I am listening to Lana Del Rey over and over again. The pin-up model figured woman who sweetly mumbles her tunes through bee-stung lips. She invokes thoughts of sex; sweet and sorrowful.
There must be something tragic about romance, mustn't there? If it doesn't last, all the better. If it hurts, you're still in love and if you're still in love, life must still be worth living.
Sometimes the past is baggage and you've got to leave it behind to move forward but you can't stop thinking about the bag the moment you've stepped away from it. The more intent you are on moving forward the more you think about every item you had thought you could forget. The lips, the touch and that feeling in your chest; you remember every painful detail that had once enamoured you completely. Suddenly, you're once again infatuated like you were when you first fell.
I shall regret leaving that bag behind. I already do. But I guess, there's no turning back now. Anyone with half a brain would pick it up and leave with it. No one else would mind the weight of a treasure chest.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
The Artist.
I'm waiting on a friendly face
to see me through this quite queer place.
I'm dreaming and screaming but smiles are abound
but the face I know wears but a frown.
I'm playing the part of a mad genius
who loves the love that drives men furious.
I want to live in a heat so strong
that all who fear will call it wrong.
I want my veins to be filled with whiskey
and my head to be filled with none but me.
I wait so long, so long it seems
that I forget all these wonderful dreams.
I forget all the places I wanted to see
and the people and things I wanted to be.
So I bid thee farewell, oh confused bystander
Wasn't I a spectacle? The funny queer.
to see me through this quite queer place.
I'm dreaming and screaming but smiles are abound
but the face I know wears but a frown.
I'm playing the part of a mad genius
who loves the love that drives men furious.
I want to live in a heat so strong
that all who fear will call it wrong.
I want my veins to be filled with whiskey
and my head to be filled with none but me.
I wait so long, so long it seems
that I forget all these wonderful dreams.
I forget all the places I wanted to see
and the people and things I wanted to be.
So I bid thee farewell, oh confused bystander
Wasn't I a spectacle? The funny queer.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Back to blogging?
I am not sure why I ever took to blogging in the first place. Maybe I needed an avenue to communicate my thoughts to a few willing readers as the notebooks I scribbled in just reminded me of what a lonely arrangement it was.
Then one day along the line, being the lousy girlfriend sort, I just walk out on this blogging thing all together. I guess the idea of actually communicating my thoughts with a bunch of perfect strangers came to be frightening. Lovely, as all conversations with strangers are, but frightening because I become less and less strange to you. Well, I mean to say, I become familiar. And hence, predictable.
I'm sitting here in front of my laptop (that I swear is overheating) at 3 minutes to 11pm on a Wednesday night in November. I finished my very last examination possibly ever in June so do the math and figure out how long I've been without job. LOL. Yes, do LOL at my situation because I am trying to.
But, on the other hand, I know some of you think I'm bitching about a 'time in my life that will never come again'- till retirement. But I'm not bitching. I'm stating a fact that amuses me. That admission might make me look like a bum but honestly, I am not exactly bumming.
I'm trying to work on a startup, on getting a job and on other beautiful things that pay money so that one day I can get down to doing what it is I want to do which still is to write.
And I know I should be taking all this time to translate the sequence of images in my head into words that shall be printed in books but I lack the fucking motivation to. I know people say writers should just write but what if suddenly you lose the original feelings you had when you started a project. What if you change? Does the book change? It's the 3rd draft and now you feel you could never rewrite it and be happy with it so... burn it?
And so here I am again. Blogging. I doubt many of you would be interested to know the mundane details of my life and to suffer the even more excruciating notion of understanding my thoughts, whether you agree with them or not.
So, hello again, perfect strangers.
Then one day along the line, being the lousy girlfriend sort, I just walk out on this blogging thing all together. I guess the idea of actually communicating my thoughts with a bunch of perfect strangers came to be frightening. Lovely, as all conversations with strangers are, but frightening because I become less and less strange to you. Well, I mean to say, I become familiar. And hence, predictable.
I'm sitting here in front of my laptop (that I swear is overheating) at 3 minutes to 11pm on a Wednesday night in November. I finished my very last examination possibly ever in June so do the math and figure out how long I've been without job. LOL. Yes, do LOL at my situation because I am trying to.
