Subject of Dreams

The Subject of Dreams. (Photograph credits to Ashraf Saharudin.)

It is never a sin to carry the self away with the wind and go off to far-off places where you are able to construct castles of dreams.  It is never even wrong – no, not once! – to let the wanderlust soul wander along the passages of conciousness.

As the spirit descends deeper and deeper down, and enshrouds itself amongst the visions and fantasies long forgotten, but still existing, albeit, it passes by projections of thoughts, feelings, and emotions.   It crosses over mysterious lakes covered by mists, finally transcending in a dark cave that shields a wealthy treasure of the Past, Present, and Future.

Where actions and deeds unfathomable in reality are carried out at the freedom of the soul.  Where fruits abound abundantly upon surfacing to awaken-ness concepts innovative to pending – or rather, bugging – issues.

Thus permit the soul to escape from the calcium cage as it pleases.  Leave to explore… at its own will.

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Dance Like No One is Watching

All right – I shall admit it. This is what I do nearly every night. Everyday too, almost. My imagination finds me standing in the middle of nowhere (or somewhere, if you would like). It is definitely a barren land that bears no fruit and offspring, because in my longing for quietness and alone-ness, there is no one else.

It is the tipping point of the id, the breaking line between ego and the superego. Where the self is able to completely perceive the presence of every Tom, Dick, and Harry out there… but does not give a damn.

Dance like no one is watching. (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

Peace.

Red Scarlet

What Did The Fox Say?

I shall tell you what the Fox said.

I am sitting on a public commute on my way back from work.  Headphones plugged in both ears; I have been enjoying the music playlist in my Nokia Lumia for a big portion of my trip already.

This was what the godforsaken Fox told me.  (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

This was what the godforsaken Fox told me. (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

Music composes a huge part of my life – no, not quite the way you suppose though.  Stress drains itself away in music … my music.  I have learnt to shake it all as well.  Not completely; however I am at the very least doing all I can within my power.  Not that it is hard, there is just a lot to shake! Music, like sponge, lets the past slowly soak up.

As I jot these precious words on my notepad, my head is rocking in tune to the music.  As, it is just one of the methods I utilize to sort of keep my mind in good shape, for want of a better word.  Only one of the gazillion ways.

The mind, in order to set thoughts in ink, is in dire need to indulge itself in precious quiet time.  The thoughts – no, the words whispering along the wires of neurons in the mass of gray matter – probably make a smooth birth out of the canal of stillness.

Such conceptualization of ideas procreate a concrete framework as the words connect and mature.

Let the dear heart maketh peace for the beautiful mind that the whispering words may frolick about and find their way amongst one another.  Let the emotions, however far off or deep they may be, seep through the intricate web of neural connections.  Oh, and let love and madness define themselves!  The soul may wander in the dreams to lands covered in mists, but it shall, as it always has, return to its Abode to bring full Life to the very hand that spells not, word by word, ever so diligently.

I am about to arrive at my stop now.  One flip of the coin , and my expression switches to a sulky queen unflattered by nonsensical subjects.

Why not.

What Did The Fox Say is ringing straight in my ears.

I presume I have already answered that godforsaken question.

 

The Writer’s World

Are We the Dreamers, or the Dream Weavers?

Are We the Dreamers, or the Dream Weavers?

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

– William Shakespeare

They say that writers are trapped, locked up in their own worlds.  They say that artists are flying high in a different dimension, submerged in the incense of smoking opium and barbiturates.  Is that really so I dare not claim.

However, I shall not deny that there is much truth in it.  There is a characteristic of beauty in a mind left alone to wander about and linger on through the passages of conciousness.

One that is highly valued in a moment of solitude.  No, we are not smokers of weed and nicotine, puffing wisps of fantasies into the crisp air.  These are really periods of self-expression; of discovering oneself in a duty of such eloquence.  Times where thoughts – our thoughts – are heard, at least to an eager audience.  Times when we speak, hoping that the Outsiders take notice as we crawl out the Dream Tunnel, arms and legs outstretched like that of the spiders.

There shall be epochs where the world seems to crumble down in dusty ashes, only to arise from within a King so mighty.

We are the Dream Weavers, weaving ideas and connecting missing links together in hopes of patching up for a better world.  We are the Sowers of the Seed, silently praying that the flower that blossoms out shall be blessed with showers of love, joy, and happiness.

There goes.  Now what am I writing about?

Red Scarlet

PS: Anyway, it is about my birthday, it’s MY BIRTHDAY – so I got to spend my money. Taylor Swift needs to come up with a new hit titled Twenty-Three.  =)