Skip to main content

Tales From the Down Under: #25- The End

Sometimes when a story is so powerfully fabricated, it horrifies you. This eventually leaves an imprint in your memory that galvanizes you whenever some evocations appear. The fact well-applies to a story I just finished reading, and a subsequent reference is drawn between the deserts in the story and the world I’m situated in. I hate to dredge up world-weariness when there are actually so many other things I can relate to. It is such a self-centered awareness to impose every story onto oneself.

So I will only make it brief by concluding that my conception of the world is like a desert where one is encompassed by hazards, and it is impossible for him to escape far since supplies must be begged first. But nobody will be that benevolent to lend you anything when every entity is on the fringe of demise in this dreadful desert. I tend to stay in one spot and shut up my mouth so I won’t be overcame by thirst too soon.

Most of the things I’ve read are abound with people. Vile bodies, goodie-two-shoes, repugnant braggadocios, irritable aficionados. A false belief I’ve held that those abject characters were only made alive in books. I was then disabused when they jumped out of the page and roamed around my everyday lives. The fictional characters can never be too repulsive after hindsight since you’ve already taken for granted the fact that they only live within words. Those in the reality perplex you, for they can be downright virile then peerlessly perfect in the blink of an eye. They make you want to kiss them before flaying them alive- the classic machinery of those notorious criminals.

I used to go to sleep at night wishing I was a worm the other day, and wishing I could return to my normal self the day after, and so on. Once weary of such cycle, I assumed a daily course choked with people was the main factor that induced my bewilderment. It is impossible to be too oblivious as a universalist. Everything I encountered I shoehorned into my little body. I became fervently volatile. The effect resulted on my writing, which is muddied with personal affairs and sentimentality.

This might be a curtain-off, but the trumpet bellows subsequently for another curtain-up. It is with much mulling-over that I will axe my Tales From the Down Under section, due to the fact that those later batch of entries were gradually bleeding into sheer poppycock. For my next entry I idealize of tending on a more thematic direction, which focuses on everything but me. The articles followed by should aptly be fit into a certain framework, instead of sprawling about desultorily. To give depth to a piece of writing, one should really wriggle his soul out of the body of a human flesh, and hopefully the entries I’m entering in the future can attest to the illusion that stranding on a desert does not mean life can be measured by your palmful of fleeting sand. We’re always surviving, no matter how much struggle and pain it can do us. But what scares us the most is how the desert is utterly ignorant of our existence. At night you stare into the infinite and a sheer nothingness sweeps over you, it neither beckons nor quivers.

But at the bottom of your heart you are certain that the desert speaks, although you find faults with identifying the voice and the words.


Popular posts from this blog

Honore Daumier

“If you shut up truth and bury it under ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.”- Émile Zola
Exited HonorĂ© Victorin Daumier, 10 February 1879, in an impoverishment that many of his contemporaries, especially his foes, would have thought was his long overdue retribution- the painter was blind, heavily in debt, and later relegated to a pauper’s grave. His friends, upon visiting his resting place, would, I imagine, see it a chance to admonish their children: “Now that’s a lesson for you cheeky devils whose tongues rattle off things that should better stay unspoken.” But Daumier devoted his life in revealing those “unspoken things.” His lithography ink proved sharper than most writers’ pens. He vented his rage and stigmatised others’ infamy in his satirical and, oftentimes, side-splitting cartoons. The tone was relentlessly acerbic but only because Daumier was exposing truths that, in the time…

Review: Gaslight (1944)

Despite its varied forms or narratives, all Gothic fictions revolve on a fundamental contrast: that between the tenuous comfort of an isolated self and the dangerous fascination of an intrusive otherness. The Victorian is an age characterised by its obsession with the supernatural – poised on the verge of modernity, with scientific advancements like Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species inspired missions to unlock the myths of the natural world, people began to take notice of what lay outside their limited knowledge of things, of anything that is external to the closed domain of humanity. This curiosity for the unknown provoked an appraisal for the known – the immutable social system was revealed as hostile to the cultivation of individual minds, and time-honoured ethics such as that dictating a woman’s role in a traditional domesticity a menace to the preservation of personal integrity.
The negotiation between the old and the new, the internal and the external, is the dominant theme of V…

Review: Come Back, Little Sheba (1952)

Every adversity in life is a test of one's fortitude, the occasion of which, as proved invariably in the past, man is capable of defying destiny, of reversing the inexorable course to which life is doomed to tend. Too often we sympathise with the travails of the dogged, indefatigable fighter, whose hard-on victory we shed tears of relief and admiration, and whose stories and examples we evoke when in need of a boost of morale or motivation, that our notion of heroism has come to be hallowed with a glow of divinity peculiar to those who triumph in their fights. Those who fail – the martyrs who labour for nothing, who die without fulfilling what they die for – they are regarded with no less sympathy, but to recount their stories we averse, refusing to be reminded of what ultimately makes us humans – our inherent and infinite capacity to fail.
To face up to one’s failures, especially with the forlorn hope that such failures can ever be remedied, requires a special kind of courage. Wil…