I am hollow

The earth lifts me
Gives me a swap
For these voices
Circling within my hands

A new friend too quickly
Beckons to my being
With space too comfortable
And overstays its welcome

I write an enemy
In comforting darkness
Leave me not an embrace
Lest I never return

Should I care less
I would turn out
Less of me
I am hollow

Few

I need new eyes, not to see but catch a clearer sight of what my original eyes were supposed to reveal. Too many times I lose count: how long has this been? Six months? Thirteen months? Or nineteen months actually?

The dashboard reports observations that were hardly positive. He measured more agony than relief; more sorrow than joy; more tears than a real laugh; more broken pieces to mend than a time to celebrate. The days grew from dark to desperate, and accompanied empty, hollow rest. 

It proved no difficulty to tell me to be strong. Go most practical even, of watching what I put myself in contact with. If only they knew, I wished completely with my whole being that it were this simple. But only one of us could be the bigger person, so I graciously put on the quiet hat and went my way. With my wounds that once again rose to sight, and sometimes, with some of the tears that had been my comforter. 

The only reason this wait has to go on lies in this unsolved mystery. All that needs to be tried has been done, rigorously and in excess. Could I have missed something? What had gone so wrong that it can't be fixed, and I have been made to suffer? But the many letters I had written in my poorest state of heart proved that there is another place where the fix is happening. Somewhere that I had not been looking at, which I presently don't quite see yet. Hence my plea, give me eyes.

Whether the mystery is existent I have grown weary to know. The surface already reveals a plain reason to accept. Tarry a while longer, because they are not done yet. They were sent to strip me clean. This journey became too heavy and I had to lose many things to go on. Questions, resolve, strife, resistance, and... did I lose doubt as well? Alas, I am still on my way. There is no destination, only a narrow and solitary path. I am not done with losing them; they have to lose their way, so that I don't. 

You've left me with few words. Let me travel light for the rest of this journey.

Sacrifice

Reality wrote me a letter; it says that things have changed, in a way I have not quite expected. They who read it have interpretations that arise from extreme ends. Scarred by their own stories, and the history left behind for them. Herein lies a journey of empathy and quiet acknowledgement of the resonance in a close friend called Pain.

Pain visits me with different offerings, and often under the disguise of peace. The less I expect her to surface, the greater her effect on me when she does. We put up a fight, because I want nothing more to do with her, and I refuse to concede defeat. But her force  proves more relentless than the conviction I have built up all these years. Pain tells me she's got good intentions; she will not surrender until I release what I have grasped too dearly to myself. But no one knows the door through which Filth should take her leave. 

Filth paints me a picture of who I want to be. She is most deceitful in all her ways; she convinces me that nothing is out of my reach. But as I watch her paint, I begin to notice there is more than meets the eye. It soon falls through the cracks, in a fashion most inconceivable. Utterly horrified in my awakening, she reveals to me the darkest truths about my being that I wish to un-know. I beg for her to tell me we have merely fallen asleep, but she has turned her back. I look for the culprit who's placed her in the depths of my heart. Tracing the evidence brings Pain back, as she points me to myself.

What about Sacrifice? I heard he's good company. If you are willing to lose, he promises you empty hands again to receive. This time, it shall be the rightful portion assigned to you. Has it ever occured to you that the words you uttered have the power to be taken up in the heavens, to bring about a drastic overhaul? Perhaps the best thing you could do next is to send away, and forget about your own existence. You are now done, and will soon be complete.

This is how I make history.

Why do we say

Why do we say
There's a lack of water
If these tears
Are ever flowing

Why do we say
We move on with time
If it serves
Hardly any difference

Why do we say
There is plenty of hope
If time after time
It never shows up

Could it be, could it possibly be -

That tears, are meant to build us springs of water, so that we never thirst anymore?

That time, is meant to prepare us for eternity, so that we never wait anymore?

That hope, is meant to shine the brightest, only when it is tragically, utterly dark?

If I could know the answer to even one of them, life would have mercifully served me, completely, its purpose.

