Bind

There are many things that I would like to do and say but oftentimes they slip my mind. I make many lists. Things to do, books to read, ideas that cross my mind. I make myself vulnerable when I forget because I don't like the nagging feeling of having any unresolved matter in my head.

I make lists because I consider it a facile method of keeping things organized. I like to work at my own pace and not force my eyes shut to recall what I've forgotten. I call my diary Rilm and when I see 'Write to Rilm' on too many lists I know I've been too caught up.

Which is what has been happening recently. Studying literature was what I thought inherently enjoyable since I am so obstinately obssessed with the beauty of words. I am not wrong, but the way the system is governed does no justice to the meaning of literature.

Two lectures run the life of a novel. Move on and rush another till it's done before the cycle repeats. We talk about risibility and ironies. Absurdity and meaninglessness. Yet this very act of doing so in such a short time makes us live in them, doesn't it?

All along I thought this was only what I wanted. If I had never tried I would never be truly convinced that this passion of mine is only meant to be kept. Irony here is that it is best-preserved under my own conditions of not having it examined or refined. Literature should not be shaped by systems nor judgment passed under rushed glances. The beauty of literature should not be missed because of obligation.

I laugh at how education brought literature into my life and how it deconstructs its significance. One needs the other to exist yet the mere co-existence can bring so much pain.

I'd rather read at my own pace. I'd rather have my breath taken away before I move on. I'd rather make insignificant(not) discoveries on my own. I'd much rather rejoice in my own corner of quiet.

Yet I have not come to a proper resolution. Simply(in a complicated way) because there is just so little of anything else that I am interested in.

I am living ironies within ironies.

Surface

When I think of how I penned that down I wonder if I was speaking to myself instead of the recipient. It's like a form of assurance I need, to put on a facade that my heart isn't experiencing the worst feelings. If I tried concealing it was for myself. I'm not comfortable with changes so I pretend they don't matter.

Growing up

When I was younger, I used to wonder if everything bought was put in plastic bags. If you buy a car, where do you get a gigantic carrier to hold it?

I used to have swimming practice every weekend. My dad made me swim twenty laps of each stroke. I was barely seven. And hated it. So I found all sorts of ways to cheat. Sometimes when the sky is downcast and he signals for me to stop, I think to myself, Is this too good to be true?

I received my first love letter when I was seven. He gave it to me and kept asking me to read it because out of awkwardness I passed it to someone else. There were only two sentences. Unfortunately the teacher confiscated it. Yet what made me scared wasn't him, but that moment when the teacher asked whose letter it was.

I met nice people and found my security in companionship, compliments and achievements. I followed trends and was too afraid to admit that I wanted to be like everyone else. I was happy but not entirely, provided for but not contented. Like you, I went through the phase of being fearful of being judged.

My heart broke for the first time when I learnt that words can't be taken for real. Promises are meant to be broken, said he to me. I just kept crying. Two things I learnt: Never trust so easily and don't ever make promises you never intend to keep. I hate how guileless I was yet am not ashamed of my naivety. For if I haven't trusted, I would never know that I can barely trust anyone.

Later on, I came to terms with the fact that this world isn't pretty. But it isn't entirely ugly either. Same with people. This coexistence made me realise how desperately in need I was of God. God, not a god. I finally understood why I tended to feel insecure. Not because I needed to be important, but my identity was in everything meaningless. Things that wouldn't last.

When I found my identity in Christ, I realised how insignificant everything else is. All along I thought life was good but this is way better. The best and only, in fact. And when I'm done living this life, I'd finally meet my Creator who went such a long way, to make this moment forever.

At the end of everything, what are you left with?

One-way street

Through the phone call
You said we would fall
We could

Scent of your voice
Hinted at me a wink of the glisten
Maybe drops, maybe rain,
A storm.

