Silence Begotten From Anxiety
Twenty-some years this fan blows, its untouched dusted white prize handed down to guild this cavernous writer room, to emplace its three age-worn speeds with some lean coin for such humid heat hence to be kept from here. Even as temperature thither by window is gauged, still this fan doth blow onto me, a calming, cozy-fine, and matter-less rejoice.
This agely practice to write is in its breeze a weird empowering, weird as these corridors trim with silence, and to my mind, no silence is longer deafening, lest anxiety abets, and its corridors cause trickery to our eyes.
In familiarity mine, silence is anxiety, and betwixt my days’ disinterest and unfamiliar pitter-patters now of old typing shoes, so it has been, anxious in silence.
Evoked as an odd-say reentry back into a surface flow of news and views, tonight had herald to no official agenda. But it seems the writer pride never sleeps, since movements many create memories same.
Surprise Visit From Imad
One could say the catalyst to continue after a lapse so long is probably because the machine sprang a surprise visit today, which in no way tempered my expressionless face but its deed did beget a sense of stability.
So long two months ago we etched a crossroads of falling out, which hopeless it seemed for all parties involved. While little it proves that the machine humbly deprived had featured today, ergo it does induce balance and an inch more upward angle to my chin.
Reading Back On Old Diary Entries
I think the real reason of unscripted reentry is for such boredom that pushes begrudgingly me back to a former righteous, as in these memoirs, and it feels so awkward endeavoring toils after such unreported freedoms. Albeit reluctant to let an old passion stir whilst life serves fine wines of androgyny, and while a vault of affairs were best kept undusted, alike the fan behests in blowing, it seemed too quiet a silence to mere dabble these hours in computer games, boredom and its like.
Quaint as these thoughts do elaborate, my choice ere to write was never an initial one. Pressures to read old entries when all seemed taboo invigorated me, tastelessly similar to those wired moments red-lighting with the presence, morally sinful to entertain said ideas, but a broken staunch made unstoppable in its elemental crave.
Harking back on humiliating moments is a loathing my memoirs endure, which is partly its reasoned demise. But for whatever reasons my memoirs wrote, unto humiliation even did brighter clarities form.
Living In Two Distinct Worlds
As untold lengthy this philosophical waste is, my premise here is regardless a light one. Work back with the lads in landscaping begins from its break again tomorrow, less a token female and less the honeymoon tributaries of congenial first days.
This last month and days ever since dying documented concerns have survived in typical dwellings, living two worlds; in one as a hermit in this room frittering nocturnally when docile to my needs, and in the other, maintaining my tie to friends, being social and balancing through these channels my lows. Motivation has been hard to connect in this void of late because so many loops encircle my hapless life, but in a world lacking promise, here now is some.
New Years Eve At Byron Bay
Celebrating the New Year was a mixed bag, watching three friends smoking five hundred dollars worth of marijuana in five days, crashing out nightly at eleven and feeling outclassed each time we took our hobo walks across the paths of many immaculate girls along the main parade in Byron Bay town. Nevertheless, even whilst mumbles drove reckless our estate, overtaking all vehicles through rain and bend, and even while we all felt the brunt to be so vulnerably exposed, considering this new situation constant with no polite outs, it was nice to have had its experience, adding Byron Bay to the circle of my most distant list.
Labored With Boredom
The rest of my days hold in stark contrast bunkered to games on this computer, labored with boredom and labored to move out of boredom in motivated ways.
I managed today to visit the gym, but nonetheless, nothing serious has changed. The movement upstairs no longer violates me as much. At times in this silent mind of mine my anger tends to lash out at my parents never parenting well for my lack of everything and all neurotic problems in between. But despite the moral support or pointers when my ambitions were to shine, in the end it comes down to me and my beliefs.
Being Labeled Kosher
You know, a couple of days back or so now during an early visit to a massage parlor upon my premature bus trip back from Byron, a lady called me “kosher” and made me think.
“I used to be full of convictions,” her passerby echoes made me realize.
Now here was me, made so kosher and full of it. What made me so this way, as wherefore my convictions disappeared?
Diary of a Mad Chaos used to be so full of promise but because it was so well hidden to not be scrutinized save for its populist grief, its message was never resonant in us all, and so lost was it on me. It took the reading of a few lines tonight to reinstate me back in its lore. While it still feels alien to so consume its time, its void is still my prowess real.
Strange Motivation Prods Me
Anyway, to do there is nothing productive else but living this livewire was never to remain. I feel as if the writer has finished his epic, and relatively, since it began after the lost years, and the loss of love.
As all those years would be a nice poetic gesture to a wistful book but so many titles have sprung up into the “Mad Chaos” air.
Nonetheless, as my thoughts end here, unbeknownst to when their trigger again may set, it is time for this active melancholic mind to disconnect, and for me perhaps to survive this night with some reflective looks back nostalgic into ancient, categorical realms.
How time however already flies. I would normally sleep in this hour preparing for work, but strange motivation rather prods at me, and in memories it is a certain flow, to thinking, forward moving.
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.