But, on the other hand, I know some of you think I'm bitching about a 'time in my life that will never come again'- till retirement. But I'm not bitching. I'm stating a fact that amuses me. That admission might make me look like a bum but honestly, I am not exactly bumming.
I'm trying to work on a startup, on getting a job and on other beautiful things that pay money so that one day I can get down to doing what it is I want to do which still is to write.
And I know I should be taking all this time to translate the sequence of images in my head into words that shall be printed in books but I lack the fucking motivation to. I know people say writers should just write but what if suddenly you lose the original feelings you had when you started a project. What if you change? Does the book change? It's the 3rd draft and now you feel you could never rewrite it and be happy with it so... burn it?
And so here I am again. Blogging. I doubt many of you would be interested to know the mundane details of my life and to suffer the even more excruciating notion of understanding my thoughts, whether you agree with them or not.
So, hello again, perfect strangers.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A Strange Stranger
A strange stranger
stranger than the stranger that you thought you had known; is muttering and mumbling all alone.
I am in the mood for the random ramble, for the talk that leads nowhere but a comfortable place for those like me, the self-indulgent.
So it's a circle, where you start is where you finish but that by no means means that you don't move at all.
I think that the time in which I am most stimulated is when I think.
If my job were to think and I were to be paid based on the intensity of my thoughts rather than the content, I'd be a gizillionaire.
But that sort of random ramble, again, leads nowhere.
I know you think that I am not making any sense but what kind of sense do you want me to make? This is a feeling in my brain- organic, natural and a little bit vain.
So here I am again, writing for those who read what I chose to write, about nothing in particular- strong thoughts that may not be right. But I shan't debate the validity of my thoughts because I am self-worshipping and a lonely masturbator who has won without having to have fought.
I don't like this public display of affection- this personal and private exchange of emotion. But I do it because I need validation. I need to be heard as though I don't exist without an audience.
You're like me, you know. We think thoughts full of shit until that shit fertilises something; giving a chance to breathe and live, a dream. But you see, there's no point dreaming unless we can shove it in the faces of those whom we despise, whom we feel hurt us and told us delicious morsels of lies.
And in that true tradition, I am rambling, going on and on and on, drilling your nosy little brains hoping to stir something in you- to turn your eyes green and your heart black and blue.
But it is of no importance really. Someone told me that it doesn't matter why you want to succeed. It could be to make enough to buy a whore every other night. As long as you dream and act towards success- you're fine. But that, my friend, is just a comforting line.
You and me, we're both fucked. No matter how you want to put it- the fuckers that have fucked us over have changed us. We might not want to admit that they've won but they have and nothing you can do can change that. Though, you could win as well. You can tear them down to shreds and hope they spend a big portion of their useless fucking time thinking and obsessing over you and how you've won.
But winning like that makes you a loser again. See, we're back to square fucking one.
But that's just it. That's fucking life. You think you know yourself but you're just a strange stranger stranger than that stranger you used to laugh about. How fucking ironic, ey?
-Shana Azooi
stranger than the stranger that you thought you had known; is muttering and mumbling all alone.
I am in the mood for the random ramble, for the talk that leads nowhere but a comfortable place for those like me, the self-indulgent.
So it's a circle, where you start is where you finish but that by no means means that you don't move at all.
I think that the time in which I am most stimulated is when I think.
If my job were to think and I were to be paid based on the intensity of my thoughts rather than the content, I'd be a gizillionaire.
But that sort of random ramble, again, leads nowhere.
I know you think that I am not making any sense but what kind of sense do you want me to make? This is a feeling in my brain- organic, natural and a little bit vain.
So here I am again, writing for those who read what I chose to write, about nothing in particular- strong thoughts that may not be right. But I shan't debate the validity of my thoughts because I am self-worshipping and a lonely masturbator who has won without having to have fought.
I don't like this public display of affection- this personal and private exchange of emotion. But I do it because I need validation. I need to be heard as though I don't exist without an audience.
