trial-n-error404

[trial-n-error404]

MINT

White fog... Looking out the 6 square window with wooden red frame, the streets light shines ever so dimly. Fascinatingly parked are the containers of red, blue and yellow; though, black is most often found in the midst of all the in between. Puddles of orange orb with black outliners seems to run the road meters to inches; with depth of two 300ml jam jars being the most common. I’d reckon the lady walking her cat had a good dinner near al’aete; pacing herself ever so elegantly. A red cardigan styled with a white dress inside, tangled with the leash and collar of its ragdoll, of which, are also a fun colour of paled beige. Shimmering splatter both seem to shake, off with their blooming white lilies, it’s begun.

The bell rung, towering the whole city with its upbeat downbeat hum, 12 o’clock; once, twice, ringing a couple to hit a dozen times, before it stops, settling tonight with a dense wave of movement heard and untouched. A whistling chimes through the window I leaned, the sound of something tearing through the leaves of splinters; the late night winter breeze, finding another, a lovers’ play. Almost able to imagine, how the sounds rouse the feelings of those in their wake; a soft nudge, a loud impact sending shivers and smiles tumbling onto the face of those that are still wide-eyed. I am wide-eyed and awed again today.

Dazzled wishes, a muffled bark was heard... Another man I encounter walking through that same old ‘valley of doom’, at least, that’s what the tourists likes to call it; but for us locals, it’s a shortcut to ‘Tre’poule, the lake of Seimour. Legend has it, that those who meets a new unintended friend in the lake ‘Tre’poule, often times grow to become forever lovers. It is derived from the romantist Seimour where he meets his wife Jrenn in an incidental stumble into the lake; notes were inferred that, the night of which “I was in a hectic rush to find a metallic circle I’ve set flying through the sky, in an accident, where it fell right next to where Jrenn stands when I went to pick it up.” “She wore a white dress styled with her red cardigan, taking her cat out for a walk, leashed up in white as well. While I... I wore a classic sapphire coat, black shirt and pants, with somewhat of a half-way broken vest.” “We hit it off as friends, and became the best of lovers.” And as fascinating as this legend goes, another myth stumbles through. Often times you could see the silhouette of the two, falling once again at ‘Tre’poule; the woman’s soft pace, and the man’s soft chase, reincarnating, the same scene, every pulse, the same prismic lead.

And I saw, a sustained encounter right there at ‘Tre’poule. Another insistent yet guided old fuel. And a smile slips pass onto the surface of my yule. “I remember Seimour.” I remember every word that you wrote about the trepidation of our intertwined light; you said you love me darling, you said our love defies the views of our traditional culture. You brought alight, a concept so anew; my romantist Seimour.

I’ll follow you soon; this minted fog that clouds my vision every now and then shall hold me, and show me the path, of meeting you there. Wait for me, as I take my last breath.

‘Tre’poule; is a song you wrote for me before you were diagnosed; something you left to accompany me. -

Shimmering splatter,

A night with wonder,

Stumbling of a coloured platter,

The sounds chime, slowly factor.

A blue night,

Your blue eyes,

My paled skin,

Our white lies,

A small breath shall gather,

Till it no longer could matter.

No worries my darling latter,

I shall flow with love from our tattered.

‘Tre’poule my dear Jrenn;

Loving you, my dear Jrenn.

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QUOTE OF THE DAY:

"The test of the artist does not lie in the will with which he goes to work, but in the excellence of the work he produces." - Saint Thomas Aquinas

[trial-n-error404]

TO LIVE

She wakes up, a little tired in the morning.

she wakes up, staring at the ceiling.

She rolls out of the bed, put on her planned hoodie and the long jumper pants, matching ever so smoothly with her socks, shoes, and bag.

she stays awake, staring at the blank slate, contemplating her nights and days; thinking about her life and her state; trying to breathe in the air where she stays.

It didn’t take long till she got over the morning slum as she drives over to her university; it is her last semester, last exam, last day; a chapter, about over.

she washes her face and prepares herself for the day; though, there’s not much movement everyday; she had to push back her internship anyway; preparing to drive to the hospital in her current state.

She raised her hand as she finished going through the questions that she answered; she is done, finally done.

she waits by the corner chair, looking ever so calmly at the quiet but worried face of others alike hers; she wants to be done.

Walking down the stairs, overlooking the lake ever so always there; it was her determination at 13 which got her here, she had loved the lake since; and yet, during the full 4 years, she has never been near the lake.

Hearing the news of her condition, she’s unsure once again about the uncertainties and possibilities; a part of her never recovered, a part of her, that she’s left to constantly fight with, even though its been two years.

As she looks towards the vast lake, feeling the vibe of today; she saw someone feeding the ducks of the lake. And on this very day, she wants to start a change; an introverted person such as her, took the step, to start a conversation with the kind stranger that’s by the lake.

