What Comes With Opposable Thumbs.

Got like a million and four thousand stuff shoved away in random little drafts and notebooks all over the place, so I'll take this opportunity to clear them all out of the way. Will be pretty random, I expect, so hang on to your hats.


An old friend
Made new again
What machinations or monstrous mind
Can explain what one now finds?

From easy familiarity
To anonymity
Only we can unfriend
Unlove
Did this come with opposable thumbs?

The capacity to love
Hate
Two sides of a coin
Third series
Do we get to choose
Which side it lands
Which face it shows
Is it so easily flipped?

Just the twitch of ones fingers
In the blink of ones eyes
Do we fall in hate
So recklessly too?

我们的过去, 并不属于我们

I just had this random thought a long time ago that our pasts don't belong just to each of us alone, that we can't be so selfish as to think that all the time. That other people have a stake and play a part in our pasts too, and sometimes maybe we owe it to them to not covet our pasts like that. Not sure where this stemmed from but I think it was some reflection about my reticence and how I find it almost impossible to share anything about myself and my past at all.

An expert on being stubborn and full of pride. Was writing a letter to a friend when I stumbled upon this as quite the apt description of myself, if only because I wanted to warn her against being any of those.


Took for a twirl
Another girl
Told her that
She was his world
Another day
Another play
So says the art
of modern manliness.

You're eating alone
You look at your phone
It won't ring
No
It will not.

Scattered failings where doubt lurked. That when push comes to shove, you'd fold.

A mediocrity imposed on each of us. And yet within our personal, mediocre worlds, did not there spring forth decidedly unfutile acts, emotions?

A happiness contingent on others. Emotions not belonging just to me, nor my life, cause my emotions affect others too. Just the way other people affect me.

War is not war until a man on a hill says so. Fighting not-a-war.

If you could see me now.

Solitude with no purpose?
With no audience.
And end in itself.

Lost in a crowd
Looking for the meaning in art that no one knows.

Guns the great equalizer.

Foreign is to be apart.


Yep that's kinda all of my backlog. Ranging from reflections on re-acquainting myself with an old, old friend to snippets of self-doubt and ruminations on being alone (and your phone offers you no respite.) How soldiers can fight all they want but if the politicians decide that no, this does not qualify as war, then we'd be fighting nothing at all. That no one actually knows what they're looking for when they peruse the Arts, that we're all going at it blind. How so much of what we feel are our best faces, the most important people in our lives will never get to see. This straight from le Carre's Our Kind of Traitor, where one of the spies rues how his children will never appreciate fully what he does. How to be foreign is merely to be apart, and how easy it is for each of us to be foreigners in our own countries.

Ehm I shall end here actually, not quite in much of a mood to continue much further even if I could and want to elaborate on quite a lot of those few topics above. So many existential issues.. Pains of being human I guess, the price to pay for opposable thumbs. Well good night fellas!