Lonely and drunk

The new year has gifted me with an energy to make the changes I need, and the changes that the world needs of me.
But for now, here are some pictures from my new years celebration at Mont Kiara, a time when i was happy, with people who are close to me

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The true core of having drunken sex is to understand that you're absolutely numb, and that the feelings you're feeling are completely and utterly psychological.

The numbness of booze starts in your nose, and radiates to your entire body, leaving nary a cell or molecule untouched and unmolested by its glorious blanket of unfeeling intoxication.
In the time it took you to pick up that chick you've been looking at all night, youre drunk, and so is she. Its the shared numbeness that brings you together, and you love every second of it.
You reach out with bloodless fingers and remover her top, and with blinded eyes you appreciate the sight before you, 120 pounds of alcohol marinated meat, writhing and twisting beneath the caresses of her lover, a specter that you cant see, even in your inebriated state.

"Let me take over baby" you whisper into her ears,as your hands find their way to her waist, and your lips to her neck.The moans that escape her mouth echo in your hearing,between the space destroyed by the speakers in that club and the region of sounds given to bats and dolphins.
A low guttural yowl escapes her mouth, and without patience or pretense you plug it up with your lips tongue teeth.

In the final moments of your memory playback, you direct her delicate fingers to the clasp on your pants, and then the film in your mind skips a few frames.

All you remember is waking up the next morning, with a mouth tasting like turtle poo, and a head ringing like a fire alarm.
And all that's left from the night before is the smeared lipstick on your dick and the ringing in your head.
And you're grateful for that.

Ive been told by people that I dream too much, that I put too much stock into aspirations and day dreams. And too a certain extent, I agree wholeheartedly. I do dream a lot, I get lost in my thoughts more often than I care to remember.

But more and more, I get the feeling that certain dreams aren't achievable no matter how hard you try. A person will be captured by obligations, and responsibilities, and dragged to the ground, kicking and screaming, as he watches his one purpose in life fly away without him.
This image has been stinking up my mind with fear and self doubt.

I have a dream of wandering, traveling, getting lost, and disappearing. In that order.

So I wonder, can I dodge, avoid and otherwise escape these obligations?
With careful and meticulous planning, maybe.

I need to avoid falling in love, I cant buy a house, I can't rack up too much debt, I can't get injured or sick, I can't let anyone become dependent on me, and vice versa, and I need to save up a metric fuck ton of cash.

Easy as kittens.

But how does one avoid falling in love? If it isn't obvious already, I am an extremely hopeless romantic, so this point provides a particularly difficult challenge for me.
I could avoid all relationships for the next 5 years, but that would just make me a very sad man. I could compartmentalize my emotions...fat chance. Or I could just fuck around, avoid emotional commitment where possible.

Fuck it all.

Its hard for me to think these days, to link threads of perception to those of revelation and realization, where once it was so easy for me, to just take a deep breath in an empty field and know that I would have answers by the time I finished exhaling.

Is this the death of my mind?  
Or is the complexity of my problems slowly growing?
The latter.

This internship has made a whole new world of issues, doubts and regrets burst out of me like an arterial bleed. Realizing that I am barely a microscopic speck in the big picture was something I needed, something I had been waiting for. Just a brief glimpse into the wide world, to know how big you really are. This new perspective has been a blessing, and it has been a hard one to accept.

Ive been rambling, I apologize.

Back to the matter at hand. Can I avoid all obligations and responsibilities that could tie me down to this place?

Maybe.

is it going to be hard?

Fuck yeah.

Is it going to be worth it?

God willing.

And with that, this entry is ended.  

I often have dreams about this place. And when I say dreams, I think I mean nightmares. This place has the look of a nightmare. It is surreal, and scary. It is dark, and dusty, and like my dreams, the room reflects me darkly. Like a mirror made of oil, or blood.

Dust, or ash, colors everything a duller grey than the concrete underneath it, and the mixed odor of cigarettes and sweat makes me wince. It’s the smell of a slow death. The type you get when a person runs his car his garage and count back from ten, or in a room where an old man is left to rot by his children.

In my dreams, I am the figure now sprawled on the ground, cigarette butt in between my fingers, bottle of amber liquid standing next to my spread arms. But whoever this person was, he had led a far sadder life. His near naked state and his gnarly matted hair spoke of a long hard life. And the saddest part of all is that I am the only person who will know of his death. And I don’t want to imagine the people who knew of his life. For they left him here, alone

His ashtray is full; he must have forgotten to empty it before he died.

I am here to bury this man, or to cremate him, or to toss his body into a river. This man planted the dreams in my head when I was a child. He chose me to perform his last rites, before I ever knew him. And the reason I am standing here, not moving, is that I can’t understand the reason for his choice.

Am I going to die like this?
Because when I dream, I am the figure on the floor.

I can’t say that I have lead a great life. But to imagine that I will die like this man, this rotten shell of an existence, makes me feel cold.

If I don’t give him a funeral, can I escape this fate? If I don’t accept his death, maybe I can change mine.
Lying to myself never worked so I stop. When you feel a cold this intense, on a hot summer day, you know you’re in the presence of truth. The mind cannot accept this scene, pulled from its darkest places, and made real in concrete and flesh.

When I lift him onto my shoulders, his last breath escapes, and the cold deepens. I am locked into this reality now. I have taken his last breath as my own, and someday I will breathe it into a concrete room like this one, or into the ear of another hapless fool like me.

