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the art of nothing
20 most recent entries

Date:2012-05-16 23:33

Complete, dark silence takes over every now and then in his head - blocking out the souls pounding the pavement outside, the sound of 5pm traffic. It erases him, shatters him. Makes him lose feeling, lose breath, forget what he needs to do to exist. Mild moments of a shattering mind that slowly unfurl the careful facade he has built and reveals to the world. Flakes of paint falling from his mask.

It is those moments that make him wonder how much longer he has on the earth. There are some of us who are scared of death - others that accept it will happen. Fewer of us know exactly what it feels like. To walk through the tunnel to not light, but complete darkness on the other end. To desperately dig your nails into rock and rubble, trying to claw your way out, trying to hang onto anything that can take you backwards. Even fewer of us live with this every day.

Sometimes when these moments of panic flit inside his head he wills them away by closing his eyes tight, clenching his jaw and grabbing the table. He battles to stay awake, away from the bubbling feeling of darkness...away from the silence that makes you want so badly to succumb to the inevitable fall. Sometimes he just lets himself fall, lacking the conviction or the energy to fight it anymore. He had once always tried to fight it, but the effort now is simply too great. It is easier sometimes to go with the flow and accept it.

He thinks, if we put everything we've lost into a pile, its weight would create another universe.

And he thinks there is no longer anything left to lose. These are the choices we make.

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Date:2012-05-16 23:22
Subject:trying to write again

She is no longer interested in being alive. In feeling as though she can feel. The person who wrote the lines "i would rather have loved and lost than not loved at all" was living a lie. The gradual breaking of a heart, the moments that sap away your trust of people, of friends, of humanity -- these are the sentiments she wishes she couldn't hear echo. These are the sentiments that are alive and unhinged.

It is not as though this hasn't happened before - it is precisely because it has that the reality of it is more immense. Failed, again. Why keep trying? Why bother? Change and loss are two constants she would rather erase from her life.

Dip your toe in. Jump both legs in. Swim. Sink. Feel it grab you down and down into darkness, into emptiness, into black and loss and the state of eternal silence that makes your heart beat like its running its last steps.

We spend so much of our lives carefully constructing a persona we project to everyone. In the end, the person we've fooled the most is ourselves.

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Date:2008-08-29 11:56

I just deleted you from my address book.

A million and one reasons why i shouldn't have clambered themselves, one over the other, reverberating in the hollow walls of the room. And one reason why i should sat, unassuming, in the corner.

In some sense of the world I believed that all I had given you echoed only past my corner of the universe, and the waves bounced muted, stopping at the entrance to your world. You took away everything I could write or say or speak and it seemed that it was a trade off - you, or the words, or the ability to feel. But in the same way, it was a lesson in understanding the complexities of the grown up world. And i did learn to feel: the feeling of pain, of loneliness and of complete emptiness when it was over.

There is a certain sense of unassuming complexity that trickles deep within the cracks of the land on which we walk. Silence shatters the peace in hollow crevices, where a million insects would hide away from the hustle of the modern world. The crevices where I wanted my mind to drift every time your face flashed into vision.

I know you were honest from the start. I know that my mistake was of believing that all the fairytales I couldn't read as a child could be believed in, and would come true.

I don't know why, so many years on, I'm still writing about you. The words don't really mean anything anymore...and the words don't even sound right because I can't write them. All they do is pour out in a flurry of fingers over the keyboard, strokes resounding deep into the hardwood floor, devoid of meaning and emotion.

I have a million and one words in mind's dictionary that flow out like waterfall. There is such a tragedy to being able to pour them out and let them form sentences on their own, that it no longer matters if things make sense or are insipid and muddy.

Of all the things you could have taken away this one hurts the most. As the words splash onto this blank page, they bring with them the wrong things, the wrong order, the wrong feelings.

Did you stay silent or did the world sweep you up with it?

Tian ruo you qing, tian yi lao...

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Date:2008-05-06 13:56
Mood: melancholy

She traces her fingers along the edge of a pine table, palms running over the etched crevices and scratched names. The permanence of the room draws a silhouette along her dying shoulders. each gasp comes softer and surer and faster, as though even her lungs are aware it could be the last taste of life in the air.

She mulls in amidst the silence of 4am. The night workers have found their sleep for the night, and the morning shifts are still a good hour away from wakening. The freezing night air allows her to still feel the pain, bolting like lightning down her side, allows her to think as clearly and crisply as the morning that will come two hours after her death. Allows her to breathe in and feel whole.

