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the author of the blog no longer exists.

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a differant poem

to die, many deaths, i made a difference.
to live, many lives, i made a difference.
with you, i tried.
without you, i tried.

it seems, yesterday, when two years went.
it seems, tomorrow, when two years never come.
with you, a difference.
without you, a difference.

your particular sleeping curve didn't change.
your visual field, a line, like mine, a field of rainbows,
bestowed, blessed, was this journey, to be, and to not be.
with you, a differance
without you, a differance

i'll pretend, friend, just friend,
take me seriously, no one is nearby, I am not there, any more,
disappearance is not a difference.
empty presence is.
with I, a difference
without I, a difference.

so this, just a sudden appearance, a poem that is not a poem,
it is, but a fleeting trace of yesterday,
and a bubble burst today
(there will be no tomorrow)
with love, a difference
without love, a difference

i've said nothing much, I won't leave myself to kill myself
i live when it is finally impossible to die.
so i wish, you meet, someone older than I am,
someone who has some magic
and buys the groceries on your list without you showing the list.
with words, a chore
without words, a chore.


someone else, to love you,
someone, not I, who died.
i can't keep up, appearances,
this appearance, sudden.
a last post?
when you see this,
I would have made another difference.
with difference, a differance.
without difference, a












(it's another d word.)

I told you I'd make a differance.

It's a difficult decision to make.

I've decided that by the end of this entry, I'll close this blog.

Blogging is a paradoxical activity - one that simultaneously reveals and veils what a person thinks
What you see is a face, a trace of what he or she is - only that it is possible that this trace can take a life of its own, performs itself, and takes over its origin.

But blogging has this other edge that allows me to express what other media fail to. It is a desert that compels me to write; to write like I have never written before. I am grateful, for the many nights that it has accompanied me and convinced me to vomit out the words that clogged up my vessels.

However, blogging assumes that the blogger has something to express, something to present, or something to showcase to the public domain.
I increasingly realise that I don't. I increasingly realise that my words fail me. I am ashamed that I cannot play a single musical instrument. I find music more apt in expressing my thoughts. At the core of my explanation is this thing called the question.
What else can I write? Who am I writing for?
There is nothing in my words that lead you or I to me.

These words, will remain here as monuments of things past. When Proust left his words, I do not believe he left his soul behind. When Socrates wrote nothing, I believe he left his spirit behind.
This spirit I call absolute question.
When there is no first-hand account of yourself - in some sense, you live on.
People repeat us, misguided, repressed, but you live in ways you can never imagine.
Memories shouldn't be written out.
It's murdering the moment.
It's giving birth to new moments.
And I'm uncomfortable with words.
Because they are published here, I somehow take responsibility for my words.
I'm not Socrates. I don't go around striking dialectical conversations.
I can't be a Socrates. My words are like my sins. I can't stop writing. I regret that I can't be a Socratic.

But instead of writing here, I've decided to write somewhere else. Somewhere I can have this private conversations with myself and the spirits around. It doesn't have to be a blog.

In a way, it is my violent resistance to stop being the present I. There is something liberating and free about writing. There are slippages you cannot control. There are interpretations you cannot prevent. Therefore, the only way to stop being the many I-s out there, I have to remove myself, absolutely.
Perhaps, this in itself produces a new trace. A trace that haunts us. A reminder of how obscure and romantic a person I presented myself to be here. (and melancholic). Truth is, I can be exact opposite of these descriptors if the situation calls for. Or can I?
The dark world where I face God, is a world that I refuse to reveal. This is as far as I go to describe it. Darkness. Right now, I'm making the conscious decision to pursue that path. Therefore, whatever here is a disturbance, a distraction, a wayward detour that must end someday. Now is the time. Each time I venture to end, it seems to get shorter. This must be the fourth blog I will close. And I realise that each closure is like a mark of a change. An often drastic one.
I was an absolutely ignorant idealist in my first blog.
I was a romantic, melancholic emo-boy in my next.
I was an aesthetical and ethical contradiction in my previous blog.
And here, this blog, I was a passive nihilist who desired to disappear behind his words - and utterly failed in that task.

