silent night

this isn't part two of the previous post i wrote up.
something i wrote up before math.
hope you like it.
don't hesitate to write back.

-------------------------

bloody hell.
the sound of gunfire rings out.
instincts say 2'o clock, over half a click away.
not to worry,I haven't been spotted.
they're just trying to spook me out of cover.
hah.
bloody amateurs.

these guys have plenty of guns,but a shortage of good shooters.
hell to that.
what the spooks really lack, are good thinkers.

I'm still concerned, though.
I'm getting sloppy.
I cant always bank upon their inexperience and inefficiency to get my ass outta the killbox.
gonna get myself killed,one of these days.

nevertheless,i was holed up pretty damn good.
dense african rainforest, the bane of any search party.

or so i thought.

shit.
a torchlight flickers through the undergrowth, accompanied by the crash of feet on dead leaves.
growing steadily louder.

lying still.
very,very still.

I see the all-too familiar AK snout poke through the foliage.
the stamp on the lower receiver tells me its just another chinese-made clone.
just another testament to the universality of 'Made In China'.
Clone or Kalashnikov, it still spews hot lead with as much benevolence as an angry ex-wife.
My angry ex-wife, if you want specifics.

Carrying it, is a kid in his early teens, wearing a stained t-shirt with some rapper's face on it.
He comes to a halt, looking around warily, his knuckles clenching tight around hot metal.

Bloody americans.
Thanks to them and their insatiable capitalist lust, this kid's life expectancy just plummeted off the goddamn chart.
The idiot can't even hold his gun the right way, thanks to those gangsta rap videos on mtv.

I really wanted to step out,and show him how its done.
Of course, that meant I'd have to kill him too.
And I couldn't risk leaving behind another body.
not now.

So I let him go.
Let him have a second chance, without him ever knowing.
As the crunch of dead leaves slowly fades, something monstrous starts to stir up inside me.
The feel of power.
Of holding consequence in the palm of your hand.
Oh, how it allures man,to touch that naked flame, not forseeing that it would be his hand that would burn first.
Someday it'll get me killed, it will.


silence is restored.
Just me and the jungle once more.
Quick glance at my gps.

Need to make some serious ground before dawn breaks.
Or ill find myself in the thick of a serious power vacuum.

The kind that arises, when you kill the one-eyed king of the blind.
The kind that arises, when a warlord dies in Africa.

----------------------


ciao

hello.

hello. 

been awhile.
board exams.
working on a few more posts(coming up after a week~math exam~)

onto more important things,
change is everywhere.
and god has a dastardly sense of humour.

turned 18.
didn't really feel anything.(contrary to public belief)

leaving the country thats been home for eight long years.
isnt as big a relief as some may think.
whats better,my neighbourhood is due to be leveled in a couple of years.
its like someone's trying to erase the "wali was here" stamp. 

effin' hell.

atleast 3 a.m. still feels the same everywhere.
or is it?
i'd like to believe 'tis so.


serene in its sleepyness,slowly stirring into morn.
slowly rises the sun,felling night with its scorn.


well,goodbye my love,and fare thee well.

ciao 

Blue-eyed blues(part one)

Sorry, my abysmal audience, I have been forced far from you by my circumstances. 
Board exams loom ahead, and I spend a lot of my time lost in the conundrum that is twelfth-grade chemistry.


Well, I still try.

This is the first of two parts of a story that i have wanted to write for a very long time.

The second will be posted soon .(I hope)

-------------------------------------------------

 Belgium,1944.

Somewhere in the countryside, near the ruins of what had once been a small town before the war, stood a lone stately home.
In it, lived an eight-year-old boy, Joachim, with his mother.
His father was a minister, and they had been hidden here by the government, lest Brussels fell to the Reich.
Joachim didn't get to see him much, unlike the old days.

Whenever he did happen to drop in, Joachim would bombard him with questions.
Questions about his classmates back in Brussels,about their old neighborhood,questions about his old nanny;questions his father couldn't bear to answer, for he knew better than most,that his dear Brussels lay in ruins, that they had left just in time, just before the Blitzkreig began.

Joachim's mother was a strong woman, able enough to run a house on her own, despite having lived the life of an aristocrat.
She had once served as the headmistress of the finest school in Brussels, L'academie Delacroix. Now the only student in her care was her son, whom she taught for hours on end, knowing that it was her education that had brought her into the upper echelons of society, to her husband, and ultimately to this secluded home, tucked safely away from the Nazi blitzkreig.

Joachim was a bright little fellow, and was quite at ease with his lessons.
But for him, his day began only after he stowed away his books and pencils in the big cupboard by the kitchen.
Every day, soon after his midday meal of chicken soup and bread, he would go off and explore the ruins that stood so desolate next to his own lively home.
His mother didn't mind, she knew no-one was to be found in the ghost town, and besides, it gave her some much-needed time for herself, to write in her diary, to think of the past and the future, and to hone her skills at her new found hobby, gardening.



