There was once a horse, which is always tethered to the back of the wagon, rather than on the front of it, like his companions. And this horse wasn’t a bad horse; he could run, he could sprint, and perhaps even out-sprint, but tied to the back of the wagon and perpetually led and dragged along, he forgot that he could run. He forgot that he could rear his legs, and stare down the horizon and the lands beyond (for horses can always see beyond everything, and beyond everything is where they run) and plunge into a gallop where freedom brings fleet to his feet and the rushing air are trails of his wings.

In time he forgot that he was a horse, but a single entity that follows where the wagon led, which in turn is led by his companions, which in turn are under the reigns of Men.

It was the same everyday. He would wake, and eat, and follow where the wagon went, staring at the wooden frame, occasionally looking at the passing scenery at his sides, but never anything ahead of him. He would just walk, and walk some more, when the noose around him tightened and tensed. And all the while he could only hear the clop-clopping of his march, sometimes the calling of Men, but everything else that enters his ears are merely distant echoes of familiarity; dull shades of the past, or of canvases that he had never seen but had always known to exist.

It was the same everyday. Wake, eat, walk. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Clop.

It rained one day. Heavy, relentless and malicious. For once the horse didn’t hear the unending clopping, drowned by the thunderous claps the dark, toiling visage above that saw fit to brew calamity. But it was there in his mind. Clop. Clop. Even when his hoofs struck mud more than solid earth. Even when the winds howl, and the lighting flared, and the thunder boomed and doomed and loomed.

In his mind it was Clop. Clop. Clop. In front of him was the wagon, perhaps blurred by the curtain of rain, but still the wagon, wooden frame and all, wobbling and tumbling occasionally.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Clop.

Boom.

The sound of thunder; loud, shuddering, shattering. It exploded in the horse’s ear.

Silence.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

Boom.

It wasn’t distant. It wasn’t an echo. It wasn’t a deep rumble brought from far away by the winds. It was loud and crashing and near.

Boom.

And the horse reared. He kicked; he tore and pulled. He yanked and tugged and lashed. The wagon skewed. His companions neighed, and the men yelled. The horse pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled.

The rope snapped.

And the world exploded.

It wasn’t clopping anymore. There weren’t wooden frames that wobbled ahead. Everything that passed at the side is blurs and sweeping lines of colours.

It was thunder as his hooves struck the ground. Massive, immense, powerful. Free. Ever-changing, ever unpredictable. And the winds that howled are the trails his wings leaves behind to the world that can never catch up.

Ahead was the horizon, and everywhere beyond it.

And that was where he ran.

* * * *

Perhaps I should’ve placed it in Monochrome Smogs, but I typed it down when I was trying to blog about today, and it was another product that came to be with a random sentence written down for no apparent reason.

Another nonsense, but it feels good to write something spontaneously. Perhaps I might get a more substantial plot in the future, and possibly something for the short story competition I saw tacked on a notice board (which deadline is this Saturday).

Goodnight People.

Length has nothing to do with it. It has nothing to do with anything.

Let it be a known fact that if you put two Very Cool People and a newbie of the class together in an air-condition hall full of noisy people, the results will be The Most Hilarious Game of Hangman ever Played.

And it was. God, I haven’t laughed so much in a very long time.

Let it also be an undeniable course in reality that ‘3 guys and 1 hot chick’ at work on a story (where each person will write 3 words and pass on to another) will inevitably give birth to a story of utter randomness, complete with Depressed Hamsters, Prosthetic Sexual Organs ™ and a rock named Tom (which had nothing to do with the story at all, apart from being mentioned twice, and that was the extend of it).

Amen to that.

And, lastly, let it be an undoubted truth that a can of mayo tuna left opened and untouched in the fridge for approximately 4 weeks should never be eaten at all, lest you wish to die a very agonising death on top of a porcelain seat in your toilet, and this writer here assures you that there are other less painful ways to commit suicide.

(I didn’t die, but I think I almost did; there was one moment where I saw myself drifting across a plain of ice until I arrived to an Eskimo fishing at a hole with a bamboo rod. He looked at me, cocked his head, made a sucking sound and said, “It’s not your time yet”. And then I was back in the toilet.)

