Remembering Hyde Park With Nikita
It’s what you don’t say that makes women suspicious of you. Looking through my photo album after another cleansing session in its finale, it seemed obvious that Nikita was freaked out by what she didn’t know was going through my mind in the mild innocence of our chance luncheon in the city one day.
The memory is vague at the moment. Since the tumble of the writer felled me among the majority of this enlightening year, it seems that come my suggestion to head out into the park and have some lunch, either after just meeting up with Lyssa or after bumping into her on the train in, which led us to an uncanny afternoon.
I guess my subconscious hopes would have been for the two of us (seeming we shared the same person, the badgering bane, either as a friend or lover, or both), to get on and more comfortable with each other. However, because it seemed smarter for me to keep my interpretive thoughts to myself instead of blabbing out something that could have pointed her into a direction that she naively hadn’t been thinking, it seemed best to play it by ear, but my laughed-off joke seemed to make her warier afterwards.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to run off into the sunset after this,” I joked while she probably cringed.
Nikita was weirded-out by what she thought was passive, flirty tail-wagging. She was quick to assume that mine was a dirty mind immoral enough to break the code of girly etiquette, forcing her to accept offers such as mine, for lunch, with the enemy.
Maturing Through The Photo Albums
My photo albums mirror my effortful stages through life, each album showing a different level of naiveté, of oblivion, of creativity, of aspiration and level of difficulty. Actually, the levels of difficulty through tremors of life are engraved in intellectual material such as my memoirs. You can certainly see, like the different eras of Shakespeare’s works, the various evolutionary discrepancies in mine.
The wiser you get, the more elaborately poignant you write. The younger you are, the more naïve it seems. Sometimes you fall off track from progress and spend the rest of your time recovering, but it seems once you pick up the pieces, there is no means or appeal to go back.
You can’t help wisdom; it’s like ageing and the age-old epitome, death.
A License To Be Imaginative
As you grow older, you find yourself slipping from one crisis to another. Back in the days, the only crisis seemed to be meeting the daily quota of orgasms for the badgering bane, but even with that potential hazard, it worked out well.
Photo Album One
Ever since Imad sold me his cut-price camera some years back (within the fruitful epic of The Lost Years) there seems to have been my coming of age through stages. The camera allowed me my first real stimulus of creativity, a license to be a little imaginative and give the world an aesthetic piece of my mind. An aptitude behind the camera lens however never fully developed until a proficient first photo album was practiced on.
A keen novice directed the first assorted legacy, which is a record of the best years of my life. I seemed so destined behind the camera, as like these memoirs whose skill adapted over a matured course.
Photo Album Two
The second photo album was much more colorful and creative, sort of the renaissance of my album collection without the need to re-establish a presence. The second photo album unlike my first delved more under my surface presence and was generally more thought out. Like in all my photo albums, there was a need to up the ante and improve from the selfless spontaneity of the first.
The second photo album, with its added color and enthusiasm, got a bit deeper mentally. There were angles, hyped freshness and new faces to add to the reflective revision that would come in years like this. The writer actually started thinking ahead, instead of crossing that bridge when there. A second album was like my first self-assessed accomplishment; a bettered style of coaching that gave greater standing.
Photo Album Three
The third photo album, like most things that get too technological, seemed to lean more towards uneventful burnout. The signs in the third photo album were obvious, the strains taken in order to counter the implosive third stage through life.
Like the technological advancements in the closing of the medieval age, in which the invention of gunpowder neutered the necessities of armor, something had to give, and through my memoirs and my third album, the tatters were evident.
Photo Album Four
Nevertheless, the third album was not nearly as bleak as the fourth, where my priorities still haven’t seen me forking out money for an album to house the hundred-some photos ready to find their last just rites. The fourth photo album was a beacon that illustrated what little good was left.
As you get older and fade away, it comes with more clarity. It seems apparent now that my fourth stage has been a fall, a brick wall, a rerouting. Then, when finally it comes, some sunshine to boast in.
Earmark My Reflections On Life
Analyzing my photo albums could be the key to building back up the sudden crumble in the fourth stanza. Looking through my three-some albums seems laborious sometimes but it always evokes memories that the writer barely cares to note down these days. Nevertheless, maybe there will come a day (like all these thoughts of mine that are put on the backburner to boil for some months before commitment) when this new drive will come along.
Chronicling my thoughts on those photos and the atmosphere around them all could be the next wave for the writer. But for it to happen it first has to reach a certain priority. For that to become reality takes a lot of inward deliberation.
Maturity Built On Life Experiences
Reflections on life are due to mistakes and paths you had made in life. Before the lost years and before women came along, life was simple and sweet. However, once came the need to find a job, for some sort of independence, lessons in relationships, breakups, and the daily squalor that went along with the rest of those days, there was this maturity that my young innocence could no longer shrug off. Maturity bites.
Why can’t we all just remain young at mind? Maybe there is a grander plan and a meaning to life, evolution, and the need to mature, age and die having passed on your knowledge. Maybe the greatest accomplishment would be to succeed in all of these exceptionally.
How can you reinvent, in a positive frame of mind, the mischievous of old, the lover, and the writer. My memoirs were so beset with a cocky perspective on life to start with, but then as the years went by and their shine ebbed, came the others of mine in rescue. Came the serious, never-smiling self-conscious surrender, my mental standoffish retreat into the recluse and the final death of the writer, the all that was left of the good last stand before passion stranded.
However, now as we pass through the fourth soundless wall, we enter a fifth era, evolved, and all the wiser a revised revival of what once was. Consider me now the celebrant, the pastor sitting in his seven years of silence, and then when inward struggles cease; he comes to grip and sees the world no longer a delusion.
Bike Rider Attire Through The Years
You don’t see people riding on bikes these days, racers anyways. They all seem to ride skateboards but that probably seems because the dress sense is a lot more relaxed than the appropriate attire for a rider these days. Back then it was cool to ride around dressed like a dag, like my 30 km sprints to Liverpool and back.
Skateboards were a rebellion to the upper caste culture of cyclists that seemed to be gaining dominance through publicity such as the Olympics. Fixing the tires on the old racer (if only it could talk) would be easy money, but now there seem to be other factors weighing my pocket down, like the need to meet some sort of apparel conformity.
Wearing the tights seemed weird to me, yet, dressing daggy would have seemed as equally obscene to people driving on the road, a putter-off that would only gnaw at the self-conscious. I will one day get the tires pumped up and revitalize an old pastime but, when only, draws near, the end of my journey.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
