1 hour ago
empty shells. empty souls.
sometimes i want to shake them. where is your passion, where is your dream.
but im afraid they'll look at me and ask me the same.
I feel sorry for those who take their own lives, who feel like they have nothing left to live for.
But I feel even more sorry for those they left behind, who are realizing what nothing really feels like.
There was so much noise. And lights. It was all blinding me. But I fought on pushing through the crowd trying to get ahead. Trying to get away. I hear our friends calling me, and as hard as I denied it, I only wanted to hear yours. But if you did call for me, it all got lost. Just like you and me once upon a time. Lost in all the noise and the too bright hopes and dreams.
I pushed on ahead. To get away from you, and everyone, as much as all the memories. Suddenly someone pushed me and I stumbled. When I looked up, I saw the shock of black hair and the glasses and those sad brown eyes and I was transported back to times when I knew them like the cities we traced promising we would go together one day.
"I'm so sorry miss are you okay?"
And I smile at the stranger I did not know with the hair and the glasses and eyes that I knew too well. I wiped my tears and smiled reassuringly at him and walked on.
I wonder how time has made fools of us. We're so busy waiting for the right time to come or for the hurt to pass that we forget about the "nows." You sit there waiting for it to get better whilst time erodes you of all your feelings, your empathy, your hope, your love. And you're empty. Movies, dramas, books convinces you that there IS life in you, even if its life you're living vicariously.
Empty empty empty.
I wonder if you're waiting too. Waiting and thinking of me. Wondering who chases away the bad dreams I have now. Wondering if I still had silly dreams of growing up to be a rockstar wanting to achieve world peace. Wondering if I outgrew the too short haircuts I always ALWAYS seem to get. Wondering if I was lying in bed waiting and thinking about you too.
And I hear music around me, familiar and suffocating at the same time as I remember all the time after when I played it on repeat to forget you. Forget me. Forget that you let go. Let go of me.
Abruptly the music is cut off. There is a scream. I am jolted back to the presence. There is a stampede. And suddenly there are people running and yelling. I panic. The fear is so tangible I feel it circling my throat, pressing in.
I yell your name. Please. Oh God. I don't even know why. I frantically yell your name as I'm being pushed by the crowd. And as I look behind me I suddenly see you pushing your way to me, yelling my name too. Your arm's outreached, fighting to get to me. And in that too bright crowd with everybody pushing me further away, I look back to you, and reach for you once again. And again and again. Knowing that once I get back to you, I'll be safe again. That you'll keep me safe.
There was a painful jolt to my right as someone stumbled into me and in an instant I was wide awake. I took in my dark surroundings, my fan lazily swinging above me, the unsteady beat of my heart, my arm still desperately reached out.
I put my arm back down.
I breathe in. And breathe out.
And breathe in. And breathe out.
I close my eyes breathing deeply the smell of you in my thoughts. And slowly fell back into a space or a time where I was relieved from feeling that aching pain in my chest, at least, at least, for a while.
I dreamed of you last night. After so long. After so much has passed. I thought I've let go. After so long. After so much. But I dreamed of you last night and instead of moving on I was looking back and reaching out for you again. But if I had to remember one thing. Just one thing. It was that the whole time I was looking back at you, you were looking at me too, your hands outreached, fighting the time that mocks us, to get back to me once again.
How much money do I have in my bank account. How much money do you need to have to matter. Can a single boy and a girl just be friends. Is there really such thing as a soul mate. Where's mine.
And if we're not asking things that only hurts us, we ask things that are pointless.
Who made us. Why did He. What is the point of this life. What if there are aliens. What if I never let go. Would I be happier if I had chosen a different series of paths. What happens if I end up alone.
And then there are questions that has neither a point nor answer.
Why do we try so hard in this life. What are the things that defines us. Where would I be if I was born from another family. Would I still be me.
And it is these thoughts that I've made sure are never louder than the books I read or the people I talk to or the shows I watch. So I ask myself one last question. One that I don't want to hear. One that has no point. No answer.
What then, will become of me.
Falling in love is easy.
You fall in love with the way someone calls your name, like its the most natural thing in the world. With the way they look at you, like they're seeing you for the first time over and over again. And even the way their hands move, as though molded, to just fit yours.
It could be anyone really. That stranger you meet in a crowded place. That one person you can never let go of. That friend that you've never seen as anything but just a friend.
If all you do is take time to notice the subtle things about people, you realize that beauty still exist in the world; by the slow smile of someone deep in thought, the gentleness by which someone touch another, and even the lies we tell each other knowing that that is what helps us live through yet another day.
