever?

No one's Fault

The rain shall continue to pour
and washes the unwanted all.
Will I forget? Will I?
I wonder the whatifs.
I wonder about the swim.
The swim that I have waited for so long
Has come to naught.
What if
What if
There is no turning back now
The shed tears
The extinguished hope
The misguided light
Has no place
The coffin is bare
The grave is empty
Where has it gone
In the waters
Of my memory

The Easy Way Out

Take me, my Lord, take me, for life is a miserable wretch, an agonizing struggle against the woes of humanity, a daily warfare against the Fates, the three bitches who turn the damning wheel this way and the other.

Cut the string, I say, cut it. Why prolong the torture that beset me at every corner? Haven't I been played enough already? I am unwilling, I cannot swallow it, this hell, this accursed workplace that reeks of that sulphurous stench everywhere I go. It is hell on Earth. And every day, I report to hell for work. Thirty years of unending anguish, torture, and it seems so much easier to take the easy way out. One packet of broad beans, just one packet is all it takes, and everything ends peacefully.

The connections I have forged, will vanish in an instant. The good things together with the bad will disappear, misery will be extinguished. Let there be neither hell or heaven, but that entropy. Take me!

Insomnia

I can't sleep until you are by my side. I can't believe myself. This seems nearly impossible for this postmodernist soul. But yet, I am by your side. It's a dream, and I am constantly afraid it would end. I am living on extended time, after all.

It's insomnia.

Monga

So it shall be. The meaning of life lies in the very acts of struggle for existence itself. One loses something and gains something and in that very process, completes the search for the existential truth. God is at my boundary. There is only the Fight.

All These While

As the drudge wears on, I wonder if the mental resistance will collapse eventually. Am I capable of juggling all these brutal burdens? Am I worth the trouble? My capabilities are overrated, and I don't feel the sense of self-worth after misadventure after misadventure. I am weary.

I want to do something more for the kids, yet I am bounded by the very fetters of administrative drudge. I am helpless. Yet, how do the rest cope? I seriously wonder.

I trudge on.

I need to find an alternative to the apparent fate lying in store for me. And this is an occupation I refuse to be quagmired in.

How could even the keying in of remarks be deprived of autonomy? I don't even have that barest of authority, usurped by the process of management itself.

What other scholarly pursuits can I undertake? I need to continue my quaser. But at what price? I wonder again.