I feel a need to confess. From the etches in this piece of paper, I find solace. As I write this, as the pen without its paper flicks aimlessly, I feel empty. From that, I feel a silent sorrow. I feel a slight need to slather dirt over dirt, like the grave-digger staring at me atop a mound of bones. To find the perfect bone, one must endure the gruelling hours of digging over and over again, seasoning dirt with dirt, until a marriage of solace and pleasure arise. As for me, I’ve failed to find my fateful pair. As the gravedigger searches a catalog of graves, I search for a market of melons, though it seems I’ve come across a bowl of sliced unripe melons instead. And among them, they’ve yet to yield my fruitful cut. It’s been long since I’ve remembered the graveyard of my dreams, long since I remember the ripe bite, and long since I’ve rediscovered my ‘bone’. I feel envious of the gravedigger’s dog.

The caricature of its dog leans against my window. Under the lazily lit pane, I see nothing more than my nails scratching out an image in remembrance. If I may hazily remember, the bone it picked was nothing more perfect. It’ll tell you, one cannot simply pick out the right bone without their companion, and here it bounded back. With the bone, more perfect than one could imagine, gripped heavily in the wet jaws of a dog, you’d see it delivered to your rough and wrinkly hands. As the gravedigger would’ve seen, the bite of this dog gnawed through its shimmering layer. Plaster could not cover the imperfection of nature’s given perfection. So they search again. This hand would grip a steel shovel and murmur a slough of eternity in dirt.

For as long as I could remember, I have only ever found one proper cut of honeydew melon. It sat in the very same bowl I eat from right now. It is a singularity among its family. I could only bear incriminating pain as my steel fork punched a hole through this perfect, so perfect, cut of melon. It was rectangular, a prism, a shell not empty. It is companion-given, beyond the perfection given by nature. I had not known then, of course. It was only as my numbed teeth bit into it that I felt juice squelch between my jaws, rush into the crevices of my teeth, slather tears over the roof of my jaw, and squirm out into the light, and into the scourge of its kind. I cried no tears; only droplets of melon juice.

Over the toilet bowl, I stuck a single finger into my throat and beyond, until lather and foam whispered and bored a hole through my neck. Last night’s meal would cry in a pool of exposed acid. Sacrifices had to be relinquished to it, until its crumpled corpse lay still on shimmering toilet water. Out and out it would come, among the red gummy blood and flinching phlegm. And as the last of it tunnelled out, I covered my punctured neck and left the somite feel of this stomach to starve.

Boring through that was a bore. When it sat atop my pedestal, I could only wait as time ate it away, and it withered further into specks of mutated fomites, tentacles and all.

Time could not give back what it stole. Furthermore, Time could not give back what it gave. It could only continually steal what it has snatched from me. All I have left to face is a punctured oesophagus and a digital display of pornography. I could not yet find a second copy of that perverse cut of melon, even as I waste time away and away. All I need is a picture… A picture I tell you! A picture, I pray for, so I may start this piece again. So that I may give you…the reader…something better. Is it so hard such that I should pray not to become a body snatcher instead?

Solace. It’s much like the building under construction. Illuminated beyond its peers, slathered in melon-like green, with search-lights lit atop. Like a fortress beyond recognition. I care no more as to how much I should delete from this sheet of paper, as do I not care for that building outside my window. All I wish for is a nice scenery, untroubled. And as faecal matter peer from below, I can only profess a profound desire to say much less than what I could’ve said, than what I could not have said. It is only solace that lends me help to continue my search, under private pornography, where I may only tell you I love you, rueful reader, without bottomless solace. Time ticks by as the number of quotation marks there are in this piece of writing. Out of the arrogance of my heart, I can see no more over the entirety of this piece. Out of this bottomless, unconnected pit of dirt, perhaps I could end the fanciness of my fruit and confess a desire to love you.

When I next try to meet the vandalised window, the outline of my companion, it will have been removed through the selfishness of over-bearers. I only wish, now, that I may be that which I cannot comprehend. The illogicality of a companion is what I wish to be, to be able to yearn and give favour over a treasure in eternity. Though, as a mindful creature, I may never be that which I order; only as the gravedigger and the dog, body snatcher and wolf, maid and the melon. I know it may probably be like that.


Shallow Thoughts (#1 of -89): Your Name

Look. When I first watched Your Name, it was on a plane and I was half-awake. Back then, after Taki and Mitsuha finally asked for each other’s name, my mind just went blank with unbearable emotion. (Obviously, I was also flipping tired)

It’s a given that this is one of the best if not the best animated film of our modern time. Back then, I’d have given it a 9/10. But the more I thought about it, the more it dropped to a fitting 7.5/10.