Falling in love is easy.
So let yourself.
We don't waste no precious time,
Making up for teenage crime."
- Adrian Lux (Teenage Crime)
I don't know how to say that these are the best years of our lives with the impact that it deserves.
Because we're old enough to know what's wrong, and young enough to do it anyway.
Because our bodies are physically strong enough to put up with what our minds are not strong enough to resist.
Because who remembers the nights that we got plenty of sleep?
One day, we'll grow up. One day, mortgages, rents, bills, insurance, responsibilities as heavy as the world will rest on our shoulders. One day, we will look back on these days.
But for now have time to dream the wrong things and pick another dream too big for our hearts.
These are the best years of our lives.
And the hurt haunts me and attacks at random moments of the day.
And it renders me a complete wreck of tears and silent, agonizing grief.
Leaving is hard.
But being left is harder.
Scribbled Art
When I wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place
Thursday, October 10, 2013- Afraid (The Neighborhood)
We repeat the same mistakes not because we're stupid. Even if that admittedly plays a huge role in it. We run back to the same problems because we run back to familiarity. We run back to what we know. Even if all that we know will eventually turn into heartbreak.
But we hope. Oh we do. We do the same thing over and over again in the same way hoping that one day it will change. Einstein called this behavior insanity.
But who is sane enough to claim sanity. Really.
I once ran away. Or tried to. Run away from all my problems. But just before I left a friend told me, that it didn't matter how far away I ran. Even if I managed to get to the other side of the world, if I didn't change, then I would still attract the same kind of problems.
And it's true. And now I'm back. And nothing has changed. Cos I haven't. Cos I'm still stuck in that rut of familiarity. Of safe zones. And when once upon a time I wanted to fly and make my own risks and mistakes, I have learned that it hurts less not to.
So I'm going to keep hoping to do the same thing again and again. And maybe one day, maybe if I get good at it, or the fates shine upon me, something will happen. Something will change.
Cos I don't know how.
Boosted by this small victory, I am now using it on you with all my strength and hope.
"Turn around. Look at me. Look straight into my eyes. Look deep into my soul. Fall in love with me again. Just turn around. Look at me."
Your head suddenly cocked to one side. As if you had heard something.
My heart, paused a beat. Or a hundred.
I felt a surge of overwhelming surprise that my dodgy telepathic skills are working, but before that triumph could fully blossom, you turned back around to face the front and my hope, wilted.
So much for that. I groaned in frustration. And continued my relentless chant.
Do you know, that I hate coming here because of you? Because you remind me of what I use to have. That I was stupid enough to let go. That I wasn't strong enough to hold on to, to chase after.
Do you know that I still think of you? In the dark of the room, the still of the night, the fan lazily swinging its merry go round.
Sometimes, I can almost hear your voice, soothing me asleep. Like you use to.
You don't know, how much you meant to me. And honestly, I didn't either, until I didn't have you anymore.
Maybe not as much you did. Maybe never in the way that you did.
But as much as my selfish, shriveled up heart could.
And I continued staring at the back of your head, hoping that even now, you can hear my thoughts as clearly as you use to.
But if you could. Then you chose to be deaf unto me.
Is it all about the pretty shoes you wear or the way you tie your hair? Is it all about that pretty face you wear and the way you tie your tongue?
So walk me down my aisle, my plastic bouquet in hand. Tell me the vows that we swear to keep. Look me in the eyes as we say I do, lift up the veil as we reveal the truth. A lifetime of together, commitment and time, promised from your lips to mine.
Some may wear Gucci
and donate billions of dollars to charitable campaigns, whilst others wear only
a humble uniform as they clean our trash.
I know that
I may be offending many self-proclaimed hard core fans of Batman, but I must
confess; I fell asleep watching Dark Knight Rises, as well as the sequel before
that, the Dark Knight. And when I accidentally let slip that I thought The
Avengers was “sort of” lengthy to the point of boring, my friend drew himself
up to his full five feet five, and called me an uncultured swine.
Now, I may
not have any appreciation for superhero movies, but I do understand why there
is such a strong fan base for them, especially the Marvel/DC comic varieties.
Who doesn't love to believe in ordinary men bestowed with extraordinary
capabilities like flying, and saving whiny damsels in distress?
But in the
world of iron-clad arrogant billionaires, tight chest-popping outfits and
handsome web-shooting vigilantes, we tend to overlook real life people who are
perhaps, greater than any cape-flapping superman.