There's an initial denial about the dark permanence of your dying hours. It's not unlike the way you could squeeze the light out of a candle with two fingers, or the soul out of the night bugs with your palm. Death itself seems to have always been too easy to attain, and much too romanticized - the white flowers, the cherubs, the black carriage drawing what remains further into the night.

She touches the cool dampness of the earth and allows herself an extra long lingering over the rising wetness, fingers languishing along the mildew of morning soon to come. This was a ritual as a child growing up next to a river. A river that now no longer existed, filled instead with units built on islands of rubbish dumped onto a seabed, killing the life underneath it.

There are those who will try to tell you that dying could be beautiful. She gazes up now instead at the stars, who are suddenly dimmer than she remembers them being. She drags her battered body from the warmth of the deck chair she's sat on for the past 8 hours waiting. It collapses onto the damp grass.

'Close your eyes, and watch your life flash before you'. The only thing flashing now is the distant plane above head, the lights signalling against the dark sky, and against the death of the souls on board. She has regrets - who doesn't, even at dying? And they seem to come and claw at her bruised arms, reminding her that in her dying hour at least she's free from Patrick. That at least she can die without him hastening the effect in the last hours, as her children had gone all those years ago.

There's a beckoning of the grave, of the pine coffin that she imagines exists but is only in her mind. Breathing a cold breath of air down her back, the wind gently sweeps away the dirt she's written her childrens' names on. Alice. Jack. Susan. Michael. A raindrop, or a tear, falls to dot the 'i'.

Her face has no fear anymore, simply a blank look of acceptance, resignation. Fight had been beaten out of her, the words scattered from her tongue, and towards the end the only way that she could understand the jumble of thoughts that permeated her mind was to write them down in a mixion of letters and wood-etched shapes on a pine table. Words that are spoken make no sense, words that are written can be beautiful and haunting and permanent.

The world keeps turning, and time drowns in its stochasticity. 1980? 1854? 1710? Blink and you'll miss it.

fleeting moments become god.

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Date:2008-03-27 14:42

Ink scrambled across brown paper
Hurriedly scattered between dusk, dawn
Words of confusion, letters of creation
lines of time.

A blank line above - ceases to exist?

I heard you scrawled the final letter
sitting in a cafe, at 2am
broken, like the sugar shaker before you.
Shattered would be an overstatement - had you felt it
you wouldn't have felt anything at all.

Dot the i's.
To let her know that, as you do
things were planned and thought out
Not just dumped without thought or remorse
On recycled paper
Of your relationship.

Straighten your hair, chin up, open your eyes
Walk forward, step sideways, get in the car
Drive away
Leave the 2am musings to someone who knows better
Leave the paper on the sticky cafe table
For the next silent customer
Wondering which other lonely soul would be sitting at 2am in a highway diner.

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Date:2008-03-27 14:31

You were a child of a thousand promises
A gift, a treasure
A new chapter.

You were born for all the wrong reasons
and fought, from the first breath
to become a story for those who could read.

And though moments leave you breathless
Feel the life drip away
Feeding the parched starkness
the landscape that you became.

I told you i would reach to the stars
On tail of shooting moon eclipse
On a whimsy of creation and belief

Existing - is a sense of time
of touch, you have created what - essentially -
left you faltering, gasping
as the years passed on by.

And as time catches you on its tail
The silence becomes static
and claws at your face
until faded - all that is left
is a memory - to sit
with your face in your hands
and cry.

Twenty years of trying have left their mark.

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Date:2007-11-10 21:59

Her fingers run fleeting along a tapestry hanging near the winter fireplace. Moments of silence slowly flit between flickers of life, but the emptiness in her eyes sees none of this. The vacuum has become something akin to a full time hobby - time waits alone as the desolate come to play. Fingers linked together in a primal need for touch, tracing fireflies along the stars in the sky, and the silence moved on without her. Like everything else.

I'd like to apologise for it having been a year since I've written. No, things haven't been happier - on the contrary, there's been a bottleneck, and the words are stuck inside without a way to get out. It's been that everytime I pick up a pen, they stumble over each other in their haste to make themselves heard, and somehow lose all sense of meaning in their rush to escape. The silence of letters on this page has been nowhere as deafening as everything being stuck inside, unable to find a way out.

So with more than some hesitation, this is an attempt to breathe life into something that's been locked up for nearly 400 days.

Please excuse the mess as the words attempt to rearrange themselves into something coherent.

