365: Ideation Fixation

365: Ideation Fixation 

Well alright let’s get this shit started
Not any storm cue or anything
Don’t worry, kid, I’ll bring
Some reels that I’ve been having lately
Nothing that’s, honestly, very greatly

That one time I remember you said
Yeah I love you but this is too much
What’s too much? What things such
Have made you say these words
Word man, this word
More ridiculous than an irrational surd

Yeah I love you but I need some space
What space? You have the universe
Oh right, you told me that’s a curse
To own everything when you need nothin’
Oh but I’m nothing now? You shittin’

Me as usual, what a terrible man
Why do I stick around? Right, ’cause it’s love
And in my face laughs Jove
The god up there who decides our relos
Man oh man worse than his worshipper fellows

The last time you kissed me it was too short
Now I sound like I’m complainin’
Or really, maybe I’m just whinin’
Always starving me of my addiction
Quick hand it over I need a fixation

Yeah I’m writing this rap
It’s poetry in motion, and it’s visually divine
Sorry Bliss n Eso, hope you don’t mind
I’ve stolen a couple of your lines

Sorry for the shit ballad
I tried my best for my first time
First time for everything, divine sublime
Hand me over to the darkness
I think that’s enough, though would I rather see
Blackness or blindness?

 

~ Serendipitous

A rap ballad. Since I haven’t written poetry since November. Or whenever it was the last time.

2.04 am

 

364: The Delusional Visionary

364: The Delusional Visionary

Granted, I don’t think many, if any, of us were born visionaries. Borne into the world by our mothers, screaming, crying, maybe even laughing, but not yet visionaries. Barely, if any, of us have any memories of our first few moments being held by our mothers or fathers. So I don’t think we were born immediately with the purpose of a visionary.

Things change though, as we grew up. Exposed to disease, other people, life as it was then. Strange dreams, unusual happenings, bizarre intellectuals. The first scab of a wound on the knee. The first of many growing pains. As life goes on, and people change, and people grow up, a visionary is born from a baby who once knew nothing.

At what point in our lives do we become visionaries? Was it that first kiss, the first love, the first book we read, the first house, the first what? For this little girl, it was all the firsts she’d ever had that made her a visionary. A visionary of creative arts, especially language, of imagination, of dreams, of things hazy that only made sense to her in her vivid sleep. However, it was her last love, all her lasts, that made her delusional. Crossing the line, the boundary, that separated her from the insane, and finally, irreversibly, into the realm of madness, condemned to never experience the mundane ever again. Is this what it feels like to be a delusional visionary?

Growing up with the last love of her life, bearing his children at the wrong age, forgoing her numerous fantasies as a young adult, forgoing her never executed obnoxious misdeeds, what was it that made her so delusional, but still a visionary? She watches her children play in a garden surrounded by white picket fences. She lives in the idea of an American Dream, not her dream but someone else’s. There is no pool in her backyard but she takes her children to the pool and watches them test the temperature of the water with their feet before they slide into the water. Their feet never touch the bottom while they’re floating on the surface. Face down in the water, they float lifelessly. She cannot help them. There is no pool. She does not own a backyard with a pool. Moreover, she has no children.

Once a month, we let the delusional visionary out into the residential gardens for exactly twenty-four hours. How did we decide this? The world is always changing. Every five seconds, the world changes. A famous celebrity posts a controversial tweet. A leaf falls from the highest bough of a tree. A child is separated from her mother in a supermarket. A teenager loses her footing climbing a sheer cliff and falls to her death. A woman wakes up in a cold sweat with the heavy imprint of a nightmare still fresh on her mind. Another woman gives birth to a child. A mother watches her father die of leukaemia. A grandmother signs her last will and testament before drawing her last breath and passing on into the afterlife. All this, in just five seconds.

So it would be best for the delusional visionary to have a taste of the outside world, 24 hours every month, on the Ides. It would not hurt for her to sample the world that continually changes every five seconds.

 

~ Serendipitous

345: After Hours

345: After Hours

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. And so she did. What I find amazing is that Virginia Woolf is played by Nicole Kidman, but Kidman looks completely unrecognisable in The Hours. I fell in love with her portrayal of Virginia Woolf. The cold, piercing, fierce gaze into the nothingness, a cigarette in her left hand, the wandering mind that cannot be communicated through the screen. In a period of lucidity, she would create a wonderful novel that which I can only read and aspire to write but never truly grasp. These three women whose lives are so disconnected but somehow at the end, are interconnected in all these little ways.

The whirlwind of romance, passion, familial love. Post-war context. Intertextual references. Richard talked about the birds which may have sung in Greek. The contemporary relationships of these characters. All in a single day. In a way, Richard was Septimus and Peter Walsh combined. I find this appropriation wholly amazing.

Turgid passion, raw and all-consuming. If you hear the soundtrack, you will understand. The music touches your soul. No, it doesn’t just touch it; it is grabbed and treated with a kind of emotion that only the soul can feel. Crescendos, diminuendos, all in parallel with which that can only be described by natural human emotion. Anger, sadness, wistfulness. These are just some I list.

We are studying this film at school. I love it.

 

~ Serendipitous

293: Whoa

293: Whoa

I think today is the first day where I’ve truly been excited and in ecstasy. I’ve been dancing the can-can around the kitchen in happiness trying not to kick the table or chairs or sink or anything really and my father asked me what I was happy about. I don’t think I can tell him. Nor will I be able to tell here… 🙂

I’m just happy. I intend to keep this for as long as possible.

 

~ Serendipitous

243: Stromae

243: Stromae

The friends I have who take French Continuers recommended me to watch/listen to Stromae. As a former French student myself, I thought, why not discover some more music in foreign languages, and lo and behold, he has become one of my favourite artists already. These three songs are the ones I’ve been trying to play on repeat a lot since they resonate with me quite a lot – they are so meaningful and really address real world issues. I love that. For me, he’s like the French Zico, and I love that.

I really love Stromae. I think he’s doing something quite wonderful, and I’m ready to immerse myself in French culture again.

Stro|mae comes from Mae|Stro 🙂 French verlan by reversing the position of the syllables and you get some pretty cool words! Fun fact of the day, I guess. You learn something new everyday!

 

~ Serendipitous

149: Fruits

149: Fruits

How sweet the fruits of love must be
They begin to bloom in the spring
And then in the summer, shall bear fruit
The sweet juice of your peach runs down your chin

I’ll sit by your side, watch rapt,
Hold your hand in mine like lovers would
Let silent screams consume me
While you indulge in the fruits of love

It is with sadness that I say
I may never be able to understand
What the fruits of love are or can be
With envy I will desire your knowledge

How sweet the fruits of love must be
How sweet it is that lovers can hold each other
Whisper sweet nothings into ears
How sickeningly sweet

 

~ Serendipitous

 

103: Discovery (1)

103: Discovery (1)

A sharp intake of breath
The quivering of young hands
Turning a blind eye to death
Running a finger through sands

The rapid knocking of one’s heart
Muscles on limbs stretched taut
The reading of a new chart
From a place, a new souvenir bought

The widening of one’s eyes
An outstretched smile or laugh
A permanent, earned kind of wise
Nostalgia surrounding a photograph

A risk taken into the unknown
Quick-witted decisions, new things
Stepping out of the comfort zone
Growing a pair of new wings

 

~ Serendipitous