How in tarnation did I get back here?

Proving that 7 years on, nothing much has really changed. Back when I abandoned this blog, I didn't post a link to my next one for two reasons:

 1) I was writing too many long words and at the same time running out of things to say. Funny how these two things often go hand in hand.

 2) I didn't feel like putting my innermost thoughts on display for all the world to see. In my head, the pressure to write something great had become crippling, and I wanted to start all over again.

So I moved here without telling anyone. Except those who cared enough to stalk me. You know who you are, but I'm going to name and shame anyway: Shaks and Mmi, I never thanked you for your readership throughout the tenure of this space, but you two were my cheerleaders and I am grateful for that. Thank you.

Anyway, without further ado, please find my post-college thoughts in this next installment of the Gabsicle chronicles here at http://onadjacentfloors.blogspot.my/.

You are almost certainly going to regret the time you spent reading it instead of doing something fun or productive, like watching all 4 seasons of Sherlock back-to-back.

Adios and memento mori.

There is a certain state of mind, when it comes to blogging, that needs to be tapped into first. For some it is a sense of deep calmness. Still others find it a place to unload their semi-truths and poetic musings. For others it is the lure of attention, a prospect of focus lavished unexpectedly on them which is only the surface of the waters that beg for one of human's most simple needs. But for those who are a little apathetic, those of the facebooking generation and the guiltless downloaders, of which I am a proud member, it is the overwhelmingly powerful feeling that they have absolutely nothing better to do.


So here I am again, after a more or less complete lunar cycle's absence, not that anyone noticed. */emocorner* */snaps out of it* Sometimes I feel it's better this way, having no one around. I can trick myself into believing that hardly anyone reads this boring crap, thus freeing myself from constraints of political incorrectness and the like. Meaning I can say whatever I damn well want to, since no one is listening anyway.

But that's not the way it works of course. The only reason humans have speech is to communicate, and if communication is non-existent then what's the point of talking? I wonder if that's why some people don't talk much. They have nothing to communicate with to the world. Maybe they didn't have a chance to.

And the fact remains that somewhere, perhaps in a cute little Romanian house, or a cybercafe in Milan, or a forgotten shack somewhere along the beaches of Rio, a person sits on their armchair/stool/butt in the wee hours of the morning and clicks the I'm Feeling Lucky button and stumbles on this little deposit of emotions and (I'm stating a possibility here, not that I'm sensible enough to be of consequence, let alone lucid enough to be sensible.

Liberte! Liberte!

I will readily admit, albeit after having downed (though not all together) at least three glasses of Traminer Reisling, that I am not an idiot savant when it comes to dates.

In fact, were it not for the timely intervention of one Shakti Kaur a.k.a. Shaks, the indelible reminder by whom thundered out of my phone at me one drunken tipsy night while I was squinting in vain to read Making Money in the hotel balcony's half-light:

"DOESN'T THE 26TH OF AUGUST RING ONE VERY LOUD BELL IN YOUR BLURNESS-STUFFED
EAR??"

As usual, such astute rhetoric from a former drama associate turned fellow book fanatic who, being a girl, is particularly intuitive in memorizing important dates and recognising my lack in ability thereof.

Audible sigh, so I set down to writing a (now belated, holy crap) birthday post for Mmi, forum associate turned MSN associate turned partner in crime, sounding board, encouraging critic, theological rant buddy, late-night companion, and all round mushroom goddess.





It may either be an unfortunate or fortuitous fact that the one person on this earth who rides the same wavelength as you can be more easily found on the net than in real life. It sounds sad, yet it's probably a blessing in disguise; most people never really know what they're like until they meet themselves.


And it's true that we're almost too similar for our respective sanities, Mmi & I; with the lame jokes, quirky asides and inadvertent slang-dropping, it's a wonder we haven't annoyed each other to merciful non-existence yet.
And for some reason -no matter where we start off with- our conversations always end up on the philosophical, edging on existential side. Yet this is where Mmina shines: For here is where she displays a remarkable amount of insight into some of Life's most depressing Conundrums.

