Final minutes of day one. Team GB disappoints at cycling. The 'Dream Team' just wasn't dreamy enough. Nice golden win for Kazakhstan.
Michael Phelps, on the other hand, places no medal since a long time ago. Bad start. Maybe he should indeed retire after this while he still has that value.
Sometimes I want to clean my life for the hell of it, the thrill of responsibility. Sometimes I clobber myself to thinking I needed to do something for a future, a worthwhile life, a legacy to leave behind. Sometimes I groom myself emotionally and physically for a day, and for what? Six hours later, drenched wet, going home empty-handed, and another illusion of having done a socially-acceptable lifestyle. That I prove to others I have no sociopathic tendencies. That I am ordinary, that I mingle for the sake of mingling. Because life is like that, ever so clingy to worldly favours. One's self is never enough, they say.
Some say that no one man is an island. I beg to differ, some are indeed islands. Islands that form an archipelago, albeit independently, forming tight bonds of respect and honour, and they are all better off that way.
Loneliness has no factor in this. The islands are by no means exclusive but invitational.
I could sleep now, and wake up early. Do a long run or something. But the blaring noises from the distance still resonate within my walls. There's that urge to switch the channel, but who knows what's going to happen. It might be monumental, might not be.
Or maybe I should just rest then. Fuck it.
My lady, I feel so alive...
Tonight marks the day of rings, of gold, of silver, of bronze. Here we stand at the moment of triumph, of defeat, and of class disparities. Tonight, we bow down to the birth, destruction, death, retribution of human will.
This will not take forever. My mind is already broken. I can see something's missing.
Cecil has had too much laziness for a single lifetime. Laziness of the utmost insignificance. To endure such a gruelling fate is laughably pathetic, and Cecil is all of it and more.
His green and soiled toothbrush loiters beside the LED monitor unattended. His used blue kitchenwares have been left there and forgotten while a bottle of sparkling drink stares at the fork with utter dismay. There are two bottles of urine beside that bottle that are indistinguishable from each other, and may easily distract and fool bystanders into drinking it.
His mobile phone lies not far, jittery and shaken by the constant stream of messages and updates. Cena had been trying to contact him all day now for a favour. Cecil has always been aware of it, and yet he tries hard to avoid being condescending, so as not to bear her rude indecisiveness and unappreciative demeanour. Cena had been begging Cecil to stay, if only the idea was as easy as it seemed.
Cecil had been hiding from the world for the past c…
There is a mark in the palm of my right hand that I almost couldn't remember procuring. Why I couldn't almost remember was because today was a monumental joykiller. The Antediluvians are at it again as they normally would, crashing and burning and salivating at the thought of me in very precarious situations. Something tells me to tidy up and destroy the evidence of joy that is left from last night's escapade. But why should I? If it's the only thing that caresses my soft spot for hope. I can't even help but be sentimental to a one-hour tattoo because it's the only thing that reminds me of what it means to be happy with people. Because as it normally turns out, the people always concoct different ways of disappointment, and therein lies in the middle a sore misanthrope: none other than me, silently whispering solitude in the blanched, moist sky, with nothing but promises of gold buried deep by the Antediluvians who wish to inflict me pain. Pain of the utmost t…