The awkward juxtaposition and interaction between objects that wouldn’t normally fit together, some object combinations or actions which have a weird “make you want to” urge, and the foresight and motions of some classic and obvious accidents waiting to happen, then the static vision of the aftermath. My life tells a story of a burning urge to pursue something that you know isn’t working in pure hope, then the retraction of intentions once the brutal truth sinks in.

Hi. It’s far too hot to think abt complicated matters. Our aircon is busted, my fan, hopeless. Admittedly i am confused and tired. Still, as if marshalling together the remnants of a defeated army - minus any drums and trumpets - i am trying to rally my scattered thoughts. I have to piece them together.

You know what’s really important here is not the big things other people have thought up, but the small things you, yourself, have. But, is it really true? It’s easy to say, but putting it into practice isn’t. One’s hard put to start with even the small things, let alone the big picture. Or maybe the smaller the notion, the harder it is to grasp?

Plus it does not help that i am dead tired. Am i making any sense? I want to sleep.

Fate has led me to a conclusion—an ad hoc conclusion, mind you —and here on my room, sipping a cup of tea while scrolling down the browser and looking at people’s lives carved out on the screen. The time is … a little past four in the morning. Still dark out, of course. 

My brothers have slipped into their peaceful, collective sleep. The almost identical suburban roofs are sipping at the nourishment the darkness provides. And the moon, like some melancholy priest, rests above the rooftop, stretching out its hands to the barren concrete jungle.

It’s a weekend, and it’s okay to stay up late like this. No matter where I find myself, this is the time of day I love best. The time that’s mine alone. It’ll be dawn soon, and I’m sitting here writing, after a good talk with a friend who just slept. Like Buddha, born from his mother’s side (the right or the left, I can’t recall), the new sun will lumber up and peek over the high walls that separates our subdivision from another. And our ever discreet  ”helper” will quietly wake up. At six she’ll make a simple breakfast together with my mom (but this time it’s different as my parents are out), and afterwards my day will start.

Except for a few incoherent blog posts, it’s been a long time since I’ve written something purely for myself, and I’m not very confident I can express myself the way I’d like to. Not that I’ve ever had that confidence. Somehow, though, I always feel driven to write. Sometimes.

Why? It’s simple, really. In order for me to think about something, I have to first put it into writing.

I don’t want to be too modest here, but I’ve written a considerable amount up till now. Just like photographs, it’s not that hard for me to gather those words and stitch them to place. What’s lacking though is my confidence to finish them. I write, nearly everyday, and It’s like I was standing in a grassy mountain peak, cutting the grass all by myself, and the grass grows back almost as fast as I can cut it. Today I’d cut over here, tomorrow over there… By the time I make one complete round of the pasture the grass in the first spot is as tall as it was in the beginning. I can’t get a clear 360-degree view.

I don’t know, maybe I should let go of that thin film of blur that enveloped me.

In other words, I had to get rid of a lot of baggage to get myself a clear destination. Because even the act of thinking became a burden. I think that explains it. So from now on, no matter how tall the grass got, I couldn’t be bothered. I will be sprawling on my back, gazing up at the sky, watching the billowy clouds drift by. Consigning my fate to the clouds. Giving myself up to the pungent aroma of the grass, the murmur of the wind. At night the sky will clear up, and twinkling astral gases will be my only companion. After a time I couldn’t have cared less about the difference between what I knew and what I didn’t know.

Let me get back to what I was saying. Time’s limited—no room for detours. As I said before, inside us what we know and what we don’t know share the same abode. For convenience’s sake most people erect a wall between them. It makes life easier. But I just swept that wall away. I had to. I hate walls. That’s just the kind of person I am.

So tomorrow, ah no, Today, I’ll start moving.

Why do people have to be this lonely? What’s the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. 

Why? Was the Earth put here just to nourish human loneliness? I turned face-up on the slab of stone, gazed at the sky, and thought about all the man-made satellites spinning around the Earth. The horizon was still etched in a faint glow, and stars began to blink on in the deep, wine-coloured sky. I gazed among them for the light of a satellite, but it was still too bright out to spot one with the naked eye. The sprinkling of stars looked nailed to the spot, unmoving. I closed my eyes and listened carefully for the descendants of Sputnik, even now circling the Earth, gravity their only tie to the planet. Lonely metal souls in the unimpeded darkness of space, they meet, pass each other, and part, never to meet again. No words passing between them. No promises to keep.

-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart