Tik Tok

The time has not arrived yet.

And when it comes, the butler shall open the huge oak doors.  The Lady shall step out in her five-inch gold heels, and glide across the path to the Mercedes Benz waiting at the other end, her beautiful dark red hair brushing against the wind, and the satin ruffles of her long black dress sweeping lightly along. The chauffeur shall step out and open the car doors for her, and usher her in.

And then the Lady shall go on a journey deep into the unknown, but she shall not be worried, for she knows she is in safe hands.

Not every Tom, Dick, and Harry is capable of comprehending my writings;  it takes one of considerable wisdom, I suppose.

Does Time wait for you, or do you wait for time, I wonder? (Photo credits to Ekamil Razali)

Does Time wait for you, or do you wait for time, I wonder? (Photo credits to Ekamil Razali)

Yes, I am aware time is ticking by.  The minute hands are sweeping away by the day, and at each forward move rocks of obstacles are hurled my way.  Yet it is only the code by which this intangible thing called time works.

The effort spent – time itself, and energy as well – it shall not go to waste.  When I wrote The Blitzkreig, I meant it.  When I wrote all the other posts after that, I meant them too.  Whilst I have been busy sharpening my swords of authenticity, I have been through nightmares too, where pots kept clanking and alarms kept ringing perpetuously.  Probably I was faced with a paradigm shift, but no, not that I deny it, however it absolutely is not so!  It has been like this until someone came over and shook me tlll he woke me from my bad dreams.  Just saying.

Tragedy befell the poor, pretty mind, and it purged out a loud: “Oh!”  Nonetheless, the neurons still decided to head on to the party instead together with the protons and the electrons.  Together, they downed high doses of whisky, zapping all the way up and down through the cranium, and left with empty bottles lying on the dance floor.

And emerged as one from the doors more silent, solemn, and whatever else, with their minds readied for mental combat.  The thing is that every time after something bad occurs, a bigger, brighter thing is churned out.  At least, that is the general idea most people think happen.

Time to jump in the ship, and start flying!! Woo-hoo!!!

Red Scarlet

P.S.: Turn up the music loud, please. o.0

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Formalist? Realist? Or, otherwise, expressionist?

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This work by Alicia Ai Leng is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

VaginaLogue: thewriterportfolio

Ich bin ein Formalist.

That I am very much of a formalistic writer explains what I ponder on.  Of course, this is when I am working on non-academic papers.  It is much better this way, because both hemispheres of the brain are simultaneously exercised. Normally when the left brain is busy trying to solve problems, the right brain would clamor, and shout, and let it all out.  It can’t stop – it won’t stop – till it goes: “SPLAT!” on a piece of paper, wall, or anything else it can scribble on.

Drunken stupor.  (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng) Drunken stupor. (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

Yes, I will not deny the fact that I do think differently, like a madwoman walking through her shadows trying to search for a ray of light.  Events occur in stages, forms taking shape before my mind’s eye.  They break into fragments, and then gradually piece themselves together – or…

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Halfway There

Charon, Pluto’s beloved son – he rowed the fragile boat through the dark blue waters of the Styx.  It was all pitch black except for the little oil-lamp which had been lit before they began their journey.

Lovely Athene sat below him, silent as a child, unbeknownst of their final destination.  The vagueness of the mist which had so far enshrouded the air (if it were air they were breathin’)  was nothing to her beautiful grey eyes; in all her purity, her vision pierced through every bit of haze, thick and thin.  Her ivory white skin reflected on the murky waters as if they were but glass.  And her ears – she listened to hear, but she heard nothing.  Nothing could be heard.  Nothing spoke of life itself; except for the swishing of Charon’s oars through the mystical river.  She was all alone in this journey.  Or was she?

For out of the whitish-grey fog, something big and dangerous (at least, it appeared so) scooted away from the back of a huge boulder to another.  Just what was that?  Athene asked herself. More importantly, should she proceed?  Or should she turn back?

Going back where I come from is decidedly an incredibly long way.   Much time has been consumed – it must have been years, in fact; no, decades, that I have lost count.  Now I am so deeply entangled within the web of myelineated axons and dendrites, like Athene who is so deeply lost in the surreal gloom, and yet steadily emerges out of the Valleys from Charon’s boat.

Athene knows she is very close to the surface of the Darkness, where Artemis the Goddess of Light shall triumph in all her glory.

I presume I am more than halfway there, too, that the answers are going to sprout up sooner or later.  Which is so because I have noticed.  It is as if I am wiping clean an old window pane that has not been dusted for centuries, and it gets clearer with every swipe.

This is of course quite exciting, in all events.  The eyes capture a glimpse of hope shimmering from the East; Dawn breaks and dew from the midnight rain cools the air with a magical mist.  I must leave, and go ahead on my journey.