Battered by my indifference,
I wanted us done
Nothing stirred
Too peaceful, painfully peaceful

This instant I taste your helplessness
In the end no one
Wants to fight alone
Forget about taking-

In and finally up
Always the harder option
We were through

Original

Do you recognise feelings? Your heart goes through the exact same experience again. There are occasions when I unwittingly land in a spot and encounter a certain emotion. One unexpected evening I take a glimpse out the semi-reflective glass and in the quickest moment I recognise what I'm feeling. It doesn't have to be in the same place. Something was common but most things are different. As though the present me is in sync with the past me. Yet too quick for me to figure out what exactly. A fleeting phase in my mind where suddenly my thoughts drift to the happiest moments. When we followed routines and weren't wise enough to desire any difference. We had everything to lose but loss meant nothing. I couldn't understand why people said we can't turn the clock round. There was nothing harder than apologizing.

Insomnia

There is a little light. I see shades of grey. And black. Silhouette of the drapes, staged the vinyl of the trove of a multitude of myself. How long has it been - two, or three? I was counting, on my knee which I've brought close to my chin. I always curl when I sleep. My breathing is amplified because my ear is pressed against a companion. Vague and distant, a metallic drip which seemingly follows the rhythm of the sound that proves the warmth in my blood. The night is still and not one I'd want to have. Heavy, yet weighing nothing. Empty, but filled. The unnoticed reflection of a part of the road's only vehicle etched as quickly as it flitted from the door. And maybe just in that instant, I realised I haven't lost myself. I miss me.

Hiatus

Have neglected this space for too long. Increasingly feel like I don't have to blog everything I write. Life hasn't been stale despite the break, but recently I feel like I could get used to this.

Promise

If you know me well enough you'd know that I have a habit of wanting to know what happens at the end. Of a movie, or a book. I want to know if people are reunited or left behind. Whether people lose or find themselves at the end. Every time I start reading a new book I find myself flipping to the end to find out what happens even before I know the characters. I like guessing the links, the intermediate chapters. This is what I find more exciting than not knowing the end. People often call it a killjoy. I can't help but love spoilers. I want to know every part of a movie if you ever start narrating it to me. The reason why I like knowing what happens next or at the end isn't because I want to feel like I'm in control but because it gives me hope. If people fall out in the next chapters I want to know that eventually even if they do not even things out they are better off in different ways. It makes me feel safe. This place is becoming increasingly chaotic and difficult to comprehend. But at the end God will come and gather all His people. He makes me feel safe.

Friday

I hold the slip in my hands...Where do I go after this? Everyone around me is in their own silent moment. Fists punch the air. I don't know what that means. My heart cringes in fear and tugs at my nerves. My mind starts registering images that are too familiar. Disappointing numbers, hopeful words. Lucky times...no scratch that - I never believed in luck. Erratic hours of sleep, mindless staring at the pallor of my skin under the light while the moon watched me elusively. Instances where I would involuntarily raise my chin a fraction to inhale the air when I needed to be calm. Too many still mornings. I feel no connection between the mind and body. An inner voice urging my fingers to revive, my feet to stay on solid ground. I never gave up, but resilience pays off in different ways. I am holding a glass, that is quickly revealing the edginess in me, amplifying every shudder my heart makes. It sheds lights on past battle scars and increasingly blinds me to every ounce of strength that is slowly ebbing away. My clasp tightens and fingers turn blood red, as if the harmless edges of the paper cut right into my veins. I have to be brave. I need to remember this does not define me. There is no running away. In a minute I will be coming face-to-face with it, right there indelibly inked. Right there, real, in my hands.

Mask

Corner of a bridge that arcs the bay. Three wooden sticks are inclined at an angle and they lean against a tree, bound by coils of wire. Next to me, a lamppost that seems to be taking its break. I’d like to feel its soft heat on my skin when the sky turns dark. I hope it’s beautiful, mellow golden light that cloaks the garden with a gentle glow. I’m beginning to like this place too much. Right behind my shoulders is a breathtaking sight. I study the pace of every pair of feet that moves along the bridge. And with vehicles above them, travelling in the opposite direction on a separate platform. Which the giant wheel overlooks. The intricate crossing of the wires meet at the pivot, where the sticker of a Chinese character resides. I hear voices, muffled little bits of a conversation. People have cameras tied to the necks, laidback hats that rest on the hair. I like it when people never pretend. When attractiveness exudes from an inner charisma they build from scratch. Scratch, being the mirror that tells them not a lie. All pretence will one day be torn down. If you’re reading this, I hope you learn to love being who you are. I always believe God has made each of us special.