I am excited and sad. Excited to find out what I will become. Sad that I have to leave many things behind at this stage. but if I am to follow the doctrine of Kierkegaard, it seems, leaps of faith, movements, stages of selves, are as inevitable as life and death.
Each radical leap is not an absolute change. You don't just shed everything you were. You evolve. Only confession and salvation have that absolute eternal effect. Otherwise, every stage of your life is the maturing of the previous. Nevertheless, it is a radical leap because one is no longer comfortable being a Has-been. One continues to be - being.
But really, who cares about metaphysics here?
The journey that I have taken since young has multiple sad regressive plus excited progressive movements. I am humbled each time.
Continue to humble me, Word.
I just don't write them now. I want to live them.
I sever all connections. with quivering and a deep melancholy. I have never quite expressed what these connections were. But it doesn't matter now. Forgive me, words.

I chopped down the two-year-old trees.
I shall be the clouds.
And you won't find me.

This blog remains as a monument of what had been, of what failed to touch - because they could never do so.

i cherish.
but I also promised.
hence,






















let it truly be the last,





















the first empty space (of desert)
became
the second empty space (of the sky)
but they're never empty.
I move.

i will make a difference.
i will make a differance.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.
i will make a difference.

we can't fall in love,
but alike pushing a variety of flowers to each other, (never the same),
we will die if we touch.

it's...odd that I should say 'No' to a young girl.
especially when she asked if I was going to church tomorrow.

I can't describe it.

Fable - Truth

Words begin the words that you see here
of which lines organize the words,
but these lines, one after another,
do nothing, but pile up one after another
in a tolerated way.
it is both I, the writer and the reader simultaneously,
that judges my own difficulties.
and tolerated them.

(after 2 minutes of misfortune, the mirror is held up.)

against Francis Ponge.
(text reproduced below)

With the word with begins then this text
Of which the first line states the truth.
But this tain under the one and the other
Can it be tolerated?
Dear reader already you judge
There as to our difficulties

(After seven years of misfortune
She broke her mirror)

--

There is no Other.
Perhaps,
we fail to ackowledge how widespread and deep narcissism is.
The mirror can never be broken. The silver lining is hidden from us, within us, there, always there, you can break it, but you can never undo it. Unless you die.
Memory is the glass.
Each broken piece cuts. Narcissistic wounds, infinitely widen at each recalling of the Other.
There is no tangible other. It is all an imagination. The Other appears, vis-a-vis
as Words.
of which, a question mark, a mark, hides in between words. Those are the Others. Before the mark begins I.

5 centimetres.

隆貴：明里。おいしい。
明里：熱の焙じ茶だよ。
隆貴：焙じ茶？初めて飲んだ。
明里：うそ。絶対飲んだことあるよ。
隆貴：そうかな。
明里：そうだよ。それからこれ、私が作ったから味の保障はないんだけど、よかったら食べて。
隆貴：ありがとう。お腹すいてたんだ、すごく。
明里：どうかな？
隆貴：今まで食べた物の中で、一番おいしい。
明里：大げさだな。
隆貴：本当だよ。
明里：きっとお腹すいてたからよ。
隆貴：そうかな。
明里：そうよ。あたしも食べようと。引っ越し、もうすぐだよね。
隆貴：ん、来週。
明里：鹿児島か。
隆貴：遠いんだ。栃木も遠かったけどね。
明里：帰れなくなっちゃったもんね。
駅長：そろそろ閉めますよ。もう電車もないですし。
隆貴：はい。
駅長：こんな雪ですから、お気をつけて。
２人：はい。

5 centimetres or 500 kilometres apart, I believe, if we should meet again,
after our respective departures,
we will still have the most mundane and senseless conversation:

How are you?
Classic today?
Ai jia si mi?
You decide.

