Jinggarange

Freedom to go, please.

Disoriented

Found a piece of parable that I wrote a few months ago. If you do read it, thank you and I hope you enjoy.

Disoriented

I'm lost.

Well to be exact - I feel out of place.

Everywhere.

Hey, don't mind the void. It's never not been gloomy. And I don't count on this downpour to stop too. At least not anytime soon. If I recall correctly, the last time it stopped was - Christmas? It's not important anyway.

It's funny and somewhat heartwarming to think about how I'd brave the night looking for shelter or warmth when I first got here.

Here, I've met others who are like me, who's not from here, who also absolutely hated being here. Naturally we bonded over our shared resentment towards this all-engulfing nothingness. I'm glad to have them; and as the night deepens and we inevitably drift apart, I'd be pleased if they drift in the opposite direction of where I seem to be heading.

Unlike the newcomers, I'd long ceased to strut and fret at what seems to be a constant. I count my blessings now that I'm curled up under covers in my own little corner. If I come across as calm and patient (with an occasional smirk), it's only because I have accepted this never-ending night. It is endless, period.

Sometimes, I'm told that it's just the weather, a bad season, that the night too shall pass, that there are decades yet to come. With utmost respect to the folks that care, this is my everyday, for as long as I can remember, to be here; for as empty, painfully freezing and lonesome that is here. I'd never wish even half of my time here onto my worst enemy.

I usually find myself asking when attempting most of life’s question - what's there to be done? You see, I loathe this place; and while I'm unable to change things here, I do have the option to leave. Yes, the open-door policy - leaving is always an option. Indeed that's been on my mind from the moment I got here. I'm just waiting for the right moment, an opportunistic pause, or maybe a bus ride or an invitation, to finally excuse myself. If that happens, I hope a celebration would be due.

Alas, as much as I'm eager to catch the next bus ride, I'm afraid I have to stay around for some time. Here, where it's near to my family. God knows they'd like for me to stick around for as long as I can. I guess the food around here is okay too? Oh well, it seems like I'll be back doing what I do best, the classic wait and see.

Oh how I detest being here. I've lost my bearings. But I'll stick around for the time being, until my ride comes.

PS I've also posted this on an obscure website. If you recognized me, come say hi. :)

Ballad of the Lute

I have been just simply reading what I can get my hands on, and was emphatic when I came across a line from a well-known poem. Being a romantic that I am, it had me in tears.

The context of the poem was when an exiled poet encountered a lute player (a female performance artist proficient with a traditional string instrument) who was also forced to leave the capital when her fame faded along with her youth and beauty. She married a merchant that often travels and leaves her to an empty house.

The poet overheard her playing one day and invited her to play for him. He remarked that even when she was simply tightening the strings and tuning her lute, the emotions within came before the tune.

The poet exclaimed regarding their chance encounter (the following is a translation I found):

We are both the fallen (from grace), wanderers beneath the sky; when we encounter, we need not ask if we were ever acquainted -- we already know each other through all our likeness!

Here's a reproduction of the line in its original language, for reference. So that I never forget.

同是天涯沦落人,相逢何必曾相识!

What happened, really?

I revised some Nietzsche today and came across a few seminal passages, one of which used to weigh a lot to me, .

The secret of realizing the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously! Build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius! Send your ships out into uncharted seas! Live in conflict with your equals and with yourselves! Be robbers and ravagers as soon as you cannot be rulers and owners, you men of knowledge! The time will soon past when you could be content to live concealed in the woods like timid deer!

― Nietzsche

Ah old memories! I get instantly transported to a simpler times -- I was still in my budding years when I came across Nietzsche's thoughts.

Back then I had an abundance of hope of what I could achive.

I was different.

What happened though?

Sobriety and Failure

Never before have I felt like such a failure.

What good is a writer that cannot write? Or rather, what good is a writer that can't sell their writing?

One day at a time, I keep telling myself; but this struggle that is adulting just seems impossible it's stifling.

Being sober sucks.