Birthday

November rains are back.  Everyday it is raining, raining, raining.  The skies are crying, weeping tears of bittersweet joy.  Massive clouds of whitish-grey matter cover the sky, creating a reflecting gloom that shrouds the earth.  Some twists must be taken, must they not?

Even the air is set with a dewy mist.  Winds blow, though not too hard.  The ground is moist; in some places it is damp and soggy from all the wetness.

The wisps of mists fill the air as it evaporates, awakening the senses – perhaps with a start – and the soul, with a renewed vigor, skips along the sidewalks in merriment.  For through pain, through jagged maps, through persistence it came through it all, and is still coming, on its way.  One day soon it shall be no less obvious, because its dear heart would thump with powerful beats along to the tune of the music whispering in its ears.

An afternoon in downtown KL. (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

An dizzling afternoon in downtown KL. (Photo credits to Alicia Ai Leng)

November is a beautiful month, the time of the year when Mars and Pluto cross paths and stars collide.  It is the time of the year of every other year when little baby scorpions emerge from their eggs and take their very first crawl.

Oh!  The clock is ticking, and I am running out of time.  I must put on my birthday suit.  For in a few minutes I am turning 24.  How old can I be?

I am in oh-so-deeeeep love with the month of November.

Red Scarlet

PS:  This post was written a few days prior to the author’s 24th birthday.

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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.  =)