Why? It’s not because of the calendar dates or the more common plot-holes that most people fuss about already. It’s not because of generic dislikes, such as those towards music, visuals etc. Bear in mind that the music and visuals are definitely what I like most about this film.

What I really dislike about Your Name is mentioned by some: How Taki though writing “I Love You” on Mitsuha’s hand was way more important than writing his own name. There are many others that are already mentioned, which fall in the same category:
1) Taki failed to chase after Mitsuha
2) They never bothered to fully figure out who their controlling peer was. Even after being fully conscious of what was truly happening.
3) They take so long to talk to each other that Mitsuha fades away before fully writing her own name (it’s been a while since I’ve watched the movie, admittedly).

And the comet. I can’t forget to mention that!
If I were to picture it as a chart of “Dramatic Structure”, I can only see three levels:
a) The first level at the bottom is a proper steady rise, with the introduction and rising action; but
b) Stays at an exceedingly flat Climax, completely built towards a falling comet; which then exhibits
c) A firm soft bump of a third level at which they struggle to find each other.

As I thought about all this, I grew more and more frustrated: That such a great movie, that could for once let us audience relate to it, exudes such an exaggerated avoidance of sense and innate instinct to further a story.

But at the end of the day, I won’t judge anything else, because I already love this movie as it is. It has honestly come out at a great time of the generation I belong in. Fancy that! We’re about the same age 😀
In something that is much better, though different, to what Miyazaki does, it is that Makoto Shinkai has shown a more realistic, accurate, yet entertaining image of Japanese Culture. And that is something worthy of praise; to do something so well, and so envious of.

Unfathomable Dowry

I was given a dowry at midnight. Fourteen Thousand jewels worth, to be exact. Given to me through mail, to be exact. Specifically, on a pigeon. Most definitely peculiar was it that, were my emotions more exact, I would not have otherwise known. It flew down from the night sky like an estranged owl, banging its clueless head against a glass pane. And, when it awoke to its own pain, it flew down and promptly fell into the mailbox. What a smart bird. So smart, that I had to wake up to the sight of gloppy gooeyness of gore and disgusting delight. And, a promptly cooked meal of a pigeon’s carcass. Well, at least it had its own use after all that. Tremor me to the bone.

By my own exacting account (my mind still blurry from a prior ordeal), it was a sloppy job. Green shining jewels in the light of my mind were stained red and will be  so forevermore. Letters and mail quickly piled at the door when they already couldn’t fit in my overstuffed mailbox. Advertisements, notices, tax reports, leases – all useless things – were cast aside in the wake of their formality. Yes: After a fortnight, when the excess blood had all washed into the light of time, they were clean enough for the taking. A delicacy, I say. Fourteen Thousand jewels worth, soggy in the taste of blood red wine. And, when I was done with it, not even a speck would be left for any others’ selfish taking.

I quickly took it back, where the feast was to be started, when I heard something. Outside of the mind, a nuance of decadence, and a beating heart trembling in the rubble. A heart, to be exact! Oh… a heart. I murmur softly to the shape of my exact shadow. “A heart.” Hey.

I repeated those goddamned words softly, but steadily. The situation was growing softly, steadily, out of the exactness, to be said carefully. To my own excitement, might I add that I loved it…? I shall recount to you, too, that the heart truly was trembling. My heart was trembling. So, when it tried to escape from the extent of my grasp, I held onto it tightly.

It felt weird. It was elastic and strange to the bone. Hey: It had no bone. It squeezed, oozed, slipped in, and out… in, and out, of my fingers. I held it in a tight grasp, a choke hold, as it beats – once, twice, thrice, coerced by my shell. But it spoke.

‘Hey. Do you want more?’

‘Oi,’ it pelts at me. A deep employment of necessity hails. A vocation?

My words. My words. The brain tingles at its arousing voice. The exactness screeches to a halt and stops before the creature. Afore the nature. Before the nature of mesmerisation. A scourge and a moor of blood.

‘Marry me,’ I reply.

A quick thought grows and subsides. It grows, then subsides. Again. Again. Like the beating of the heart. My heart.

‘Want more. Come get.’

It too, subsides.

