Muted Bass

new pages from the good book

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 05:34:58 +0800

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

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Solitude

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 05:43:56 +0800

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.

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Typing in the dark

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 06:40:12 +0800

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.

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reality

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:28:25 +0800

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.

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death

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:28:12 +0800

If I have to die, I want to do it on an old boat, floating effortlessly on the Pacific Ocean. I will build it with my own hands, this funeral boat. It won’t matter that I will be alone, it only matters that I will be there, on the brink of eternity, with nothing around me but what my mind makes of the world. I will have the eternal blanket of stars to cover my dead body, and I will have the rocking of the ocean to put me to eternal sleep. I will have the lullaby of the sea, the song of whales and birds to still my soul forever. I want, if even for a moment to be in a moment of absolute peace, even if that moment is the moment of my death. Life has too long denied me this peace, and I will find it in death.

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eternity

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:27:58 +0800

When the sun sets, and the night falls, I find it hard to imagine that I am living in the same world that I was in when I woke up. The world I woke too was bright, and loud, and filled with life, and the world at dusk becomes a magical place, and stays that way till I wake again. I see in the night unlimited possibilities for life. In the dark corners, under the brown light street lamps, and in all the places that people avoid. Darkness is the secret to the human soul, light is transparent, light is known and understood, but darkness is infinite, and beautiful. Darkness is so heavy it can be felt, it can be seen, it can be touched.

When I wake to the dark world, I walk aimlessly, music playing in my ears. I hop from oasis to oasis, noticing the absence of life, except in the small pockets of light. I shun these places and wander the dark. I see homes, warm homes, abandoned homes, and I imagine asking them if they would follow me, leave the light and travel the darkness for one night.

And finally the darkness holds stars, o how they shine. The infinite dark, and the infinite night sky with its blanket of eternal unblinking beauty. If I’m lucky I see the hole in the sky, a perfect circle of nothingness, and my eyes tear, and my tears reflect the most amazing sight in the world.

Till the sun comes again, I will cherish the night. Gods gift to me, and me alone.

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wall

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:27:40 +0800

I painted the wall with chalkboard paint. To leave messages to myself, to let others leave messages to me, or at least to give myself the dream of other people caring enough to talk to me on this wall.

I came home one day, and the message was there, from someone I don’t know, and it asked me “Who are you?” I left it alone, and walked backwards; I left my room, telling myself it’s a dream.

I returned, and the chalk scrapings described the girl of my dreams, in meticulous detail, in flowing verse, in beautiful sonnets. The wall said, “This is me”

I nervously picked up a bit of chalk, and in shaky handwriting wrote out the me that resided within my heart , I shared my dream of meeting her, of waking up with her, and letting the morning sun turn darkness into the world. “I love you” was what I wrote at the bottom of the words.

I slept that night with my body pressed against the wall, imagining it was her, and that she somewhere was doing the same the wall that faced her. I could feel warmth, alongside the cold of the night; I could feel warmth on my flesh that touched the wall.

She told me later that she never existed, that she never will exist. That this was all a dream. Finally she wrote, “When you wake up, I will die”

And I did.

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window

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:24:57 +0800

I see through the window people who will never know me. They live their lives in absolute ignorance of me and each other, and yet I craft a story for them. They’re star crossed lovers, divided by cement and mortar.And sometimes I put myself into the stories I make, I dream myself to be their hero, swinging in to save the day. Liberating them, and watching them embrace for the first time. Its warm, the feeling inside.

All the while they live their lives, she adjusts her TV antenna, and he does his homework, his football banners hanging loosely out his window.

Sometimes I perform to them, my audience, and I enjoy my fantasy where they know me, and applaud me, she in her night gown, he in his boxers. “Bravo!” they shout across the alley. I take my bow, gracefully and without shame.

And when their curtains are drawn, I imagine the secrets they don’t want me to see, his drug problem, and her secret lover. His porn addiction and her bondage gear.

And when they’re not there on some nights, when their rooms lay empty and abandoned I stand by my window and wonder where they are. My close friends, who will never know me, nor each other.

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old man, the street sweeper and a basketball

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Sat, 31 May 2008 11:00:17 +0800

PHOT0021

I asked myself 3 questions before I left the house this morning. And as I walked, I answered them.

The old man answered my first question. He was shambling along in the morning sun, barely conscious of the world around him. His lips were muttering words only he could hear, or understand. The second I walked past him, I found my answer. Yes, the day will come when you will no longer even remember the problems today , or yesterday, or all the yesterdays before. By that time I will have had so many years on my back, that I too will be like him. Shambling along, barely sane, or almost insane.But for now, I still remember yesterday, and I had to know. I turned around and mouthed my first question, why do I do what I do? And having already answered he walked away without even asking for a thank you.

The street sweeper glared at me. He couldn't have been much older than me. And he was sitting inside a drain, his face drenched with sweat. He glared at me. Who am I? He answered me, I am not you, you will never become me. So why do you ask?. You will always be you, and you will always ask stupid questions.

The basketball rolled to my feet, at the bench at the corner of my park. The ball made made me aware of my surroundings. And I knew why I was alone. Because I chose to be. I tossed the basketball back to the kids playing by the swings.

Why do I do it? its because I am unaware of my world. I walk in a fog of self deception and imagined worlds. To an outsider I would be a rambling useless retard. At least the old man has served society.

Who am I? I am a fool who knows nothing more than to ask stupid questions, and to look for the answers like they were the greatest treasures in the world. Asking them takes no effort, requires no strain, and serves no purpose. And thus I am purposeless, and have been for a long time.

And finally, I am alone because I choose to be. I long ago decided that for this period of time,these days and these nights, I would be alone. For penance, or poetic justice. I do not know.

And I do not care. My questions have been answered. And now, I cease to be.

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the blue in your eyes

nobody@vox.com(pravoxian) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 02:34:49 +0800

The blue I imagine in your eyes remind me of an ocean I looked upon once. The sea was not as blue as others, but the black of the beach made me see a blue so rich I never forgot it. I see it on your eyes now, though they may be the deepest black, I see a blue within that is richer than my remembered ocean.

Im falling into someones eyes again, how typical of me, to fall in love with someone Im in love with
How typical of me, to fall for someone I cant have.

But the blue of your eyes, they make me forget my ocean and my conscience.

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