Sup3rnality

On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Flickering lights giving
shadows but a moment of life.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Teasing, a fleeting glimpse
then the darkness once again.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Strike a match in my heart
Let the fire burn and give it light.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2012

I just realised that I actually posted the last entry. It was written in the dead of night when I suddenly awoke and went into a ranting rage over people who complain about not finding love and look for love in all the wrong ways and with unrealistic expectations.

I don't know why I woke up feeling like that and decided to write all that in my groggy state, but well, I've done weirder things.

 If it reads weird (not that my other stuff doesnt), know that I wrote half-asleep and probably struggling to be coherent while my body fights to stay awake.

I know a grand number of people who, misguided by fantasies, have grand imaginings of what sharing a life with another means. Maybe for most, you'd smile indulgently and chalk it down to their age...if they are still young, that is. But what if the person is, for the most part, an adult? Not so cute is their naivete now, huh?

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to just lay down arms and let the battle come to me and consume me whole so I should never have to feel again.

I am often known among friends as the slightly off-beat one. Well, that's putting it nicely. Often they'd be straight-forward and tell me I'm weird. I never took offense, though.

Although, back then when I was among the first to own a Nokia N70 music edition, and people would excitedly ask to have a look so they can have a listen at the sound quality and the songs I have on the 2GB memory phone, the look on their faces would sometime make me quirk an eyebrow in fascination and a smidge of annoyance. They'd in one moment excitedly hold the phone in their hands, then, right in the next second, their face will change to that of realisation and say: "Oh wait, Hazlin kan suka lagu pelik-pelik" -_-^

 In any case, in this one week, I've been flipping through two particular books that I got from my colleague. Now, before I tell you the titles, let me say compare the two:

- Book A is likely to attract more readers because:
 1 - The writer is a pretty celebrity regaling tales from her promiscuous life as a teen, bedding anything with a good body (my spoonerism made me type bood gody at first *facepalm*) and a d*ck.
 2 - The language is simple, easy to digest and deadpan funny.
 3 - No heavy topics involved other than sex and booze and parties and her continuous unemployment.
 4 - It's a girl talking about sex life, usually a taboo, or mostly looked down on, so...most people wouldn't mind peeking into the mind of such a lady.

- Book B would most likely be the lesser choice because:
 1 - The writer is also a celebrity but of the err...less savoury kind and is also regaling his life of promiscuity.
 2 - While simple in writing style, the weight of his words lend more character and reality that he is indeed a normal person.
 3 - The topics range from heavy to light-hearted, and the heavy is enough bring a bit of tears to your eyes.
 4 - Yes, it's about sex sex sex, but it's about not from the eyes of the most good-looking of people in showbusiness.

But you know what, despite everything Book A is, I loathed it so much I stopped reading it by the third chapter and never even thought to continue --- EVER. Book B, which I read on a whim and out of curiousity of such a lifestyle, made a very insightful read that actually made me feel. I'm still reading it now, and I have to say, I can't put it down. Well, actually I do, but just so people can't see what I'm reading.

Now, this has nothing to do with my so-called off-beat tastes, but I know that people who know me are likely to attribute my liking Book B to this particular quirk of mine. But I do think anyone who appreciates quality writing would choose Book B over Book A, and I would think that the more casual reader who would never delve into real literature would sniff at the idea of reading Book B. That's what I think anyway.

Book B is surprisingly warm at times, especially when you think the cold reality is really that cold in the industry. But really, it paints a picture of real people living against a backdrop of fantasies who, despite the high life, would really just like to come back down to earth.

Anyway, dah dah I don't want to say anything more about these two books. But one day when the zombie apocalypse comes, and you've somehow managed to hole up somewhere and you get bored and happen to stumble upon these two books and only have space for only one book in your backpack, go with Book B, I'd say. In the absence of human connection and humanity, Book B will help you connect again and help you believe in the goodness of human beings. Yes, Book B talks about fake human connections that are exploited for money, but hey, it's more genuine that Book A.

So anyway, this is Book A:
 

 

I once made a promise to myself. It was so long ago, long enough for me to struggle to remember when, but not too distant an idea for it not to have popped up in my mind of late.

I made it after years of growing up never seeing a sorta peace mending the frayed ties. I made it after never having the assurance of... What's the word? A four-letter word, I'm sure. I made it because I never wanted to be her.

I admit, sometimes I wonder if we're doomed to commit the same mistakes. Sometimes I wonder if the world is just too far gone to have faith in it any longer.

I'd like to tell myself I'd prove myself wrong, that faith will prevail in the end, and in my heart of hearts I know it will... But sometimes, it's hard to lend weight to faith when you're used to being disappointed.

But I woild like to hold true to my promise, and if it isn't this, then it will be nothing at all.

Freddie Mercury would have been 66 today if he were still alive.

He may be gone, but his music lives on.

In memory of Freddie, and his AIDS charity, this is my contribution to the Freddie for a day programme: