Lost In The Library (& Everything Under The Sun)
I make my way through the solitary paths of books with a great effort. Avoiding --A sense of lost in knowledge; the exaggerated lack of it, the lust to embrace it with a million arms slaving from own self, how global is knowledge???
I rewind the time machine and allow myself to immerse in the period where writers like Shelly, Coleridge, and Bradbury lived. I am seeing the world now. The ladies wearing curtain lamp flocks and the men in white permed hair like lawyers in tuxes. I, am the only one in a milk color sweater, cute orange blouse, black opaque leggings, and chunky accessories from the 1970's, my golden earrings dangling happily over my shoulders. Surprisingly, no one looked at me. Feeling invisible, I'm still aware of my presence; tingling the tip of my fingers along my skin and coating my pink lungs with dusty air under the setting sun as the busy hooves of the handsome brown horses kick the sand. A little soil get into my eyes where the green lenses habituate. I come from the future; their antidote.
I see Shelly flirting with Ophelia from Hamlet in an old coffee shop! I never know she exists in this world~ Now I know she does! It seems like they just know each other and are having a good time together. The edges of my lips curve up. I love seeing people happy.
I turn around and this time, see Wordsworth and William Blake on a debate.
"He was and still will be gay if he was alive now."
"No, he wasn't and will NOT be! I shalt bet ten pounds that I can prove thee wrong!"
"Prove it then, my dear friend. How do you come about doing this?"
Whether Shakespeare is gay. True, I wonder how is Blake going to prove that! They don't even have a library, or at least, I don't see one anywhere nearby here.
Sigh. Shakespeare had long be gone and everyone from all generations still can't bother to let the poor old corpse, or even dust, go to rest in peace. All I can see is his books along my feet, across my breasts, afloating above my ribbon securing my hair; Twelfth Night, Much Ado About Nothing, A Midsummer Night's Dream, King Lear, the list goes on; a quartet of the same book for every single play he wrote. I wonder why is Hamlet such a big deal. To me, it's just a tragic play with creatively heightened made up characters to fight and win the average of reality.
Turn around again and now spot naked Prometheus and Ophelia making out in a coach attach to the shiny polished brown horses! So, Ophelia is actually a slut. Good gracious~ Perhaps Prometheus's liver should regrow five times faster and eaten twice a day by the birds everyday instead of once. Men, men, men. The ke-jantan-ess...
My watch shows 3 p.m. but the I hear the city clock tower strikes 12 noon. I am afraid, I don't know why. I can't find the damn clock!!! Something weird happened. The coach where the two nudes are making out suddenly shakes like crazy and turns into a pumpkin! I never know what happen to them after that, as I am now turn into a form of tiger pancake mixture ; dragged into the world of fables. Maybe they are having a baby inside there now which will then lead to the story of the farmer and his wife who couldn't give birth which are then granted a son in a pumpkin,,, That is Prometheus and Ophelia's chromosomes's persilangan... EwWw~!!! Who knows...
I touch the black printed ink on an old book of yellow, brown stained pages. An old quaint antique scent, a hundred times richer than a Prada dress arouses my senses. I feel the luxury of being lost in my past childhood times.....
As my fingertips run along the lines with my eyes close like a blind, I hear my mum's mellifluous voice lullabying my soul. It's ringing in my ears now... Rhyme... rhyme... & rhyme... I rhyme a nursery rhyme reading from my memory, faraway from the pages. A woman's thin, cold hands took me off the ground and we swing across the green meadows circled around short white fences. She is my breeze, my song, my angel, my mother. I hear a cough and open my eyes. I am lost in a library. The sounds of coughing itchy phlegm, intense inhaling of jammy sinuses, the falling and flipping of books on iron shelves; I am most interrupted by my very own breath. --I miss my mummy.
Where is the man call Ibsen? A man of all men who wrote million plays but he I admire the most; a play called "A Doll's House" by Henrik Ibsen.
From tick to tock;
of time in a clock,
I run and hide;
escape but still can't find,
Why oh why;
are You still on my mind .
I am now on a train INside A doll's house. Can you picture it?
From romance to realism in a world within, I got a book entitled Worlds Within by Egoff -Children's Fantasy From The Middle Ages To Today, Why & Wherefores by Martin Gardner, The Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson, and some others. The Powerbook is now already my FAVOURITE BOOK. Awesome, fantastically BRILLIANT, contemporary, sexy, evocative, quaint.
A lady in A portrait, I see Myself. Lost in Reality, Found in a Dream ? Maybe vice versa, maybe... Not.
I laser my eyes through the book's cover which recalls me of one of my best friends; Joylynn.
-A very understanding special friend who is also an elder sister, a helping hand, with a pair of generous ears. She is now a kite whose string I let loose unintentionally... released?
Once mine, but never will come back as the same layang-layang again. What is a real friendship? There is no answer to that. Some good one leaves, some bad ones turned good, some stay the same. Or at least, I still hope.