* * * *

Dad and bro left for their vacation yesterday, on a trip to China in an eating tour (where they take you to feast on popular dishes, with plenty of sightseeing in between). Like any other ride to the airport, there was the familiar loom of farewell melancholy. It was nothing big, them leaving, but the loom was there, and it made me fiddle with it for a while, not unlike the manner of a boy absently picking at a ream of the sofa.

So I watch them heave their backpacks into the terminal in the rearview mirror (I drove the way home, with mom as navigator), and felt something stirred, though I don’t know what it was.

It was the second time I drove on a highway stretch, and the longest distance I ever driven. From KLIA to home.

But it was a cool drive. Mom and I chatted, with DJ Simon genially giving us good music on Light and Easy. I was a tad nervous; my legs were somewhat tensed, but it was alright after a while. And quite something to drive at night. The serenity, the subtle dance of unnoticed beauty. Rain drizzled onto the road and the windscreen, turning the streetlights into hexagonal ambers that lit the way home. It was gentle fun, and I liked it. I have to do it again on Thursday, when dad and bro reaches home.

* * * *

When facing the prospect of having a dad-free and bro-liberated week, know that:

1) There won’t be anyone to feed the pets when you couldn’t make it home in time.

2) If you have a punctured tyre, you’re going to have to deal with it alone. It didn’t matter that you’ve dealt it yourself before in past incidents, because this time around there isn’t any assurance that if you fucked up you can still call dad.

3) The fishes are under your utmost and complete responsibility. The ecology of the aquarium and tanks are under your hand; the distribution of food, the management of popularity, the care of the diseased and the deceased and, most importantly, the state of the water.

4) You do not have to make coffee every night.

5) You do not have a brother to massage, and thank the week for that.

6) The brother’s room is a Class 5 No Entry unless required, which you know you don’t have to obey provided you make it seem like it wasn’t intruded upon.

7) You’re free of the 80% of the nagging in the house.

8) The TV is technically yours to command, unless mom decides that she wants the captaincy, and if this happens just retreat to your room and pretend you didn’t hear what she puts on.

9) You’re locking all the doors, so make sure you do it right.

10) You’re going to have a dad-free and bro-liberated week. DO SOMETHING YOU DON’T DO ALL THE TIME. Like singing Beyond the Sea in the living room with a broom and plastic teacup as your hat.

If you understand and acknowledge the above, rest assured; you’ll have a fine and safe week.

(JEOpardy Self-Help titles are not to be held responsible for any damages caused. YOU READ OUR STUFF. WE DIDN’T ASK YOU TO. DON’T BLOODY BLAME IT ON US.)

* * * *

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Goodnight People.

It is the innate capability. The fundamental working of things; the intrinsic nature of behaviour. It’s all about attitude. Beliefs. The things you tell yourself.

Optimism.

Pardon me; I’m never that good at the limning of things, if you can call that limning. I try to make things comprehensible, though by right it is very comprehensible to me and the hand in which I hold my pen (or type the words), but at the end of it, it boils down to the known and undeniable fact that being a writer and a teller of things, it is whether the message is understood or not.

(So if you’re reading this, scratching your head and deciding that a bottle of chicken stock and all of its so advertised power to enhance the thought should come in handy right now, take a sit and relax. I’m not worth the understanding).

Today was a day where everything seemed to go wrong. I wouldn’t call it a Disastrous day, or Catastrophic, or even Bad at that manner; but it was pretty obvious that Lady Fortune had decided to mar my day by pouring a bottle of Very Slippery Detergent Sludge down my alley.

I don’t have the energy to relate every wrong thing that happened today, but lets just say that it includes a lot of malfunctioning devices, a fair few of “What the fuck are you doing?”, a considerable lot of “Sometimes I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing…”, the usual “You just had to PISS. ME. OFF! *flails arms angrily in aggravation*”, a lot of cash gone and the most despairing, most dejecting of them all; the Sigh. A lot of Sighs. The ones you get when you’re doing nothing right even if you wish it right. Condescending, and riddled the sort of belittling pity.

Argh.

To cap it off, I burned some toast. Which the dog didn’t even want to eat. So I thought it’d make a good Frisbee of sorts, and decidedly spun it out of the garden. I watch it disappear into the darkness, across the road where the light couldn’t reach, and judging by the way the toast spun towards the left, I think it landed on the neighbour’s roof.

I just hope that birds like toast in the morning.

Happy Birthday, Mich. I hope the flowers are fine.

Goodnight People.