To die like he lived, it was the one message the dreams always made clear to me. He wished to die like he lived, and who am I to deny him that.
I drop his body into a steel barrel, and pour the still full bottle of cheap booze over him. I add a bottle of gasoline I usually carry around. And in the dying light of the sun, I set him ablaze. I light a fag on the flames, and speak a few words. It only seemed proper.

As I leave, I make a mental map to this place; I’m going to die here after all. Don’t want to forget a place as important as this.

Copyright Praveen Kumar 2008

Working hard or hardly working. When I’m in the office, dumb work jokes like these keep popping into my head. And I take it as a symptom of one thing. One, I’m finally here, in the working world, and my mind is mocking my body and brain, mocking the ease at which I allowed myself to be assimilated into the rat race. And I retort, advertising is as relaxed and creative a rat race as there is. Where else could one write all day, and be paid for it. I sit down with other funky people, and we wax innovation and creativity. We talk about ideas, and wonderful dreams. And then we turn the intangible thoughts into paper and spoken word. It’s an invigorating profession. 

I can honestly see myself doing this for a good long time, and loving it.

And one day, when I’m content with my legacy, when I’ve left behind enough to satisfy society, I’ll walk away. I’ll walk around the world; I’ll walk into the dreams of the world. And I’ll see it all.

The end justifies the means. In this case, the means is just as important as the ends. This industry might break me, it might make me cynical and jaded, but not without a fight. And if I survive, I’ll be better for it.

There is a girl, as there always is with me. and she lives in a special place, in a special time, locked in a photograph.
This girl lived in a dream, as the best ones always do.

This girl was real, but I loved her in my dreams, and only in my dreams. In the real world, I couldn't stand her, she made me angry, and I her voice felt to me like cats being gutted.

But god, i was in love with her

So this girl, in my dream once told me that if I ever took a picture of her, the real her, I could keep her forever. Sealed away in this place within my skull, to relive and relove till eternity burned the stars away.

I took the picture, in some vain insane hope. The hope of madmen. But after the first day, I realized that she was all I could dream about.

So I took the picture in my hand, and with my cigarette I burned it away, piece by piece. And in my head her screams resonated, her screams burned away all of me. and I was left there an empty shell, with a burnt piece of paper in my hand, and ash around my feet.

This girl, in my dream, doesn't exist anymore, and I feel like a murderer. I murdered a dream, one who came only to me, in my darkest hours.

And with the same vain hope, I wished upon all that I could undo it, I wish maybe I could have fallen into that dream and never have woken up.

A madmens hope.

Too lazy to type anything. So here are some journal scans.

I realized something,I enjoy being alone.
Dont get me wrong, I enjoy the company of my friends immensely, I love partying and just chilling over a cold drink, but I dont mind being alone. I know people who cant stand being alone, I cant recall more than a few people who enjoy it as much as I do.
 
Solitude doesn't mean loneliness, i guess thats what Im trying to say. At least for me, because Ive always got a running dialog in my head, with whatever embodiment of my mind sees fit to respond to me.

Solitude to me means not having to be ashamed, not having to be self conscious, not having to lie. Being alone is a blissful respite from the expectations and obligations to the world and its people. I feel more secure when I'm alone more than any other time I bother to recall.

I remember having a dream, one of the earliest i remember having, where Im walking in an endless void, I remember thinking in that dream that this void was amazing, and beautiful. I guess my mind always knew that I would be here at this point in my life. My mind always knew that I would encounter a time where I would not have a choice but to accept being alone, and it steeled itself for the long winter.

There is such a beautiful melancholy to this realization of mine, so much so that I am happy to have stumbled upon it.

I like being alone. And that is all that is keeping me afloat in this beautiful void.

I guess this is the first real journal type entry Ive done in Here. Where to start.

First and foremost I guess, I lost the afro =D

Got bored of it, plus I found out to some people I was just that guy with the afro. A bit of a creepy realization that I had become the guy with the weird hairstyle that every college has.

Life has been decent enough, I have been productive enough for my conscience. made a short horror movie that came out okay. Kinda working on the script for one more now. And Ive been jamming with my new semi band. Right now its mostly me on vocals with two guitarists, one maybe drummer and no bassist. Not for lack of trying mind you.

Khairi, Lead Guitar

Izzat on rythm

In other news, I MOVED! 2..months ago.  My apologies to whomever it concerns. Havent done ANY decor yet for my room, so its just me, my pc and my books for now. Thats the problem with moving from a closet spaced room to this swimming pool sized space.
I dont have enough stuff to fill my sudden wealth of emptyness.

I guess I dont really feel the need to write in blogs as much about life and shit. I scribble enough of it in my paper journal that whats left feels unworthy of a post.

But Ill try to keep writing as much as i can, now that my constipation level writers block has died. I think Ive identified a style Im comfortable with, Im trying to meld Haruki Murakami's flowing poetry-like prose with Neil Gaiman-ish character concepts and dialogue styles. Yea, thats not gonna be hard.

The sun shone through the window in tones of sepia and red. Just enough sun to make out that I was alone. No lover lay next to me, no warm body to comfort this soul. For too long have I dreamt that lover to reality. For too long have I seen something in nothing, where there has always been nothing. If I squint, I can see the outline of what she could look like, real and unmoving, deep in slumber, her lipstick smeared, and a slight noise escaping when she breaths. If I am to have an angel such as she, it will be long after these words have been forgotten. It will be long after I come to terms with the reality of being a person. An unperfect being in an unperfect world.

We strive to find the perfect person in all of this,forgetting that they too will be a making of this world, flawed and grimy, sweaty and blemished. But to us they will always be the perfect thing in the world. Our eyes turned blissfully blind by the need to be for one real waking moment, happy.