Disturbed

Laudably disturbing

Cleverly disconcerting

Repulsive but not exactly (?)

Ian McEwan's The Cement Garden rendered me too incoherent for logical speech. For now, at least. McEwan's style is uncanny. He forges the grotesque into something remotely tolerable depicting it in subdued horror, nonetheless. At one point, he makes you laugh and later in the day when you remember laughing over it, you suddenly feel a nagging guilt of having a sick sense of humor. Just when you thought of finally shedding off its effect on you, the story invades the mind in between REMs. No, the mind doest not attempt to direct a reel to reel plot of the story instead, it shamefully rehashes extracts of your life which you hypocritically deemed innocent. And you wake up profusely sweating, gasping for air and then, curse the poor air-conditioner.

The story also calls to mind an idiosyncratic film director in the Philippines when asked about the movie he dreams of directing, "... a movie that exposes the blackness of the human soul not one that attempts to judge or seek redemption... just the sheer blackness of the human soul."

of white roses and hot chocolates

Flipping through old posts always leaves me feeling guilty of being pompously garrulous. Yet there are times when I feel like I haven't said enough to get my point across. I've always stated clearly (or so I thought) that I want a love so real that it's almost tangible. A love mad enough to shake up my too organized world. Shaken, I am, undeniably. Shaken and swept off, to be exact. Sadly, as I run off relishing promises of white roses and shared mugs of hot chocolates on cold, rainy days, I would find myself falling flat on my face and realizing a little too late it was all a mirage. Have I been too parched that I am hallucinating of white roses and hot chocolates?

Am I being delusional? You tell me.