subject: believe
time: 10:56am
music: januari - glenn fredly
mood: headspun

i remember
(that i want to remember)
the good things, my love
the good things
and
the good things
only..

we're mad here. i say, "we're mad here". could you paint my perfect illusion? paint me as the schizophrenic case of disillusioned hallucination of catatonic phases and [over]colourful waterfalls in these languid times. but time ? time, these days feels like fingers, clasped so tightly on the edge of ledges of cliffs. these times, are like oedipus complexes and phallus seas, wrapped in classic frediuan psycho-analytical bullshit.

lets turn the music on and let it play .. and let it play.. and let it play.. until the repeat parts shut our eyes from self-deceit and necessary lies that i'd hoped would fix the faults in the plotlines of our stories. let the world turn out in the manner it was meant for. but our song has ended and by then, the stars are still not moved to tears to fall. [so that there will never be falling stars ever again]. instead of all that, all was anti-climactic and i raised my hands in self-defeat, only to fall asleep and dream of a secret garden.

my words ? they seem to equate glass bottles, brittle and silmutaneously collapsing on these parquet floor. those black and white checkered beats against my coloured-in face never ever once made contact and i have heaved my way to the stars. "go for the moon, i'll stay for the sun", i say. and we no longer were two peas in a pod. perhaps, never ever were we one. but two. not one but two. what do u know? of me? anything at all and seek for clarity for everything i have to say borne in the devil's eyes and hearts of yesternights. stories i wish not to repent upon. out of spite and i could not find the words. only shred of sentences and fragments of bitter after tastes. it was the same dreaded flavour of questions i had written about before, pending in-between. so that i eventually lost count of glasses and any sight of you. words are temporary we say. we believe words are temporary.

watch. always waiting for the train for onwards. and by two in the morning, it carries the remainder of what i was. what i am. who i am and the last tresholds of the falls of this victim such as i. to time's thirst - quenched and a single. nono. every moment will be folded neatly for scrapbook memories. i grow up again for every mile between me and yesterday's train. i now understand displacement and i no longer wonder.