Requiem.

I have been listening to alot of opera these days. I don't really wish to listen to any blabber by any artiste nor anyone. My shipment arrived from the US, and it gave me a good panic attack. First of all, I was excited when I was opening the postage. Then I delicately took the precious out and realised it's too small/short. I went shrieking on top of my lungs, and decided to check out some lappies online. Found Sony VAIO CR11GH and fell in love with the pink one. Now I am sounding like xiaxue. Hah. Okay, I know nuts about the specifications, because I am a very much useless girl. [And so, you might even be calling me an emotional weakling. It's a pity why I don't exist in the Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart age, nor the Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni age, nor the Charles Dickens age, nor Jesus Christ age. Because I am sure back then, emotions comes with complimentary promised success if you are willing to be nothing for life and be something afterlife. Afterall, that's what Music and Arts all about. That's what Christ has gotten which got him crucified] And I am waiting for my IT gadget materialistic bitch primary school friend to come online. I am yawning already. Whatever he says, I think I'm getting the lappie. It's so artificially pink. It's a pity it's in baby pink instead of shocking pink. Nonetheless, it's so artificial, so like mere mortals.

I began writing out my thoughts this afternoon again. I learnt from somewhere that it's a good practice to do so, for the more you bottle them inside, the chances of flipping soar, and because I could no longer hurt myself due to my expected departure for work, I would have to bring my journal around everywhere I go. And I realised, that the previous statement is quite a long one. So here goes this entry that I would like whoever is reading this to read.

If you ever had, or have been trying to carve me into somewhat like a mimic of yours, for, to appease your ambitious domineering greed, your inordinate fascination of your own self, I would have to erase 'me'. And make you believe I am your hypothetical, delusional 'me'. And then you'd be contented and most importantly, smiling. And then I can finally fuck 'myself' out of your life, and be 'me' in 'my' own life. So it would mean I have a handful of roles to play. Whoever you want me to be, you'd receive it. For I'd show you the most insincere gesture of not even being a sincere being. That's an insult, seriously.

The emotions and emptiness I feel for everything now or rather everyone now, clunk into one another like the Morse Code. Emptiness, and then dashes of emotions, then dots of nothing. I'll explain literally and quote a rather realistic example. Firstly, you blabbered something, "xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxx". Then, second, I feel pain because you blabbered something about me, quite in my sense, quite inexcusable, which set my mind blank and off guarded because it didn't really expect such response. And sorry for you because it's a pity why narrow-mindedness seems to be clouding you at this very moment, or perhaps not, and then remain speechless because, 1) I don't really wish to retaliate crudely, 2) If i retaliate, it just shows I really do care, 3) My mind just couldn't really wish to be bothered to.

Guess that's what us always do, to make assumptions, jump to conclusions, come up with our own verdicts and waddle in our own pool of deceit, wear the mop-like wig and sentence to anyone who isn't a lot like us (in this case, a judge who stole a candy bar from 7-11 when he was 9 eventhough he was given 10 buckaroos, got away scot-free eventually VS a teenage boy who killed his uncle because his uncle was trying to rape his mother. How alike/unlike?), to death with a book, a hammer, and a statement.

It's a cultural taboo to even think we are always right and forcefully shove others into our 'way'.

Nevertheless, it's still happening and vastly practised nowadays.