Don Ritchie,
84 years old, lives a quiet unassuming life in Watson Bay, Sydney, or so it
seems. He’s been dubbed “Guardian of the Gap” for his tireless attempts for the
past 45 years to dissuade people from jumping to their deaths at the notorious
suicide cliff called “The Gap”, near his home. Officially, he has successfully
saved 160 people’s lives, but unofficially, the figure is closer to 500 people.
Don Ritchie
would spot what looked like potentially, suicidal people standing precariously
close the edge, and he would slowly walk across the road to them, smile and
ask, “Can I help you in some way?” before inviting them over to his house later
for tea, or something stronger if necessary.
But of course, even Batman
couldn’t save every single citizen of Arkham City. Likewise, Don Ritchie
recounts many personal stories of how he had to watch several people jumping
before his very eyes.
But refusing to be disheartened, Don Ritchie keeps to his beliefs, “always
remember the power of the simple smile, a helping hand, a listening ear and a
kind word. My ambition has always been to just get them away from the edge, to
buy them time, to give them the opportunity to reflect and give them the chance to realise that things might look better the next
morning.”
People
are hungry for heroes; a hero who inspires others to believe that humanity is
worth saving and the world worth living.
They come
in all shapes and forms; some wear the Malaysian flag proudly on their sleeves
(Datuk Lee Chong Wei, Nicol David, Pandelela Rinong), whilst others wear only a
humble uniform as they clean our trash. Some wear Gucci and donate billions of
dollars to charitable campaigns, whilst others wear modest clothing and labour
to put food on the table.
Superheroes
can be disguised as anyone: our mum, dad, sister, neighbour, best friend, dog,
cat, rock, idols, celebrities, relatives, etc. Superheroes can even be you. If
only you choose to accept the responsibility and believe that the world around
you is one that you are capable of influencing, never forgetting the power of
the simple smile, a helping hand, a listening ear and a kind word.
Not all
superheroes wear capes.
Though
the good looking ones usually do.
 |
| Admittedly not a big fan of Henry Cavill. But this is a really nice picture of the Man of Steel |
P.S - one of my very first assignments that I wrote in foundation year.
"Please." Maybe it was that tiny note of desperation that has hummed quietly and painfully in my chest for the past year that did it.
Or maybe it was because I asked nicely.
But he turned.
And again. I was struck by how much he has grown. How much he has changed. How much taller and broader he's gotten. How his hair has finally grown to the right length. How there was a tougher glint in his eyes. How finally, his mustache has started to grow.
And then I blink and look again and he was back to the person I remember. His ears a little too big. His eyes a little too small. The slight crease in his forehead that happens every-time he looks at me.
And he was mine.
And he wasn't.
"I'm sorry." I croak out finally.
He just looks at me.
"What are you sorry about?" He asks slowly. Steadily. Calmly. No hint of anger. Or remorse. No understanding either. No curiosity. No interest.
It was.
Just. a question.
Something that dutifully follows perfunctory conversation.
And his indifference was like a force pressing into the hollowness of my collarbones.
"I'm sorry," I grapple in my mind for something appropriate to cover all the wrongs I have ever done to him. And to myself.
"I'm sorry for..." I was lost in my memory. Of all the times he has waited outside in the rain to go for dinner with me. How we talked until I fell asleep and he listened to my steady breathing before saying goodnight. Of all the Valentines and roses and handmade presents. How he stayed with me time and time again our futures intertwining.
"I'm sorry for not realizing how much you're worth until it was too late."
And there was a pain so big in my chest I'm afraid it may crack me in two and reveal the smallest of hearts beating pitifully against my ribs.
"Every day that I remember, about me and you," I go on brokenly, afraid of what else I may say, but too afraid of stopping, "I regret everything."
"I regret you. I'm so sorry for not loving you in time."
Finally. There's a spark of hate. Or anger. In his eyes.
Anything. Anything was better than the dullness. The lack of. The not care of.
"I made you wait for me. And when I liked you back. It was too late." I closed my eyes recounting those sleepless nights of hearing my heart break and my ribs frantically beating my heart into submission, and my mind floating and floating into eternity.
"And then, all of a sudden, it wasn't too late. And finally. Finally. You liked me. And I liked you." I looked at him and he looked at me and I know, that he was remembering that night, when he held me in his arms, and everything was right.
But then it wasn't.
It wasn't.
"Then you left me" he said. His eyes back to that dull state. And the words. Hitting me again. Never losing momentum. Or velocity. Even after all these times.