Joachim was making his way through a the  first house in a ruined row of six, all joined together for some strange reason.
He climbed up a flight of stairs,and found himself in a room like any other.
Dust and grime, are all that live within these walls, he thought to himself.
All of a sudden, something caught his eye.
A trapdoor.
There is something, I'm not sure what, about the very word trapdoor, which pumps fuel to the lamp of adventure which shone especially bright within our young protagonist.
Unable to contain his curiosity, he pulled down on one of its corners, and a ladder swung down into view.
 
He clambered nimbly up the ladder, and found himself in a long dark attic, running unbroken through all six houses.
It was too dark to see, besides he could hear his mother calling for him as night approached.
He ran back home, promising himself that he would return the next day, armed with his mother's electric torch.


------------------------------

ciao(for now)

Grief

Wrote this after reading up on American Indian history,so that's the backdrop for the poem.
Also,as the title suggests, I wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world at the time.


I dreamt the dreams of better days
For they felt so far away
Of selfless love, and come-what-mays
Grew darker, day by day.

Gone, was the spirit, the fierce pride
Shriveled up, like autumn leaf
The shell was empty, nought inside
Nought remained, but grief.
 
Gone was the calm, my heart defiled
Filled with night even in day
Grief, not for the widow, nor fatherless child
But grief, for the the death of the way.

Still, my eyes well up with grief
Dripping from my lashes
To see the chief, no longer a chief
Living in his own ashes.



ciao

Up In Smoke

She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.

I was watching.

She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.

~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~

In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.

And before you ask, YES.

I did zoom in for a closer look.

Most guys would, given the chance.

For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).

As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.

As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.

And her car.

Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.

Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.

A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.

Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.

You know me, couldn't help but check.

I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.

Man, I hate my job.

oh how i miss thee,sweet rant..........

well,i think i haven't been doing justice to the rant-loving sections of my audience these last few weeks.......so here goes.

oh bugger.
exam time.
not studying,even when sometimes i really want to.
wasting time.
(innumerable exam-time cliches follow.........)

but......
ye olde,devilishly inevitable  but.......
something new is happening......
feels good.
probably up to no good(quite obvious,after that last line)
~dont know where this this here train's goin,but i sure hope it aint a trainwreck..........~

also.....
parents took away the fancy wifi-enabled n79........
back to me ole trusty ngage qd....
fer these coupla weeks,anyway.....
the good side is,im gettin ta lisn ta a lot of the music that i usdta lisn to a coupla years ago,now that im havin ta use the stereo fer music again.....

anyhoo......
im gna gt back ta tryna study.....
wish me luck,people..
heaven knows,im gunna need it.

ciao

the man behind the mask

everyone has a mask.

everyone.

its who we are,when we know someones watching(even when said watcher is but a figment of our imagination/ego/dementia).or even when we try to be cautious of how others react to our presence/behavior/antics.

its quite simple really.

whatever we do under said circumstances,quite frankly,just isnt us.

what we do as a group,says nothing,absolutely nothing, about who we each are.

if someone was watching when,to us,no-one was watching(even that little voice in your head didnt know),theyd have us figured out.

theyd know everything.

theyd play us around like a little bug,making us squirm all we can,even when we all know the end is coming.

dont bother.

ever.

shine that light back at the maggot, and hear its skin crackle under its 100W beam.

i know you cant manage to do that to one person the whole time.

we all know no-one can.

no-one but the man upstairs.

so do it to everyone.

paint a little tarnish,a faint brown patina on every other little critter.

savour that faint,sooty smell of dry roasting.

i know you cant sit back and admire your handiwork,you gotta keep up the work.

or youll fail.

youll give someone else that chance to fry you.

and you will burn,and with that,youll realise,that you arent much different from any other maggot.

or you can persevere,give up your own life,your very self,in the conundrum that you are,your "quest for survival".

and after a while youll notice.

cliche-"everything is an illusion"

yes, dearest retard.

weve all heard that one.

but the rabbit hole goes deeper,still.

ive already put you through these many lines of drivel,so i dont think youd mind a few more.

i promise itll end soon.

when you see through the mask,you see beyond the face,beneath the skin.

you see inside the man.

the mask is his desires,fears,aspirations,thoughts,his lifes work, his very own matrix.

the mask is his wall.

think of it this way. 
the mask is just a colour negative.

just as simple as that.

youve just gotta take every little pixel,and flip it the right way round.

just takes a little elbow grease,is all.

oh cmon.

dont throw that half-arsed look at me,i havent done any of this crap.

i just give out the instructions around here,mate.

now sod off.

~distantly calls~

ciao