Untitled

It's now 9.15 in the morning and I just finished marking two loads of assignments. I have been up for nearly 18 hours and I am just about to collapse. I'm writing this entry because I think I've achieved a superhuman feat. Thank God for cigarettes.

It's true. There's no such thing as a teacher anymore. We're just markers. That's what we are; just markers honey. We spend the best part of our lives scribbling on paper. What could we have achieved if the bastards in universities paid us more to teach? That would be a different world I think.

I'll die soon and reincarnate as a pen. Then at least I'll be more useful.

Caliginous Bastion

I come to you again impenetrable,
Hard, cold, shaped by the hands of Gods;
I come to you again as beast,
Careful, instinctual, destructive.

I lay out my palms to feed hungry ghosts,
Those pathetic souls I have devoured;
Shame and remorse bleeds my soul,
Obnoxious joy and ecstacy escape my lips.

I have regained my bastion of power,
This caliginous habitat of mortar and stone;
It is me, I, myself, mine,
All these bleak characters that makes my home.

I ask you to come sit by the fireplace,
This ashed corner of debris;
Then have a sip of my luxurious wine,
My special odourless taste of apathy.

You don't like my place?
This nonchalant peace that surrounds;
You don't like the faded drapes?
My shadow companions make no sound.

You are tired and you detest my place,
This home that whispers nothing;
You should take a bed and share my hearth,
And I shall show you blissless moaning.

You leave now and say no more,
You always do stranger;
Go play with those wretched things,
Those colourful mounds of beating hearts.

Wait! Where are you going?
You are going away;
Where is home stranger?
A happy place stranger than mine.

You will come back one day,
Oh, you will when you hear the sirens sing;
And you will join in my dark song,
This de-spirited melancholy with toxic sting.

Unrequited

Unrequited is when you give and you have given so much, you forget to take.

Unrequited is when requiting shows the glint of its edge. Requiting is to return the feeling of love, of honesty, of sincerity. Requiting is also to avenge the lost of love, of honesty, and of sincerity.

Unrequited makes you a fool for always giving and asking nothing in return. And by proffering a hand to the body of sorrow, we leave ourselves a hollow.

Unrequited is always the music - the clown dances the aleatoric steps of chance. It provides the impetus for a mask of pain, of joy, of lies and deceit. It will never reveal the organs of pure affectivities. The music refuses virisimilitude.

Unrequited will give one thing - tears. Whatever you see, wherever you see, always, always a gossamer of what could-have-been. Of what may-have-been, will never be.

Unrequited bars the soul in a chain of its own stupidity. It tightens the chest till there is but a breath of agony that escapes the lips. And those chains will circle around the neck, arms and thighs till a silver of blood glistens beautifully against the skin.

Unrequited is the basis of my existence. I thrive in its sadistic charm. I live the odour of its malaise. I don't know why. I can't help it. It always just seems to be the reason for all that I endeavour. In love, in hate, in sorrow, and in wretchedness. Always, always, unrequited.

Banality

I over did it this last six months. It has been a journey indeed. I have never been so swamped with work. Approximately 200,000 words to mark, a journal article to correct, another journal article to write in two months, shifting houses, collating marks, memorising 60 pages of script for a play, and over exhaustion by men - I've got it all this year.

There are times, quite frequent I must say, that I just wish to sit back and moan. To find a place of silence and quiet and just exhaust myself through the incessant exhalation of breath. A contradiction you say? Yes, yes... I remember my last posts. But I'm no longer alone now. I have found company in the most unexpected way. As fleeting as these moments of joy would be, it is still wonderful while it lasts.

I sit here in the cold feeling nonchalant. I don't know why I'm writing this. It's so mundane. I have no energy to write an interesting post. I guess it's just to fill in the vacant gaps of time. These rare moments when I do have time, I waste it on the cyber-vandalism. But I guess it is important to relish in the banal and prosaic. More often than not my life is over-exciting. I don't know how I do it, but somehow, there's always the dramaticism of soap-opera that seeps into my everyday life. I live genres.

And so another day arrived and another day will past. I am sutured between the interstices of time and memory. May the Gods take me from liminia.