"I'm so sorry" I say again, my eyes closed ignoring the screaming in my head, "I'm so sorry that I realized too late that you. That it was you."
I could't look at him, instead trying desperately to remember the times when his eyes held the world, knowing that he would give me that and more if I asked. And how I had taken his world, and more, and walked away. I'm drowning in my self-hate and pity. Knowing that this time, I was the bad guy. That I was unredeemable.
He stared at me. And I stared steadily back. Knowing. Knowing that this. Was what he needed to hear. How his five years of unrequeitedly loving me never accumulated to anything. And that I needed to tell him as much as he needed to hear.
"I thought. Love was something different. I chased after the wrong thing. I thought Love was suppose to be fun. Exciting. Loud. In your face." And I knew he knew I was referring to the person that I stupidly held on to for far too long. And the person that broke my heart and his at the same time over and over again.
"But what I didn't realize was that what I really needed, was just someone to keep me safe. Someone to untangle and uncomplicate the mess I continuously made of my life. Someone to hold my hand when I go over my emotional deep end. Someone to be my quiet anchor when I screamed the waves into a raging sea." I looked at him. As he looked back on all the phone calls we had. Those conversations the moon and the stars bore witness to. And the words that the wind whispered covertly to each other.
"What I didn't realize was that the love that I needed, was the one I already had."
He looked at me. But I looked away.
"So really, I'm sorry." I think I was finally wounding down. Concluding.
"And," he prompted. Knowing me and not knowing me all over again.
"And, I need you to tell me that it's over." I will not cry. I tell myself. Knowing that this was it. Knowing that he would do it. Knowing that I've spent these years in regret and self-inflicted pain because I never fully gave up hope.
"Tell me that it's over." I plead with him to tell me that it's not. Or that he is. I plead with him for an end.
And he sighs. Looking away from me. Looking ahead. At what could be. Or maybe looking back. At what already isn't.
And my heart jumps and dies like petals falling off love-me-nots.
He looks at me and again I see that he holds the world in his eyes and that he could give it to me if I asked him too. Or if he wanted to.
"I'm sorry. It's over."
But I guess not.
Finally.
Finally.
He shuts his world from mine.
And that was it.
This was the story that isn't.
 |
It's the art of letting go, no longer holding on to the past but looking towards the future. But it's not forgetting. It's accepting life as it is. It's moving on. |
Re-edited: 27/3/2013
Hey there
You're beautiful, you know that?
Maybe you don't. You're sitting there so alone. Your head bowed, your hair fanned to block your face. A wall to block the world out or shield you from within? Your shoulders hunched, arms folded in.
Don't hide yourself I long to plead. You ARE worth it. Believe me.
Some people walk by, you shrink. Afraid. The harsh words, the taunts, the ridicule comes.
Ugly. Stupid. Weak.
I see your hands tremble clutching yourself, blood leaving your knuckles turning them white as death, your arms holding yourself in, sheltering as much you can from the hail, smashing the fragility of your house of cards called hope.
Go away! I want to yell. Leave her alone!
But I sit, silent.
Watching.
Maybe she deserves this - a forbidding whisper floats as thought snuggling comfortably in my head - after all, she is sort of ugly. She never smiles, never talks. Doesn't even make an effort to fit in. Maybe she's socially retarded. What a loser.
And these whispers turn to sirens and signs of confirmation hardening my heart, filling it with contempt and pretentiousness.
When the others meandered away to find another person to victimize, there left only me and her. The room suddenly shrunk, too small to fit the both of us, the silence cliched as it sounds, suffocating, filling every space, every void. I pretended. Pretended that I couldn't see her. That she did not exist. That the room was not pressing onto me laden with, I don't know what, guilt? Superiority? Pity?
I couldn't stay here anymore, couldn't stand to look at her anymore, and just as I was about to leave, she looked up, and stared straight at me, her eyes locked with mine, holding me captive.
And in that instant I realized.
Her eyes, a deep dark brown, held me, then sucked me into its depths. Falling and falling and falling.
Bottomless holes.
Hurt. Fear. Despair. Suffering.
But at the core of it, a dark, stable heat arose. Its vapor materializing as hate. Hate so hard, hate so bitter, I trembled in fear. With everything that she still had, this girl hated me.
My reflection hated me.
You had me at hello.
Well no you didn't.
But it was enough to start.
And we haven't stopped since.
We can talk til our eyes refuse to open anymore, when even our brains decline to pick up the small beep beep of a new message.
3am: You fell asleep didn't you? Sighs. You lose. Again. See you in my dreams.
