the idea of you

.   .   .

When I awake, you appear casually. Almost, as if you were waiting for me. You smile, tilt your head to one side, and part your lips;

you are about to say something. 

Then,

you don't. Nothing. 

Because like most things, I have only grazed fragments of you. 

I went to my first concert, expecting to find a break in rhythm. Instead, I remained 

in an elusive trance, brainwashed by melody and illusion. 

I found myself neglect in crowds, so I searched for you, in the presence of 

yesterdays and tomorrows. A blur. So slight, so astray. 

I walked through the place you called home, trying to steal the softness of 

sounds, the sweet scents, and savour them as stimuli. 

I starved myself of separation. A servitude to the looking glass, robbed me of 

sensibility, and substituted a frame of pristine symphony. 

You are sabotage; no need for arsenal, as I will always surrender. A reflection diluted, all thoughts besieged, a self invaded: you manifest me.

You are simply an idea, a theory, a judgement, that I have altered, refined, evolved. An idea thought so often, it could induce resurrection. 

Yet, I cannot sense any of you: touch, smell, taste, hear, or see you. 

You are vague: a wisp, an essence, a gist.

And you toy with the idea of me.

I am your echo. Call, and I will follow.

A mere greyness; not enough to overcast.

I sift through you, far from being grasped.

.   .   .

living loud

It feels like October didn't even happen, as if I haven't really felt the shift in time, or temperature, or anything else for that matter. 

I know that I have long postponed to write, and now, while I have this time, I might as well. It wasn't like I didn't think about writing, nor was it a simple case of 'writer's block', I honestly just acquired laziness. I did eventually start my job this month, but there are still other hours in the day, even five minutes of writing is better than none at all. It just feels like as soon as I step through the door when I get home from work, my body starts shutting down and couch-potato-mode switches on. That very ambitious Cindy aiming to write at least one post a week, has slowly dwindled, as if to mimic those autumnal leaves losing their fresh vibrancy, that then fall unconsciously to the ground... I guess procrastination can almost be poetic?

I don't know, I seem to have this problem of focusing on one aspect of my life and neglecting the other parts, and I realise I have always struggled with this.

I saw Poliça and Glass Animals live this month, and they were honestly my first gigs I have ever been to. They were both incredible for different reasons. Though there were moments during their performances where I did think to myself, how did I not have the time for this; that pure feeling of being, being alive and breathing, sharing the same experience with so many other people, that sense of home in a swarm of human comfort you don't get everyday.

Ever since I had started secondary school in year 7, I undoubtedly isolated myself. I don't think there really was one explanation for it, or anything I was particularly isolating myself from; it was just how I felt I should be, what I thought was better, what I thought I deserved. Although I don't feel moments of solitude are a bad thing (which will come in another post), subjecting yourself to just a reclusive shadow of a form, really does not help you feel like you are alive. And it seems so obvious now, from the outside looking in, but being in it felt like a huge comfort blanket. To now think of all that time I had alone, I can't really think about what I actually did. I wasn't that solely focused on school, but I did prioritise it when there was pressure to get into university, though other than that, I feel like I often used school as an excuse to get out of things. I do know I spent too much of my time thinking about what my life could be, or could have been if I was 'enough', not using that time to really benefit myself in any way, nor enrich my life with experiences that I would really learn from or simply, enjoy.

I think a lot of the time, what was stopping me from those experiences, was not feeling like I had the right people to share them with, not feeling I was the right version of myself, or not feeling like it was the 'right' time. I was consumed with ideas, making things bigger than they were actually were, and not really valuing the small things, the constituent parts of my life that with balance, would make me feel like I was living.

This year, has been a gradual process in finding that balance. I wrote a list of all the things I have done since having left school, and it's filled with so many new things that I have managed to do in such a small space of time. School did definitely have its a weight on me, but I think I finally appreciate what time can actually do. Now that I seem to have grasped my new work routine, I will make more effort to get interested in things again, and hopefully will create more.

This month, I have never felt my own presence in the world 

as much as I have before. 

september slump

Among trying to secure a job, trying to remain productive, trying to obtain a foolproof plan for the rest of the year; this month has slowly but surely dragged. 

Maybe Septembers will always be like this: a tired, slightly melancholic daze attempting to sync into rhythm and routine from the aftermath of a seemingly infinite summer, or maybe it's 'just me'. Although I'm not at school, it still unsettingly feels like I am. And maybe that's where I was wrong, to assume that this year would be any less or more than the same, than the previous year, or the ones before, because I am exactly the same. 

I guess I thought that the ending of a routine that had been majority of my life so far, would somehow enable me to change or feel a sense of becoming, yet I have since realised that it's not the places, the things, or anything that seems concrete, inhibiting me from doing that, but rather the things that are more abstract, the inbetween. I currently feel suspended in the inbetween, that there is a gap between who I am and where I want to be, and as soon as I think that I'm closing in on that gap, I revert back into a crippling shell of insecurity and self-doubt, and have little motivation to come out of it again. It seems a lot safer that way, because of the familiarity of it all. Really, it will take more time; something that I have yet to acquire more of, is patience. 

And for someone who craves change, I do little to embrace it.  

As the slump of September slowly seeps away, I linger in the more hopeful hues of October. 

the waiting

As I'm writing this, I wait for the sounds to stop:
       
           the sounds of suppressed sighs, unsure beginnings, faltered hymns, murmurs of adolescents, exhausted childlike pleas, swinging of tired rusty metal chains,

           a flock of scavenging pigeons overcrowding a foreign pond, muffled voices, brief conversation, dull grey gravel that grind against each other as

           strangers stumble through, repetitive bouncing of a ball with no direction, exchanged pleasantries, nature's language of rustling leaves ready to fall,

           strands of hair dancing across paper, a maternal call, abrupt endings, a car reversing out of a compact space, clinking of keys against the door, night passing,

           retired approaches, guilt as a by-product of delayed answers, an overpowering laptop fan, brassy unnerving echoes, flashing screens, heavy breaths.

(I wait for time to pass.)

As I'm writing this, I wait for the strength in stillness.



~



A bit of a different post. 


I was thinking about a book I read a while ago titled, 'if nobody speaks of remarkable things' by Jon McGregor, and was incredibly inspired by the writing style. Often people think that there are rules to writing, but there really aren't any. I love how McGregor challenges that idea, and so I played around with the layout a lot.

When writing this piece, because it focuses mostly on the senses and especially sound, I just decided to go out and walk around familiar places, then stop in one place. As I tried to concentrate on the sounds I heard, I wrote them down in my journal that I brought with me. It's the first time I've done something like that, and it really challenged me to just stop and listen to what's going on around me.

So I deeply recommend you to try it, with any sense, because we often overlook the small things that make life remarkable.

"I say too much of what, he says too much of everything, too much stuff, too many places, too much information, too many people, too much of things for there to be too much of, there is too much to know and I don't know where to begin but I want to try."

- Jon McGregor, if nobody speaks of remarkable things