Thank you ...
fast ah you.
prays.
Amen

It won't change. Perhaps, that is the only thing that would never change.
Everything else will.
I'll start writing letters to no one.
I'll start writing drafts in my mobile's outbox.
I'll start collecting photos.
I'll start zipping songs.
I'll blog about imagined occasions.
If I've not already done so.

when I'm at my limit, I like to stop and run away.
Be on a train,
and travel far away
maybe that's why I'm so desperate to leave. Maybe that's the only reason.
To run away. To go to a place where no one knows me. To a place where new images are discovered everyday.
That is not the solution. I know. But nothing moves me now. Except those haunting images.

I promise this will be the last. The last time. the last image. The last conversation.
flashbacks take less than a second.
Some other things take a longer time.
like plane flights.

明里：あの、隆貴くん。隆貴くんは、きっとこの先は大丈夫だと思う。絶対。
隆貴：ありがとう。明里も元気で。手紙書くよ。電話も。

maybe.

but you'll definitely be fine.

memory is faith is memory

memory -
remember your sins, transgressions, the inherited original sin
remember the redemption
= salvation

every step, every act, is an act of remembering to forget.
faith, hence is to respond subjectively, the accumulation of memories that significantly shape your make-up. If there is no rupture, the confession, of which a realisation of sin prior to the confession

but memory is progressively malleable. You perpetually make new memories.
Judgment is predicated on the notion that your actions are remembered at the end.

tree/cloud - conversations

since words fail me, I'll let sounds and images relate.

let's begin with a note on ascendency -
they don't stay up there for long.

let's try the forest ground. some solid base to return to.
Yotsuba&!'s fans will get this!
don't be fooled. Behind every robotic disguise is a human remote control.


who controls who? who brings the good news? or tidings of misfortune?
nevertheless, it is an image of peace, hope and mandalas. safe, in the knowledge that the message will arrive. will it?
speaking of mandalas, wouldn't it be cool to ask mr Moon to come down and laze with me? back to the ground again. The moon is not really round you know. Pimples scars everywhere. Just like my face. craters everywhere. ignore that. This moment is about a change of visual perspective. I'm looking up, from below.

let's go back up to the skies.
I'm looking down, from above.
Wouldn't it be nice to stay up there? even if it's only for a brief moment?
it's as brief as a picture of "Boom!"
as long as you stare hard at it, it never escapes you.
but let us be a little more optimistic.

back on Earth,
I'm waiting for the fireworks. I promise it will be spectacular!


then again, I have this love/hate relationship with fireworks. Memories are sweet. But in between sweet memories, are these circular capsules that I find hard to forget.
As soon as they light up, as soon as they explode! Spectacle never lasts.
traces remain. Don't stand too close, they burn. wait for them to cool down.


are you coming my way? the fireworks festival has already ended.
but I'm still waiting. The circles keep moving.

I thought I saw your shadow.
sorry, I left when the postman came. He didn't see my letters. They're still in the drawer. I don't dare to write them. I don't dare to send them.
Are you waiting?
I was waiting, but my birthday wish was never fulfilled. Sorry we disappoint.

I can now understand why people like to ask their families and friends to scatter their ashes.
It's not always because micro-parts of them can reside in flowers and return to this world as particles, scattered to places faraway, never to gather again. It is also for them to participate in this ritual of remembering, to forget that they were once whole, but are now reconstituted into a larger collective. Somewhere, they can become flowers. They can become clouds. They can become blue, white, green...
I would like to be green too.
but sometimes, we don't always get what we want. No matter. Nothing is as powerful as being a trace. Always different. Always unexpected.
I become a pre-fix of a new trace. This collective doesn't bother to trace the trace. It cannot. Traces always escape - like ashes.



if you have a choice, would you like to be the clouds or the flower? The sky or earth?
I would like to be the line that seperates them.


the horizon is where I hope to be found. An intermediary that is in between presence and absence. I am an imaginary line. But you cannot deny my existence. I am there. In front of you.
Watching evaporation; condensation. (is it my obsession to trap, bind, hold traces in lines, boundaries and barriers?)

let's just say, I'm actually just a glass bottle. Keep me gently. But place me where the sun will shine. Where the rain will pour. Where there will be a gentle wind in the afternoon. But keep me indoors when it is night and the storm is coming. Boundaries can be fragile.

