half past nomad

I can tell you this. For weeks now, since i started this [again], I’ve been having trouble writing.

My writing is different then it was ___ months ago. It lacks passion, it lacks a drive that i expected to exist when i put together this setup.
I fear that I have lost the art of dreaming as a child.
I fear that I have gained the insight of a budding maturity.
I rejoice that my prayers have been answered.
I rejoice the change of evolution.

I guess in the end, you get used to familiarity, like that old taste of ice cream you love, even though it only costs 50 cents, may be lacking in many of the better ingredients that Hagendaz contains yet-
yet it was yours.

Similary, a style of writing is very much a second skin, a home to a person. It is the shade under which they blanket their thoughts and ideas. It is the tablet upon which personal revolutions are etched out. It is your battlefield weapon against yourself and others, it is your grand canyon to scream into, it is your empty house to be all alone with. It’s home sweet home.

Such an evolution brings about many questions for me. What is my writing style changing to and how does that in turn affect my mental makeup. What have i lost or have i lost anything at all to gain something new. And if nothing has been lost, then where does it hide within?

So the evolution begins, thus a revolution was started and a commotion was recognized.

“I am mad about men who think that raping a woman somehow disgraces her not him”
– Pamela Taylor

feel but don’t touch
touch but don’t grasp
grasp but don’t hold
hold but don’t keep
keep but don’t posses
posses but don’t.
just don’t.
don’t.
.

next post will be when i’m back on campus. hopefully.

A friend reminded me, once again, oh so intelligently, so simply in his words, of the balance that i am, no, we are all, always seeking and how it easy it is for it to slip away. it’s a constant mental check and balance game.

over at adnan‘s, i was showing my brother the various entry covers he had designed. from the look of my own site, i guess i’m headed partially towards such a direction.
but what hits hardest is this one.
god it hits hard.

To those who frequent:
I honestly have not had the chance to write anything at all. I barely have any pc time whilst on vacation and it’s only with great sadness i pass the only Apple store nearby everyday with so few chances to feel the sharp keys of an iBook below my fingers.

So many thoughts nowadays. It’s scary what happens when you start actually thinking. To just be driving or eating or walking and just thinking about things. You actually get things done (mentally speaking ofcourse).

…

I sat down to a late dinner at my sister’s, the time 3AM. Heated up the meat in the m’wave and threw in the pita bread in the mini oven to heat pronto. Lying there on the table was a can, blue, sparkles of dust visible in the bright light flooding the otherwise dark room. The can had some writing on the side, going vertically up, etched in white on the light royal blue.
I remembered how the can came to be here.

December
My mom asked us, over the webcam, if we wanted anything else brought from home. The youngest ‘un was coming over. BB eagerly said “3 cans of pepsi!”. A little weird of a request yes, but a request given to immediately. 3 cans of pepsi were brought over from the UAE in a few weeks.

We drank the cans carefully, saving them for special occasions for ourselves. Because you see, no one but us pro’lly understands what this means to us. To most people, its just a stupid blue can, with a taste that costs 60 cents from the machine down the dorm hall. It means nothing, is useless, a waste of valuable exotic goods space in a suitcase.
It’s not that.
It’s a can that brings us a taste of memories. It’s a can that reminds us of a childhood far far away. Of victories, of hot summer days, of cold malls, of dirty seaty children hands clamoring over the ring to open the can. Each sip of the drink reminds us of our lives here, of endless traffic, of young kids blinded by malls, of young 14 year old girls desperately trying to be 21.
We know. We can taste the difference of minute amounts, of gigantic proportions and invisible gaps.
It’s just a blue can in the end, yes. in your hands.
Not in mine.

always play with honor.

but i was browsing over at shellen of google, from there to some other site about blogger.com hacking, from there a link about x-box hacking book which immediately reminded me of my complete disregard for keeping tabs on wired.com. Again.
so i went over immediately and look what i finds there
muslim cable plans.

see, i understand how awesome that would be. it would be like watching TLC or Discovery or Cartoon Network (especially during their Tom&Jerry re-runs). It would be bloody marvelous i think.
At the same time, I can already see the arguing, the bickering, the fighting, the moral dillemma that will drift over. immediately.

alas. and alas.

today is my last day in this apartment. i’m moving out.
i’m not sure quite where i’m headed out next. i’ve got places lined up, but nothing definite. i’ve got people in the know but no one alerted. i’ve got a general idea, an outline of an essay, with each paragraph containing barely a thesis statement.

and later in the afternoon, i have to go see her folks. say hello, chitchat animatedly and smile big. everything is alright afterall, right? oh yeah, totally. we all love each other, us grand people, with love and sincerity flowing out from our chests, beating alive with every breath, and we deeply breath in this air so gifted.
it’s empty air. it’s a smoke without a fire. it’s a burning wood but no ashes. it’s an open house with a “closed today” sign.

i’m not sure what it is. i’m half confused as to the ending to this story. i wrote this story, i worked damn hard at making sure it was to be one of my best works ever. as it is with each and every single story, new characters get introduced, with their own ways, and their own sayings. and the plot, literally, thickens, a fat little elephant in the corner, pretty soon too fat to move and change and wash and clean itself up. the plot thickens, the plot deepens and the plot has a life of its own. you, me the author that is, realize that you were never in charge, you never held the pen because the pen held you.

you were just a character in someone elses story and you just ran out of lines.

i just took a look at the layout of the blog at sixfoot6.com. it’s really quite an enjoyable stay there. the layout and textual combination is a dizzying effect on the eyes that results in a small voice in the back of your head going “err…!” as you realize what a wonderfully thought out layout it is.

and then i looked back at my own newly paved layout. the greycell layout, is what i’m calling it. yet already, it is wiltering infront of my eyes. quick! before it’s too late! water it! yell at it summer camp seargent style! and for god’s sake man, stop looking elsewhere and focus on the large batch of cookies in your plate.

if any of that made sense to you, please explain it back to me. thankyouverymush.

this is a test entry. so don’t comment. really. don’t.
i dare you not to comment.