11am: I didn't fall asleep! I just, took a longer time to blink that's all.
11:01 Wow. An 8 hour long blink.
11:10 Shuddup. Leavemealone.
Sometimes. We talk like there's not enough time to cram all the words together in 24 hours. And sometimes. We go for weeks on end with not a single beep of a new message.
And it is the pauses in between that creates a level of uncertainty that fuels this pseudo relationship.
And it is the lack of pause between good morning beautiful, and sweet dreams that is just enough to make you fall. Me fall.
And so we do. And we stumble between the lines of reality and our world of denial.
So, there's this girl I know. She's beautiful.
So what's the problem?
The problem is I don't think I'm good enough for her. She's just. Perfect.
Is this why you've never talked to her when you see her in the hallways of college?
Yeah. I'm afraid that she won't give me the time of day.
You will never know til you try.
And she's not perfect.
But she tries.
And its that faint line of reality I realize every time that I see you seeing me and not look away but too afraid to make that first step. And it's that faint hope that I hold on to that maybe one day you will take and cross it, because I don't think I can.
On falling for a stranger; it's easy.
Because you're never close enough to find out who they are, so you fill in the blanks with a dash of gentleman here and a splash of chef there, and maybe a small sprinkle of knight in shining armor.
We may talk endlessly, continuously and covertly. I may know that you have an intense and illogical fear of swimming or water that reaches above your head, and you may know that I dream of saving the world when I can't even save myself.
But.
We don't know each other.
You don't know that I drool when I sleep or that I have an annoying habit of playing with my hair. You don't know that I cower when there's lightning. That I talk whilst I sleep.
You don't know.
You don't even know how your name sounds when I say it.
Or mine in yours.
And I don't know how that matters. But it does. It does.
And when this ends. When one of our heart breaks. It breaks for nothing. Because the disappointment was inevitable, almost self inflicted. Because one day, one of us wouldn't be able to live up to that person we made the other out to be.
So don't fall for a stranger.
Don't fall for someone who could never prove that they could be there for you.
Don't fall for someone, just because it's easy.
Because it may have been easy to say hello.
But it won't be when you say goodbye.
On falling for a stranger. Written by a dumbass.
 |
| I have to confess, every time I see you; My heart beats a little too fast and dances a little too out of beat. |
With childlike wonder we will travel the world
Just you and me both, a boy and a girl
We would stumble and tumble and look up in wonder
Just you and me both, a boy and a girl
- Write. Breathe. Love. Dream
"You can't love me." he says to me. Abruptly. Interrupting my reading.
I look at him. Raise my eyebrow.
"You just can't love me." he repeats. As though. Those words will become clearer with no added explanation.
I nod my head. Slowly. Not knowing exactly what he wants. He just stared at me. I looked back at my book.
"Are you listening to me?" he sounds annoyed.
Sighing. I closed my book. And looked back at him. He had changed. His stubble has gotten noticeably thicker. The dark circles has gotten darker and I silently mused as to what has caused them. Me, my answer comes readily to my mind and I smile satisfactorily even though, in all likeness, it had nothing to do with me and more the stress of college getting to him.
Still, this was my mind, and I could think whatever I wanted in it, I say defiantly to myself and then go back to reading signs of change in the contours of his face. I saw wrinkles on his forehead that I couldn't remember was there before, and pimples near his chin. And then wonder about the new one that popped up in my forehead that I've desperately swept my fringe across this morning to try cover it. I nervously pat my fringe again.
I continued exploring like a scientist intrigued by new bacteria. I saw in his eyes a deeper pool of maturity and darkness that I don't recognize, or it could have been the trick of the light because when I blinked, his eyes were once again the same frustrating reflection of all that I could never understand.
It was like seeing an old picture with deliberate changes. And feeling out of place. Like familiar answers ready on your tongue but confused at the questions. Like well worn shoes that someone else borrowed and changed the molding of.
I start to wonder how much of him has changed. When it all changed. Why it has changed. And how much am I going to like or dislike the change. I stare at him accusingly, and realize with surprise that I see the same accusations being thrown at me.
And then I realize, that I've probably changed too. And I wonder, how much of myself has changed. When it all changed. Why it has changed. And how much I'm going to like or dislike the new me.
At any rate, judging by the obvious spite on his face, he clearly didn't like who I've become.
I smile. I like the new me already.
"I'm listening." I say. Remembering - a little late - that conversation was much like a badminton game, and it was my turn to serve.
He must have picked up on my disorientation of social cues because he repeated himself, rather annoyingly, "you can't love me."
