Aaaah ...
Such is the sound that escapes from my parted lips as I try to puzzle my current predicament.
I would like to think -- that despite my aloof, callous demeanour -- I am not a person given to hate.
I'd like to say that I'm a rather amiable person. That I can be content -- if not happy -- in my current lot compared to the poor swabs around me and not feel the twisting stab as I begin to see washes of red in my field of vision.
Perhaps this resentment stem from my restless nature. Although I can be very patient, the dullness of monotony does not sit well with me. There are times past that I used to stab myself with my name-tag pin in class just so I won't keel over out of sheer boredom.
What does it say of a person who prefers pain over joyful ruckus in class to break the humdrum study hours?
I wish that this hope that one day I might be able to feel won't be just that. That while hope springs eternal I am only mortal. Even the most ardent of force must one day cease. It is the nature of things to wither and be replaced. Will there be hope left if I tire of waiting?
Everyday, I pick at my mental scabs -- countless scores of them -- as I beat and puzzle my way through this sparse expanse of my worldview.
Everyday.
I should be an old hand by now.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Of beautiful defenses
Silence.
Blissful silence.
Beautiful, blissful silence.
It has always been something I crave. The silence of peace. The solace of solitude. The sense of aloneness when you feel weary of the world--when needs must to place a barrier between yourself and the outside world whenever you tire of it.
Upon the surface, most would be forgiven for thinking that I enjoy the limelight. To a certain point, I would agree that I do enjoy the attention. I would also heartily agree that most audiences are fools. They believe the facade conjured and take it as truth. They insist the public and the private must be one and the same. They demand transparency and take you at your face value that that is all there is to what makes you a unique creature. Nothing is ever as it seems. We all wear masks. We all tell little white lies (Good heavens! You don't look a day above 35, Mrs Wong!) and big black ones (I did not have sexual relations with that woman ... !).
Sometimes the truth is exactly what scares us into such perfidy. Sometimes the truth is boring. Bland. We are sometimes afraid that the truth about us would diminish us in others' eyes. To a person who prides in being known as an Incomparable, Original and Unique this must rankle.
How painful it is to be regarded as--gasp!--common!
Therefore we put on a show. Whether they carry the glitz of Ceasar's Palace or the gritty edge of a Sundance nominee, we perform our little charades. Sometimes the canny viewers will guess at the truth and we abashedly come clean, or we layer another performance--an improv, if you will--on top of it. Before we know it, the smokescreen we had concocted became a point of fact to be appended to us. Our personality, our idiosyncracies--everything!--became a warped image of what we are.
It has now become a guessing game as we all attempt to unmask everyone around us. And it is a beautiful thing to watch. Even as I sit quietly in the far corner of the local coffee shop or a secluded section of a bar--or anywhere for that matter, I smile as I relish the amateur performances before me.
The incompetent boss who covers up her deficiency by obsessing over every trivial minutae. The young father glaring at his wife whilst the recalcitrant child struggles in his hand as he waits patiently for her to finish her shopping--then smiles indulgently at her when she comes out from the store. The backstabbing office bitch trying to cover her misstep with unimaginative small talk. The young man taking a second look at the girl two tables away as his date prattles on about her day. The late evening jogger gorging on food as if it were his last meal. The drunken yuppie enjoying being groped by his gay best friend. The voluntarily oblivious girlfriend who pleads ignorance about her beau's marital status.
Even as I take it all in, I am ever wondering if I am the lone observer here? Mayhap there is someone else lurking in the wings, noting my movements? My smug smirk as I watch other people stumble. Are they near enough to hear my muttered invectives? How would I look to them?
Bitter. Jaded and cynical. Enjoys observing anothers' fall, thinks himself so smart with his snappy comebacks and sarcastic asides. Covers his insecurities with bizarre behaviour--maybe he wasn't hugged enough as a child.
Is that the real me? or just the front that I present?
Is that why I treasure the silence I bind myself in sometimes? That for the few brief minutes, I can just be--without fear of saying the right things, of making other people laugh ... of putting on yet another show.
Blissful silence.
Beautiful, blissful silence.
It has always been something I crave. The silence of peace. The solace of solitude. The sense of aloneness when you feel weary of the world--when needs must to place a barrier between yourself and the outside world whenever you tire of it.