She’s left to herself, as she completes signing the documents and paying for the hospital fees. Where is her closest? It seems to her, that they were never near. Growing more blue, as time ticks by her; fading into residues.

She feels time flying by, taking in every second, the breeze on her skin, the slightly cloudy weather, the sound of the crows, the quaking ducks, the calm of the lake and the fish, turtles that comes up for the food. She feels as though; "that’s right, everything will be okay."

She feels everything slipping by, every unattached strings, every breakable seams, this storming reality; the bright sun today, couldn’t seem to light her clouded eyes. "How am I suppose to feel alright?"

She leaves her university that evening, she left a chapter behind, she smiled with light in her eyes; "I’m finally free to decide!"

She leaves the hospital with heavy steps, she’s stuck in this chapter where things seems to never end, she looks up towards the sky with tears in her eyes; "Let me be free, help me... help me..."

The joys of a new beginning. The cries for an ending. The feeling of fulfillment. The feeling of lack. "How far I’ve gotten." "How much further, till I could finally dance?" "I remember when I was still, why am I still, unable to stand?"

She was her. She will be her. Alike a cycle. Alike a strands. Every second, every change, every moment, different ways. Highs and lows always, in their own interplay. May the good times stay in this roller coaster ride, we have to take.

____________________

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

“Life has its own hidden forces which you can only discover by living.” - Søren Kierkegaard

[trial-n-error404]

UNSYSTEMATIC FEELS

Alike the paged up, etched scars that you see every so often appearing once or twice every week. The water that you let flow down your hair, right to your feet; standing atop the cold tiled floor, looking straight, down, with your unclear stance. He lets it sink; the transparent droplets slowly abashed his every piece of well-healed skin.

He turns the knob and head straight to drying his hair while looking at himself at the mirror. He saw another, another piece of symmetrical history that has been unconsciously popping up with every slow push he tilts in; it seems never-ending at this rate.

With his trousers on he heads towards the living room’s sofa; sitting still and looking up; he rethinks, in this tantalising quietness, spiralling a little out of control with every pint of expired liquid pouring into every cells that ‘pinch’ at his senses, his fading rhythm ignites with a drown of unyielding tide.

It is unclear how long time has passed him by, not until he heard the pattering outside his window; rain. Always, always, quieting down his brain. He stood up and walked over to look down at the terrains. The slow down cars, the opening of umbrellas, and the lit up lamp that powers on every time the sky darkens. For him, it is much quieter this way; feeling the liquor in his vein, dissipates. As if the eyes that pries his every stature evaporates, he is finally able to, rethink.

He is no longer abiding with the crucified case of self-hate. He was free years ago when he ran forward towards a different game; pacing himself slowly to adjust what his mind could portray and convey. A little knock of cold glass on his head, he recalls how everything became a clear ache. With no more new scars of his during a play.

Maybe it didn’t matter how the fizz looks in their wake; maybe it’s just a means of escape.To the world he was never normal in his wake; and to him, the world has always been abnormal to escape. This shaded landscape.

“I’m so done with this unsystematic roulette."

____________________

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

“There is geometry in the humming of the strings, there is music in the spacing of the spheres.” - Pythagoras

[trial-n-error404]

CRITICAL

‘Listen’

Take one deep breath and another shallow breath; as if stuck in the middle, you would know it when you start to stop; it’ll catch up. That’s why, swallow.

Walking by the streetlamp glowing ever so yellow, ever so dark; eyes wavering, a hitched up shiver, not too apparent but ever so impactful, it runs down your spine.

It’s cold winter tonight; “Got to rush.” At the very least, you have to finish finalising that document before you could eat, wash-up, sleep; and start all over again. And, as laughable as it sounds, it must never stop, it must be the same routine, every single day.

Nothing pushes you through anymore; “I no longer need it.” What you need are perfection, to move faster, towards the height of your own desire, you have to just be, at the top. What could even amount to your goals? What could amount to a quick left hook and an efficient right lane? What could amount to a fast shower with scrutinising gaze watching and nuancing every single thought and act that you play? What is your place?

“Listen.”

Sufficiently enough the document is finalised; time to go through the same routinely bath, the same amount of gel, the same amount of food, the same length of sleep, the same, ever so critically same.

“Your obsession, plain as day. Their obsession, in, you lay.”

Another day another night; one closed eye, another tired, but unable to rest its sight; forever gazing somewhere further, further away from your own fight. Always 3,000 meters further away, higher, into the ‘light’ of their game.

“Listen.”

“You have to Listen.”

Yes, that’s right; listening everyday, to the analysis, data, sets, of what they recall and shape. Their shape, their colours, their ways, their walk, their fame, their gains, their weight, their wake, their hate, their love and their hate, dwelling, dwelling, dwelling, forever and ever, in their lake.

Sleep, another shiver, another yellow black spot, another hitched breath, another nervous break in the neck; another one, another one, slowly closed her eyes and “listen.”