I wanted more. I needed more. Well, say, I blatantly needed more, to be exact. In short, I feed. As it stops…I go on. I only keep going forward, hanging onto the beat of time. The bead, itself, slowly crawling to the halt. I am the remaining inexactness, so I feed at where it hailed from. It’s there. In the mess of blackness and flesh. Creatures crawl from the depths screeching and yelling. The innards hail blood and flesh, turn, twist, and tumble. The walls fumble and bicker in space and against the bulging heart, grinding in itself, expanding, protracting, engorging into the mass of illogicality. Blood spurts out from here and here under the shadow of provocative time. As puppets, like puppets, as the envoys of time, dangling on engorged cells of muck and glob, held onto, by silky waves of disgust in my bosom. It cries out in screeches of jovial disgust. Likely envoys gang up and pull their own flesh out in stabbing revolt and bathe in a vomit of their kin. Against the bird my dowry had come from. And a string of goo squirms up through one hole and out the other from the denial of auto-fermentation. It withers without the compassion of my heart, without a second for time.

I can only hold on the the dowry as I fall asleep at home. However, I too reach that brink of disgust. As I do, I heave. My body arches. The inner tears strike midnight again, and a most jovial piece of lice smears itself into the glass pane, trapping itself forevermore. A most likely pigeon cries out in disgust, and peculiarly bangs its head into the window. Again, and again. Until it lies down on the mailbox for a quick nap.

That morning, I woke up to no mailman at the door. A dowry of Fourteen Thousand jewels worth lies scattered in the mailbox. I feel slightly bad for it, to have had to see the many creatures walking about the towers of goo and streets of shadows and darkness. I pity it too much. Perhaps a feast to best dispose of such a creature.

IMG_6478 2

Much credits to my teacher for error checking. Don’t feel like fixing up tidbits in continuity and other syntax errors.

via Daily Prompt: Opaque


If a boy, by the road, ever pleads you to rip the person ahead of you in half, don’t do it. No – It’s not because it’s illegal, or it’s ‘gay’ for the same sex, or it’s disgusting to the humane. Yes – because there is no reason to do so.

For the chance you ever see him, I shall describe it for you: A boy, soporific at a glance, laying silently on the mounds of trash and blight that corrupt at the pores of his skin. As, though he may smile (a product of his desires), he means no harm.

When he ever does ask you, you will most definitely find yourself under the streetlamp alone. He has no parent around. A doll is clutched within his firm grip. Blood oozes out of the doll as defecated organs squirm so to escape. And the bubbles that flow by the river pop into that familiar smell of wafting rusted gear. The tentacles within protrude into vulgar lilacs under its skin, and this bulbous toy vomits in a defecate denial.

So, if you ever rip it apart, I wouldn’t know what else to say. Simply go ahead, peer into his literal heart, the blood oozing out from the boy that squirms so to escape the fleshy prison. Let it protrude into you, bubbles pop into your innards, and knot in what might look like a bulbous glandis. And live in this soporific event as it leaks the squelch and the pain into its body. And… And…

Label it so, as a doll, on strings, hanging by the white glands that sewed it from its demonising form.
–To shorten the story of the label, as there is none, and never should be one, within the heart of the boy, clutching his toy, of the doll and your escape.

via Daily Prompt: Label
Or Label

Murd-er Than Me: Test

Dark, and darker yet. The cells enclose me. Firm, and firmer yet. The bars linger in my eyes. Dead, lifeless, and yet deader. The man lays down, and *plop*. The event encloses my mind, trapping me in the embrace of awareness and distil. The body lays firm, forever trapping me in the forethought. The disappearance of life lays there silently – purified in death, as I was purified to the extent of awareness in my situation. No. There was nothing else in my mind but its scramble and denial. No. My life is dead.

Dark, and just darker. The sight of freedom is barred. No hope, no dreams, no joy. None of it remains with me, laying here to accompany me, where any aspirations for them can only sweep into the cracks of enlightenment. It is barred, drenched in the sweats of sorrow, and away from my life-longing hands. No. It has been long since I’ve given up. No. Life, I said, there is no hope for me.

Time rides the wind of life I knew no more. Yet, I never knew how to cry for it, or to yearn for it again. To fall upon me: that is a dream so very far away. Tell me, I say, what can you do then. I’m trapped. I’m lonely. There is nothing more I can say. Each day, hints of freedom come, and then get taken away soon after. Bars after bars befall me. Chains after chains zoom past. What can I do? Oh, right. To dominate, as that is what I do best. Dominate, dominate, and dominate. Control power, and yearn for more power. But what does power give me? What can it do for me who is so lifeless and dead behind these bars?

No matter how long, how much…how…and what I wish, no incarnate of freedom will appear. There is no desire, for there is no manifestation, no existence, and no life.

