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Announcement

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Short+Sweet Festival 2013

This is a confession.

I've manipulated my morals, given up goodwill, and surrendered my soul to temptation. This post is proof of my prostitution. The words you are about to read are nothing more than a publicity stunt, an artificial article written in exchange for my materialistic whims.  

I have sold out.

And what better thing to sell out for than free tickets to KLpac's Short+Sweet Festival 2013! No, really. The arts scene is something I feel very strongly for, and it needs all the help it can get. Sadly, it feels as if the hard work and effort that people put into producing stage magic just doesn't receive the exposure it really deserves. Like an erotic dancer playing hide and seek, great entertainment exists, if only you could find it. This post shall be the middle man.

The festival is divided into weekly categories; comedy, musical, and two weeks for dance and theatre. For four nights each week, audiences are entertained by ten different productions, and at the end of it all they vote for their favourites. As explained by the name, those productions are "short and sweet"; limiting themselves to around ten minutes of stage time to win your heart and vote. 

As an introduction to the theatre scene in Kuala Lumpur, there's nothing more welcoming than this festival. It's far better experienced than read, and I sincerely urge you to for yourselves.

Details so you can experience the wonders of Short+Sweet Theatre
Theatre Week 1: 16-19 Oct @ 8.30pm
Theatre Week 2: 23-26 Oct @ 8.30pm
Gala Night: 27 Oct @ 8.30pm

Tickets: RM28 (adult), RM23 (students, disabled, and TAS card members)
Gala: RM43 (adult), RM38 (students, disabled, and TAS card members)
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The Streets, A Serenade

Romeo died for Juliet. The most I've done for any of the girls I've dated is pay for a meal at a medium to high end restaurant. Though the comparison may seem a little imbalanced, it should be noted that Romeo never had to work part time just to scrape enough money together to pay for weekly and ultimately pointless excursions to shopping malls only for Juliet to tell him to be more like Mercutio. The essence, however, is the same.

For centuries, men have been accused of not caring enough, of forgetting important dates, and of being commitment-phobes. It all started when Adam gave up a rib for Eve only to immediately regret it once she started nagging him about how much of a mess Eden was. Apparently, we were just never that great at relationships. Then, suddenly, along comes this play which puts into words feelings that we men have always wanted/never had the courage to say. Romeo symbolised the "in love" type of love for us. The proper love; the taste of toxic perfume that poisons our hearts and makes us do crazy things like suicide and drunk texting an ex at 4am tot tell them that we still love them Romeo was us; he was the man we always found it hard to show ourselves to be. Some guy just desperately, hopelessly in love.

The first time I read the script for this play, all I could hear was me, in my head, agreeing with Romeo. The truth is, I would die for the one I love, and I'm sure any man who has been in love would do the same. The only thing stopping us is the fact that it's wholly impractical and that we wouldn't be of much use to our loved ones as a lifeless corpse.

I forget anniversaries, Romeo forgets to check Juliet's pulse. We're all the same really. 


Deadline day article written to promote Romeo and Juliet, an upcoming play I'll be acting in. And no, I won't be playing Juliet. I'm as disappointed as you are.


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Grace, Saved

"God" read the word scrawled out unevenly on white in blunt penciled writing. "My nem is Ahmad" it continued. His fingers were barely large enough to even grasp a pencil properly. "I wud like to mit you".

His teacher moved from child to child with a waltz-like grace as she tended each innocent mind with an encouraging smile. Her pupils called her Miss Grace. She was young and hopeful, though she never really knew what she hoped for.

Ahmad waited for his turn. As a final touch, he added an ineligible scribble at the foot of his letter, mimicking the scribbles he'd seen adults do to pay for food at restaurants and clothes and things like that. His teacher looked busy.

Miss Grace loved her job. She was doing her kids a favour, saving them from the future, letting them grow like plants under her watchful eye. She talked to her plants often.

Ahmad looked up. Miss Grace stood over him, smiling - have you finished? Good -  then crouched beside him. She asked him to read his letter. He read it.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's a lovely letter, but I don't think you will ever meet God. You can't even see him!" She smiled carefully. "Maybe you should write to someone who isn't so hard to find."
--------
Ahmad had just turned forty. He felt old. The young and hopeful days were far behind him, and he'd already forgotten what he used to hope for. He hadn't yet met God, but then again he'd never really tried looking.

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Headlights

It's the risk that comes with the kiss
A gentle press of lip on lip
On borrowed time in a car backseat
To an audience of an empty street

With a pulse as rushed as my fumbled touches
A dress pulled over a pair of shoulders
In this moment
We are neither young nor old
Just a consequence of our fears and desires like two moths and a dance of fire

Here, I have found you
The only sounds we hear are the breaths that escape
Too alive to stay within this feeble frame but believe me
I would hold every breath if I could
Force my lungs to spare no air
Keep it stashed between my heart and diaphragm as all I have 
A treasure chest 
Of flesh and breath

Your hands find mine in the absence of light
As you breathe harder your hand holds tight and
Skin and friction and all we've ever been
Collide like our existence depends on this
This single moment of temporary bliss
He was hers and she was his
Like those love stories we listened to as if they ever spoke the truth
Kiss

