Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong
Friday, December 14, 2007
Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong
I wrapped you inside my coat
When they came to firebomb the house
I didn't feel pain, 'cause no one can touch me
Now that I'm held in your spell
"The first entry since the end of April..." I wrote, with every stroke of the pen bringing but a specific memory of the past. It has been quite some time since I bothered to update that notebook of mine, and allowing it to gather dust right on top of my pile of books is probably something I do feel incredibly guilty about. But then again, I do have a reason behind my recent absence, and that has got to do with school, and everything related to it. To be honest, I hate myself for not giving time to those lonely times in the cafes, just sitting there aimlessly with a book and a pen, writing whatever thoughts that came into my head in the past. It was one of those things that I loved to do, though a little silly at times but something I enjoyed immensely. It is difficult to tell you just how I managed those days in solitude, with the days defined by reading and writing, reading and writing. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was because of the person I waited for in the past, that person in the past. Nowadays, I don't wait for anybody in the cafes anymore, perhaps just for my conscience and sanity to catch up with me.
Sell me a car that goes
Sell me a house that stands
I never cared before, I never cared before
I never cared before, before, before, before
A beautiful girl
A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust
A beautiful girl
A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust
I stood in front of her face
When the first bullet was shot
I wrapped you inside my coat
When they came to firebomb the house
I didn't feel pain, 'cause no one can touch me
Now that I'm held in your spell
"The first entry since the end of April..." I wrote, with every stroke of the pen bringing but a specific memory of the past. It has been quite some time since I bothered to update that notebook of mine, and allowing it to gather dust right on top of my pile of books is probably something I do feel incredibly guilty about. But then again, I do have a reason behind my recent absence, and that has got to do with school, and everything related to it. To be honest, I hate myself for not giving time to those lonely times in the cafes, just sitting there aimlessly with a book and a pen, writing whatever thoughts that came into my head in the past. It was one of those things that I loved to do, though a little silly at times but something I enjoyed immensely. It is difficult to tell you just how I managed those days in solitude, with the days defined by reading and writing, reading and writing. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was because of the person I waited for in the past, that person in the past. Nowadays, I don't wait for anybody in the cafes anymore, perhaps just for my conscience and sanity to catch up with me.
I ran my fingers over the pages of the notebook, and realized just how much I missed writing. I mean, really writing something down on pages, rather than typing them out on a blog for public scrutiny. I guess the notebook takes away that private censorship, the thing you do sub-consciously when you know that whatever you type is going to be flashed out on a public place. So you become more careful with your choice of words, perhaps a little more cautious with what you have to say. You become a little less honest with yourself - lie, even. Sometimes, when you know that others would be reading a little something that is close to your heart, you pretend that it isn't in the very first place. It's like the saying that goes something like," The best way to get over someone is to pretend that that person never existed." I guess, if we manage to convince our minds that we do not have a certain emotion, persuade those synapses not to release a certain neuron, then we'd be fine. But are we, truly?
A beautiful girl
A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust
A beautiful girl
A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust
A couple of days ago, there was a fine night after the rain when it felt like the opportune time go out for a walk. The cafe beckoned, and I was incredibly hunger. Things have been going well for me at home, dealing with household chores did not bring sweat, but rather those tough times in the army that nailed a silly smile on my face even in the middle of a crowded place. There I was, sitting in the corner of the very same cafe, writing an entry which has been delayed for the longest time. I felt much guilt, seeing those empty pages behind the last entry in April being left as they were, and there was an urge to fill them up with my familiar black ink. Black ink on white paper, it's like that other time when the butterfly settled itself in the top of my rifle out in the fields. There is something ironic about the image, don't you think? A peaceful thing, such a beautiful thing, settling itself down on my rifle, such a vulgar and almost grotesque object of war. The black ink was like pollution, dirtying the white pages of the book. But it was alright, I told myself. Perfectly fine, I thought. There is something poetic in this whole great chunk of mess, isn't that what the chaos theory is all about?
