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Class 3 so far

Thoughts as I am cruising down the TPE:

I am tempted to zip closely pass that van or in between the two nissan sunnys for a "near miss"

At times I treat the accelerator like the "x" button on a ps2 controller: fully depressed or not depressed.

Out of nowhere, hitting the brakes and veering to the left suddenly to go into a drift suddenly seems like a good idea for chalking up imaginary boost points.

If I change lane suddenly to take that exit, I'll down my wanted level.

It's okay if I scrape the side of the divider or ram into someone's car. The spray 'n' pay will take care of the damages in an instant.

There's always the restart race option if I totally screw up and flip the car over.

All those hours of Grand Theft Auto, Burnout and Need For Speed weren't for nothing afterall. I should not be driving in this state of mind, no siree.

Things I enjoyed recently

Movies:

Departure

Gran Torino

Shindler's List

Books:

Walden- Thoreau

The Old Man and the Sea- Hemingway

The Shadow of the Wind- Carlos Luiz Zafon

Music:

U2, 18 Singles

Oscar Peterson, The Paris Concert

The Carpenters, Greatest Hits

Again, highly recommended.

xkcd

highly recommended:

www.xkcd.com

My Foray into Noir Fiction. Epilogue.

Previously

It's been a year. Not much has happened since that day. I saw Timmy's mum for the the first time at his funeral. It was a quiet, simple affair at the church parlour. The turn out was low, two to be specific. His mother and his psychiatrist. Apparently the pastor had had a severe bout of diarrhea on that day.

The psychiatrist had come to collect his bills and left soon after he realised that Timmy had been shit broke all along and died without a penny. During the five minutes I spent at the wake not a word was uttered and Tim's mum just sat there, gazing out onto the streets. Perhaps she had been expecting something like this to happen for a long time now and its happening did not change a thing. 

I was sitting at the corner of my block, passing time. Timmy's death had given me some publicity among the circles and I still took the odd case now and then. 

"You know sonny, you look like a guy set on doing nothing in your life." I did not reply to this voice, preferring to concentrate on fiddling with my newly obtained driver's license. That ought to shut Timmy up, if he was still around, though I was nowhere close to getting a car.

"They used to call me the King in those days, I was on the road, did shows and everything. Then one day I realised things weren't going right. I found myself standing on a high place, looking down, wishing, to be down. But I decided not. I just walked out of my own life."

"So what should I do?"

"Ya know kid, now I walk the plane between life and death. The world says I do not exist, that I am dead and yet here, I breathe and speak! Sometimes I wonder if I can ever die. My advice to you? Go an-"

I decided not to take it and left the stranger to continue his rambling to the air and a few moments later, found myself sitting on the ledge of my apartment window, looking down at the streets below. At the corner of the block sat an old Indian man, still speaking about his conflicting state of existence. 

I took a deep breathe and let go. I lived on the second floor. I spent the next few months with a cast on my leg and walking on crutches, but I lived.

Recommended you read it from the start (Part 4 Part 5)you get the spoiler that Timmy dies. This thus concludes my first novella.

an evening of labour

After much procastination, it was finally DONE! An evening of regurgitation of half-developed ideas from the intangible recesses of the mind, given life through my fingers into numerous 1's and 0's, then pressed onto paper and taking form in the material world.

It was then sealed, stamped and sent to the front lines.

Return with your shield or upon it, I whispered.

Dreamers

The Dreamers 

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,

Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.

In the great hour of destiny they stand,

Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win 

Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. 

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin 

They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats,

And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain. 

Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,

And mocked by hopeless longing to regain

Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, 

And going to the office in the train.

by Siegfred Sassoon

A few years back I made a rip-off of this poem, which I still like alot till this day as I was browsing through my older entries, maybe because what I made mostly wasn't mine.

The Dreamers Revisited

Students are citizens of school's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In these great hours of drudgery they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

Students are sworn to the threadmill; they must score
Some flaming, fatal climax with their test.
Students are dreamers; when the class begins
They think of sunny fields, starry nights, and rest.

I see them in dusty classrooms, gnawed by fatigue,
And outside the headmasters' offices, lashed with the shame.
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
school-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And sleeping in during the rain.

-Me