a splinter of amber

Upon what did I blemish my sense of taste? The bitter pill of sorrow? Of injustice? Or of betrayal? For what reason did it hurt so bad? That I would be rendered speechless, at the distasteful treatments from a friend. Or so had I believed him so. But what friend would have you constantly smiling at him with eyes sparkling as if he were the sun of your life? What friend would utilise of your help when of his grieving moments then cast you aside when you are of yours? That he would have you pining shamelessly for his supposed strong arms. Why would he be so willingly bask in the glory of you grovelling at his feet? That hi would enjoy you behaving in such a self-depriciating manner, bowing and apologising all the time of one or another of your traits that he finds an eyesore. The norm of a friend? Or are you instead slave to him? To scrape the dirt off his possessions and lick the grease off his boots, and still call them gold. And instead of the common gratitude, you recieve the now-the-common slander and spittle. Is this the sort of friendship people seek so desperately? A shame. I had believed so. Yet it would seem more likely that my unfortunate folly be turned to a story many comedians would use. A joke. Some would call it. I must admit that I am not entirely sure if I would ever hve the mental justice to turn back on this event in future times of ill or fortune. Whether for memory or reflection. But it must be known that the most straight-forward understanding is this: That this slight exists as a splinter of amber etched deep into my heart, glowing in the light that all manner of trust and friendship has been dispelled. His faithlessness has enforced an alteration in policy. We live in a world of difference.

Notsnhoj

the rains of Brunei

The thunders roar. The people tremble.

The rains pour. The cold instills.

Amidst biting cold and misty ravines, we lie here, a miserable lot. We are encaved within naught but a pointlessly thin layer of nylon. At least it serves the mundane purpose of hiding our eyes from the terror of the storm. Nevertheless, the howling wind has breached our defenses, with its chill tightening its icy hold around our throats. There is no way of escaping the drenching. It is so cold. There is no way of escaping the wind. It is so cold. There is no way of escaping the storm. It is so cold. For an unneccessary but existing obligation, we will suffer it.

It would seem that I have lost myself in a past long gone with the winds of history. I envisioned myself gathered into my mother's warm embrace and secure within the steady grasp of my father's hands. Just as it had always been. In these, all manner of comfort and security lie. Yet what used to be is no more. Now, there is only the cold and me. It is without of my nylon protection. And within it. And within me. It is so cold.

Notsnhoj