I eyeballs slip down my throat for a while to peep at my shaking and trembling uvula; in thrist, in cold, after this long, long, lost dusty journey. How long has it been since I last warm up my voice? She sounds even more deaf now that I'm in a boring enticing library adventure.
My newly manicured hot pink nails run along the vertebrates of these books I see, making a repetitive clicking rhythm. Radio, TV, & Film. --The Secrets of Script Writing. How to Make A Good Play Great? THE Book of Great Directors. Radio Plays and Ways. AARRGGHHH~~!!!!
My neck is aching. My head is spinning. My eyes are rolling like a jackpot. I Don't Care! Is there a book called "I Don't Care??!" I'm hit by a ton of bricks!
My dreams...
-I don't want to get into that but yet how stupid I am for I will.
I've always wanted it. It's all I ever want. To catch the biggest, shiniest STAR from the galaxies, grab it with my very own hands; piercing it's thorny edges through my palms, squeezing the blood out of it; dry. It will then penetrate into my rushing blood like a zillion micro, tiny, shiny stars like passionate viruses, making the wave flows with glitters on a long, red carpet leading to infinity, eternity..........
Fame. Cameras.
This is my dream.
-I do want to get into this but yet how clever I am for I did; differently each time I do.
-I'm sorry.
Sitting down, I look at my own eyes through a thin glass across a desk; a wooden shelf covering my nose and lips, my brown eyes, they are not symmetrical. My green lenses, they make plastic real.
What IS beauty? As long as you have the property, anyone can be beautiful. Just don't mind the word --Plastic.
I dance - my way - through the last - diverge -
And on - my journey - I saw a figure -
A new figure - I thought it was you -
(not Gill, not Charlie, not Yong Xien, No, not the Malay guy I learn to like, No, not the cousin I love for 9 years, not Lee the playboy)
It is him - I can't say - his name - out loud -
It is him - who never - I feel - "thought was me" -
It is me - I thought - the song is for -
But alas!
The music - is yours -
And for God.
He is - the sword - I love - unintentionally -
unawared -
unrequited -
An accident.
When I thought - I could never - love a man - anymore -
I was AWAKEN - by a figure - I wish - is you -
But another ; - stranger - who loves me -
Just like I - love you -
Finds me - in a lost - library.
He comes - to me - and sat - by my side -
But I walk away -
Only...
Only wanting - the possibility - for either you - or me - the both of us - will be -
? .
-Quaintly me.
I make my way through the solitary paths of books with a great effort. Avoiding --A sense of lost in knowledge; the exaggerated lack of it, the lust to embrace it with a million arms slaving from own self, how global is knowledge???
I rewind the time machine and allow myself to immerse in the period where writers like Shelly, Coleridge, and Bradbury lived. I am seeing the world now. The ladies wearing curtain lamp flocks and the men in white permed hair like lawyers in tuxes. I, am the only one in a milk color sweater, cute orange blouse, black opaque leggings, and chunky accessories from the 1970's, my golden earrings dangling happily over my shoulders. Surprisingly, no one looked at me. Feeling invisible, I'm still aware of my presence; tingling the tip of my fingers along my skin and coating my pink lungs with dusty air under the setting sun as the busy hooves of the handsome brown horses kick the sand. A little soil get into my eyes where the green lenses habituate. I come from the future; their antidote.
I see Shelly flirting with Ophelia from Hamlet in an old coffee shop! I never know she exists in this world~ Now I know she does! It seems like they just know each other and are having a good time together. The edges of my lips curve up. I love seeing people happy.
I turn around and this time, see Wordsworth and William Blake on a debate.
"He was and still will be gay if he was alive now."
"No, he wasn't and will NOT be! I shalt bet ten pounds that I can prove thee wrong!"
"Prove it then, my dear friend. How do you come about doing this?"
Whether Shakespeare is gay. True, I wonder how is Blake going to prove that! They don't even have a library, or at least, I don't see one anywhere nearby here.
Sigh. Shakespeare had long be gone and everyone from all generations still can't bother to let the poor old corpse, or even dust, go to rest in peace. All I can see is his books along my feet, across my breasts, afloating above my ribbon securing my hair; Twelfth Night, Much Ado About Nothing, A Midsummer Night's Dream, King Lear, the list goes on; a quartet of the same book for every single play he wrote. I wonder why is Hamlet such a big deal. To me, it's just a tragic play with creatively heightened made up characters to fight and win the average of reality.
Turn around again and now spot naked Prometheus and Ophelia making out in a coach attach to the shiny polished brown horses! So, Ophelia is actually a slut. Good gracious~ Perhaps Prometheus's liver should regrow five times faster and eaten twice a day by the birds everyday instead of once. Men, men, men. The ke-jantan-ess...