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Date:2006-10-24 13:23




冰雹冷 雨也碰 撞

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Date:2006-09-27 00:06

Trace the words along the sky. One by one, carelessly gesturing the mosquitoes and mist away. And you would lie there for as long as it took the sun to fly from one side of our world to the other. In the brevity it took from the dying smoke of one cigarette to the birth of the next, your words could have formed an entirely new story. If the story could have been finished, maybe things would make more sense.

We write lines to make sense of the world. And the world tumbles in all its stochasticity -- why is there a need to define, to have, to do, to touch?

The emotion is just in this moment. Wait it out and the clarity will come by itself.

--perish in the carelessness of time
you have lived in a land where time stands still

Words that are unspoken disappear into the void of another world.

Mary, confess to me the things you think but dare not say.

Hang your head in guilt. Whisper.

--'i am tired'--

Before the mask wears you down. Before the lies make you think.

and in the naivety of childhood,
so many things were possible.

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Date:2006-08-30 22:58


the words flicker unwritten over the paper. it isn't that she has nothing to write: feelings well up in just controllable welts and the tears threaten to splutter out fast. it's that the words have been locked away in some secret corner. it's that the ability to express things has turned its back on her mind. it's that sentences form too rushed and disappear before she has time to understand them.

september and the leaves are alone. the speed with which she has willed a year away amazes no one more than her. she has thought only in the scene, lived in the moment and counted by the week, and somehow three hundred odd nights of not sleeping pass faster than you believe it could.

if anyone reads this, i actually have no idea what i'm writing. i'm tired.

...is when a mind tires of thinking, and a heart tires of being.

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Date:2006-05-13 20:28

The past three weeks have been filled with propositions and premonitions as heavy as silence itself. Farewells have ricocheted across vast walls that contain the precarious structure we'd accepted so freely before; the networks of you, and of them and of i. Of belonging and of being able to flicker over the familiar numbers at 3 a.m in the morning knowing there would be no mutterings of 'i'm sorry for the inconvenience...'.

Yes, i confess there was some silent disbelief that didn't accept the truth until this morning. I wonder how it would be in any of your situations...would I stand, half intoxicated, over the disarray of empty suitcases in the neon light of 4 a.m, unsure of how to pack my life into the boxes? To pack for something that is not a holiday, but is forever: to minimize clothes and belongings and memories of the past 20 odd years into something that could be crammed into four suitcases?

To say that it is crazy, the fragments our lives can be made of, is an understatement. You cannot realize the dispensibility of the materials you spend your hours slaving for until you discard them in favor of the memes; the frivolity of passing fads until you choose over them the bits and pieces you could look back on and say 'yes, we were there'.

Three times in the past three weeks and I have memorized the route to the airport. And finally it struck me that as the plane jetted down the runway and dissappeared, shimmering into the dusk, how chapters can be closed so rapidly and easily. London, Beijing, Hong Kong: how the words used to roll meaningless off a map.

Beyond the shaky promises of flying halfway around the world to meet, i don't know if we'll ever see each other again. I want to believe that we will, but already, we've failed so often before.

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Date:2006-05-02 00:33

Shadows. Quietude. He demonstrates to her. Pull back, tightly, on the jagged cloth.

She cannot remember when the days began to run into one. When the hours faltered within breaths of each other in their undisguised eagerness to remind her time was running short. In their fanciful murmurings that ticked the 3599 seconds from 3am to 4. While she was waiting for light-rise.

Writers create a montage of senses and place characters on them. Let me now draw you one:

One a.m. Coffee. Vogue. Smouldering on the foam of the cafeteria cups. Ash dropping forgotten into the brown.
Picture the sky printed with stars: now picture the opposite. Grey ash. As if the sky reflected what rested, forgotten in the cup. But the metallic glimmer is something more capable of destroying everything you've ever known.

Cyclical, you breathe. I can see. Your stories begin with images snapshotted in time and end, referring to the same snapshot. Fall victim to descriptives.

Did I mention the dog yet?

Passion is renowned for awakening the parts of your spirit that are captured. So our heroine sits, and muses, about misspending god's allocation of passion. Oops. She likes how it slows her down, until t i m e s t a n d s s t i l l . Some guilt. She should be home now. Maybe she'll walk it, the twenty-odd kilometres from her lover's house to her own.

Taxi's don't allow on animals. Couldn't leave that black dog behind.

Time to yourself is time that allows thinking. Think too much, and you'll begin to believe the shit you get yourself into is normal. And you'll make the same mistake once and twice and three-thousand, five-hundred and ninety-nine times over. So instead of thinking one becomes a walking store of opiates and nicotine.

But three a.m always changes to four a.m. Sans-light becomes light-rise, and somehow, she has the chance to go back to before it stopped, to the one a.m when it all started.

