For Glory

Next week's the open water swim. Will I die? Will I live? Something lurks at the back of my mind, urging me towards the former, as logic insists on the latter option. I tried preparing the eventualities, and I ponder what would it be like if indeed I leave with the Reaper. Would it be like the time I lost consciousness? Where I have no sense of anything at all? What would I miss if I am to leave just like that? Am I ready for that? Mere rhetoric.

Gobbledy-gook

Sick again? Trying to fight, spent all my life fighting, so a few more fights with my spent self won't matter. Spent the entire day in bed, musing, mulling over the prospects of working. What would I do if I don't do this? All this garbled speech takes me nowhere. Am watching the romantic comedies again and it delights me, although I am hesitant about the actualities of love.

Call

What do I want,
what do I need?
What should I do?
What can I do?
Oh Will, guide me, guide me,
tell me what to do, what to do,
that I may pass the week
with my sanity intact.

The First Rule of Fight Club

The first rule of fight club is, you do not speak of fight club. Fight club is an illusion in itself. You weave every thread of reality into the fabric of illusions and sew it layer upon layer until it becomes a great comforter, a quilt to suffocate the pains of reality. Each breath upon birth is a gasp of pain and suffering without one's realization. Sometimes, the physical pain that you are inflicted with merges with the metaphysical ones, that one does not differentiate one with the other. Maybe that's why I run in marathons, and work myself to the death in gyms. The pain is much relished.

Maybe that's why I am not a religious person. For one to continue this existential pain into eternity, it is an abysmal nightmare that knows no end. No amount of love can cover that. I am a disbeliever of love. I believe only in pain and suffering. Happiness is a temporal relief.

The Boss is Always Right

It is a classic case of command and control, or rather, commanded and controlled. It is much of a nuisance that people do no bequeath that trust, and remove that autonomy for no reason other than pure idiosyncrasy. You are just a worker and you do not question authority. No wonder school sucks. The job sucks. Everything is institutionalized, even sanity. You just smile at it all and drown it in hedonism to mitigate the situation.

The Sleight of Hand

I am almost pretty sure the comment is referencing me. This is presuming that I am avoiding the person when I am presuming that the person likes me. Hmm. What a whole lot of presumptions that seem to bend back onto itself, much like the mobius strip. But for those who know me, nothing Venusian is possible for this postmodernist freak. Love is a mere illusion, a sleight of hand that sedates and incites the individual into an oxymoronic frenzy.

Once More Unto the Bridge, My Friend

The days passed by quickly and surely enough, that I am finally back once more in that cosy corner I call Normalcy. It is time to rig up my usual activities, and fulfill my resolutions once more, once more unto the bridges. Time is limited, and my husk awaits my modifications to the unsightly wobbles that have been there as far as I can remember. My mind seeks a respite while my taste for life has become sharper with each melody in trance mode. The poisons shall run again through the vessel. The end is nigh, I say, or rather, the night has no end, as I shuttle between solipsism and endless partying with known and unknown entities.