FRGT/10

The memories I keep
Are from a time like then
I put em on paper
So I could come back to them
Someday i'm hoping to close my eyes and pretend
That this crumpled up paper can be perfect again

A small part of Linkin Park's FRGT/10 that I will always remember. It's stuck there, embeded in my head since the first time I heard it. In the 6 lines, I felt a mix of emmotions ranging from nostalgia to regret, resonating with my past, all that's happened to me, all that I felt, everything that I see and everything I hoped to see. I don't even know why I'm writing this, I just felt like it.

Everyone have different channels of expressions, most of us have a few basic ones and many of those are shared and common among people. Number 1 on the list would of course be speech, followed by, most probably, literature. Of course different people have different levels of expression and some are better in expressing their thoughts than others. Then there's art and music. People who are good at expressing their thoughts, whose ideas most find easily understood are often better speakers and writers. Then there're those that not many people understand, most of them are boring as fuck but there's always a small number of these that are just putting forth ideas too controversial for most people to understand and/or accept.

I'm blessed, rare choice of word by me, such that I have quite a number of channels of expression. To speak, to write, to scream, to draw. I have quite an arsenal there don't you think? Then there's the part where I'm spoilt for choice and can't decide what to do, this means I'm either feeling some kind of weird emmotion, say at a weird place in my life, or I'm damn bored. Right now, I'm the latter. I'm staring at the Icarus pic. I did a few days back now, it's just lying there among my pile of books and papers scattered at random across my table top. Sloth is evident in all aspects of my life, everything is secondary to everything, nothing has priority. I'm living life and taking everything that comes and pass. Nothing lingers, nothing gets done. Fuck.

Grisham is a good writer, I like quite a number of his books, he's squirming his way into my list of acknowledged authors. She who wrote Harry Potter, what's her name again?, is not in the list. I've read the beginning of the first Potter book and if Crichton's books are adult pants, her books are used diapers, with shit to go. I don't remember the names of the authors of most of the books I've read so if I remember the name, he's(this is not sexist) got to be good. Generally, I prefer male authors to female ones for cutting straight to the point, no shit, word play and humour not involving flowers and tea parties, and kick-ass names that are realistic and not shit like Mary Poppins. Face it, most of the successful writers I know of are guys. Off the top of my head, some successful female authors are Catherine whatever, my mum reads her books, I don't; Agatha Christie, I hate her books; and who's that who wrote Sweet Valley? A title I remember hating from primary school. There's Jane Jensen, I only know this name because one of her book's staring me in the face from my cupboard, Dante's Equation. It started fine and I thought I finally found another Sci-Fic author worth my 2 cents, other than Crichton, but wham! Half-way through the book, I'm slapped with a ridiculous plot bad science and garbage theories. It's not my fault I don't read what most people classify as thrashy books, porn novels if you ask me. The vivid descriptions I know only from Friends, Chandler's mum writes thrashy novels.