I'll repay you with a nice green rain.

thank you.

as I sleep. as the colours fade. don't forget your umbrella. don't forget your boots. I will come back some day. as rain, a drizzle, just a gentle drizzle, and a wet breeze. refreshing but nostalgic.

it's getting darker. But there's always tomorrow. The birds are flying home. The birds are leaving home.



this is how tomorrow will look like. You should look from the bottom. Maybe. you should have your own lines. Maybe. and I call them the imaginary rainbow. (I shouldn't attach a picture of a rainbow.)
Instead.
somehow, the images will eventually turn into a picture perfect image called memory. Pictures perfect. Just isolations of an explosion. A frozen frame?

it doesn't matter which falls first. They all fall. Perhaps. Not always at the same time, un-Galileo like. but doesn't matter. We all take our own sweet time. That's the word. Sweet. sweetness is the aftertaste most desired. That is what makes memories so precious.
But really. Forget horizons; forget lines. Forget trees or clouds. Forget the sky or the ground.
Remember to forget, repeatedly
it is beautiful. The lights. or the lack of. or the spectrum. all that elusive shades that I have no proper names for. Hence, at some point, I close my eyes. Obliterate the images.

And we are safe.

Kami-sama will forgive God will forgive Yahweh will forgive me;
there is a graciousness when it comes to entrances and exits
there is a faith that waiting will be worthwhile.
despite the tremors and failings of the plant
(I can't help it when the tremors and failings occur)
perhaps,
you'll catch my smile as I disappear backstage
through the sky where light barely illuminates
even Waiting for Godot has an end.
the wait happens when you have been told beforehand to wait - faith is memory.
this performance ends.
*cue to clap and smile*

no music is playing tonight except Shugo's album - Exit; Parachute. and one last image. =)

to be continued...

i f my wo r ds do o ff en d
if my p r e s e n ce d o irr i ta t e
fo r g i ve m e
i k n o w n ot w h a t fr ie n d sh i p is
so the y ca n go.

>>>>> listen to Green Rain - Shugo Tokumaru
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
if it rains
again, can the wind blow as well?
tonight's rain had that little naughty sense to it
like a playful child, skipping through a green field
with yellow wildflowers
*0* .......
!!!!!_______________________________*/*____*/*_______?______________??

we can feel a little different this evening,
we can be a little less protective
I wish I laugh a bit harder
I wish I smile a little harder >@< style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">
and the gnomes will appear,
...............................................................& & & & & & &
and bring us to their dessert store
and we can laugh
as hard as we can
for that moment
もっとふたりで
if only.

span style="font-style: italic;">enters someone else./span

%
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%*******%
%*************%
%******A | Y******%
%*************%
%******%
%***%
||
||
|/
||
& & & &A._______________||_______________& & &Y.

|<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

end with 5A.M.(tears below the freezing point) - Shugo Tokumaru>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>>>>sorry>>>>>>>>>>buried<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
<><><<<<><<<<<<<<<<<<><><><><<<<><><><><><><><>><><><>

outside,
was there life?
it probably withered away
inside,
was there life?
it was probably taken down

i can't draw,
i can't paint,
i can't make great images
i can only sit down, relax and disappear (as if)
i daydream.

as it becomes less,
something becomes more,
where are you?
outside the frame
inside another frame
i drift.