Secret Garden ( Violin Cover ) – Ben Chan
life always like to give you the unexpected things in life.
It’s so weird that sometimes it takes you like a jack when you are expecting hearts.
I know you don’t understand – I seriously don’t care.
I wrote this blog, crypted my words, so that i can not only protect the things i love, but to also keep me sane -
Codes keep me sane,
weirdness keep me wanting to live on -
Its there i see possibilities,
Possibilities in being different ; Because difference (here) is always scrutinised.
Difference here goes by a different name – They call him weird.
Anyway.
It’s unexpected.
the violinist that who had once imbued me write about my love for violin, coincidentally shares the same birthday as mine.
I just found out today of course.
I am… pleasantly suprised.
I realised my writing style is morphing again – Like a green gooey monster that you make the choice to decide its shape – except you dont.:)
i feel enstranged whenever i write.
I really do.
Because no one understands my writings.
No one ever gets it.
Does it hurt? Yes it does, in subtle ways, in undescrible, almost tangible ways.
And you say, ” Its all self-inflicted damage.”
And yes, paranoid me writes this way, because its 1 ) so easy for me to understand 2) awkward and long sentences makes me feel happy-
They make me feel as if life is endless,
They make me see an endless journey of puffy sheep clouds and open windows, with curtains pouring out, and reaching towards the blue burning sky that basks the earth mellow yellow.
I love long sentences which are gramattically incorrect – Why make it correct?
And you don’t. you don’t make me happy. your existence makes my existence sore and useless.
I wonder. I wonder.
Why do humans so love structure, that breaking away from that structure, compels them to say its obviously wrong?
Its never wrong when you enjoy it.
My teacher is making me feel my own writing disgusting.
And i do see it in so many ways like she does.
And yet even as i write in her language – as designed by her-
I see no compelling reason that this writing would trigger memories in me ;
But unlike my old pieces, they make me cry and sane upon reading-
Shall not thy return back to thou’s called shambles?
And live in fear of the red scribbles and the liquid paper.
They do haunt me because i write poetically.
Anyway, lifes been really amusing recently.
Going home late, band, band , going home early, wasting time.
I’ve got lots of stuff to do, and work is indeed piling up.
Procrastinating. Procrastinating.
But everytime i fall, i see a seething relief in the shadows that cover my eyes.
Like a violin tune that pulls my soul out of my mind,
makes me shiver in both fear and relief;
remember the world as beautiful-
And i until now, i still can.
My source of energy each day comes from the virtues i stand by.
They may not be ethical, but they are who i am.
And if i choose to change, and write in ways that are indeed understandable,
whats there more to dream, when reality is so much more livable then -
And how will i hold on to that dream,
a seagull’s dream without fishermen.
until i’m logical, i bid you adieu ; Soon i shall pen in better words.
im ready but are you?
And like a violin song, his words pierce my heart,
I wish indifference yet i cannot pull myself apart-
Apart from his music, his endless vocals that cry-
cry me to sleep , in tears become’d thy’s pillow and cushion,
drown and lullaby me to slumber, to endless dreams
and a company of symphony – But why?
For when i listen to a note that shrills like a woman’s cry,
why for i not run , like a scared husband who murdered;
Murder me so softly and quietly – Like a gentle killer, slitting
My wrist, my throat, my soul if he could reach, but my heart
beating still and he so shall sing more, till it burst and bleeds -
STOP!
Why for do i listen to a song that makes me cry?
Why the irony, why the dramatic irony for which i’m both the drama and the reader;
Allow the haunting notes to narrate my private story?
Each step breaks, each breath burst, each blink an emotional arrest.
So – So i’d tell him to stop, for his words are overly enduring,
And yet each time he plucks and bow, and one string hums for another to continue,
I watch his movements and my own glare upon each other,
And for all dues honesty and what one shouldn’t say -
I say i saw more beauty in his fingertips than my life could muster
Could even carry – carry upon thy shoulders so heavy
so dense, so mischieviously annoying;
So that when he ends his piece, that melodic banshee finally shuts,
I feel encapsulated in relief that its all over -
but when he stands up to leave, i feel empty,
and i need him so dearly more -
that self-inflicted decieve;
killed me softly.
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