Blade

Dancing. Singing. Talent. Implicit. Explicit. Needed. Not. Waltz, one. Waltz, two. Swing, chairs, tables and grass. Umbrellas, large, pink, white. Cocktails, straws, tarantella, tango. Music. And how do you write music? Can you read music? Can you read music and hear it? Only 10% of what we say is what we convey. The idea that words mean so much without tone, nor psoture, without inflection nor reflection, without a mouth to say them and a tongue to roll those lovely Rs. But I like how the letters roll out. Spill onto my parchment to flow into words over which I have only a miniscule level of control. Words. Are all I have? No. I'm an animation. I can hold up a signboard to say what I want. And if I don't want another minute to go by then why do I sit here playing with collected thoughts from time gone by when corporations insist I write essays on their control of global economic policies. Because I live my life on the edge of a blade? Perilous. Hardly. Exciting. Only as much as I make it. Yeah, that's it. My blog. I can throw up all over it. My thoughts. Cut with them. Word will never hurt me. Cut the tension. Cut..cut..CUT!

glint

What blades can we speak of anyway. Faster than the speed of light. I'm energy. Though I still raise my hand and will objects to come hurtling towards me. Though I still believe in telekinesis and the force. Though I still believe that being human is too dull and my character of Blue Ninja (daftly named, uber cool) will live on forever. So I went to watch Hitch yesterday and found the trailer of Episode III amazingly gripping. Are you threatening me Master Jedi?

glint

What talk of blades is there anyway. What is synonymous with blades? I ask too many questions and yet pose so many as statements. Similies and metaphors, what difference is there between the sun and the moon for what I could compare to icy blue oceans is not that which I shall ascibe to a rose, so tender sweet like a steak plucked from a still beating heart, sealing the fate of the undead in the final throes of its existence, as delicate as a moth trapped wihting a lightbulb, blissful agony, sweet delirium, rivulets of bright, red, love.

glint

The sheer number of uses to which any blade can be put to has only come to my attention in the last year, give or take half of one. And though my thoughts are currently distracted, lost on stormy seas off the coast of Africa, gentle beats reminiscent of Enya, I still make my sad attempt to write on that which I know so much yet say so little. Those moments coming up in an elevator, silent, solitude. Wannabe by Spice Girls blaring in your MP3 player and the burst of laughter from your fellow occupants. Does it quite capture embarassment. Not when you've worn a t-shirt with a subtle message no one was able to catch all day. Sad, risky, and depressingly relieving.

glint

I s/i'd. Whay is s/i? Probably not the right reaction to such a claim. Where have you been as culture, tradition and teenage angst culminated in this most magnificent display of self-mutilation to justify all the internal torment. Self injury, the more politically correct would say. A physical manifestation of an emotional pain. Robin left to bleed from his wrist as the days went by and his merry men wondered. Count the cuts. The markings. Any blade will work. Will do. Razors. Scissors. Pencil tops, sharpeners, fragments of glass. I bleed now over that screen which holds me in. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cat scratches dear, why do you worry. Oh but for a cat of such mindless love. The perils of penelope pitstop. What's your ugly little secret. I know what blades do. How does it work? I couldn't understand. It flows, out. The evil, the rage, the wrath. It makes you fele better. So I learnt. So I consoled. You don't understand. No kidding. There was never anything there to understand. Drink away your sorrows today, and failing that let them flow. Hehe, and then eventually the demented hopeless cycle throws you away or drags you in. Forced acceptance. Forced rejection. Join the darkside or be taken. I'm not shelled. I just have nothing to share. I shrug and my palms are throw open upwards, bare. Split a hair, get out the way.

glint

Who invented the idea of moving on ice. You sit and propel yourself, can go wherever you want to. But to cut across its surface, to learn is to lose an inital fear of lost control. I never got blades in that way. How do you brake? There's no stopping. Oh but the analogies we could draw from roller blading. The similarities with life. Lives. Not ours always, but theirs. Life's everythign from a bag of peanuts to a grain of sand in an oyster shell. Philosophy is amusing that way. When there is no right or wrong, is it really what you say? Or how you say it?

glint

That particular colour is like blood really. After it's spilt. I don't even knows what drives my fascination for donning the persona of a vampire anymore. I know not much of their lives. Haven't even read Dracula. I suppose the little I do know allows me to build up my own fanciful image. Perhaps even from Blade. A Daywalker. That's what I am. Resistant to garlic, because I'm a pizza-loving vampire. There are some things you just fall into. I'm a vampire. And I'm adorned with a blade that represents more Asha'man than a cross to signify my counter-evil, but then who cares for such differences?

glint

It's marvellous how you can lead yourself to believe there is some greater, deeper meaning behind every utterance. Our ability to make vast sweeping statments like that, to believe we know better, to assume that mankind deceives itself because so our observation states, and that of countless others, is it truly our right. What if they're right. What if their delusions are what make them, and hence are real. Happiness is nothing more than a short memory. At least I can conveniently shift from elephant to stegasaurus. Envy me. And I know not whether I say that to you now, or to myself years from now.

glint

Maybe I had more to say. It's always a race against time. On blades, I can hardly use one. A letter opener from LOTR. I can't even shave right. Oh but some manly stubble helps dispel so much. Doesn't it? Shouldn't it? When they all smile at you, you smile back. No names. Just a grin. And that small sparkle. What can make a day, or a small flutter. They say a smile is uber powerful. Tears are stronger, but they won't tell you that. Don't poke the illusion. It's been a long long time since a non-fiction piece of mine made someone cry. A long reported time anyway. Is that really an aim. Maybe. Could be one of many. What remains my primary focus here is still a mystery, no? So it was well sweet, when, he, called. Oooh commas, whosa gonna correct me now? But somehow my Kith and Kids essay got back to him, only last week. While working on my presentation my phone rings and he tells me how it found its way to him. And brought a tear to his eyes. I've always found that solitary tear navigating its way down a face to be much more appealing. That's probably a mental note for myself. After all, I know what I want. A zigga-zig-Ah.

glint

In all honesty when I say glitn so often I forget what it means. A small shine? The dull sheen on a blade? A bright springle, hey pringle, pop it. But then, who cares huh, hmmm. We know what we wants. We wants to finish our essay, our preciousssssss.

Sssssssssssssssss'nikt!

'Nuff Said!