Sad news my dear readers.

I realised that I have lost my folder of personal rantings and what-nots. All my writings that spanned over a year, all gone. It not only includes those posted on my tomes, but those written for a certain someone as well. Those personal letters that I sent out.

I have no idea what happened. Perhaps I accidentally deleted it one day. Or perhaps not. But one thing for sure is that it’s gone. Wiped out from the face of my C Drive.

Treausre those hard copies you have, that certain someone.

Those are the only ones left now…

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Now, before you all get mistaken, which I am sure you did (yes you there), I am not missing nor hankering after the past at all. What’s past is past. One just thought that things could have been handled better. Now, did I get that out of the way? Comprehendo?

Today, I’ll steal a phrase from Melancholic Merriment, which rings loud and true in the echoes of my mind,

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To Be

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I realized why I was an insomniac. All along, whenever I lie down in my bed, my thoughts would tend to wander to the mystical farplanes of beyond. They would wander anywhere, do whatever they want to, all except sleep. Instead of falling asleep then, my mind would be the most active at that point in time. Perhaps that is why I love the night…

That point of time would almost be the time where I derive my most inspiration from. For the most pregnant material comes from such moments, where the “it suddenly dawns upon you,” so as to use this cliche in its most appropriate way. Sometimes, I would be too lazy to haul the big ass of mine out of bed and to jot down whatever I was thinking. Sometimes I would be just too comfortable.

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The world is a cruel place

The foolish lovers give their heart and soul
Keeping faith that theirs be a fairytale
How cruel the world is
To twist the dreams of fantasy
Into haunting nightmares

Through fate or circumstance
Or a straying touch
Sometimes a meaningless word
Or a misread heart
A pain inflicted of torment infinite
By a casual hand
Cruelest of actions
Carried out by a gentle lamb

A fair face hides the hand
Of darkest sorrow and deepest pain
Heaven forfend
Such indifferent acts
Such thoughtless pacts
Should break the hearts of mortal men
Of love, it dies
Of hope, it sleeps
Of faith, it abandons
A pronouncement of suffering


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And once more, as the bells toll in the distant towers, the heralded day has cometh unto them yet again. The day that they spent all summer preparing for it. To face the enemy once more in his own quarters. To give no quarter to him, not even yield an inch should they fail. Should they fail, there is but no choice to give their lives to the honourable cause, lest their fort should fall.The object that the enemy was seeking for must never fall into his hands, for if that happened, all that they stood for would be lost forever.

He was weary. Weary of waiting for it to come. For the great battle that must happen no matter what. He had almost got used to a civilian life, at every break of the day doing nothing but toiling the soil. Or practising arms with the rest of the men. Not that they were very eager to do so either. In the beginning, they practised everyday, waiting with fervour for the day to come. But as days turn into months and months into years, discipline rotted along with it. They had become a bunch of drunken, spineless good-for-nothings.

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My Dearest Autumn

Can you see? No one’s feeding wood to the fire. Give it a few more hours and all you can see are glowing embers. Not bad though, those weak flames are casting enough shadows to make this whole place look eerie. Kinda gives it a nice feel, don’t you think?

At this time of the night, I’m always in pain. My heart seems to be crying out as if some part was missing.

Mutilated in fact.

They call it “phantom pain”. Phantom pain occurs when you feel the pain coming from a missing limb, as if that limb was still there. I sure feel the pain from that missing part, as if it was still there.

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Love, A Deceitful Affair

Love, cruel hast thou been
To lead thee on a false trail, up over yonder
These clouded peaks, enchanting beauty no less
Up and down through the treacherous marsh
Promising all of heaven, promising no more sadness
Attached to thee, a pair of wings
To aid thine’s flight to the supposed utopia
Unknowingly to hasten thine’s demise
For the swamps of Hopelessness
And the bogs of Despair lies just over the
Masquerade of clouded peaks, a pretty affair
And bounded for this destination was thee
Destined to burn in Hell

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