Read up; part 48.

Having eyes, but not seeing beauty; having ears, but not hearing music; having minds, but not perceiving truth; having hearts that are never moved and therefore never set on fire. These are the things to fear, said the headmaster.


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Read up; part 47.

And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.


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Barred from sight.

I have a liking for prohibitions. The act of enclosing myself within a certain limit that can allow my senses to be apprehended in a manner where I control most of my thoughts and words. On the contrary, the lock that held these verbiage sentences of mine has a willingness of escaping from its spot and defying my very own rule of law. Sometimes it was for the best, to be held and categorized in that state, but mostly suffocating, to realize that there’s no other place of conveyance for the flooded lines and stanzas jeopardizing the conceits of my mind. I would initially grasp the key in order to make sure that my deepest darkest ramblings of profound sentiments are kept dense, not accepting the very fact that it’s losing its own precious limelight.

Hence I figured the need to be as widely noticed as a bright light blinding its audience. I took baby steps to analyze and reevaluate whatever is necessary for my chapters to spread out into a momentarily needed storybook for the public, thinking that it suited its part of being one with society. Failures arrived, anxiety walked by, making the initial stage of its presence a disastrous commencement to the whole adventure I was about to unleash myself to. Corrections were made just to notify me that things would naturally take its course, but it didn’t fit into the idea of wanting to be given a rebirth just as it was meant to.

It’s a tricky position, letting the universe tie you to strings beyond your very power, even more, when you slowly allow it be a puppeteer to your choices of living life. So, I decided to man up, give it my best, and keep it within the boundaries of what it approved. I didn’t fancy the root of this plan, but I did think that it helps the progression of my storyline to be crafted into something more entertaining than a dire need to lash out on the unnecessary. Meandering around, I gave it some time to sink in and let it develop into this beautiful convincing prologue as to what should be expected next from the rest.

These restrictions that I have got me swirled into a huge cumbersome feeling. A desperation to seek out for a breath of fresh air when in fact it was already there, surrounding my very own personal space, but it wasn’t acting as what I needed at the right moment. Questions came popping out non-stop, what to do what not to do, perplexing me as to how I should even start this tough ride of an undesirable gift knocking on my doorstep. I didn’t want to unwrap it, feeling that the contents of this unthinkable predicament should taste its own medicine of making me turn into a simpleton. I was nonplussed towards the situation.

For a while there, I just wondered on the simplest things in order to figure this all out. The whole convincement of being handcuffed in this outrageous mindset only backfired. There is always this perception parading around town warning us as to how we should act just to succeed in receiving positive reactions from this barbaric crowd of people who never really stood out to have a special role in our lives, but to this, we surrender without our own approval. I didn’t want that to happen because I couldn’t imagine the pain of crossing over barriers just to hand out gratification to those who don’t deserve it. But why can’t I have the heart to allow my own sense of belief to strut about as if it actually owns my entire being?

Questions, there it goes putting a red mark on where I would like to take my next footstep. It didn’t really matter when it first clouded my expressions with its own gale. Never thought that it should even be my confidant in sketching out the first stages of reliving as a newborn. I wanted to have that certain pride of enabling myself to go to places just to discover other hidden meanings that can protect my ambitions of a narrator to my own account. All I need is perhaps the decency to go through this illusionary gate withholding my presence from an imposter called life.



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Read up; part 46.

He was a man of black and white.

And she was colour. All the colour he had.


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Rhythmically felt & found.

There’s a sudden rush as to how things miraculously got placed together without a definitive answer to confirm on the possibility of it being a permanent state of ebullience. Drifting waves entailing a sudden vision of how you should consider your steps to be reminiscent of the past or an endearing call to be answered for the future. Pounding doors reminding you of a sudden instinct to keep your eyes open for a slight hint to get through, or to be ignorant in approaching what you want. Walking figures enlightening your hopes in a manner where you can search for the right time to feel ensconced in your habitual area.

I see sunsets and night skies blanketed with twinkling lights dressed as part of the accoutrement of beauty that was seldom seen. Perfected rays of reflections accompanying your every move in order to justify the concealment of another adventure waiting to be embarked upon. A whole configuration for you to divulge on without shame just to be in an awake state of mind. I wondered on minuscule details as I bowed my head down to get a grasp of life inevitably crossing paths with death in another dimension. Coincidentally, I bumped shoulders with another reason to lift my face back up in fathoming decisions and truths.

No other invasion of terrifying sentences that created a facade of utter displeasure can possibly break this gallantry expression down. Swinging branches calming down into its original position reminding you of how normalcy is part of feral conditions. I got through with voices encircling my thoughts and alarming my creation of reality as a dream to hopefully come true. When you have these complex connections of ugliness and loveliness, you encounter fallacies reborn as another storyline marked with the willingness of being exposed to all and sundry.

From there, you traipsed through corners of scratched out dead ends just to realise that you’re still in the same old spot. A spot that is filled with a compound of memories bursting into flames that seems indefinite to die down. Knowing that turning back only lets you portray another failure waiting to happen, you allow fragments of your futile wishes to be imbued in a secluded workplace bound for more faults and censure from others. That’s where you concluded that an additional pathway to escaping shouldn’t have a pivotal role in determining how far you should run off to. Dazed expressions and relentless movements burdening your every move breathlessly.

These pit stops known for its nothingness controlling my sense of being and shamefully frightening my imaginations, they purposely lent me an overwhelmed need to unleash my whole conviction on dealing with matters of endless horror. The limelight shone to my very soul, convincing that the beauty of living was still apparent in my conditions. That was where it all started, that was where I began my journey of inexplicable replies to the daily doses of this chronicle, as well as sentiments yet to be shaped into something brand new.



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Read up; part 45. 

The way to win over a ‘liberated woman’ is to please her and make her love you, not to coerce or threaten her. But Muslim society does not socialize men to win women through love; they are badly equipped to deal with a self-determined woman; hence the repulsion and fear that accompany the idea of women’s liberation.


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Read up; part 44. 

I knocked on Vi’s door and then stuck my head in. Vi was wearing a plunging brown-and-black leopard leotard that tied up the front. 

“That is not from Victoria’s Secret,” I said. “That’s from Victoria’s Sluts.” 


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