When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain
Siren's Song
Thursday, October 02, 2003
It's astounding how easily memories long put away in hidden neural caches are recalled when and where one least expect it. An attempt to seek relief from a mug of sizzling, bubbly Diet Coke evoked fiercely intense memories, raining on me with a desperate ferocity. No, streaming, gushing, surging at me.
Carefully tilting the polyethylene bottle to fill my faithful Lycos Asia mug;
Bartender pouring yellow sparkling champagne into a flute glass.
Singapore;
Melbourne.
Mmm.. Melbourne. The word runs over the tongue like sweet honey turned bad.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Mugger alert! Exams in six weeks. May I find myself. May I, please.
9:30 PM
This above all: To thine ownself be true.
How profound. How can I be true to myself when I can't even be sure of my own identity. Who am I? After twenty-one years I'm still working on Project Me. The idea of self: ephemeral, evanescent, fleeting, fugacious. If one can never step into the same river twice, then one can never see, or feel, or hear, or speak to the same person another time. Each contact, each experience is momentary, passing, and short-lived.
I've been silly today. I've thought too much. I've assumed too much. I've played one too many mind games and dreamt up more make-believe scenarios then I could handle. I'm screwed. My brains are fried. My neurons feel like totally stretched out elastic bands, threatening to snap anytime. My sanity, thin, like butter spread over too much bread. My soul, worn out, like a well-sucked lollipop.
I wanna be myself. I want to know a certain set of traits, a definite personality profile, a look, a style, that screams ME! ME! ME! Who am I, really, who am I?
Longing, pining, yearning, thirsting, craving. Waiting for someone to come and sweep me off my feet. Someone to whisk me off to Never Never Land, where one never wither and grow old.
Childhood. Has anyone seen my childhood? So what if one has? So what if one has not? I didn't give much thought to it until other people told me it's warped and twisted, bent and demented. Have I grown up different? Am I still the same? I do not know. You tell me.
I'm weird. An outlandish oddball. Peculiar, queer, strange. Weird's fine. Weird's good. Everyone's got his or her own weird streaks. Some have more than the others, that's fine too. Do I wanna be normal? Do I comprehend what's normal? Gomen.. watashi honto ni shiri masen.
Why am I blogging this? Why am I questioning myself, literally. Questioning my identity. Jaded. Am I jaded? Perhaps not, perhaps so. No one knows for sure. Not even me.
They say rhyming's lame. Is that so? Well, apparently it's not everyone's game. Should I go read stories on Mother Goose or Brier Rabbit then? Goose and rabbit, tortoise and hen. Wu gui. Turtle. Terrapin. Blah.
I weep. I bawl. I sob, and I end up sore. Aw, am I rhyming again? I tried not to. Words always come together when my world's falling apart. Always. As though it's to compensate for catabolism of my world. Conservation of energy, aye?
