A Little Morning Incident

I listened to a night of Chopin’s Nocturne in Eb major. Well, perhaps often in my dreams was I, and the music only whispered within my mind – with mesmerising sublimity and wonder. It at times spoke as ‘meta-music’, telling me that music is necessarily temporal.

I left it playing – with a higher volume, after I began making Frühstück. (It still is playing in the background now, and I shall be reluctant to replace it with Mendelssohn or Tchaikovsky, for this piece re-renders my palette with each delicacy, and rewinds time with an odd sentiment. (This is Maestro Ashkenazy’s playing)

When making my tea, I have the habit of setting a timer-alarm with my phone, so that my early black tea is not overly brew. I ate breakfast at the time.

Despite my repeated hearings of wild and mystical tones from the music on different occasions of this listening, I was astounded at the extra piano notes that arrived at my left ear – I at first thought it was the left speakers (I have a surround system placed at a fair distance from each other). I hope I wasn’t going schizophrenic (for I certainly do not think there are those extra notes in the nocturne). Then I noted and recalled the presence of my tea – oh poor tea! I looked at my phone – my usual alarm tone “Be My Love by Keith Jarrett” is playing (I must have been indeed in an utterly inadequate state of mind to have misidentified the sound). Anyway, that’s the incident, and now I have my lovely tea warming my cold winter morning. Ah!

Published in: on 25/08/2013 at 10:23 AM  Leave a Comment  


The condemnation of my soul into this void, this abyss, is nothing but a blinding white light. When one realises that one is a brain in a vat, when one utters that which cannot be said, when one cheats death, when one rises beyond the human; one is condemned – condemned to be free, condemned to be gone.

“Consciousness is an illness.”

Published in: on 17/08/2013 at 2:04 AM  Leave a Comment  

Shades of Sorrows

I have come to realise the gift of melancholy only after her first departure, yet how her memories haunts me as a familiar stranger, as my shadow morphs in time both forwards, and backwards. I again sense the chaotic rapture of my being, anew, albeit all past misfortunes, for this is a crimson giant engulfing all of its surroundings, as a war within the self reigns. I hear the fairies playing their flutes from afar, the green woods serve as a land of refuge. It’s a dream – a daydream, the dream of consciousness

With every finding and retrieval of my self, I loose another part of me.

This cycle torments me till the end of time…

This, is the shades of sorrows, my shades of sorrows.

My dear Melancholy, she always accompanies me, I have fell in love with her, ever since her first departure. It was not so long ago, when the leaves were born, far from this shattering winter wind. The sun never shone so bright, so warm, with the rich taste of citrus fruit! It was then, when I expressed my eagerness, and hope, to a dear old sir; confessed my loss, only days after, to her. I was in gloom and bloom, a world of tragedy, void yet full, did my will succeed? I somehow lost her, and lived lightly, floating aloft, and the thunderstorm quickly came. He alerts me, with a grim face and an unyielding firmness, that I am facing my eternal doom. He was right.

My clever tricks never lasted – for myself. I the master of deception, yet failed to deceive my self, or perhaps it is due to this deception, that now deception has deceived herself. The artist spoke: “Let thy knowledge deceive thee not.” The philosopher replies: “Let thy senses deceive thee not.” I did not fall. I simply stand, unable to move – a freezing winter, blinding white snow and frost, a dark dungeon, demons singing their weary tune.

The story continues… I longed for a loss, I found some notes, I sketched and ran, across fields and rivers and victory was at hand. Absurd is absurd. The music sings. The story flashes forward, the foundations are set, the building rises, rises, it rises and grows, strong and firm, I soar above the clouds… These portraits, of faces, not friends but faces, (perhaps or an unseen shadow dares me not to sketch his face), they’re pinned to the wall, like prisoners, like ghosts… The rehearsal begins, the pieces are here and there, they come and go. Now my friend, this warm yellowy lamp is here, it sits besides me, never leaving my poor Augen lost and blind. Oh my dear lord, my dear Melancholy, you’re here, yet I miss you. I miss you so much. I feel so alone! Why did you leave me for your dressing room? To wear a different lipstick and perfume. To whisper in a different tone! How strange! How cruel! O! My dear love, you enslaved me; you tortured me; I cannot escape; I fell in myself, and now I pay, and never will repay, till my death – and perhaps even beyond. You laugh, I weep. You whisper forte I cry in piano. Seemingly you hear me not, yet you know, only you know, but you are deceiving me, as I tried to deceive myself for you…

The waves are gone. The sea is calm, and rather fair; the moon dust fall upon the shimmering blue, in ivory in gold in violet. Lavender tea is good. Rest, let thee rest, let I rest. I love you. Melancholia – in all your acts, your faces, your voices, your shadows. But how can I be not sad for you? I am sad for my Sadness.

And I fear dream.

Published in: on 16/08/2013 at 12:05 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Persistent Dilemma

If Truth and Rationality implies the snatching away of someone’s happiness, shall I still honour Reason?

  Do I become Mr Murdstone?

Published in: on 13/08/2013 at 9:11 AM  Leave a Comment