ode to anti-hero everyman.

(wowww it has been a while, hasn’t it? I apologise. I’m horrific under a workload. I often convince myself I have an XXL one as well ugh xD)
(on a more post content-related note; open your eyes because you’re almost always gonna find an anti-hero everyman, almost everywhere. always. everywhere. almost.)

Oh blind-side plus,
Won’t call someone outright “beautiful” or “intelligent”,
But you still know how to treat us.

Oh boy never-next-door,
You’ll say we’re “not-dumb” and “not-ugly”,
No wonder everyone thinks of you an extra bore,
But they never got to know you more.

Oh classroom anti-hero,
Not even you know
That you’re the quotidian key-role,
The bridge between the feel-good that grows
To make us feel-great, us undeserving minnows.

Exploited blind-side plus,
Angelic boy never-next-door,
My purposeful pulse,
Oh classroom anti-hero.


It takes a bit to realise that Superman’s greatest weakness wasn’t Kryptonite but the fact that he let himself be no more than a Cold War) weapon.The same goes for Doctor Manhattan. And a great majority of the rest of us.

It takes a bit to realise that Superman’s greatest weakness wasn’t Kryptonite but the fact that he let himself be no more than a Cold War) weapon.The same goes for Doctor Manhattan. And a great majority of the rest of us.

the art of misconstrual.

(been on my mind for a couple of hours, this has)
(again with us humans being funny-weird xD)

Now this actually came to me as I sat in a library with some English Literature assignments sprawling before me. Well no, it had nothing to do with the literature though xD
Atleast not this one 😉

Well my untamable thoughts spread to Death (no don’t worry, I’m neither nihilist nor suicidal 🙂 )in one direction and to the undeniably catchy song, ‘The Sound’ by The 1975 which has this one line;

There’s so much skin to see, A simple Epicurean philosophy

And this is aallllll about transient pleasure and sex kay
Okay? Yeah so it got me thinking like wait a minute but the Epicurean perspectives on not fearing death definitely don’t comply with the terribly common understanding that anything ‘Epicurean’ advocates sex and hedonism.

Truth is; Epicurus never really vouched for these, atleast not explicitly. As a philosopher, his ideologies lie in happiness, life and contentment.

Now that’s quite a bit of a misconstrual.

(Well do expect more on the art of misconstrual 🙂 Definitely gonna revisit this in serious detail sometime it’s quite banter really xD)


(Oh My Gosh I don’t know what this is ._.” Bear with me xD I am trying to write regularly though so I may come up with some absolute BS often soz)



Oh. My. Fucking. God.

(At this point I’d like to add how you shall very appreciably witness an inglorious event; I’m ranting about ranting. charming.)

I’m cringing so much right now. (How much am I going to disgust myself this month; that’s such a commonplace, small-talk thing to say oh gosh)

Yeah um I’ll just persevere to complete this post without succumbing to include any of those ^ anymore. *sharp, determined exhale*

Okay so nearly every blog out there (Okay fine, not every but a heck of a lot) is
predominantly a rant database; a microphone for giphydistress.

Blogging Norm, it hath become.

And every single time someone complains or anything
similar these days, what ensues does not do without a mention of the word, “rant“.

Right so um

Basically; it bothers me. I just inherently don’t take to the word ‘rant’ all that much.

I find myself repeating this maxim of mine increasingly wearisome, but I will continue to if the situation calls for it *sigh*:

Every word and every phrase, has its purpose, has its place.

*groans* Ohh-ah this post has been an absolutely unnecessary and an all-too-badly justified rant about rants.

Revolting. Absolutely Revolting.

crass repetitive perversity

(this didn’t start off a poem.song/whatever but it just transfigured itself into one in the process of writing eh well xD)

During exercise, a muscle is stretched and strained and taut and tight and degenerated and what not.

Especially in cases subject to strenuosity.

The common, tried-and-tested go-to method for effective muscle recovery after strenuous muscle exertion we’ve got

Is Cold.


Cold Press, Hot Press

Sure there’s warmth in heat packs and all that.

But none of those are applied for the purpose of recovery.

Only for relief. Up next; the slats.


Now the heart is a muscle.

Going cold after your heart’s been rippled or ripped is equivocally discouraged, of course.


But that’s only because the inherent human pursuit of happiness

Or rather; a pursuit of a paucity of negativity

Has convinced our vain species that

Warmth is the only plausible eventuality.


Let go of love and forget looking forward

Because that undermines all your recuperation.

Us soup boys;

Symbols-Ambassadors of the Southern Tamil Nation.


Bent, Clawed

Beaten, Flooredtumblr-love-36

Trashed, Slashed

Crashed, Gashed.


One thing unites us;

It’s this induced, justified misogyny

And a heart gone bust.


But even smokers keep going

Although they know they’re their own agents of killing.


