Whoever wrote this is a genius. Really strikes a cord.

Daniel Ahearn, 'I Will Let You Go'

Put your hands in the water

Watch them go under

Put your hands to the light

Watch the light come through

And I will let you go

And I will let you go

Put your time on the table

See who'll sit down with you

Give your love to the ones

Who offer you bruise

After bruise, after bruise

And I will let you go

And I will let you go

And I will let you go

How we play fight

As we dance slow

The smile you make

Saying yes meaning no

Is so grey, so faint

The words stray in your mouth

With an ache

I'm standing in water

With the light on my shoulder

The weight of the doubt

Turned me to glass

I'm through living in question

Dreaming the answers

No more paving the present

With pain from my past

~

What a beautiful song. I read somewhere in an article that he was playing the piano trying to figure out how to piece the lyrics to the melody and crying his heart out. I love this song because you can hear the pain echoing through his voice and the lyrics are vague and fleeting; giving you this sense that they really have this strange ability to capture any situation. It captures mine wholly and completely at the moment although I wish I had the courage to physically execute its message.

Little truths.

It finally all makes sense now. When something makes sense; you finally put down the rose-tinted glasses you've been romanticising everything through, you forget that dream-like instances don't just happen in reality because reality is reality and it's shit and bleak. Funny how the truth always finds its way back to our lives somehow, feeding the hunger for knowledge and allowing us to be confronted with something we've known all along but have refused to acknowledge or delve into.

My memory is sharp. How my mind has a way of remembering everything in the long term and hardly anything in the short term.. but that's okay because my memory never fails me. It conjoins corresponding ideas and forms a picture that's either fragmented and makes no sense at all, or portrays the exact truth that will eventually reveal itself. What is the truth anyway? The truth stares at us everyday and we push it aside in an attempt to mask it with what we ought to create. Something beautifully socially constructed that only exists in our minds. 

People are not spontaneous anymore. They take everything for granted; including people that really fucking care about them. What's wrong with the world?
If you like someone, why don't you grab their shoulders, shake them and tell them just how much you want to be with them? Put your time on a table and see who sits down with you (Daniel Ahearn) - that's right, absolutely nobody.

3AM

Sometimes I think I’m the only one awake at three in the morning. I’m obviously not, but it feels like all of the other people who are awake at this time feel exactly what I feel. I wonder exactly what they’re contemplating, if they’re reminiscing on past memories that once made them smile, I wonder if they’re happy and content or if they’re just sitting there with tears streaming down their cold cheeks.

I try to make sure I’m asleep at this time no matter what. Three in the morning has a weird effect on me. I’m either creating (what I think is) amazing art, pouring out my thoughts on the face of a blank page, reliving past moments, overthinking to a whole new level or just revisiting old thoughts and with that, old feelings. 
I am at peace with myself at three in the morning, but paradoxically I’m consistently in war with myself.
 Wondering what I’m doing with my life, whether I’m wasting the precious moments given to me because my days are numbered, just like anybody elses. A cold blanket sweeps over my head and hugs my body. It confines me in ways I’m not aware of and makes me question when was the last time I truly smiled and meant it. 
Sometimes it gets really bad and I close my eyes only to wake up in the morning. No sleep. Just closed eyes, pretending to do what the rest of the world does at three in the morning.

Sometimes I feel like packing my stuff and leaving at three in the morning. I’ll come back, but I don’t know where I’d go. Maybe I’d take the next flight to San Fransisco, or London, where I’d rather be.. Or maybe even India. I won’t leave a message or tell anybody where I’m going. I’d just disappear for a while, change my name when I order coffee every time. Shave my head. Meet strangers, fall temporarily in love at three in the morning on an unlit, cold street and kiss them for hours. I’d forget my shoes at home and I won’t wash my make-up off for a week. There’d be nobody to impress, nobody to explain myself to, nobody to convince.. Nobody at all.

But then I remember that this is reality and reality doesn’t work that way. At three in the morning, the urge to slip into a world far away from here is the most powerful; a world I have created and claim as my own.

So I close my eyes and pretend to dream instead, knowing there’s a chance I’ll bump into three in the morning tomorrow.

'Closer' (2004) Film Review

Warning: Includes spoilers!

