dreams

Eksistensialisme, English, Meditasi Tulis, Puisi, Racauan

It’s that time again

Nosa Normanda 2 Komentar

It’s that time again when I have become sleepless. And in this state of mind, glimpses of horrendous images comes to mind unexpectedly, triggered by unprecedented scene. I will not give you the context of these images. I just want to share these aesthetically awful memories that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The body of a friend who got hit by a train.

Strains of hair of an ex girlfriend on the sink.

The scar under the belly of a loved one.

The warm chest of my father who just passed, blood on his lips because he bite his tongue.

Corpse of my uncle, skinny, dark, blood from his mouth, ear, eyes, nose. His body bent and stiffed.

The smell of fresh linen out of my crush uniform in High School.

Her smile while giving me warm milk in morning. The taste of that milk.

The rope on my neck on a failed suicide attempt.

My salty tears, and the wind on my face while driving my motorcycle, after a family tragedy.

That rain when I went home from her house, walking for hours.

The sound of my brother adzan on my father’s grave.

A picture of a woman I love, naked with another man.

These are slide of films, that will bug me for the rest of my life.

And as long as I am alive, my life will always produce it, more and more.

I hope I can be better at editing it.

Baca lebih lanjut →
English, Filsafat, Memoir, Racauan

Those Thieving Birds?

Nosa Normanda Tinggalkan komentar
maxresdefault
Last night I had a dream in a form of a stop motion. It seems like millions of pictures, intertwined to one. A person’s life, a bisexual person. Drunk scene, sex scene, a gig, a dim-lit room, a bright space, a time-lapse of a bed in front of a window where a man is sleeping naked for several days, a cheap hotel, a luxurious room in a big empty house, people dancing and getting drunk, swimming, having sex in a pool with a guy, then doing a hand job on a young ginger girl. So many images, no beginning, no end. Just endless dejavu, like a loop but not a loop. I can sense small detail in the mood of every scenes. Happiness, sadness, the smell of bodily fluid, a taste of chocolate and wine, etc.
.
Since it’s POV, I don’t know whether it was a him or a her. It’s certainly not my memory, I can’t swim that good, nor do I have ginger girl friends, I never had sex with a guy in a pool. It’s not from a film or porn either. The narrative is too consistent to be made from a montage.
 .
If I believe in reincarnation, it could be me in the past live, or in the future.
 .
Funny thing is, I can’t remember this dream until I listened to Silverchair’s ‘Those Thieving Birds’ part I. Then those images suddenly struck me. I was stunned. In that song, every images came back, from a Freudian Latent dream. Why Thieving Birds? Why Silverchair? I don’t know. But those images gave me a sudden but lasting melancholy. It might be the lyric of the song. Wanna help interpret?
 .
***
Those thieving birds
Hang strung from an empty nest
This swan plagued pond
Foresaken and under whelmed

.

Those leaving words
Hang strong from an emptiness
Hang strong from an emptiness
Those thieving birds
Hang strung from an empty nest

Those theiving birds

This is tearing me apart
If the Sun won’t shine
Forever will never be fine
Underneath the hollow ground
Lies a night time sky
For only a desperate eye

When I’m paranoid I see walls behind walls behind walls
When I’m over joyed I see falls over falls over falls
When I’m all alone I’ll be wary and careful to
Only eat with uncles
Never talk to strangers
God is in the kitchen
Faking baby dangers
Not only liked but loved as well

If this streets air ain’t up to par
I’ll take my clothes and take this strange behaviour
Not only liked but loved as well

Change whatever karma means
For the only things that end never truly begin
If this streets air ain’t up to par
I’ll take my clothes and take this strange behaviour

Not only liked but loved as well
If this streets air ain’t up to par
I’ll take my clothes and take this strange behaviour
Not only liked but loved as well

When I’m paranoid I see walls behind walls behind walls
When I’m over joyed I see falls over falls over falls
When I’m all alone I’ll be wary and careful to
Only eat with uncles
Never talk to strangers
God is in the kitchen
Faking baby dangers

If this keeps tearing me apart
The walls come down won’t stop this empty feeling
For everything apart from this (x3)

Lonely in life
Dead or alive
If the truth had incursions
No more goodbyes
No more big lies

If the truth had versions
As long as you and I are together
I’ll hold onto the jewellery
Like staple strapped clenched fist and tongs

Hang strung from an empty nest
Those thieving birds (x3)

Hang strung from an empty nest

 

English, Memoir, Racauan

Listen to Me, Norman

Nosa Normanda Tinggalkan komentar

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.

