an aural annoyance

there are grown men in the playground downstairs from where i live. before i had a peek, all i heard were shouting.  like madmen who had ran out of antidepressants or perhaps stung by bees. it also seemed like they could be secretly supplied with all the lozenges in the world including unlimited voice rehab treatments. yes, there was a lot of shouting and yes, it was very.loud. of course i had to take a peek. to see if it would continue and if any human or animal was in danger. lo and behold, 7 (somewhat) grown men doing push ups and attempting to stand on their heads. they do not appear to be drunk but what compels them to do such activities at this time of the night on a weekday is beyond logic. i am tempted to throw a bag of ice cubes at them but 1)i don't want to waste my ice cubes 2)my throwing skills aren't much to brag about. and why do i want to do such? because simply i have zero tolerance for such sounds. at this time of the night.

so what do i do? 

i vent  in hopes they will shut the hell up and migrate to another playground far far away and yonder. 

well. 

well! 

did an invisible genie just hang out on my shoulder and grant my wish? thank you genie. too kind you are and to others you shall service. 

go watch american horror story. 

the last sacrifice

how often do we think of our final breath, our final moment?
how often do we imagine and fantasize this idealistic vision in our heads?
does the vision change for you or has it always been the same?
do you imagine too much or not often enough?
are these questions even helping at all?

-

it helps to communicate on a regular basis.
to communicate wisely, to communicate with purpose.
when truth is twisted and tugged at the knots, what is your sole reason for every movement?
action? decision?

how much further do we dig our rabbit holes before we realize there shouldn't be any in the first place?
when will we realize we've been far too privileged?

-

sometimes the day can seem cloudy and suffocating even,
but never let 'it' / 'them' consume you.
never. and remember.

performing a portrait

when repentance is a factor of conversation, competition. when modesty becomes a runway show more than anything else. you get an A for effort for sure. but you also get daggers for friends and devils for companions. and before you know it, the rewards flow through your fingers like sand. nothing but an empty soul clothed in tracing paper. 

steady now, hold your horses. pull the reins back and get back down. 

stop moving. 

just. stop. 

the concretes of youth

still stands strong. 

in the same shade, texture. 

architecture. 

for if these walls could talk.

and if they could capture the innocence of now, before and yonder.

and if. 

will twenty years from now still see you.

see me, seeing you. 

it was impossible to think of it before.

it could be possible in the future. 

but will it still stand strong? 

or pretend to even look it? 

will i still remember? 

do i even want to, then? 

--- 

memory lane is not a funny place to visit. not in the least. 

the tongue that tastes

make or break with words you said. diminishing all forms of thought and memories made. with a single sound or sigh that punctuates your breath, you either kill a moment or immortalise it. unknowingly, yet with full intention. 

--- 

the day has been blessed with good food, laughter and a whole lot of patience. >> such virtue which i once thought only existed in a parallel world. perhaps i should give myself more credit than i usually do. perhaps i should. 

of space and intrusion

let security and stability not be the root of your evil. not even your own flesh and blood. for to break into the homes of others as your bread and butter is not only maniacal but also guarantees your throne in your version of paradise. 

--- 

last night i dreamt of SAA and the late uncle M. of new garb, new shoes and new shelter. 

dreams can be uplifting. 

listened to le tigre and kate nash. 

the bigger sin

recent studies have shown that envy > regret.

it’s torturous and
it’s sadistic.
it’s pure murder.

what do you achieve with comparisons and what do you achieve with ‘what ifs’?
absofuckinglutely nothing.

so why bother?

unless of course.

you thrive on pain.
you live for suffering and.
you gain joy from beating yourself up  with what you coulda/shoulda/woulda.

-
right, then.

listen to ‘saturday looks good to me’.