How strange it is, that one place, one suggestion, triggers so many semantic rivers in our minds. Cordelia -- listen to this confession.

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Date:2006-02-23 22:47

because it is not the silence that forms memories.
because it is not the passion that forms history.

we promised to save the world
and look where we are now.

i feel like i'm going wayward. i don't think i know where forward is anymore. i thought tomorrow meant forever and goodbyes were hardest. i thought promises were meant to be kept. i thought things had settled and time healed wounds.

hey...back to the walls of university again. old faces and new faces, same walls and same times. words crowd and seep from my mind. pictures flash in sudden movement. the quadrangle. the lawn. the library...level three, sunday afternoon. i didn't see you 'til i left.

i'm scared i wont be okay. but it's assumed i'll be okay.

one point five more years.

time already passes too quickly, but the one thing it cant do is silence the voices.
how long can you hide that the wounds aren't healed?

come back, we haven't said goodbye yet.

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Date:2006-02-03 22:46

day zero: five eighteen

i'd like to think this is what paradise would be like. moments of sanity interspersed with longer periods of unconsciouss living, shades of grey colored in lovingly with outlines of light, passion without regrets.

day zero: eighteen oh six

you're standing outside the window. looking over my shoulder. see, the twenty five or so scribbled words lying silent on smoked paper, arranged so deliberately erratically down, up, right, left. see, the almost full pack of cancer sticks in their boxed home. the temptation's there, ignitor lying face down on the table's uppermost edge, but somehow, some..why, i haven't touched one since you left. when the reason's gone all that's left is silence.

day one: two-oh-one

everyone has their own life philosophy. for some reason i thought back to high school, when it used to be beautiful to love the dramatic, the absurd, things on the wrong side of the track.

but somehow it's funny, 'cuz we keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again. hero in shining armour, seems like a never-ending quest that both lost track of time and time forgot. so looping around, in this neverending circle, generations of us could wander around and forget where or why we started.

i met someone once who told me his main aim in life was to find love, and it struck me at that moment you revelled in doing the opposite. in skirting love and skimming the waters of responsibility, in believing happiness lay in the flesh and emotion was a well you couldn't get out of once you went in. the craziness of youth seems something long ago, but it turns out you somehow were still on the looping track. crescent one and two, etch on the circles...and join them together.

day one: ten-forty-six

i know it's the right decision, even though it's taken half a year to make. it feels strange now. emotionless almost, like when...no, what's in the past should be let lay.

somehow, i think i'll get used to the loneliness. like tears for fears said, it's a mad world.

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Date:2005-12-12 00:43

it's just tears and rain

one am in the morning and the room is suitably darkened for the heart-tugging strains of back to bedlam.

i wish i could just sleep because for those hours you're asleep you don't think. i read a quote that said 'i think i shall be a molotov cocktail and go up in blazened fire'. shall i be the cocktail, you the fire?

i need a smoke. the smoke detector is right outside my room, go figure.

i miss you...and you.

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Date:2005-11-24 17:46

made jagerbombs at james' house just now. i think i am getting addicted to alcohol. uhoh...emotionally retarded..tired...zz

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Date:2005-11-06 23:21

she's gone to a place of perfection. where happiness isn't amongst the stars but growing on the ground. where songs and words and images create a perfect montage of idealistic romances, and where she can glide room by room as the mise-en-scene actress. and she doesn't know how long she'll be there, but for those who believe this place exists there's an open invitation to meet there. xox

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Date:2005-11-04 23:38

we run in myths
of you and i
and ashes swept like
summer rain across the sky:
of time and all its fancies
fly, by night by day
by heart's content
and walk in silence
padded sky
of shepherd's clouds
and wilted night.

i left it all
in the time we met
and somehow in its strangeness remembered:
no, you wouldn't remember
i won't forget.

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Date:2005-11-01 09:56

in this cycle of snatched moments
of precious time against
the thundering of sands falling
somehow, delirium
and it seems all worth
the thousand empty promises
on silent waves.

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Date:2005-11-01 09:44

she's left for that place of innocence, an entire abyss of conscious thought erased from mind's eye. no longer aware of day or night or breathing or awakening, it seems imminent that the idealism will win out and resurface its tired head.

i suppose it may be that we are only aware of what beliefs our mind's length pushes us to. or that, as those living breathing thinking beings on this world we cast this dull shadow over whatever else we touch.

and i suppose in realistic terms i've always been the cynicist of us two, but now that you're falling into this same obliqueness it makes me step back and reassess exactly what it is that's caused this new awakening.

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