I've been meaning to watch Closer for a while now and finally got around to it tonight. The typical short IMDB description of the plot is that it is a film depicting the tumultuous relationship of two couples whom get caught up in a growing web of deceit after they all intermingle with each other. For the record, it seems that Nichols' intention was to create four extremely simplistic, aggressive and surprisingly candid characters that all share one thing in common - a fascination with their innermost fears and what hurts them. The characters are in no way likeable or particularly empathetic - they all deceive each other in a brutal and shattering way one can only dream would be fairly rare in reality, but the film has an essence to it that does not fail to anticipate and almost elevate the brutality between the characters. 

All four actors did a terrific job - although I must say that Roberts, who starred as Anna, could have had a little bit more dialogue. It seemed as though she was the most simplistic of all four, being easily adaptable and lured towards her unconscious desires. I didn't find Anna to be an empathetic character at all, as her animalistic instinct to act rather than rationalise and contemplate consequences before delving into deceiving situations was not an accurate reflection of what the average person would do, assuming they were in her position. Regardless, the films purpose was not to paint an accurate picture of reality, but instead rather display some really interesting concepts of humanity, love, passion, betrayal and desire that are quite often ignored in casual conversation and daily interaction between people. The truth is an underlying concept in Closer, and the characters exhaust this concept by attempting to tell the truth with uttermost detail - epitomised through the fight between Anna and Dan, where Dan brutally begs Anna to spare him the details of her deceitful sexual behaviour, in which telling him almost seems to excite her. The film undoubtedly asks a difficult question about the nature of humanity - would things be easier if we were that brutally honest? Are we fascinated, intrigued and almost obsessed with knowing the truth to its very core? And if so, are we then dominated by the obsession of knowing the intricate details of what we are afraid of, or most importantly, what has the capacity to break us?

Closer is not a film that demonstrates a picture-perfect portrayal of relationships. Instead, it focuses more on the fascination, the passion that the characters seem to share for the idea of love rather than love itself. Alice, who had no trouble changing her mind on whether she loved Larry or not by the time he came back during the final scenes, ironically lied about her real name yet told the truth about sleeping with Dan. It seems that none of the characters will ever be truly happy with either of their partners because they are in a consistent battle of indecisiveness that taints their abilities to commit to a faithful relationship. They crave the brutality of deceit almost as much as they crave sexual desire and although their humane traits allow them to feel guilt, the guilt does not preside over their lust for betrayal, nor the kick they get out of deceiving someone they supposedly 'love'. After watching Closer, you'll be confused, questioning how much of a mask we wear when we are with anybody in the hopes that our inner monsters do not escape our minds. Closer questions how one small situation, one small moment and chance can change everything - it can determine whether we choose to unleash the monster within, continuously feed its hunger for betrayal, or tame it and kill it with love - a poison, whether artificial or genuine, that may as well be equally as detrimental. 

Overall, an excellent film that will keep you thinking afterwards. I would probably watch it again and have a complete different perspective - which is the brilliance that comes from its  mystery and the fact that we are not being given every piece of information. The most interesting element of the film is that we hardly, if not at all, witness the deceit on our own, which leaves us with a decision of how much we can trust in what the characters are saying. It is this sole challenge that allows us to relentlessly question the concept of 'truth' and whether or not we will ever be acquainted with it. 

7/10

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- 

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not 
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

12 October 1962

The first time I read any poetry by Sylvia Plath, I think I was around sixteen years old. I was going through a rough teenage patch at the time; being at the brink of discovery. I remember discovering that poetry was something I was pretty good at and that if I kept writing at the pace I was writing at, I'd have finished and published a book sooner than I thought. I've always wanted my first book to be a poetry book. It's easier, I like it more because it allows me to explore my own thoughts rather than that of others and I seem to write good poems more often than shitty poems. Anyway, I'm rambling now, but back to the point - the first time I read Ariel I was completely mesmerised. I quickly fell in love with her poetry because it was raw, emotional, gripping right through to its core.. and it made sense to me. Mind you, nothing really made sense to me at that age. I rocked a really short front fringe with red choppy hair, I wore fake stretchers, had an anti-eyebrow piercing, wrote dark poetry about people killing themselves and rotting trees, listened to every Marilyn Manson album religiously and read cheesy romance novels about vampires. I was still figuring out my identity and all that teenage bullshit; but I knew Sylvia's words hit a spot I could only reach by writing. Now that I discovered I could read and feel the same way, the minute I was halfway through Daddy - tears were flowing down my face.