I am helpless. Tell me: this is slow. A life of sorrow should befit no one but me. And no one thereafter but no one. Understand that it is here where it thrives. In a place of misunderstanding, and a lack of love; I’ll die, dumb god, I’ll die! As each day bores after the next…I’ll die! As I control more and more prisoners…I’ll die! As I garner hatred and then for the evermore…I’ll die! Dear, dumb god, I cave. I crave you. Give me hope till the time I may see a tomorrow: A day for me to see the logicality of connection. And god, tell me, why I am here. At the breaching point where life gives me no sorrow. Just despair: bleak, and bleaker yet. Father, pray, give me love, for the light may shine on me tomorrow. Give me language, hope, and meaning, in the room of draught. Nay, guard: why must you still run? For fear? For anger? Pray, can you see the new me? Still. You may. Guard me, hey. Guard, here. Here.
Guard, let me free.
Falsified Murd–
Let me be.

Murd-er Than Me

Mur-der. Mu-rder. Mud..ier. Muddier than the lake. Muddier than the river. Muddier than the streams down your eyes. Muddier…than me.

M-urder – Further in to the heart.

But Murd! Murd!!! Murd-ier! Murd like me! Murd, and merge, and intertwine. Like Murd, like murd. And I like mud, like mud. But Murd again…murd again.

I say: murd.

I am: murd.

He is: murded.

It isn’t funny. Oh, no: It’s not. They say: to be murd, is to be dead. Murd. And I proclaim those words: Murd, murd, murd. Murd like me, like them, lie those behind the bars of freedom. My hands shake, yes, they shake violently, yes, shake. Shake. Shake, like shame.

My eyes, my body: they tremble. They twist, turn, and fumble.

They also spasm, down there like the guy on the ground. Murded – They blur.

Oh…murd. Murd-Murd-MURD! murd. The words of the murd, simply: the murd(!).

He grips his hair and pulls clumps of it out and bathes in his blood and lies like the log he is: to be cut, to be shaved, to lie in clumps of his own flesh, his own kind. But not me. Not yet.

Fire. Dire. Mire. But ain’t murd more dire than your mire? Let it be so. And strike the murd down. Let it bleed. Shh… Let it bleed, whisper out, and flow. Like you! Like the living from your hands!

The words bloom, tremble, spasm. Let it churn, turn, and let it be so. Let it be known. The murd down the hall, trembling, spasming, a knife in his hand with the intent of murd. The engulfulation of murd. The blaze of his fire.

Murd: And he walks down the hall. His head cocks and sways. Oh, murd. The murderer.

He is not fit, I say. I grip the knife as the guy I am. Instead, he is the victim of the murd.

Murderous. Better-ous. Detrimous. Foul words of the murd.

And it is “murder”, better than the detrital around.

I scream. I yell. The carpet dirtied by the murd. The promise is nothing. Let it engulf my mind.

You yearn: yes. You yearn for that love. Come to me, my arms. I care: let it be so. More than the mire you bathe in.

Oh, but “Love”! Love-love-love-love-love. I shan’t proclaim once again: Love! Oh, dear god. Love me not for the guy who was murded. It’s me: love! Oh. But love, ain’t that dire too.

Murd-er. Better. Oh, it’s criminal to love such a thing…no, a person: The Murd.

Ah, but he tells me it ain’t a word. Ah, “I shan’t say it once more?” Ah! But it makes no sense! It makes nothing! Nothing! I tell you, nothing. Nothing of murd-er. Not yet.

Murder: It is disease. It is chaos. It is detrimental. Ah, but he says it is okay: To simply leave it away in the grime and blight of your eye: The eye of your apple, for the aspiration of others (for it never leaves).

Say, puppet, ain’t it glad that I am the murd?

My mind is clear as I leave the remains of his home in the accident of the fire. I see now, that he is but a puppet, and I am but the carver. I let the fire rage so much that I can’t stay any longer. The strings can only drag me along with his lifeless body. Aye. I’m not a believer of fate. Not yet.

The curtains of our stage wither away into the light. The darkness creeps back from the surface of my eyes – into the depths of my eyes. It cowers! Outrageous. It cowers from those that are rife with it – Not the murd – I shan’t say – but the friends of the murd.

I see cages of despair, bars of the un-freed. And puppets just dangling about, free and, yet, why not me? Why not me, who is so potent, so willing, so rich, and so fast. But then, why am I so stuck here in my life? Why, I say, it is so fixated on me. When did it become me, for who I am? In the reflection, is that me? Are those my black, black, black eyes? “It is me. Murd. It is just me.”