I Am Merely

There is a place I came from, which I do not remember. I have walked through the shrubbery and trees of a forest, and the wilderness and grainy sand of a desert. A leaf or two I picked up and kept in my pouch, in hope of building my own tree. On my way to the garden I watched a painter sit in solitude, marveling at the shades of blue and grey that have given his white canvas company. It was a sight that befuddled me, for I could not comprehend if he was in a state of joy or melancholy, for the creatures he painted had no expression. In a brief moment I felt the connection between us, who did not know what to feel, or rather, what we felt. The day was still ahead of me, and as I continued strolling, I met someone wearing on her wrist and feet, the same map I held. We exchanged glances, and she handed me a checked handkerchief because she saw that my shirt had been drenched with tears. I politely accepted it as she carried on her journey ahead, while I stopped to rest on a grassy bank. The memories of a year ago spoke to me, and I recalled the days of endless affliction. They are distant now, though they pretend to be alive. My shoulders hunched as my mind grew weary from fighting them. But a breeze that came to gently caress my face helped me recall they had already been defeated. A comfortable warmth from the sun accompanied this breeze and I raised my chin to welcome its embrace. This is where I remember you are called the lifter of my head; you have liberated me from the toil of those days. My heart is made glad, as you taught me a love that satisfies. I get up and see that I am still a distance from Eden. The walk isn't over, and I must keep going. Today, I am merely a pilgrim on a journey.

Let me sit in silence with you. Here I question life on earth. We speak, think and dream of it, always with an end in mind, as if it were the norm for life to have an end. Is an end what gives life meaning? Would it have meaning if death was never present? Would it be miserable if there were no end to it? If that were so, could it actually be death that makes it beautiful? Why is it that only in death can life be made complete? Why is death, the very thing that takes life away, a defining element of life? Could it be that something has real value only if it will eventually be taken away? If it were so, could it possibly be a blessing then that life does not last? What is life if the only place it heads towards is death? What are we if we were born only to die? Does life really lead to death, or do we first hear of death and then learn to have life? What is it about life that makes us desire, crave it? Is it the very ability to breathe, the warmth of the human flesh, or the weight of our being, that we are afraid of losing? Or is it the relationships we have intertwined ourselves within that we find it difficult to release our presence from? Why is it that despite the relationships that have crushed us, we continue pursuing life for the sake of them? Why can't we ever wipe ourselves off life? Why have so many lives come and gone, yet I am still left with no answer? I pick myself up, and continue with a slow stroll. I am still on my way, and the longer I walk, the more I find less in this place that makes me yearn. Life has begun to drain the life out of me. And the longing amplified. The longing for an other, another. It's taking longer than I expected, but a thousand years in your sight are like a day that has just gone by. Let me not become too familiar with this place, lest I fall in love with it. Hasten my pace and shield my sight from the fleeting beauty of this place, lest I forget where I am headed. Let me not tarry any longer, lest my heart starts to settle for less. I continue passing through, because I am a ship that has not reached its harbor. I know that if I keep walking on, I will eventually arrive home. And home is what defines this journey. I am merely someone who longs to see you.

A Heart's Anthem

A walk down the street

I hear a whisper in my ear

Underneath my feet

Silent leaves, hint you are near

What is being free?

Outside of my reach

Is a life intended for me

To live, away from search

I am homesick, as I sojourn

How long more, I asked

Before I can, or you, return

Where death, is finally unmasked

I think of home

Wish for sooner days

All the mist and foam

Turns swiftly, into glitter rays

The dark closes in again

One day passes, I quiver 

No wait shall be in vain

This time, we are nearer 

I long for home

Awakening

Hush, the night is gone, said you to me.

I wind down the windows and take a peek outside. The air is still and the light of dawn awaits. Morning breaks through but all that creeps into the day is no different from the night. These moments a lone traveler weeps as the life filtered through the glass passes her by. She lifts her chin a fraction and ruminates on what she has forsaken. A bite on the lip says it is all for a reason which she knows not. Uncomfortably concealed beneath the veneer of valiance was an escapist. Two hearts met, and one lay inside the other. It had room to put together again hers which was ripped asunder. When, tell me, when? 