I don't exactly remember, and I'm still trying to figure out what exactly it was that drew me in so deeply towards the words of this poem; why it touched me profoundly, why I felt like I could relate to everything she was saying. I soon found out the context in which she wrote and read a little bit about her life before reading the rest of her poetry. 

Nevertheless, today I called up almost every one of my friends because I really felt like getting out of the house (even though I haven't been at home forever, I'm out every day). Turned out each and every one of them were busy with uni/college work since our mid semester breaks are coming to an end, others were working or on a short-term vacation etc. So instead of staying home and doing uni work or watching Before Midnight, I decided to take a short trip to my local library and pick out three books I wouldn't have read today if I were to go out for coffee with friends. So I got there and walked straight past the Poetry section to reach the British History section and I decided to go back. I skimmed through the poetry books and found plenty of Emily Dickinson (which I must say I never enjoyed reading), Robert Frost (I have read his poetry to the point where I almost memorised a dozen or so poems..) and Ted Hughes. I can't really read much Ted Hughes because I always seem to be comparing him with Sylvia. I know she was way under-appreciated back in the 60's and I get angry all over again because she was a woman and (insert feminist rant here). 

Naturally, Sylvia Plath was placed there too and I spotted Ariel. It has been four years since I've read it. So I picked it up, grabbed another random fiction novel that looked pretty because there was a lake and scripted writing on the cover, picked up another book about Metaphysics in the Philosophy section, borrowed all three and came home.

The minute I got to my room, I read Daddy again because I was itching to know whether I would feel the same way. Whether it would affect me the way it first did and if I'd still relate to it.

It was like reading it for the very first time.

I was reminded that some things really don't change. And there's been a part of me that has remained the same ever since I was sixteen years old. Despite how much I've grown and slowly shaped into the person I want to be.. I felt so young and vulnerable again. It was a blessing and curse to feel something so familiar and heartbreaking and knowing that a dark room in my heart still exists.

That something will always be missing and I might not ever find what it is and that's kind of scary.

I think it would be interesting to document my thoughts and re-read Ariel in another four years. Would I have reached some sort of conclusion by then? Time will tell, only time will tell.

Been feeling so apathetic lately. I go through really highs and lows - where I feel everything at once, like waves crashing over me.. blankets falling on top of my head one right after the other. Each one a different colour, a different burden, a familiar emotion. I've felt it all before, I've been here before. Or nothing at all.

I was at the beach the other day. I hardly ever go to the beach but I walked real close towards the shallow water and felt the waves crash against my knees. My best friend was telling me stories to my right but all I could hear were the waves crashing and swallowing the sand. I felt myself moving forward, getting sucked into the deeper end quicker than the sand beneath my feet. I felt her look at me and wander off, leaving me alone with my apathy. Then sometimes I think I'm really happy and content, too. But I know that's always a lie.

I write a novel. Three thousand edited words about nothing and nothing happens. I realise it's all my thoughts and I hate it. I have to work hard and show. Show that I can do this. To myself, I need to do it for me. I read somewhere in a book about creativity that when you partake in a creative process of any sort, you must go about doing it from action. Act upon it - just get it done. I wrote a story for a soldier not long ago. It was a story I've been meaning to write for a while, but kept putting it off. Then one night I came home and wrote it all in one go, and it was amazing. It was close to perfect. I showed him and a tear trickled down his cheek.

One thing that really gets me is when people don't remember as much as I do. Do you remember when I showed you those fragments of my art? Or that song? I'd ask them. They'd all shake their heads, each and every one of them. Like those conversations never happened. Like they had never read that fragment of my art I chose to share with them. Like they didn't compliment or criticise it at all. I remember everything. From the colour of peoples eyes, to the roots of their hair, to the way their faces seem to twitch, to the way their bodies move in motion, to the way they clear their throats when they're nervous and to the way they have strange little habits they can't break out of. I wish I didn't feel so much. Or see and hear so much, as a matter of fact. If only I could be ordinary and simple; asleep at three in the morning like the rest of the world. I'm tired - so, so tired, but it's never enough. No matter how much I write, how much thought I put into something.. I'm never satisfied. How could I show all these people waiting for the novel I'm writing? Waiting for the snippets, the perfect little ~poems~ and ~verses that will touch and break them. That will make them fall in love with my words.
What if they're just that - words?
What if they won't touch or stain you with sadness and glory.
What if they're supposed to be disposable and forgettable.

But what would I know. I can't feel anything now. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
How superficial and relentless we are sometimes.
I hate it.