Fade – Jakwob ft Maiday

I want my sparkle back
Why does it always fade to black

5th May 2013

First time I’ve been called to exercise my duty as a member of a civilized society – vote for the future government. This thing called Politics which I’ve been in so many conflicting views in order to stay sane and have a little inclination that I’m at the right side. It’s natural to always be at the right side. But as everyone already knew; this statement can be misleading as people who doesn’t take any sides but themselves also claim that they knew, is that there is no such thing as ‘right’ in politics. And I’ve always been a left-wing kind of person. 

Stay tuned my dear blog for I planned to write about it. Just not now. Life in the working force steals so much of the person that I am…the one who wants to live out of the ordinary. Right now afternoon laziness with comfort food in front of the TV far more appealing to me than trying to write.

What an awful life.

Sunday afternoon

I listened to the thunders rolling
Sorglega creeping through my playlist
suddenly it celebrates the harmony
of me and my infinite sadness
it’s not easy to drown into so many feelings
and making a way out of it
It’s like one of those days
grey rain and ticking clocks
chills seep through the thick curtains
your head drooping into the pillows
And all your dreams playing out like films
It doesn’t make any sense at all
to want to stray among galaxies
when the gravity of reality will just pull you down
‘I dont want to live like this’

You could be happy

“My dear, I don’t know what to do today, help me decide. Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me afterall. Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage. Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but? Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? Falsely yours.” – Albert Camus.

I’ve gone through the times in my life that I thought I am becoming Zedka.
Some other time, Ivan Turgenev.
Today Albert Camus.

I have murderous thoughts all the time, about various ways to live and to die. And how to notice little things and walk on water, staying afloat despite the abyss is calling. I don’t know how to correctly dissect my life so far into phrases. Because I take too many things in ; sounds, sights, memories, all bundled in one and attack me tirelessly. I have hollow and empty stares that makes an average human afraid and confused. Since they never seen the deepest bottom of their souls.

How close am I

Today you were far away
and I didn’t ask you why
What could I say
I was far away
You just walked away
and I just watched you

What could I say

How close am I to losing you

Tonight you just close your eyes
and I just watch you
slip away

How close am I to losing you

Hey, are you awake
Yeah I’m right here
Well can I ask you about today
How close am I to losing you
How close am I to losing

Work

Currently I dislike my workplace and I need a lot of motivational monologues to send me to work everyday.

May things get better with time so that I could stop killing myself and feels right for once

You should date…

You should date an illiterate girl.

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.

Charles Warnke

Saranghae

I actually have traveled, fly over 20 thousand feet above the sky, cruising along the glittering midnight stars
Until I reached the south of Korean peninsular.
Traveling really gives you so much experience, sights you haven’t seen ever in your lifetime
But what’s clear is that it makes me so happy. Content and restless to discover.
To really let away a lot of your conscience in exchange of new foreign things.
Apart from the flaws, I return anew.
Something in me changed, or grown, a little, to accommodate that piece of time I spent somewhere outside of familiarities.
It lifts my feet up. When I walk along the wet Seoul pavements,
it was grey and raining, I really did think I’m flying.
Empty railways winding along lines of yellow and red trees
I turn to inhale every shapes and sounds that reverberates around me
And it’s alive.
The drying squids on the wire railings swaying in the Southern Jeju current
How the green seabed invites me to think of beautiful things rather than jumping off from its majestic cliffs…
Then I think I should write something about these place
I’d say it’s the feisty Siberian Autumn wind that swept me away.

But in all beauty, it has to be the flight on the plane.
It really was what I have been picturing since I was a little kid,
staring up in a car ride along a distant highway
How the clouds dots the sky with each other,
forming something of a tide,
cloudy tide that shades us the land from the universe
We are in an ocean and the Milky Way is the Earth.
That day what I made up in my mind I saw splayed out under me
Needless to say it blows me away
Now I need to think of another thing I haven’t seen
And someday prove it.
Too many. I’m afraid I won’t have the time (and money) to take off in my own voyage.
I pray for it.

Check out my photo tumblr , yesterday’s set of posts from the trip.

thursday blog and the thursday post 13.9.12

Reblogged from Sharmishtha Basu:

The thursday post and thursday blog are in their usual places :)

http://earthinbw.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/thursday-blog-13-9-12/

and

http://etherealheights.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/the-thursday-post-13-9-12/

sharmishtha basu

I wish I knew

Do wise people ever let themselves to fall into Love?