To lose is to relinquish the life I just gambled.

I fear death. I fear the puppeteer. I also fear myself, the murd, the burner, the yearn.

I can’t account for what is life, for I had only taken its life, and not part its living. Not from myself. Never.

I’m lonely, ditching the ‘friends’ I once had. I miss the pain, the joy rides. But I hate the hate. We still linger together. Cast away? Thrown away? Locked away? I do not know. It is boring, hiding everyone under the murd. Have I been given my life? No, not yet. Not under the murd, for the love of the god is dire. No, not yet.

Main Post here:

You are @ the Blog Post

The Reunion

Ever since I left school, life has never been the same. In the wide wide world, we’ve been left to fend off the pack of wolves near our doorstep. Every chance at the step is an alluring but damning one. However, I reject them for I know only my passion fits me.

Every year, we come back to see each other on the same day. And as they drag on, longer and longer, the discomfort grows nearer, telling us, whispering into our ears: the wishes I would like appealed in my favour.

Ever since we left school, graduation cut our binds off, except for meagre little strings that hang about our retained friends. I would love to say: I know you, times have been well. But I surely will digress. I understand, I assure you, that as time flies by, so have our relationships. They’ve been stripped thin, hanging on only by the threats of social media and yearly gatherings. As I know less and less of you, sharing stories seem like an immoral dream.

On our 20th reunion, we come back with certain smiles and auras of happiness. Sound of cheers as we know we have jobs and families to care for resound in my ears. The whole situation is truly discomforting. But it is one I have learned to yearn for, and care for, and love for. For relationships are treasurable, and this journey will have stretched thin if I had not seen you guys then again.



Time passes by fast. It’s often said in one way or another by many. It seems Time is of much importance, to the point of deserving the quote “Time does not equal money”. In my opinion, that’s wholly correct.

When I look back at my life thus far, I don’t see much that I enjoy. It’s chock full of familial conflicts, jealousy, and often gradual depreciation of happiness. One key moment of my life was being kidnapped by my parents. Another moment, I witnessed my friend threatening to throw himself out of the window. Of course, that was all a joke. To the mind of a child, however, all this in one individual’s life would ostensibly be insignificant to the politics of our world. But I wish to say yet again to my young self: Witness and treasure.

When I look at my life thus far, I see loved ones cry at the death of my relative. I see the world “move on without me”. I see my time playfully wasted as I read page after page of comics.

Till now, I still haven’t figured out why Time flows like the river, that a scene you would have remembered once was now gone by into the past. That a person I would have garnered hatred for would have dissipated in the passing of mere hours.

Was it emotion? Why could I not relieve that emotion yet again?

I now understand that the past is churned out week after week, day after day, Minute after Minute. Or perhaps definitely faster than the Second that passes even now. And when that period passes away into the depths, retained only by our mind, we are disillusioned by time. What appeared so many years ago seemed only 5 Minutes away, such as if our birth was only a blink away.

That is why I have written and read after so many long years. To treasure both the significant and the insignificant. To share with other writers in their feelings. As a way to store that feeling, contradiction, emotion, and that irreplaceable anger at time away. It is to also store that convoluted, embarrassing feeling I may place only for myself to see. For I may relieve it time and time again, into the future I only know. That is why I have written thus far in my life, since Time passes by oh so fast.

Blog Post 2


So, I’ve:

  • Set up my personal site.
  • Cleaned my menu.
  • Posted my dog photos.
  • Updated The Witch’s Haggle content.

Now I gotta watch out for the amount of space my photos are taking up.

I also changed the site name from benneeblog to lufferso. The choice went something like this:

  1. Chose Buffer
  2. Thought it was too short, so changed to Buffersome
  3. It was already in use, so I picked “L” randomly, ending up with luffer (might have also stemmed from “Luffy” of One Piece.

Seeing my favourite light novel translation sites have cool suffixes, I just chose “-so” as it was more weird and unique. Hence, lufferso.

I also got a nice icon! Yay! Although it does look somewhat like a poorly drawn nekomimi.
Uploaded as icon. Now, I’d like to find a cool background pic. Maybe having it peeking out of the bottom of the site. Now I gotta find our my site’s proper dimensions or something…


I really have to improve my own art and sketching skills. To record my own work for myself, this went from a simple pen sketch to Adobe Illustrator’s Match Trace tool. Bah.

Anyways, goodnight me. Bye me.

I’ll write up another blog post when something changes.