Freedom to go, please.

On Violent Delights

This is a grave warning:

You know that part of you, the bit that longs, yearns, and aspires. Yes, you are well aware of your romantic predisposition. You need to kill it. Butcher it, everyday. That part of you is like baobabs for Asteroid B-216 — a lack of proper culling would spell catastrophic misfortunes. It is a matter of survival, of life and death. And to go on, you will need to sharpen that unseen knife of yours come nightfall, and put down that accursed half of yourself with no hesitation, night after night.

The Cowardly Hedgehog

There once was a wayfaring little hedgehog, braced to brave the imminent winter.

He knew by heart the tale of the pack of porcupines, that was fabled to have sought to huddle close to each other, so as to endure the cold through mutual warmth. Alas, they soon found the effects of their spines on one another, and discovered that they must nevertheless remain apart, at such a “proper distance” from which they could tolerate each other while realising their minimal want for warmth.

“That’s not entirely difficult,” thought the hedgehog. “Proper distance,” he muttered, “that’s the key.”

Yet little did our hedgehog knew that he was a feeble coward, a poor wimp that would flee and take flight at any rattle – even at the slimmest chance of suffering the slightest pain or discomfort. No, he was not at all concerned about the effects of his spikes against others; that was the least of his worries, he selfishly conceited. He however, was vehemently averse to being vulnerable and exposed, to be at the mercy of others; and worst of all, to be hurt and to the resulting pain and suffering.

And so, our hedgehog never got too close. When he came across any of his fellow hedgehogs, he kept adding distance between themselves and pulling himself away that in the end, he was all alone. Even against the very idea of warmth that was so much desired, he could not help but to run away. “I want very much to stay close but I have to leave,” he thought.

Finally, he realised that he who cannot bear to be vulnerable deserves no warmth, and so reluctantly yield to his nature. And that is why our little hedgehog drifts, alone in the cold.


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


I'm lost.

Well to be exact - I feel out of place.


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 alright 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.


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.