Can You Repeat The Question?

Passive.

The “yes but…”s and “maybe”s, the sputter of weak, half-assed agreement that rolls off your tongue, obscuring your genuine thoughts.

The sorries that stumble out from muscle memory, by sheer exasperation, too weak to leave.

Petty words by a petty thing.

But why?

Perhaps it is from fast-paced conversations, your replies washed away by the natters and laughter from quick-witted one-liners you wish you’d have thought up.

Or perhaps it’s merely from the lack of interest – Whatever you say.

Or. Perhaps you don’t know yet. Perhaps the extra five minutes you spend trying to construct the perfect joint makes your mind wander – idly twining words past spoken to people. Fragments of conversations stick, bits and pieces of keywords failing to form coherent sentences.

 

“Yes, no…. maybe. I don’t know.”

 

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No Glitter

You want the photos but not the smell

of petrichor and saccharine garbage water

permeating the humid city of Kuala Lumpur,

You want KLCC but not the streets of Chow Kit

Dimly lit in nightfall with leathery-skinned uncles on basikal buruks

Pedalling hefty folded cardboard boxes bound by fraying tali rafias.

Not the pitter patter of footsteps crossing from one road to another,

tiny children laughing on their makeshift playground.

 

You want the #nofilter on your face –

strike a pose between undulating hills, exuding the all too common image of ‘wanderlust’

but not the back alleys scattered with cockroaches and

pudgy rats satiated by the abundance of waste to devour

where the mamak stalls set base

but that’s where the good nasi lemak is.

 

You want the glitter that comes with living but not the dust

that trails after.

You want the easy

– but who doesn’t?

 


 

A two-minute, half-baked ramble about things I’ve noticed recently with people – myself included. We all need a good slap of reality – because asking why can’t everything be easy is like screaming into the void and waiting for your echo to bounce back.

 

 

 

 

FLY ME ON A ZEPPELIN

I keep coming back to them. It’s been years. They were there when I was fourteen, nineteen, and now, twenty-three – I just keep coming back.

As I grow older and the more I get exposed to music, the more I start to appreciate it. Led Zeppelin feels like finally being able to absorb your favourite book from start to finish, in its entirety.  There are things that will only make sense when you know how to make sense of it.

For one, you get to appreciate the incredible distinction of their playing and the absolutely batshit unpolished rawness they exuded, back when heavy music was just starting to rise. It was different, new, and the combination of Page’s guitars + Plant’s high-pitched guttural wails was almost like a breath of fresh air – if fresh air smelled like thick cigarette smoke, running beer taps and the occasional cold wind blowing. People loved that shit. It was the era of experimentation, the vast divide between what kind of music was accepted and what wasn’t were slowly closing in, lines were blurring and it was exciting because the notion of rebellion often is.

But among all the 6-minute solos, the orgasmic moans Plant was fond of doing on stage and JPJ’s incredibly underrated precision on the bass, the one thing I love about them are the sentimental values that seem to come with listening to them. Of course it would be sentimental. You can fall in love with the music, you can fall in love with the ingenuity that strings these puppets but where is the impact if it’s not sentimental?

Their BBC Session was the first album that I’d listened to – and it makes me remember long drives in the car with my father. We used to drive back to Kelantan (that was an 8-hour long drive back then, mind you) and I’d be in the front seat, picking out which album I wanted to listen to and my dad would explain what made the album tick.

He would give me in-depth explanations about them. Like.

“Jimmy Page was in a band called The Yardbirds with Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck. They did okay music, but Yardbirds was a stupid name, let’s be honest.”

Very in-depth. Very.

I remember listening to Stairway for the first time and I fell in love, much like everyone else did. Completely and utterly in love with the melody – and at this point I realise I’m geeking out over one of if not the biggest rock song in history but you know, I’d imagine other people to have felt the same when they heard it. And being able to play it was my biggest achievement when I was in my teens.

I don’t really know how to end this post. Obviously I’d just spent a whole post gushing over a band that is well over their 60s by now. 70s, maybe? I just have a lot of feelings la.

 

 

Wants

There was a quote in The Alchemist that goes:

“And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

I have this theory that once a person reaches a certain point in their life, the only thing they will think about is their own welfare.

Everything else is irrelevant.

Whether it’s the want to pursue a dream, or the desire to fall in love, we come to a point where we choose to have nothing but happiness for ourselves. What makes us happy? What can we reap from the overflowing abundance of possibilities the world has sown?

The journey will suck, like a big, fat wrecking ball constantly taking a swing at your stomach – nobody said it’d be a breeze but I’m willing to gamble that it’d be worth it.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a boat that’s rocking perilously between jagged rocks and still water. Like two halves of the world split in between the wooden planks underneath my feet.

If I could just dip my foot into that clear water…

So the waves will slow, to gently lap the boat and sway it to a steady rhythm.

If I could only reach out and take what I want. I want to be able to do that, because despite the fears I have to overcome, I know I want this.

Self-reflection makes you realise things. Like what you really want and what you deserve; they provide you this sense of comfort knowing that you’re one step closer to this vague glitterbomb underneath the Maldivian blue waters we so-call happiness.


 

Smoke and Mirrors

I’m sitting on black wisps of smoke with my eyes closed. 

I smell the singe of thick, burning locks permeating the air; whispering their silly mantras like saccharine hisses caressing my ear. 

My body sways gently to the crackled melody humming from underneath my bottom, lilting experimental choruses; thick with distortion. Soothing. 

A smile creeps. Not from the smoke, not from the music – but this roller coaster jerking up and down on weathered tracks, it keeps me alive. 

Because who knew one could find a fucking pinprick of light inside this void? Even with her eyes closed.

I’m overwhelmed by the mess in my life but underneath all this disgusting clusterfuck, I’m happy. That’s it. 

Keep At It

Today marks the second day of March. 2017 really is flying by like a breeze – but we say that almost every year. Anyway congratulations for surviving this long and if you’re still committed to your New Years resolutions, I applaud you.

My unspoken resolution this year was to create more. So far I think I’ve done a subpar job at keeping my YouTube alive, mostly because of the nitpicking but one thing is, thankfully, remaining constant; writing. I’ve been writing a great deal, whether it be scripts, ideas, or just random word vomits like this, I’ve just been writing consistently.

But one thing I realised was that the art of writing, especially online, is pretty much dying.

Why is blogging a dying art?

I was having a conversation about this a few weeks ago. It’s disheartening to realise most of my favourite bloggers have stopped a few years back. It’s a sad feat we have to come to terms with sooner or later, what with the presence of online videos where everything can be condensed into visually appealing 5-minute shorts. Why read when you can watch, am I right?

I know a lot of people who used to write. Used to. And I know people who still do, still keep blogs and still update once in a while.

My message to you is; please keep on writing. Please publish your words and make them known because you should never settle for fragments of your happiest memories trying to recall them. Write about them because words make you feel, words are powerful things, even more than pictures. It’s fluid and abstract but can be rigid and specific. Words mould the shape of our thoughts into what it wants to be.

 Keep writing, and people will keep reading. I will keep reading. Share me your thoughts, your hopes and fears, everything.