Delicate,

What of the
darkest corners of
the poet's soul?

Like
a cold winter's
night.

The darkest
and the longest
hours.

Silence within silence.

Like an atlas of
untouched snow.

A wide spread
of delicate fracture,
contained
in a fine composition.

It must not be seen,
but
to be searched.

An effortless,
long
search.

That
irrational ease.

'The flowers
are blooming',

I heard them whisper.

Like bursting
into colours.

Into Life.

A gradual
change of the season.

Like my blinded soul,
I feel, I hear,
but I have not
seen.

The Fetal Position.

I took the long way back. I guess it's some sort of a replacement to my long drive home in the middle of the night with the radio blast almost at a maximum volume, and the windows winded all the way down.

But yeah, I took the long way back with my iPod, and that particular song on heavy rotation.

I guess it was out of not wanting to go straight home and facing the mundane Thursday routines I have been having for the past couple of months. Perhaps I just wanted to be able to feel alive.

So I did, without having my head directing and navigating my feet. I just walked into the darkness and into the cold winter's night, only I wasn't sure whether if it is cold given it rained earlier. I wasn't able to feel any physical sensation. Or maybe I didn't want to be able to feel any, only internal ones.

Truth be told, it has been a really heavy day. Thursdays are days of self-discovery. It could possibly be the whole nature of embracing psychoanalytic thinking and psychoanalytic psychotherapy on its own. The whole ignition of your very core being that has been buried under your Self. The digging of the archeology of your Soul.

The thing about psychoanalytic thinking is that it's nothing and everything all at once. It tingles and gives sensations to your Soul, and then there you are left to wonder - what the hell was that?

Mostly, it keeps you in touch with your feelings you weren't sure you had them in you, and then leave you to figure and sort (if you like) them yourselves. More often than not, with very vague leads of their origins, causes, reasonings and whatever possible logical explanation you try to make out.

And as I walk into the literal darkness with damp grass and pavements, I try to give it an analytical insight. I tried to digest whatever that has been put on our plates during lectures earlier today. To digest my very own existence.

My feet then brought me to this slightly lit area where you could see split shadows of your Self in the cold winter's night. Pre-occupied at first, I was forced out of my own mind distracted by my shadows. The core shadow, which was magnified for its position under the street light and the other shadows (2-3 of them) that were still following my physical being. And the further I walked away from the street light(s), these shadows merged into one, and pretty soon, left me alone with my own physical being.

Well, that particular bit didn't help at all but instead left me with more questions in my head!

But after I was done with whatever that was needed to be done within my psyche, I decided to head back. Time to step out of it. But then I stopped at one corner, looked up at towards the dark (k)night, only to look out for the stars.

And there it was,

The Moon.

The Stars.

The Clouds

moving away as the wind blows.

The branches of the tree

under the light of the street lamp.

And then there's you

staring straight up to these.

The feeling of the wind

in your face,

blowing your hair away.

The beauty of the dark winter night.

And out of great darkness, comes great beauty.

64: At-Taghabun, Mutual Disillusion.

بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِي

So fear Allah as much as ye can; listen and obey; and spend in charity for the benefit of your own souls: And those saved from the covetousness of their own souls― they are the ones that achieve prosperity. (16)

What's a Wonderwall, anyway?

The only thing that can make me really smile when I'm in a complete mess is my Muse.

That Flame.

That Light.

I Speak, Because I can.

But aren't we all afraid to feel?

Now I remember why this feels fucking right.

You feel.

Beauty is pain.

And this right here, is Life's beautiful gift.

Pusing-pusing

Masalahnya,

bila rakamkan dengan kata-kata ringkas,

mahu yang panjang-panjang.

Bila panjang-panjang,

mahu yang ringkas-ringkas.

Mungkin

masih mencari.

An-Nisa, the Women.

O ye who believe! ye are forbidden to inherit women against their will. Nor should ye treat them with harshness, that ye may take away part of the dower ye have given them,― except where they have been guilty of open lewdness; on the contrary live with them on a footing of kindness and equity. If ye take a dislike to them, it may be that ye dislike a thing and Allah brings about through it a great deal of good.

4(18), Surah an-Nisa.

Withdrawal.

My apologies towards my own goal-striving Self. I can't read the long-winded text about infants and their cognitive capabilities or of his/her object relations with the mothers' breasts. Yes, you didn't read wrong, breasts. To be exact, Kleinian's good/bad breasts. The thing about psychoanalytic thinking is - Freud's psychosexual emphasis. Any of you fixated yet?

But my mind is just not generating properly. I need to be productive, but at the same time I want to be stagnant. Lay in bed all day if it requires me.

I even skipped the one thing that's left of my source of inspiration only to deprive myself more. See what I meant by being caught up in the space between?

You see, it is set to self-destruct.

And for God's sakes people, stop messaging me asking if I'm okay or otherwise. It just annoys the hell out of me, which would make me worse than okay. I know all of your intentions mean well, but I just need my own space and to function at my own time. And of course this goes unnoticed because none of them really read this space, hence the never-ending annoyance I could chew someone's head off.

I've been here.

And to be honest, I like it very much. It puts me into perspective and back in tangent. It really isn't the worst thing. And just because I don't act as 'normal', that really does not mean anything. What is normal, anyway? Your collective perceptions, as what you lot seem to suggest.

So should I really follow your collective perception of my Self?

Because to be honest, I have had enough of individuals who try to plant seeds of their own recollections of my Self as if they know better.

And the worst of it all, I allowed them to.