You're like me, you know. We think thoughts full of shit until that shit fertilises something; giving a chance to breathe and live, a dream. But you see, there's no point dreaming unless we can shove it in the faces of those whom we despise, whom we feel hurt us and told us delicious morsels of lies.
And in that true tradition, I am rambling, going on and on and on, drilling your nosy little brains hoping to stir something in you- to turn your eyes green and your heart black and blue.
But it is of no importance really. Someone told me that it doesn't matter why you want to succeed. It could be to make enough to buy a whore every other night. As long as you dream and act towards success- you're fine. But that, my friend, is just a comforting line.
You and me, we're both fucked. No matter how you want to put it- the fuckers that have fucked us over have changed us. We might not want to admit that they've won but they have and nothing you can do can change that. Though, you could win as well. You can tear them down to shreds and hope they spend a big portion of their useless fucking time thinking and obsessing over you and how you've won.
But winning like that makes you a loser again. See, we're back to square fucking one.
But that's just it. That's fucking life. You think you know yourself but you're just a strange stranger stranger than that stranger you used to laugh about. How fucking ironic, ey?
-Shana Azooi
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Great Books
A lot of time has passed since I last blogged. That was the beginning and now this is the end- of my 3rd year in university.
I realised, in terms of religion, I am exactly the same- glad when people find God, not so glad when they come to me undermining every seriously thought about decision I have ever made.
I remember back in school, I used to be quite a student, clinging on to the teacher's every point, trying to squeeze out every bit of nutrition from their words. I never took anything without understanding it completely and so it was no surprise that when it came to the subject of religion, I had a billion questions. Some times, some teachers would take the time to address my questions and rationalise certain seemingly dogmatic truths but other times, some teachers told me to shut it and just accept it. And that was me pre-university. I've become even more inquisitive and even less accepting of "FACTS".
And yet, now, more and more of my peers are finding God and shoving their views in my face. Considering every religious book is a book, religion should be approached like literature; a thorough study which never assumes anything for granted. These beautiful books was meant to be poetry in words.
How can anyone not spend their whole lives trying to decipher them? How is it that so many people can take a course of two and spent a relatively small amount of their time reading through it like it's some crass unintellectual crash-course manual on how to live?
For those of you who've never gotten into literature or really thought about it as even just an academic subject, let me just tell you that it's one of the toughest subjects out there. There are no theories nor is there some sort of absolute structure you can fall on. There is no acceptable common opinion without thorough argument for it and there are no line of words strung together that will be interpreted in exactly the same way by two persons.
This is the the kind of respect academicians and students of language have for these works and their authors.
If you believe God wrote the book you want to live your whole life by, can you truly do any less without coming off unreasonable and rash, premature and presumptuous or just plain out disrespectful?
NO.
I realised, in terms of religion, I am exactly the same- glad when people find God, not so glad when they come to me undermining every seriously thought about decision I have ever made.
I remember back in school, I used to be quite a student, clinging on to the teacher's every point, trying to squeeze out every bit of nutrition from their words. I never took anything without understanding it completely and so it was no surprise that when it came to the subject of religion, I had a billion questions. Some times, some teachers would take the time to address my questions and rationalise certain seemingly dogmatic truths but other times, some teachers told me to shut it and just accept it. And that was me pre-university. I've become even more inquisitive and even less accepting of "FACTS".
And yet, now, more and more of my peers are finding God and shoving their views in my face. Considering every religious book is a book, religion should be approached like literature; a thorough study which never assumes anything for granted. These beautiful books was meant to be poetry in words.
How can anyone not spend their whole lives trying to decipher them? How is it that so many people can take a course of two and spent a relatively small amount of their time reading through it like it's some crass unintellectual crash-course manual on how to live?
For those of you who've never gotten into literature or really thought about it as even just an academic subject, let me just tell you that it's one of the toughest subjects out there. There are no theories nor is there some sort of absolute structure you can fall on. There is no acceptable common opinion without thorough argument for it and there are no line of words strung together that will be interpreted in exactly the same way by two persons.
This is the the kind of respect academicians and students of language have for these works and their authors.
If you believe God wrote the book you want to live your whole life by, can you truly do any less without coming off unreasonable and rash, premature and presumptuous or just plain out disrespectful?
NO.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