"Okay." I reply simply.
"You just can't"
Maybe his repetitions of how I can't love him should be getting offensive. Like I mean, what is that all suppose to mean? That he's too good for me? That I was incapable of loving others as much as myself? That he will never reciprocate and that I shouldn't even try? That he was actually capable of thinking of somebody other than himself in order for him to try to protect me? Is this his way of getting me to fall for him?
But gone were the times when I would painfully analyze every word he threw at me and measure the velocity and rate at which he threw it. Gone were the times in which I agonized my relationship with him as a chess player agonized the wise-ness of the moves in his 64 square inch black and white world.
I have reached a new Zen - so to speak. Sleep, crying, more sleep and chocolate being crucial elements to my new-found state of peace. I've stopped overanalyszing, and choose, for now. to accept all that I have no power to change.
"Okay." I tell him.
There was a tense pause. Like that moment in the badminton game when suddenly, the opponent smashes and you valiantly dive to save it, and everything turns into slow-mo as everyone watches the shuttlecock being slowly pushed back over the net, and slowly dropping, making its way down to a... touchdown (that terminology actually refers to another sport but that's okay, this is my mind).
He stares at me. Sizing his new opponent up. He has never faced this person before. The docile, accepting one. I have always been the screaming with triumph at my victory, gloating and arrogantly striding around like a peacock with one too many feathers stuck up its-.
Well. I am triumphant. But the small smile I give him is more reminiscent of a player, weary from having lost so many rounds and finding very little more to go on on.
"What have they done to you?" he asks me, trying to make a joke out of it but snapping too meanly to be humorous "where did you go?"
"A place of tranquility and hope and all things gentle and feminine." I replied promptly to which he laughed.
I think that's one of the things I miss most about him. Or about the old me. Hearing his laugh, and knowing that it was only I who could make him laugh when he didn't want to.
"I miss you." he says.
Good. I smirk.
He looked at me. And I looked at him.
He was expecting something.
Oh. Wait.
Was it my turn to serve?
OH RIGHT.
"I m-" iss you too.
I stopped. Because I realized how empty that sounded in my head. Because, well, I don't.
I don't miss how I felt when I was with him. Awkward, and confused. Angry and bitter. Up, and Down. How he could make me feel so secure and stable, like we could be forever, and then empty another moment where I would anxiously wait - for weeks on end - for a sign, a call, a text, anything that meant he wanted to talk to me.
I don't miss him.
I just missed, what we had. How we embraced the world by pretending we were invincible, as long as we were together.
But I don't miss who I was.
And I sure as hell don't miss him.
"You know Karl, you can't love me." he says again, softly. "Because I was never much to love."
"You've changed." He says quietly. After I remain adamantly silent. Staring at the book whose words have stumbled across each other, like Chinese characters sparring on galloping horses in search of honor and peace not knowing that they've been running away from it the more they search.
"You don't like it." I say, not a question.
"No." he replies. Honestly. Sincere. "Because there's no me in it."
And again. I'm back down the rabbit hole of madness and self destruction.
 |
| Free Fall - Ed Sheeran |
That's what they said.
I never use to believe them. I would climb up my ladder of hope and dreams and faith, letting everyone know that the Lord will keep me up, believing that with just the right amount or type of faith, that I will never know the feeling of weightless, unending, terrifying free fall.
That's what I thought.
But here we are. Here I am. Falling.
It wasn't even just a slip on the ladder, maybe get caught a couple of rungs down. It was a hard yank, a hard pull down that paper-thin ladder, fabricated with my innermost vulnerabilities, coated with self denial and a faith I thought I could stand on.
Evidently not.
Was God having a good laugh at me? Was it really that funny to play with my feelings? To give me hope, and dangle it in front of me, only to take it back, and tell me that it's not meant for me?
I curse at the wind.
There's a reason for everything.
They said.
Everything good works together for all those who love Him.
They said.
Well you said that last time. And the time before last. And nothing has changed.
I said.
Don't condescendingly placate me.
I yell.
I deserve better than this.
I cry.
Yes you do. I hear a gentle voice tell me.
You deserve better than this. But. I can't give you something new, if you don't let go of that hurt you're clenching so tightly.
He said.
Lean not on your own understanding. Trust me.
He smiled.
Sometimes God lets you hit rock bottom so that you know that He is the rock at the bottom.
They said.
Let it go. Don't let it block you anymore. Be free.
They said.
And I am so tired.