Remain in my love, said you to me.

I scramble in darkness, desperately trying to get hold of you, your cloak...something. My stiffened fingers grow cold as the fervor in me quickly ebbs away. The chains seem to have broken, for the sound of my nails scratching against the metal has ceased striving. The tabs come back to hound me, and I run, but my feet would not carry me. Your gossamer coat of presence I shed and gave away in exchange for my dark fears. I wrap them in layers and wear them around me. Tell me, if that is so, have I hidden away or have you left me first? 

Yet another lies in wait, this now I hear.

That I asked for, I had none. That you promised, I scarcely received. Make me believe that delay is not denial. The distance is shorter and I am beginning to lose count. Here comes where these seasons of anguish could only be embraced in silent acquiescence. Words no longer serve to name all which I have been battling. A fighter mocks the escapist, and believes victory lies ahead for her to claim. But a victor in what sense she purposes herself to be, the mocked questions. Walking away is not cowardice, if it has put up resistance at the expense of her health. A pair of reasons leads to the day of the answer. While I wait in the dark, you ask for me to speak. Let me tell you, said me to you. Let me tell you, if I will still love you, even when my eyes continue to fail me.

The day I died

The day I died
I looked me in the eye
A morning sun held high
And bled the morning dry

The day I died
Speculation ran rife
One missive kept secret
Rendered the white sheets alive

The day I died
Good beauty that all adore
Grazed the sheen in quiet
Until the brown was no more

The day I died
There my body lay
In this eternal respite
Where earth is now at bay

Here's Yours

Sitting on the other side, you pick up the curved corners that spell discomfort. Say the story in ways I haven't heard. While it goes on, they come back. Settling for the attractive and hardly unchanging; that ease beckons me to restless peace. Beneath it lies a veneer of eternity, that I struggle to live with. It is foolish to imagine every speck removed, at least for me. 

Then another arrives and greets with a hint of passion. Delicately cradles the uncertain prospects of dreaming. Sound the key word and hand over a multitude of episodes. That was impressive. That was the one dream.

Scripted off the cold of my skin are sealed envelopes dabbed with indelible grey ink. They must never be opened. The records play and I find them running, and me, too. Only away. You are not new. I feel safe now. Yet I remain ugly. Seven fifths haven't taught me. For that I can't forgive. And I have promises to keep.

I'll take mine.

Unrequited Love

Little was all you needed, to fall asleep under the cosy sheets, or disregard the great lack following right behind. One of the mornings as you lie in bed, you're awakened by a cacophony pining for your attention. Inside you. They who generously lavished affirmation on you yesterday return to repeat their words with greater intensity. You are humbled outwardly while another muscle, in reflexive agreement, fills your guts with happiness. They who had little regard also come, and bite you again. But these good guts say you can work these bites around, so you love.

You think it's simple to just choose me the way it builds you satisfaction. I am brought into being through what you are comfortable with understanding me to be, even as you are well aware that you might never acknowledge the real me.  It's easy to love. It's easier to love the way you want.

So being happy is easy. Being happy. Two words, unassuming, and straightforward. Devoid of all pretence, this is one innocent and pure ambition. Motivating...though you consciously and blatantly suppress the incredibly visible truth, cliche as it sounds, that happiness never lasts.

You want a place, so I'll bring you there. But the way I'm taking you is narrow and dark: all you have is me. It isn't comfortable, so you bail. Turn away and try another route you imagine would lead to the place.

I love you, and maybe you'd like to love me back. But it seems enough to love that place alone. Why do you love that place? Because you find everything that makes you complete. Everything that answers why you want to travel there. Everything that means a second chance. Everything that you want for eternity.

Little do you know, everything about that place you love, is in me. All you had to do to find it, was accept my love...and love me in return. That, is my place.