Upon the surface, most would be forgiven for thinking that I enjoy the limelight. To a certain point, I would agree that I do enjoy the attention. I would also heartily agree that most audiences are fools. They believe the facade conjured and take it as truth. They insist the public and the private must be one and the same. They demand transparency and take you at your face value that that is all there is to what makes you a unique creature. Nothing is ever as it seems. We all wear masks. We all tell little white lies (Good heavens! You don't look a day above 35, Mrs Wong!) and big black ones (I did not have sexual relations with that woman ... !).
Sometimes the truth is exactly what scares us into such perfidy. Sometimes the truth is boring. Bland. We are sometimes afraid that the truth about us would diminish us in others' eyes. To a person who prides in being known as an Incomparable, Original and Unique this must rankle.
How painful it is to be regarded as--gasp!--common!
Therefore we put on a show. Whether they carry the glitz of Ceasar's Palace or the gritty edge of a Sundance nominee, we perform our little charades. Sometimes the canny viewers will guess at the truth and we abashedly come clean, or we layer another performance--an improv, if you will--on top of it. Before we know it, the smokescreen we had concocted became a point of fact to be appended to us. Our personality, our idiosyncracies--everything!--became a warped image of what we are.
It has now become a guessing game as we all attempt to unmask everyone around us. And it is a beautiful thing to watch. Even as I sit quietly in the far corner of the local coffee shop or a secluded section of a bar--or anywhere for that matter, I smile as I relish the amateur performances before me.
The incompetent boss who covers up her deficiency by obsessing over every trivial minutae. The young father glaring at his wife whilst the recalcitrant child struggles in his hand as he waits patiently for her to finish her shopping--then smiles indulgently at her when she comes out from the store. The backstabbing office bitch trying to cover her misstep with unimaginative small talk. The young man taking a second look at the girl two tables away as his date prattles on about her day. The late evening jogger gorging on food as if it were his last meal. The drunken yuppie enjoying being groped by his gay best friend. The voluntarily oblivious girlfriend who pleads ignorance about her beau's marital status.
Even as I take it all in, I am ever wondering if I am the lone observer here? Mayhap there is someone else lurking in the wings, noting my movements? My smug smirk as I watch other people stumble. Are they near enough to hear my muttered invectives? How would I look to them?
Bitter. Jaded and cynical. Enjoys observing anothers' fall, thinks himself so smart with his snappy comebacks and sarcastic asides. Covers his insecurities with bizarre behaviour--maybe he wasn't hugged enough as a child.
Is that the real me? or just the front that I present?
Is that why I treasure the silence I bind myself in sometimes? That for the few brief minutes, I can just be--without fear of saying the right things, of making other people laugh ... of putting on yet another show.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Of seeing France and underpants (or lack thereof)
There are things to be said about decorum. Observing proprieties and the little gestures that comes with being civilized avoids all sorts of bad press. In every and any aspiring well-bred lady or gentleman, there certain rules which could be considered paramount:
1. Chew food with one’s mouth closed.
2. On public transports, it behooves one to offer one’s seat for those who needs it (i.e. the elderly, handicapped, etc)
3. Say Please or Thank you as the situation warrants.
4. Don’t flash your undies or privates to the unprepared masses.
Ever since kindergarten, we’ve always made fun of those who has their fly undone, or the girl who didn’t realize her raggedy bra strap was showing, or bustling corporate woman with a fire-fighters’ ladder in her stockings but nowadays the rules seemed to have changed.
To put it simply: The more you show, the better it is!
One would be tempted to blame advertisements, fashion magazines and
If you're lucky, you'll see the underwear. The more severe offense would be an exposed posterior cleft or -- and I'm trying to be delicate here! -- mons pubis.
Sans follicles.
Yet I hesitate to point towards a certain blond heiress and her fellow starlets/socialites for flashing us with her denuded Venus mound in several paparazzi shots. One could almost feel sorry for the young woman. Truly. All that work put into plucking herself like a game bird and all she had to show for it was the first page in the tabloids to be made for office water-cooler gossip.
Yes, we know your Versace thong goes well with your skinny APC jeans … we don’t need to see what colour it is, the material it was made from or the size written on the label! And yes, we applaud a woman (or man) who takes grooming seriously. We just don’t need to know you’ve embraced
Lackaday. Whatever happened to the times when men dress as men, women dress as women—without sacrificing their identities or wallets whilst going about it? I appreciate a well-pressed shirt, a pair of slacks creased just so, the charming flirt of a well-turned blouse … but alas, they’re now relegated to those deemed too frumpy to warrant a notice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)