If time heals all wounds, I want sleep to blur the edges of time and bring me to the age of new beginnings.
 |
| Thomas Moore: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. |
I remember my first love.
He didn’t slay dragons and climb my hair to rescue me from
my beast of loneliness. It wasn’t a love-and-must-kill-off-other-suitors moment. There were no pink fairies sprinkling pixie dusts or naked
babies shooting lethal arrows.
In all honesty, I don’t even remember his name. Or his face.
We were 7. Fresh out of kindergarten into a bigger pond
called primary school. School was giving out free and torturous vaccinations of
some kind. All students were required to clench their teeth, bare their souls and allow a sharp metallic needle with an evil glint to puncture our bodies
“for our own good.”
I remember with dread when my name was called, and as I walked
my death march straight into the nurse office with much trembling.
As you can maybe tell, needles and I weren’t exactly
friends. In fact, we met many-a-times in deathly mortal combat. The most memorable
battle being when I had to go to the dentist to remove my traitor of a tooth,
four people (father and nurses alike) had to clamp each of my limbs down as I
screeched bloody murder into the ears of a sobbing dentist who was only doing
what my mother asked.
So it was with all the bravery and courage that my seven year old could muster to not leg out of school that day, running as fast as my pudgy little legs would allow me. And like a war torn soldier with post-traumatic stress, my mind has blocked out every memory of the actual needle penetration event.
So it was with all the bravery and courage that my seven year old could muster to not leg out of school that day, running as fast as my pudgy little legs would allow me. And like a war torn soldier with post-traumatic stress, my mind has blocked out every memory of the actual needle penetration event.
Before I knew it, I was walking out of that room, my face white,
and my small hand clutching my (other) punctured arm so hard, as though should I let go, my
arm would fall straight off. I walked back to my classroom, silent tears
dripping off my chin, my lips trembling, with not a sound.
A bit dramatic maybe. To live life with flair was a style even then my
seven year old self had adopted.
And just when I could bear the injustice of my life no more,
this little boy - whom my mother assured me was my best friend then, instead of
some tall, dark handsome stranger come to rescue thy helpless maiden - came to
me with a little pink hanky that he took from my bag, he wiped my tears away
and fed me chocolate.
And my life was upside right again.
That was my first love.
Chocolate.
LOL. I’m kidding.
I AM KIDDING.
;)
Wherever you are, even if fate no longer entwines our path, I pray for all the happiness to surround you because you once put a smile on my chubby 7 year-old tear-stained face. You are indeed a valiant knight. Dragons should be so bold as to fight you. And beautiful maidens out there should be so lucky to have you.
A Kiss for Corona. Oct 14, 2011.
"Fairytales may not come true, and life may not be happily ever after, but to believe in a world of magic, beauty and chasing after your own dreams is a far better way to live than not believing"
Fairytales were a cruel device used to make girls all over the world believe in something unrealistic; that a knight in shinning armor atop a gallant horse would always be around to save the poor defenseless maiden, that a fairy godmother with a flick of her wand would magic away unfortunate circumstances, that "good" will always prevail "evil", and that one day we could all have our happily ever afters.
Those are the words of a cynic. And this is an age old argument that I've been afraid to spar with. For after all, there have been far greater and more eloquent men and women who have battled it out with each other; fiercely, barbarically, diplomatically, but even so, none has made great headway to either side.
And I'm not going to start.
Instead, I'm going to tell you about a real life victim of those evil goblins and fairytales. She would make a perfect case study for the very subject we're scrutinizing. And whilst living so immersed in the fairytale culture, she grew up just as lost and innocent as the next mortal.
She grew up believing in magic. Her childhood was spent barefooted, hair wild and tangled, running with racoons and dogs saving the life or falling in love with any Johns who crossed her path. She spent countless days under the sea, crooning to fat yellow fishes and crabby Sebastians, all the while combing her hair and staring up at the sky, dreaming of great big adventures and "somedays."
She was anything and everything; she cut her hair and brought "great dishonour" to her family by shaming them to have to be seen in public with her dishelved head. She toiled hard every day cleaning for her ungrateful (step)mother who never appreciated her hard work (I mean, who knew sprinkling soap on the floor could be so...soapy). Many a day her fairygodmother transformed her plain little soul to one of a beautiful princess, so majestic that she would force any of her childhood friends (wonder why there weren't many) to lie down across a "puddle" and she would stomp daintily across them, just so her delicate glass slippers wouldn't get wet.
