Thought noise. Disturbing. Some people say it is a monologue. The orthodox agrees it is a whispering
of a demon. It is a cacophony inside the mind; deafening, distracting.
Thought noise always haunts me. I see images and hear voices of two people arguing over serious matters and the winner at the end of the commotion is always the guy who looks, speaks, thinks like me. It is me; the transcript. It is like a lucid dream where I could create, direct, and destroy any characters I want to and build the entire landscape to my preference. It's like a chess game; single player. To the floor the chessboard would be slammed if I lose, something I choose not to.
Ladies and gentlemen of the juries, you may say I am just daydreaming! You are wrong! The world's exist! It is exist! I cursed and swore at my imaginary people whose their very characters were replicated from those whom I know in real life; those whom I hate so much, so true, so deep. Damn to hell every inch of their skin, every strand of hair, every drop of blood, every sections of their spinal cord, damn their very soul! There their body lying helplessly on the floor, with needles pricked into each of their finger tip and the metals are torched to amber red, then a six-inch stained nail hammered into their skull and left it there until the body suffer the excruciating spasms of tetanus, so painful the bowel liquid left through the anus.
And finally ladies and gentlemen of the juries, you all now know that I am some sort of a vengeful lad who still cannot take past pains and sorrows off me in order to lead normal life as a normal man should be. To say I am a psychopath, that is too early to assume. Like earthquakes, the slight quivers shown to you Your Honour, come from the great tremors deep down. I don't have the power to foresee the day the volcano will erupt, blowing dusts into the sky, blotting light of the world of the innocents. Can I have a seat now, Your Honour? Oh, thank you.
Thought noise always haunts me. I see images and hear voices of two people arguing over serious matters and the winner at the end of the commotion is always the guy who looks, speaks, thinks like me. It is me; the transcript. It is like a lucid dream where I could create, direct, and destroy any characters I want to and build the entire landscape to my preference. It's like a chess game; single player. To the floor the chessboard would be slammed if I lose, something I choose not to.
Ladies and gentlemen of the juries, you may say I am just daydreaming! You are wrong! The world's exist! It is exist! I cursed and swore at my imaginary people whose their very characters were replicated from those whom I know in real life; those whom I hate so much, so true, so deep. Damn to hell every inch of their skin, every strand of hair, every drop of blood, every sections of their spinal cord, damn their very soul! There their body lying helplessly on the floor, with needles pricked into each of their finger tip and the metals are torched to amber red, then a six-inch stained nail hammered into their skull and left it there until the body suffer the excruciating spasms of tetanus, so painful the bowel liquid left through the anus.
And finally ladies and gentlemen of the juries, you all now know that I am some sort of a vengeful lad who still cannot take past pains and sorrows off me in order to lead normal life as a normal man should be. To say I am a psychopath, that is too early to assume. Like earthquakes, the slight quivers shown to you Your Honour, come from the great tremors deep down. I don't have the power to foresee the day the volcano will erupt, blowing dusts into the sky, blotting light of the world of the innocents. Can I have a seat now, Your Honour? Oh, thank you.
If what takes place in the head, and stays in the head, then Judgement should also stay in the head. Ordinary everyday people should only judge a person's character by their's outward appearance. Because ordinary everyday people are too preoccupied with running the Rat Race to care what flights of fancy take place inside a person's head, no matter how interesting it is.
ReplyDeleteListening to our inner voices is otherwise called thinking. All our intellect and experience sleeping in the open and in deep recesses of memory are being called. The talking process bouncing back and forth is private and honest. It bounces and gets thrown out or loses into oblivion somewhere. The acceptance is like the ball as it bounces finally to a stop.
ReplyDeleteThen the Voice Within asks whaddya think!
jiyuu, sometimes it's good to hear what goes on in someone's head.
ReplyDeleteyou'd want a headstart when he starts hearing voices telling him to start killing people.
Jiyuu,
ReplyDeleteYou can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. - James D. Miles
Red Alfa,
ReplyDeleteThe Voice Within says, "who is this philosopher?"
*read Red Alfa's comment again and again to understand*
Erm. Maybe I should go to the bathroom and take a shower for 45 minutes (excluded 2 minutes rinsing with a towel) to think and understand that.
The Tea Drinker,
ReplyDeleteI did! I did! Yearghh!!! *running berserk*
Sir Pok Deng, I hereby sentence you to one month's stay on Pulau Duyong where you will be hanged in the Monsoon Cup full of air tuwok; and you will keep drinking rhere until you are sufficiently sober not to cause any more of your day dreaming nonsense. Any more of this I will consider your being buang negeri, never again to enter Negri Tgganu
ReplyDeleteAl-Manar,
ReplyDeleteTHIS IS NOT FAIR!! THIS NOT FAIR!!! NOT FAIR!!! *being dragged away by two bulgy policeman, everyone's looking at me like flowers looking to the sun, Judge Pak Cik of Almanar scribbles something on a paper, takes off his eyeglasses and leaves the court, the isle of court now filled with bystanders marching out to see the hysterical man wriggling violently like a mad man*
Excellent piece of writing.
ReplyDeleteninotaziz,
ReplyDeleteYeah, because I plagiarized some authors' work.
"ladies and gentlemen of the juries" is a complete ripped off from the famous Vladimir Nabokov's masterpiece entitled Lolita which tells a story about a narcissistic paedo. I read nice reviews about it all over the internet. I don't mind if the content is filthily obscene (because my mind really is) for some readers, as long as I can get something from it, I mean, the lyrical and very flowery proses. I found ONE at a bookstore; without hesitate, I grabbed it fiercely like a psycho rapist spreading legs of a Terengganu belle whom found bathing by the Sekayu river. Wow.
I don't like the story. Boring.
And lastly "like earthquakes, the slight quivers shown to you Your Honour, come from the great tremors deep down" is my own rendition of a particular part in Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. In the story, Hosseini depicted a normal young girl, born during wartime in Afghanistan, suddenly begin to stutter everytime she speaks, after she was forced to live temporarily at an orphanage of a very very harsh condition. Despite of that, she's a strong girl. She just stutters. After reading Khaled Hosseini's description about the girl, we know that there's a enormous tremor going on deep down her heart.
Fin.
Merci beaucoup.