Speak, Someone

Golden skies and the tranquil breeze after a rain that infiltrates the shut windows signal half the day has gone. While stuffing chunk by chunk Linguistic Relativity into any compartment of the exhausted spaces of every active unit of life, an unsuspecting, mundane gesture preceded one of the most terrifying moments that would not lose its grip on me.

"Be still."

Terrifying, because: Never had it crossed the recency of my imagination. My clasped hands had loosen in laid-back composure. All my mind drew was a blank.

"Be still."

But every other sound was drowned by the furious pounding of blood that gushed tumultuously, again and again, into my head. A second round of fear gripped my heart, when every bone was beating against blood. Fear fighting fear; I fear because I feared.

"Be still."

Completely paralyzed in thought, the remaining ounce of strength could yield me only one thing.

"Be still."

In utter shackles, I found everything taken away from me, because I failed to choose what was good. I come empty-handed.

"Be still."

Fully aware of my inability to even number the hairs on my head, all I ask is, never leave me. Grace, was all I needed.

I will be still.

Drug Allergy

They give out a typical consent form with a schedule of dates and time slots - It's the annual check-up where I had to remind myself to bring my Health Booklet to school.

I remember fears we had in common: What if we found ourselves barely able to read the rows of letters and numbers on the screen when we covered one eye? What if our "bent backs" revealed distorted spines and 'positive' shows up in our reports? How shall we pretend not to care if we gained weight, or weighed more than the boys?

Yet one thing that bothered me most was not quite what everyone experienced. I carefully made sure my booklet was faced down, or pretended to be poring over the facts of my babyhood while everyone compared their birth weight, head circumference, length.... All because I had a distinctive, stark red label plastered above my name on the cover: DRUG ALLERGY.

As a child I was more familiar with the dominant meaning of 'drug'- illegal, poisonous, addictive, rehab - all which meant I feared my friends judging me should they notice the cover. Of course, in retrospect I would think myself silly to actually have such irrational fears, because my present self would care less about what others think of my drug allergy.

But I remember this fear I experienced because I recently have another stark red label plastered over my appointment card. So I'm writing àbout another childhood fear that I otherwise would have forgotten.

Well, it's red for an obvious reason: A drug allergy determines what medicines I should not take, which the doctor needs to be aware of. But this very reason that served (and still serves) to protect me actually put me on tenterhooks.

I'm curious as to how far this label would follow me. I'm allergic to Penicillin, and I hear people telling me that means I can't take much medicine. But I have no idea what effects Penicillin has on me, or if I'm still allergic to it. And what makes this most interesting is if I actually encounter an experience where I have to make an important decision regarding my health, like that between Penicillin and possibly death.

The levels of experience that writing has helped me to remember and prepared me to anticipate...

Adios

Have you ever had a friend whom you feel you have known for your entire life, yet at different points of time, you realized you felt more like a stranger?

You remember how you used to share your fears, anxieties and hopes with her, and how she used to also feel the same way about many things in life. There were moments when she would pound her fist on the table just because your joke was so funny laughing wasn't enough. Moments when she would grab your arm while walking because she's too tired to support herself. Days when she called you her best friend, and showered you with many gifts and texts because you were at the top of her mind.

But you also come to understand they were short-lived. Few months of transition into the next phase of life, and you realize you no longer see her the way you used to. You thought for many years that she's a friend to keep, but it seems as if all the closeness between you two has turned into a void.

In those memories, you could understand everything she was thinking even before she spoke her thoughts. Yet in those memories, the friend you met has made her leave. You struggle to accept that the friendship lives only in you and what you wrote. Even if you try to make amends, she would only draw a blank. Or maybe tell you she does miss you but nothing changes.

She is now a stranger, whose thoughts need a lot more work to comprehend. You realize that you see in her something you never expected, something so prevalent in everyone else you thought she used to never associate herself with. You come to see her in a new light, and your heart feels not a tinge of pain, but an incomprehensible weight that zaps you of so much energy. Two different identities, one you used to know so clearly, and the other you're crippled trying to understand.

