Music full blast + the void of human interaction + vastness of the mind = the best recipe for being alone. The sense of being alone does not necessarily equate loneliness. I am a specimen of conflict elements by nature. I love the company of people, yet, I adore the spaces of solitude in between the hustle bustle of life. Night comes in such an inviting manner now that it is hard for me to resist or even refuse. Music speaks louder than any other spoken
languages I can possibly comprehend, yet, it lulls you with the sweetest and most silent attraction that it can almost kill. Suddenly, the soft textures of my keyboard become extraordinarily soothing and comfortable, on this very singled out night, a night without any distractions from the outside world. The only thing that separates me and this lethargic physic yet over working mind is the endless words that try just too hard to make sense to me. Now, they do make sense to me, yet, they somehow lack depth and meaning. I don’t seem to feel them, like how I would always feel whenever I write. Is something missing? Maybe it’s this room – 0910, or maybe it is the bedside lights which seem to have a mind of their own...or could it be that I just write out of the fact that I just want to write, not because I am inspired to write? Or could it be the curtains are all pulled together? Maybe I should just pull them back and take a good look at the KL night scene from this wide window? What a bunch of excuses! Why have you failed me, words? Or was it my mind? Darn. Stop now! Let this music take over this body and this retarded brain of mine for now.
languages I can possibly comprehend, yet, it lulls you with the sweetest and most silent attraction that it can almost kill. Suddenly, the soft textures of my keyboard become extraordinarily soothing and comfortable, on this very singled out night, a night without any distractions from the outside world. The only thing that separates me and this lethargic physic yet over working mind is the endless words that try just too hard to make sense to me. Now, they do make sense to me, yet, they somehow lack depth and meaning. I don’t seem to feel them, like how I would always feel whenever I write. Is something missing? Maybe it’s this room – 0910, or maybe it is the bedside lights which seem to have a mind of their own...or could it be that I just write out of the fact that I just want to write, not because I am inspired to write? Or could it be the curtains are all pulled together? Maybe I should just pull them back and take a good look at the KL night scene from this wide window? What a bunch of excuses! Why have you failed me, words? Or was it my mind? Darn. Stop now! Let this music take over this body and this retarded brain of mine for now. 
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