Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Posts Tagged ‘the scream


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Edvard Munch's The Scream in Nature

Echo…call her and she will call you
Curse her and you she will curse
You can’t win if you argue
The last word’s always hers.

–Ai Qing (1910– ), Chinese poet. “Echo”.

For echo is the soul of the voice, exciting itself in hollow places.

Pithy Empathy

Don’t you all treat the people you love differently? I would never understand someone who just stand and watch the person they said they love cry , and not do anything to soothe that person. I can only surmise they do not love – there’s no love in such person’s heart; only hate and a bloated sense of selfishness.

I think I miss my didi. Are you going for your blue berth already? :) I know it’s strange to feel someone who’s far away as closer to me than those who are around me. Life is never easy…right?

Dear jiji,

I wish all that is written is what I confide in with utmost privy, but I’m a creature of habit, the habit of a tortured wordsmith where his canvas of written mind screaming like the Edvard Munch’s The Scream — suffused with melancholy and anguish.

You’re right after all. Self-destructive relationship is always been the cynosure of my longings. The expectation is known in foresight but I keep on feeding on it. On hindsight, I spew the bitterness and again taste the cynicism as aperitif for the next sour meal.

Falling out of love is very enlightening. For a short while you see the world with new eyes.

Iris Murdoch (1919–1999), Irish-born British novelist and philosopher.
The Observer (London) “Sayings of the Week”.

I’m used to take umbrage on the most innocent act that constitutes the company of them. Where once I was invited to be the third in the company of two. I took that as a mockery in the looming presence of [his]. Mocking the idea of familiarity, as I would jutted there, seated on the urban cafe of capitalism with the prospect of disillusionment. I’m like a jutted and jagged rock on a jaded meadow — weary of the accusation and compromises. Whereas it just a simple invitation, that in retrospect, I would never attend. Why can’t I just leave it be?

Jealousy used to be the blind rage. As ever hidden like Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, the titular character of [his] should never arrived in my simple mind. Whereas in the play, the arrival is awaited . In my mind, there should be in perpetual absence. Even a good-natured pity is hardly welcomed. As I sought the sympathy of her but got the pity of [his], the drugged and medicated mind of a feverish man caving in the state of malaise. As if [his] apothegmaticall word of apothecary — “get medicated, rest well”– giving me an apoplexy. Why can’t I accept the honesty of a dispirited man?

Jiji, did you know one of the character in the play is affectionately known as Didi?

An optimist.

Hence the optimistic approach to my romantic life, I supposed. The last happenstance with her consolidated this newfangled attitude.

A contemporary courting. A prelude to the ephemeral relationship that be.

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

How apt jiji, Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars.

That’s what she means to me, that’s how I feel as I lay with her. As I cry, her voice soothes me. There’s still love in her heart albeit an altered one — shaped by the sin of my past.

Love or perhaps empathy.


P.S. : Jiji, you’ll never heard of this version of the story as I keep my life apart again from a confidante. Isolation seems to be the best policy for me, but I’ll always long for her — the ship of destiny — deep in the blue berth of my heart. I’m berthing, I’m basking. I’m sulking…less.