Headlights paint the sunroof above you
Patterned 
Refracted
Toned
By the rain on the windows
Replacement constellations
A passing sky for unseen lovers
A starting engine
An empty street
Morning.
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Youth

It's true I'm disillusioned 
Confused as to how the truth eludes them
They're deluded
All of them
All the women, children and men
All their pets and their friends
The opinions they think make sense 
The fights with no end
Their unused pens and fashion trends when all these clothes do is distract me and you 
From that empty space within where a personality should have stayed or been

On the surface they're content and I can't blame them
I may just be the protagonist of a comatose dream
Where I'm a hero and I save the world 
And I get the girl
That's why I'm right
Because I have to be
That's how you write those pathetic stories
The Good Guy always wins
And I'm The Good Guy
I think

Or are all these links non-existent
Just made to validate my existence
Because I really want to be real
I really want to exist
But not in this

Not in this cesspool of untruths and half truths and truths which aren't true
Where the only truths you can be sure of are the truths of your youth
You were never wrong then
Despite your failures and the misplaced allure of the future (it would rupture)
Despite the rusting lives recycled for efficiency
Despite this
You were right
You were The Good Guy

But now you've stepped outside and now 
You suffocate in a chorus of what they say 
My porous brain can only take so much forced decay
I wish for the haven of a home a vacuum of locked doors
Where no thoughts could escape and where I could do no wrong
And then I realised that this place was heaven
And then I realised that this place was prison 
(still heaven)

The envy caressed me gently
And I wished to be deluded
Removed from the truth
To resume the view of the illusions 
I once knew

I wish to assume happiness.


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Her Final Seven Seconds

You're a dream

I've touched your skin but you aren't real
My hands betrayed by what they want and what they feel
And even then my grip
Is slowly loosening

Your speech 
Like conversation repeated but delayed by weeks
Whispered secrets I couldn't keep
Or remember

A taste of faint familiarity
Memories of 
You
Footsteps fading gradually
As you slink back to shelter, waiting
Among the stories of my sleep.

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Landlocked Blues

He was lying down.

Or at least it seemed like it. The man had his right cheek pressed against the pavement, his eyes were closed, and his limbs were stretched out like a starfish. From the view of any justifiably concerned passer-by, the man merely seemed to be lying down. He wasn't, though.

The man was, in fact, hugging the floor.

It was an awkward sort of hug. It was the type of hug you encountered at reluctantly attended family reunions with distant relatives you'd never even met, let alone enjoy physical contact with. But it was still a hug, and the man had been in need of some compassion. He enjoyed it nonetheless.

He'd been on the floor for a while now, though he couldn't exactly remember how long. It was quite long, he remembered. It began when the fear he'd kept inside became too much for him to handle, though he felt that he had succumbed to it in a very practical way. He was, after all, rather comfortable.

The Earth was a very old thing, he thought, and wondered if anyone else had ever hugged it. The thought flitted around his mind as he adjusted his head so as to be pressing the left cheek of his face down instead. Slowly, he opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings. Most people gave him a confused stare before walking on past him. Others seemed unperturbed, not even noticing the strange sight of a man sprawled right in the middle of a walkway.

The man was puzzled by this. The people around him appeared fearless, briskly strutting the streets and going about their day without even remembering that the Earth was spinning constantly. More than a five hundred miles an hour, he recalled. He couldn't remember the exact speed but it was very, very fast. This book he read said so.

He wondered why no-one else was scared by this. Any second, gravity might stop working or the Earth might suddenly stop like a car braking hard and everyone in the world would be flung off through the atmosphere into space and die. 

Except him. He was safe.

Sighing, the man closed his eyes again and gripped the ground tightly in a tangy mix of fear and anticipation.
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!


We're born, a blur, we die,
A window, a view, our eyes,
On rusted tracks our lives are shuttled,
Time is close and ever subtle.

But I refuse.

You close your eyes but mine want to see
I'll conform to no form and rhyme with no lines

And you know what? I'll do that now.

fuck structure and grammar and punctuation and propir speling i wont even bother to use paragraphs correctly because why should we if everything all this you're reading is just a means to an end and if different means work 

then why end at this.

this should be a beginning a rebellion of sorts from the shackles we're taught to admire to desire to wear with such pride knowing how they restrict but we're fixed on being fixed but

when was i ever broken ?

youre doing this wrong youre doing this wrong on and on from teachers and people who know what they know but let it all go in place of routine and what the fuck does that mean if you can't even choose what way you exist

its a pervasive illusion that dreaming is useless and the answer we crave is only portrayed with BUT EVERYONE ELSE DOES IT 
does this mean its okay? No, I shouldn't think so.

but my voice will be drowned by the mechanical sounds of incessant hums and disapproving sighs of those who have lived longer lives and 
i hope youre around when i reach your age 
to show what i found could have replaced 
the hollowed out empty of the space you have spent your entire lives trying to fill with what people have told you will

but until then my forehead has something to say:

yt5tr4guhyj

Well said, forehead. That pretty much sums it up.

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