There is something repulsive about reading my own work. 'Work', for the lack of a better word - work. It makes me sound as if I am already a published author of sorts, and by 'work' I seem to imply that I already have a large collection of literary masterpieces, a horde of fans studying my materials in various colleges around the world and such. But in truth, not a lot of people have read my writings, let alone like them altogether. But anyway, reading those sad old entries did not bring back any emotions, which was rather disconcerting if you think about it. The self in April, and the self in December now, there was a point of segregation between the two wasn't there? I hardly recognize myself now, writing those same entries in the very same cafe. But so much has changed ever since then, so much has changed. Even the seat I was in was a little different, though it was the same corner which I would usually do my people-watching. There was a straw sticking out of the seat into my back, forcing me to sit up straight while I wrote the following entry. It was uncomfortable, but I didn't mind. It's not like the contents of my first entry in a long time brought much comfort to my solitude, either.
Sell me a car that goes
Sell me a house that stands
I never cared before, I never cared before
I never cared before, before, before, before
"The first entry since April, but little has changed in this familiar cafe around the corner. The same timeless people, waiting for a certain something to happen. The girl with the glasses, the one who served and smiled at me the other time, she isn't there behind the counter anymore. I wonder if she would return in the days to come, if she would return to share my pathetic times of solitude in the cafe like before. I don't suppose she would return, nor she - she. Though I dearly hope so, with all my heart or whatever that is left of it. Those people in their ties and suits, those carefully pressed shirts hidden underneath their masks, an illusion of grandeur, perhaps? We are all delusional, aren't we? Them, trying to look their best to their clients, trying to be at their best, pretending to be everybody but themselves. Me, I am living my life in a happy illusion at times, soaked and marinated in false hope.
There was a man singing on the bus today. Yes, an old man singing at the front of the bus in a foreign tongue. I couldn't catch a word he was singing, couldn't understand him at all. Other passengers gave him strange stares, accusing him of stepping out of the comfort of the social norm, trying too hard to be different. But who are we to say that a man like that is any more pretentious than ourselves? Who are we to deal out such judgments, to put a person down because we do not approve of his actions? At least, at the very least, he was honest to himself. He was honest about his feelings, his overpowering emotions. I didn't know what he was singing, couldn't understand a single word. But it sounded so sad, like a song sung at the funeral of a dead friend. He was honest, and for that he did what I could not, what I cannot. We are the truly pretentious people, we are the people who are too afraid to show others what we feel, how we feel. As pathetic as that sounded, I guess, I am one of them. Oh, there is my coffee with two egg sandwiches. They taste a little too salty, or do they? Life, goes on. Isn't that the saddest thing you have ever heard in your life?"
A beautiful girl
A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust
Then the entry ended, almost as abruptly as it started. I felt tired at the cafe, it was a little after eight in the evening. The sandwiches tasted stale, like it has been left out in the wind for too long. My tongue felt rough as well, like butter spread over too much bread. My friend came by to meet for me a grand total of five minutes that night, a five minutes that was another five minutes too short. I wanted her to stay there for a little while longer, to talk with me a few moments more. But she had to run, something about her boyfriend and flu bugs. She disappeared around the corner into the rain that fell like tiny feathers, and I was being left in the cafe to stare at the leftover food on the plate. The coffee was already cold, the schoolgirls one level below were talking about how much they all hated this other girl from school, something about her showing them attitude all the time. They couldn't stop laughing, I couldn't control the urge to spit onto their heads from above. They didn't use to have these people roaming around in the cafe on a Wednesday night though, they never had these young rascals polluting the air with their youthful stupidity. I guess, even for a cafe around the corner, things have changed.
So I packed up my things, and got ready for home. Somewhere along the way, there was a piece of paper lying on a patch of grass. Have you seen a piece of paper on a patch of grass? Especially when it is wet, the paper breaks in a dozen different places but still remain - in essence - a whole. It is kind of hard to describe how it looks like, but it usually looks as if grass has grown out of the paper, but the pieces of them are not scattered everywhere, still retaining the shape of a piece of ordinary paper as it should be. It was next to the guard house when I turned into my estate, it must have been left there by a random gush of wind, and it reminded me somehow - of me. Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong started playing in my head, and my stomach started growling with hunger.
A beautiful girl
A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust
I stood in front of her face
When the first bullet was shot
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on Friday, December 14, 2007 at 3:30 PM.
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