For all our concordant trains of thought, however, for either of our open/neorotic mindsets, there exists an intrinsic difference between us: Where I am selfish, so is she selfless. Where I am cold, so is she warm. Our respective capacities for compassion lie at opposite ends of the spectrum.

If there was a prize for Person Most Like Me Without The Egotistic Bits, she'd win it hands down.


As this birthday post comes to a close, I want to say that I truly remembered, that I took the time to burn three simple yet deviously elusive numbers into my cranium, I really do; but while exaggaration is a tool of the trade, dishonesty is not: So let me apologise for the lateness, as well as probably not being around when you needed me too; I did agonise a bit over the present, since I can hardly get you anything tangible, short of sending an ugly mug over by snail mail, which would probably be broken pottery by the time it gets there, so-


Here's a sunset from start to finish, taken from last week's jaunt to Bukit Tinggi; hope you like:

Orange slide, the sky that it reflects
Sponge's pride, being dangled

Spider!

The apprehension that was caught alive
It's okay even if I don't hide it
I want to have colored dreams

RIDE ON SHOOTING STAR

With the voice of my heart, like a shotgun I kept on singing

Grunge hamster, be grown up
Lobster of revenge, bring it along

Sniper!

I'll say, "What can you see in that fringed world?"
I want to touch it before I aim for it

RIDE ON SHOOTING STAR

Searching for you, and in withdrawal syndrome
I told a lie

RIDE ON SHOOTING STAR

With the voice of my heart, like a shotgun I kept on singing

Happy birthday, Mmi~

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed cat is king.

A ragged ear, whiskers

Like stalks of wildgrass

Twitch

To jarr the perfect asymmetry:

The Rogue.




A solitary eye of sable

Luminous,

To gaze out in casual fascination

Like lamps of piercing darkness:

The Seer.




A mangled visage

To shatter the illusion of the World;

Like the last living being that draws breath

Abreast

The Night.





Beating a hasty retreat from chicken rice, mundanity, and delusions of poetic adequacy, ==.


Cherries~

There I go again.

It's like a disease. Everytime I write, all the long, impressive-sounding words come out. It's not intentional. I can't help myself. Slip of the mind, you know?


But it gets to the point where writing here is like painting with a brush ten times the usual size. You dip it in words and you paint on the canvas of a post - great care taken not to apply too much pressure - else the brush slips, and huge blobs of 5-6 syllabic words are painted. People are left staring, slightly in awe, but mostly in confusion at the array of colourful blotches.


When sometime later, the painter looks back on his own "masterpieces", they hardly make sense to him either.




Bombasticism.


People think it's a good thing to know almost every word in the dictionary. It's not. Sure, you impress some people in the same way, oh, a circus seal impresses us by balancing a ball on its nose. "Wow! How clever," you remark while clapping enthusiastically, because most of us wouldn't know how to juggle a ball for nuts.



Sure, it blinds the teacher to grammatical errors when marking essays. The reasoning is that a person who knows his dictionary inside-out could only have been careless when it comes to punctuation - which is completely wrong.





Unless you don't mind if your name gets spelled wrong on your tombstone;

"Here lies Gabriel Gun,

Who might've been Gan

But we're not sure.

He was quite blur

To let us write

His epitaph

With poor eyesight

and one bad draft."

But the point is this: What's the point of knowing so many words if you don't know how to use them?

On a related note, what's the point of using so many words when one or two will do?



Bugger.




Then again, there may be some use for the jumble of technical jargon jostling for space in my head. As observed by Calvin:

* * *

Stayed up for the Perseid meteor shower tonight. Then I went outside to find that whatever bits of the north hemisphere (where the stars were supposed to fall) that wasn't blocked by my house was covered in the only tufts of cloud in the whole upturned ricebowl of the sky.



Arrg. So much for some new pics. And my eyes are getting that frying-in-deep-oil feeling when I stay up till 3.


At least there's no college tomorrow.




Morning all~