Oh there were dangerous Arabian nights flying across the starry skies on a rugged flying carpet falling in love with handsome street urchins; countless lazy mornings of refusing to wake up and go to school on the pretense of waiting for her one true love's kiss to awake this sleeping beast. She dragged her neighbour's son, and forced him to become the dragon that she must slay. She was wild, she laughed often, she enjoyed the unreined imagination that only the youth provides, and she fiercely believed in magic.
Of course that enchanting young girl is me.
My childhood was colorful. All that I've described above is merely a glimpse of the fairytale that I lived. People may whisper about the mental development and delusions that a fairytale generation kid may grow up to be, but hey! Look at me, I turned out fine. ;)
Sue me if I believe that the "good guy" always win. Judge me if I want to live a happily ever after. Shut me up in a mental institute wrapped in a straitjacket if I secretly tell you that with just Faith, Trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust, we can fly for the second star to the right and journey straight on til morning to a place where we won't ever have to grow up!
But alas, I never did find Neverland, and had no choice but do the boring thing and well, grow up. And grow up I did, just like any other non-dragon slayer believer. The only probable negative impact Disney has had on me is my misguided notion about love. I am in love with the idea of being in love. The romance. The fireworks. The roses. The too-fast heart beating.
"Karl, you're never going to fall in love at this rate, because you'll never find the right guy unless he jumps right off the covers of a Once-upon-a-time story and knocks you down galloping on his white steed." Thanks friend.
Even if that turned out to be true, I wouldn't give up my childhood for anything because despite the mockery that may follow, I learned a lot of things from my favorite Disney princesses.
The strength to do the "right" thing despite not only facing the condemnation of society, but also risking bringing shame and being ostracized from the very people whom you were trying to protect (Mulan); the patience to see the good in everyone no matter how hard and the capacity to love even the ugliest of beasts because appearances is often only skin deep (Belle); the courage to never give up on life but to embrace it with the hope and fervency of having the world in your hands even if you're locked up in a dark and gloomy tower for, well, ever (Rapunzel).
Truly, fairytales may not come true, and life may not be happily ever after, but to believe in world of magic, and beauty, and chasing after your own dreams is a far better way of living than not believing.
Daughter of Triton. Nov 1, 2010.
Rapunzel. March 11, 2010
The Wind. Nov 7, 2010
These flipping brilliant works of art belong to one very talented Alice X. Zhang. She's just, breathtakingly amazing and her work - which ranges from Disney to Sherlock to Paramore - needs to be shared! Gallery [Link].
We're sitting around the table listening to the friend next to me rant;
"What's the point of running? There's no goal. You're just running and running and it's so boring. You're not going anywhere. It's all-"
And as she goes on, I take a sip of my cup of tea and question myself, why do I love to run? Why do I enjoy it? What's my point?
The first thing that came to mind was, to look good.
That may be true. I initially took up running as a form of exercise to lose weight. I wanted to be thin because that's what society demanded of beauty and damn them if I'm not going to be beautiful. But aside from running, there were a ton of other "better" exercises that I dabbled in, all in the name of vanity; weights, DVD aerobic exercises, swimming, basketball, ping pong, strength training, etc. And along the way, I dropped them all, slowly. But running remained my constant. Mind you, I couldn't be bothered to keep up to a regular schedule. Sometimes I ran thrice a week, sometimes twice a week, and sometimes, I was even lucky to say that I ran once a month.
But it was still a constant. I ran.
But why run?
"What's your goal?" my friend continued oblivious to my silence.
"What are you running towards?"
And then, the reason came so simply.
I'm not running towards anything. Instead, I'm running from.
Running from my stress. Running from my problems. My feelings of inadequacy. I run to get away. To forget. I run so that I don't get stuck. Because I fear that if I stay. I'll drown.
See, if you don't run, you may not understand. Because when I run, I enter this stage where my body takes over my mind, and I don't feel anything but adrenaline coursing through my body and I feel unstoppable. I go into my nothing box and my body is just like a machine going through the gears.
I run so that for at least one part of my day, I don't need to think. And mock me if you will, but having a break from thinking, is a glorious thing to enjoy.
But mind you, once I hit the ten minute mark, my brain instantly logs back on to my body and goes "whoa girl, you've done ten minutes already? Wow. You must be tired! Can you feel that ache in your leg? Why don't you rest for awhile? You've done a good enough job."
And just like that, thinking spoils everything, again.
"Karl. Karl! Where did you go?" My friend waves her hand over my face.
"Huh?" I blinked back to the table with my friends, "oh. Nowhere. I was just, running." I smile at them and take another sip of my tea.
