Friday, January 8, 2016

All my scribbles have no moral message, no greater end, they do not address any social problems, there is no cause, no rhyme nor reason. Harshest critics may call them elitist, decadent, shallow even pseudo-intellectual.(Hell, I've even been called "white, upper-class" when I am, to use the political language,a brown, minority). Most often they are pointless meanderings.

However, I call them my whimsical experiments, explorations into the forgotten, research of the curious, slow adoration of beauty, a harmless (perhaps useless) pondering into nostalgia, lovely redolence of small inbetweens, speculations on what can be found on the rim of everyday, the secret strangeness in each individual, the elegance of high aesthetics and the mellowness of memories. It is a chronicling of the universe of one's soul drowning and soaring in the agonies and euphoria of existence. All I hope to achieve through my writings is to leave a pure, tingling lyrical abstraction tip-toeing down my readers' spine, a mist of blossoming goose bumps. If I can do that, I have not written in vain.


Art: Christian Schloe's surreal digital art

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