“You have to rest.”

“Too critical to take a nap.”

“You’ll end up somewhere, where you no longer am.”

And she took her last breath.

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QUOTE OF THE DAY:

"If you do not change direction, you might end up where you are heading." - Lau Tzu

[trial-n-error404]

DOUBLE MIRROR

Her eyes fluttered open in the middle of the night, adjusted to the dark, she breathes a sigh of relief. Beside her sleeps her man, a man of her dreams. From the curves of his lips when he smiles, to the bones deeply hidden by his flesh, it is he, her cure to survive. She crawled up and looked upon her man, the light that slithered through the cracks of the curtains, reflected on her by the mirror that sits on the left side of the room.

He has fallen deep asleep, no worries of the women beside him, trusting her with his vulnerability; he lets her hold his only escape, his life. He looks peaceful, nothing to worry about, his muscles relaxed. His hair softly covers his eyes, blocking the truth that lay before him, blocking reality. His openness clenched upon her heart, like a spider that has woven its web never to be destroyed. However, she could never let him leave, he shall never truly see the women that he believed.

She caressed his brown-like chocolate hair, wrapping it around her slender tensed fingers. She can’t help but to remember her doings, what she did in order to live. Thinking back, her hands cowers from the physical contact of his hair and her skin. She slowly got up from their bed, back facing her husband, walking towards the desk that held the mirror that she keeps.

There, she sat down with worries and fears that her wicked mind refused to understand; she dared not to understand. Lifting her trembling hand towards the mirror, she sees her own complexion; pale and tender, closing off the lid to a secret that corrupts her from within. The eyes that stared back at her were so filled with sincerity that it could blind a person’s world; the sincere naivety it held was so apparent to her that it grips tightly on her rationality, oh but how well she hides.

Her hand moved right, she lightly pressed upon the quiet double mirror. The mirror moved slightly, it opens up to a second layer, consisting of her frivolous thoughts. On it, words are seen written in red coloured dye, giving off a whiff of rotten blood and chapstick. She had planned their beginning, she had planned his despair; in her thoughts, she realized that only in despair can they meet, only in despair will he take her as his wife.

She took the hidden knife perfectly stuck onto the side of the second-layered mirror. She slit her finger, dripping her blood on top of the desk, right when the blood stopped flowing, she starts to write on the glass. She draws out the monsters that kept her awake, the constant whisper finally realizing on the reflective mirror. She felt relieved; her obsession hidden again, her role as his wife, her goal as his life.

After her spree, refreshed, she cleaned up the mess that she made, put everything back in place, closing the double mirror, she walked back to her designated place; beside her resting husband. She lays down, shutting her eyes close, forever living with the twisted truth that she holds.

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QUOTE OF THE DAY:

"Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

[trial-n-error404]

GHOST

There’s another side to everything, a side that nobody sees. The splattering droplets of rain hitting the ground and our window panes. Flourishing is the beauty that everyone notices on the surface of what its whole looks to be. Yellow, green, red, orange, blue, purple, and white, blooming it seems, to the eyes of those that aren’t the beholder.

She sat beside the noises caused by the embrace of water and glass. The cushion below her softens the creases between her brows. Quiet, she craves the one thing that she does not hold. In her own room, there’s no disturbance, or so it could be related to peace.

She lit a lavender-scented candle that sits in front of her, on top of a small glass table with matte black metal legs. The lights in her room were all off, her space neat and clean, so clean that you couldn’t even see a single dust speckle, whether physically or imaginatively.

She lays her head against the glass that separates her and the rest of the world; she and the out-stretching colours that plated the world’s surface with a beauty that was being portrayed by every living and non-living things. That’s when she calmed down, that’s when she realized, she’s safe; there’s nothing she’d have to hide against, nothing that she should cower in fear of; she could finally breathe.

Letting all her emotions in, into her heart that does not acknowledge its existence, she finds it difficult to live; but live, she shall continue. It haunts her truly, the unmoving force that quietly creeps in from the depth of our subconscious; they are, part of us. Like waves, they start to crawl up from our hearts to our brain, like storms, it starts to cloud our way; but we are safe, in this space, we are safe.

The memories of our entangled past flash before our eyes, reminding us of the days, our smile and tears; our rage, and our fears. We were thought to look not only into our past, but the future that each and every one of us holds. She lets it go, like a petal that falls down her hair by the sweep of the wind that passes us by; time. She starts to imagine a future, a future that she systematically wants, a want created from her past.

Two hours passed, she’s now figuratively calm enough to let it back in. She picks up the one thing that stuck to her, whether in difficult times or in her most serene phase. She lets the ghost back in, into her heart. Letting it out for a moment, probably calmed it down too; her shoulders now relaxed, eyes shut, she falls asleep. In her slumber, shall she see, the peaceful memories that her ghost keeps.

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QUOTE OF THE DAY:

“No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness.” - Aristotle