(I have absolutely got to add that the premise of this post – as it popped into my steamy jet of rumination under a hot shower – immensely surprised me; perhaps beyond anything else this entire calendar year. Why? Because I’m no misogynist nor someone who dis-advocates love despite his celibacy backed by reason and heavy thought. I may never want to ever fall in love but I sure do keep that to myself – usually. I’ll add that the whole recovery, HotCold thing may come from the fact that my very injury-prone muscles and a couple of ice baths were put to the test following my school’s Annual Sports Meet a week ago)

IB is the suppressor.

(in the true spirit of The MonarchofMidnight, this post will keep expanding, so do feel free to come back and check up on any updates as frequently as you wish :D)
(With around ten months left till I myself am an IB-Student embroiled in it all, perhaps this wasn’t the right time to bring this whole thing up but ehh; anything to fill up my posts xD)

Now to briefly explain what IB is; short for International Baccalaurate Diploma Programme. The final two years of high school; equivalent of the A Levels, baccalauréat in France, etc.

iblearnerprofileI’ll begin by stating that my critical opinions about the IB-Diploma Program begin a whole two years ago; a foot out of what I’d enclosed myself in: an impressionable Eighth Grader open to all paths with an almost backfiringly open-mind. I’d always had a fancy for thought and divergence (but that’s something for another post xD – all in good time, of course) and by then, I’d began thinking a little broader, past my teenage life, which I then decided, would be anything but indifferent or previously seen in someone else.
The night that I first stumbled upon the IB Learner Profile (See: Obvious Image) grâce à posters all across classrooms and corridors in school, my boundless thoughts drove me to pose my arguments to  my mother, with a very minuscule sense of bravado, considering that my father himself is an IB Teacher. I’d went to her, stating that these qualities, although seemingly positively inclined and harmless, came with taglines stating that these were “required” qualities for an IB student, which was made up to be the high school termination of the highest esteem, acknowledgement and prestige.

Of course, everyone is entitled to their own, completely u
nique interpretations to ezgif-com-video-to-gifabsolutely anything and I saw this “requirement” as a systematic protocol, the image I’d formed was like standing before a gateway of the last room(the end/exit of high school) before I could jump out the window into the wider, open world (if I survived the fall, of course xD) and being pulled apart, cut up, severed, pressed hydraulically and put back together in a mixture that did not differ from the way others before me had walked and those after me would walk through that door.

like a system ^

And it’s no secret that system and indifference and routine are things that inhabit the finite space on the list of things I hate. Well, to put it lightly, my mother was quite intimidatingly unamused: “Thank God your father wasn’t here to hear that”.

Now back ttumblr_ocs1v0nsmv1v6dm28o1_400o the image of the suppressor; in fact the visualization

I’m going for here is of a complete firearm, in all its threat, poetic beauty and of course powers of disillusionment.

Picture the developmental/preparation stages of an individual’s life; schooling, education, learning from parents/peers/elders/*insert absolutely anything you like because it’s a perpetually-growing list*: When one is (consciously or against their knowledge) in a fascinatingly impressionable state. That’s the gun as well as the wielder, who directs the point of its cross-hairs’ focus.


Please forgive and ignore the fact that it’s very evidently Shutterstock :/

It’s what fires one through the zephyrous troposphere of their often vacuous lifetimes, towards a target; pseudonymmed an ambition, a purpose.

You getting an idea of what I’m going at here?

So that’s your rudimentary base, that has aimed and fired you at an epitomisingly (in)humane and materialistic goal; a Point of Promised Satisfaction, Success and Repose. Heck, it still sounds a tad appealing. *disgusted*

Where does the title fit in here? Note: A suppressor or silencer is an attachment to the nose of a gun, muffling its flash, noise and sometimes range. Now that’s the latter stages of school education and this is where the whole part about IB’s “requirements” shaping endowments shine through. It’s a Suppressor, a Silencer. And a masqued, alluding one at that too.

Right nowtumblr_od3lmflpnx1sjih2oo1_500, some of you (if anyone is at all reading) may be wondering, “What is his point? That no one has a choice and we’re all heading towards predetermined cusps?”tumblr_oc4rpy9xl01vayf5lo1_500

Well broaden your perspective, take a (actually, the more; the better) step back.

Sometimes the nose is aimed into the free skies.
Emphasis on ‘free’.

Sometimes, a gun is fired not not in accordance with its conventional purpose (jejune, trite), but with the aim of creating something exotic, obscure and unfamiliar: Anarchy.

Fired to make some noise.
To shift attention.
To shift Paradigms.
To instill domination and discomposure.
To make a statement.
To act as a symbol.
A symbol, an idea that, when carried; becomes a shield, even a battering ram.

Take a moment to look away from the screen or read all that again. Let it all sink in.

Why were you fired?