You are in a bad dream.

A group of women, their face painted, naked, bosoms bouncing in their dance, as the twilight sets in blue and purple. They are surrounding a big fire, with yellow and green smoke. You are just lying there, helplessly bared. You can’t move. Your penis erecting. The women starts to hold that little tower of yours, your manhood, your God-given power. And you just lay still. One of them took a knife from inside her cunt, a black and rough, blade like an ancient tooth of a fossilised beast. The others, licking your body, kissing you passionately–no, hungrily. Sucks your tongue out till it hurts like she will ripped it out of your throat; her saliva tastes like the ocean, salty and bitter. The rest touching you, biting your body. You can feel all of these pain.

They  are lining on your right and left side. One of them lifts your head so you can see your erecting mojo, then the one with the knife, caresses your penis, and slowly slicing it. You can feel the slow intense pain of every cut, you can hear the friction of your skin and flesh to the blunt blade. Heart pumping blood gushing tears flowing; you’re screaming in silence. In this dream, you have no voice. No control. The only thing left is senses. The woman holding your head won’t let your eyes close. As your blood splashing and streaming, you pray that your life will be over soon, you believe it will be over soon, you know it will be over soon but somehow it feels like a lifetime.

You see the knife woman ripped your penis and holding it up high. The others hold you up, tie you on a cross, and force you to watch a ceremony, in which they started to sing a lament. The knife woman, touches the fire and walks toward a spike in the middle of the flame, she pierces your penis onto the spike, with its bald head facing up to the purple sky. You starts to feel a new kind of pain, like a million needles impedes your toes, feet, then all over your body. You’re dying but not yet die. The God of dreams wont let you die. Your eyeballs catching fire as cold as immortal ice. Then you see…

Your ceiling. You can move again. You touch your penis, and like you it is afraid and hiding beneath your skin. In a split second you think you really lost it. But no, it is still there, peeping through your prepuce. You’re breathing fast, your chest hurts because your heart is running wild. Then you starts to hear that sound; a slow breathing of the woman you love, sleeping beside you. Your heart knows it has to stop running. You are home. Everything will be alright. Everything. Will. Be. Fine.

So you keep pace with her easiness. Ease your anxiety. You see the clock in the dark, 4.05. Damn. You’re just being asleep for less than ten minutes. And yet it felt like infinite hell. You takes her hand and kisses it. She smiles in her sleep. She must have a good dream. Good.

Then you close your eyes again. You are tired. The whole day people are talking endlessly about insignificant things. And you cannot escape that lightness, small things. These people, wasting emotions for futile emptiness, like debts, gossips, religions, heaven and hell, poverty, ambition of the material world–shits like that. And you think you are the most significant being, the overman who is above everything. Your mind is GOD. You think all the trouble in the world are nothing but noises that can be shut, equalize, filtered, composed. You know what you want, you know that you are a composer of art, you can catch those noises and turns them to music. In that music, you are safe. And you can save other people. You can inspire. You think that you are a painter, taking blood of the innocents, war and terror, happiness and sadness, all this useless chaos, putting them in your palette and locks it in a frame. Structured, balanced, the golden ratio. You feel them, understand them, and yet you separate yourself from them. Taking what you need, and put it in song, in a frame. And you can do that because she’s around. The woman you love. She will keep you safe.

Then you sleep again.

You are in a bad dream.

A group of women, their face painted, naked, bosoms bouncing in their dance, as the twilight sets in blue and purple. One of them lifts your head so you can see your erecting mojo, and then the other, the one with the knife, caresses your penis, and slowly slicing it.

Listen to me, Norman. Do not sleep. Do. Not. Sleep.