My watch shows 3 p.m. but the I hear the city clock tower strikes 12 noon. I am afraid, I don't know why. I can't find the damn clock!!! Something weird happened. The coach where the two nudes are making out suddenly shakes like crazy and turns into a pumpkin! I never know what happen to them after that, as I am now turn into a form of tiger pancake mixture ; dragged into the world of fables. Maybe they are having a baby inside there now which will then lead to the story of the farmer and his wife who couldn't give birth which are then granted a son in a pumpkin,,, That is Prometheus and Ophelia's chromosomes's persilangan... EwWw~!!! Who knows...
I touch the black printed ink on an old book of yellow, brown stained pages. An old quaint antique scent, a hundred times richer than a Prada dress arouses my senses. I feel the luxury of being lost in my past childhood times.....
As my fingertips run along the lines with my eyes close like a blind, I hear my mum's mellifluous voice lullabying my soul. It's ringing in my ears now... Rhyme... rhyme... & rhyme... I rhyme a nursery rhyme reading from my memory, faraway from the pages. A woman's thin, cold hands took me off the ground and we swing across the green meadows circled around short white fences. She is my breeze, my song, my angel, my mother. I hear a cough and open my eyes. I am lost in a library. The sounds of coughing itchy phlegm, intense inhaling of jammy sinuses, the falling and flipping of books on iron shelves; I am most interrupted by my very own breath. --I miss my mummy.
Where is the man call Ibsen? A man of all men who wrote million plays but he I admire the most; a play called "A Doll's House" by Henrik Ibsen.
From tick to tock;
of time in a clock,
I run and hide;
escape but still can't find,
Why oh why;
are You still on my mind .
I am now on a train INside A doll's house. Can you picture it?
From romance to realism in a world within, I got a book entitled Worlds Within by Egoff -Children's Fantasy From The Middle Ages To Today, Why & Wherefores by Martin Gardner, The Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson, and some others. The Powerbook is now already my FAVOURITE BOOK. Awesome, fantastically BRILLIANT, contemporary, sexy, evocative, quaint.
A lady in A portrait, I see Myself. Lost in Reality, Found in a Dream ? Maybe vice versa, maybe... Not.
I laser my eyes through the book's cover which recalls me of one of my best friends; Joylynn.
-A very understanding special friend who is also an elder sister, a helping hand, with a pair of generous ears. She is now a kite whose string I let loose unintentionally... released?
Once mine, but never will come back as the same layang-layang again. What is a real friendship? There is no answer to that. Some good one leaves, some bad ones turned good, some stay the same. Or at least, I still hope.
I eyeballs slip down my throat for a while to peep at my shaking and trembling uvula; in thrist, in cold, after this long, long, lost dusty journey. How long has it been since I last warm up my voice? She sounds even more deaf now that I'm in a boring enticing library adventure.
My newly manicured hot pink nails run along the vertebrates of these books I see, making a repetitive clicking rhythm. Radio, TV, & Film. --The Secrets of Script Writing. How to Make A Good Play Great? THE Book of Great Directors. Radio Plays and Ways. AARRGGHHH~~!!!!
My neck is aching. My head is spinning. My eyes are rolling like a jackpot. I Don't Care! Is there a book called "I Don't Care??!" I'm hit by a ton of bricks!
My dreams...
-I don't want to get into that but yet how stupid I am for I will.
I've always wanted it. It's all I ever want. To catch the biggest, shiniest STAR from the galaxies, grab it with my very own hands; piercing it's thorny edges through my palms, squeezing the blood out of it; dry. It will then penetrate into my rushing blood like a zillion micro, tiny, shiny stars like passionate viruses, making the wave flows with glitters on a long, red carpet leading to infinity, eternity..........
Fame. Cameras.
This is my dream.
-I do want to get into this but yet how clever I am for I did; differently each time I do.
-I'm sorry.
Sitting down, I look at my own eyes through a thin glass across a desk; a wooden shelf covering my nose and lips, my brown eyes, they are not symmetrical. My green lenses, they make plastic real.
What IS beauty? As long as you have the property, anyone can be beautiful. Just don't mind the word --Plastic.
I dance - my way - through the last - diverge -
And on - my journey - I saw a figure -
A new figure - I thought it was you -
(not Gill, not Charlie, not Yong Xien, No, not the Malay guy I learn to like, No, not the cousin I love for 9 years, not Lee the playboy)
It is him - I can't say - his name - out loud -
It is him - who never - I feel - "thought was me" -
It is me - I thought - the song is for -
But alas!
The music - is yours -
And for God.
He is - the sword - I love - unintentionally -
unawared -
unrequited -
An accident.
When I thought - I could never - love a man - anymore -
I was AWAKEN - by a figure - I wish - is you -
But another ; - stranger - who loves me -
Just like I - love you -
Finds me - in a lost - library.
He comes - to me - and sat - by my side -
But I walk away -
Only...
Only wanting - the possibility - for either you - or me - the both of us - will be -
? .
-Quaintly me.
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