They say maybe people don't change, they just become more of who they are. I've let enough energy and emotions drain me trying to grapple with this change. I accept that there are friendships like this, some real ones that last for only certain points of time in life.

I really needed this closure. Goodbye, stranger.

A Writer's Dream

I'm usually clueless regarding what I'd like to do in the future but I'm certain of two things: 1. I have no passion for teaching. 2. I love writing but that may not be what I would do after all.

Surely I have contemplated options like journalism but whàt I'd like to belíeve is that there are indeed more options that I am unaware of, just like how I always thought my greatest passion was Literature until I discovered Linguistics. According to popular belief, my degree in Linguistics/English would not be able to earn me big bucks.

What gave me a pleasant surprise one day was walking past an article that hung on my dad's wall. I could see that he was proud of it (and me). In retrospect I realized I actually had the honour of experiencing what it means to be a writer while I was still in primary school. I wrote about my heavy heart upon the demise of a tree that had been struck down by the merciless thunderstorm of the night.

The most interesting part in hindsight, is not the content but the article being written in Mandarin. There was no Googletranslate, whose tremendous usefulness has now earned my reliance. I found it pretty hard to believe that I actually was capable of writing an article in Mandarin and have it published thereafter (therefore earning myself five bucks). I vaguely remember trying my best week after week to improve in writing so that my article could get selected. Though most people easily had more than one chosen, I am humbly in awe of this favour I was granted. Maybe I've given up on mastering a language, but I realized, I've never given up on writing.

Vacation

There are many things I write about but among these things there are also many things that I choose to keep to myself. Here is a post to explain the hiatus, if anyone bothers to keep track and notices my lack of 'updates'. Sometimes what I write here dates back to years ago when I first scripted them down but most of the time they come from my diary. Lately my thoughts have become too personal and I don't feel comfortable with sharing them. I'm not having insecurities, but I'm getting to understand myself better and I guess I was never one to tell others directly what I am. Despite saying all of that, I will not stop writing here. I'm currently embracing a long break whose end I do not wish to see at the moment. If there's one thing on my mind, it's probably getting my body clock back in order. I am not sleeping early though I have been faithfully turning in before midnight. I just wish to get more rest so I can write with a clearer mind.

Surrender

It is incredibly exhausting how things have come in one after another at breakneck speed this week that I have almost forgotten it's not even the end of the week. Every morning I look forward to my (peaceful) slumber when I've checked everything off the list for the day. But my mind will not give me a break even when I have tucked myself into bed. Before I can sleep several things run through my mind.

I think of who to pray for. I think of what I need to script down onto paper. I think of what I need to do the next day, who I have to meet, what deadlines I have to meet.

I'm typing this in the few minutes before my mind officially shuts down. From the comfort of my bed (oh dear bed) and in a few seconds this post will be sent from my Blackberry to Fierce.

Things are weird when my thoughts are incoherent. Last week I half-dreamt that I was possessed because my tummy was aching the whole night. Threw up the next morning and took a blood test after the doctor bruised my stomach with his latex-gloved hands. Gastric pain. Not new.

I don't know where this is heading but actually I did not plan for any direction.

4 projects, 2 assignments - all in 3 weeks.
Reminder for this week: Surrender.

Goodnight.

Reality (Or not)

For the past few weeks I experienced surreal moments of a few minutes where I could not separate myself from my state of dream. Each one probably lasted only a few minutes but the presence of this unfamiliar semi-reality was telling. My brains felt exhausted as though my thoughts raced incessantly in my entire duration of sleep. I vaguely recalled a few intensive dreams I had and it seemed like I was in Inception. Basically I just woke up and felt like I did not belong.

I consider this a threat to my existence because for a good three minutes I could not find myself and I forgot the names of the people I love. I am afraid that these three minutes would one day find a way to last. But I will not be able to end the moment because I am paralyzed in that moment.

I am also aware that it is an abstract idea I am problematizing and maybe there is really no such dimension that is trying to infiltrate my life after all. I have no idea when I would encounter this alternate state again but I surely need more sleep.

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?