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?

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.

Deception

The moon doesn't stay in shape. Occasionally eluded by the clouds that have camouflaged within the nightsky. They spread across the horizon, all the way from where it gathers light from the moon, till where it almost disappears, at the back where my eyes wouldn't reach. Lumps that come in different sizes. If they represent people I miss, I reckon you'd be the one right above me. The spot on the sky where my gaze shoots straight up and reach. You wanted to be free. Yet you longed to linger in a part of me, wishing you hadn't become like this. When I face you again I don't understand how you managed to pull through that state. Of desolation. Eyes incredibly earnest to fight yet on the flipside what grew deep into you was emptiness. Now the moon and clouds resemble the shadow of a ship that's sailing nowhere. Is that you? Crazy, is that what most people would label? In a place you lived on your own, like the strips of metal flanked by two bars right in front of me. Or the glass sphere that has turned too hostile and chosen to be coated with an inner shimmer. Too ready to take risks. To protect yourself. They are all joined up now, and they fill in the spot which was previously empty. Were you taken away? Too many reasons tell me you didn't have a choice. The mind is proven untrustworthy - you were obliterated as quickly as how a simple white adhesive would colour a blemish. As though even your shadow missed the beat of a heart. If you lose what's under your feet, you get to realise what you missed. And maybe between us, we'd find nothing but a shard of mirror.

Vacant

Down the dark hallway, I watched something glisten. I couldn't tell if they were angry tears or regrettably a sign of your exhaustion. I wanted so much to walk out that door and be freed from your lies. My lies. Instead I kept silent. I didn't want to break your heart. But more than that I was too terrified of leaving. I knew what you were capable of; Yet even what little I knew was only part of what I could have risked finding out. In your frustration you could have walked right up to my face and given it a punch. Easily. I never fought back because I hadn't the strength and courage. Instead you picked up the bin at the corner, raised it above your head and flew it down to the ground. Your face is filled with anguish, completely bent on having things your way. My body stiffened as I broke into tears. What else can I do? I just wasn't.....brave enough. In a quivering voice slightly lower than a whisper, I murmured something in compliance. If I kept up the front, you wouldn't have to scare me. In time to come I realised that either way, I'd never have had it any easier. What eventually left me with an ache was that I never mattered enough to even break your heart.

Someone extraodinary

Through the heavy lids of my eyes I watch you lazily. You place your arms on the cool marble and stretch your legs, your body ramrod straight, inclined at the same angle against the ground. I hear your voice gently calling my name. Completely harmless and of no haste; like how seashells softly crunch under the sole of my shoe.

I put on the socks before playing with the velcro. You lock the door behind me and I wait for the usual 'Let's go'. I wonder if that is a habit of yours that I have gotten used to. Four letters are inked onto the faded grey beneath our weight. Bad word, said you to me when I ask you what it reads. I do not know how to pronounce the peculiar vulgarity that I'm seeing for the first time, and in such big print.

I love our morning jogs like these. Across the road, up a slope onto the path with the green on my right. We stop by the fitness corner and I watch you do the monkey bars. You always urge me to try but my arms carry me past no less than three because I don't like my feet in the air.

When we walk back home you hold out a clenched fist. Show me the back of it. You teach me how to tell the number of days in a month by looking at my knuckles and each depression in between. I gawk at my hand in disbelief. You ask me the colours of the rainbow and I ponder my thoughts aloud. Fumbling by the time I reach the last finger. Richard of York gains battle in vain, this acronym you teach me. It wasn't until Physics that I recalled that this is ROYGBIV.

In the afternoon you bring out a bucket of water that foams with bubbles at the surface. I carry the heavy scrubs and we start cleaning the blemished grey we saw in the morning. Scrub all four letters, one by one. While watching the paint lose its initial starkness I think of why you are doing this. The stubborn black refuses to come off completely.

You're the first kindest man I met.

Exception

Imagination, is the most powerful part of me. I don't want to stop believing in spite of all my tears and the painful truths I have to learn. I dream of having my own column. I aspire to write to move something in everyone's hearts. People read it and give a good-natured laugh but deep within they suddenly have a resolution. They pledge to let go of all setbacks, and they are not afraid to face what's ahead. People never have to compete anymore. Even watching a flower's petals as the wind wafts through their hair makes them smile. People exchange hugs under the sun and dance in the rain. They watch for rainbows when the sky clears. No one asks for the time because there's nothing to rush for. They take slow walks by the lakes and understand how life is precious even as a fish hurriedly swims, as a bird stops by the stone pavement to take a break. People learn to stretch out their hands to feel the soft heat of the sun instead of clenching their fists. I dream that eveyone has the opportunity to love. To love and understand how it can also bring pain. No one takes love lightly because it is a gift. And when the sun slowly falls, marbles on the asphalt glimmer. Like hope...and everyone goes to sleep with reassurance. I dream that the world can be a pretty place.

I miss Joey

xsmokedham

I remember laughing so hard at this.

Parallel

"Look at the clouds. See the part where the shade's darker? It's like a reflection of that above."
The clouds made me feel so near to the sky. Like if I reached out my hand and stretched a little I would touch heaven. On the far right, I see a trail of lights glimmering. Traced them and found a kite at the end of the invisible thread. So that was how you flew a kite when the sky's no longer bright. Unafraid that it'll lose its way because you believe the lights will guide you. So you give your best and let the kite go far. Watch it soar and rise, tasting a little of peace when it gets to breathe above everything else. You can look away for a second but you hold onto the thread in your hands. When you look again, follow the lights and there your kite is. It's like freedom, when people put their trust in each other. You don't hold it tightly to your side all the time because then it'd never get to see what the other side under the sky is like. What you have in your hands is enough for you to believe that the connection is safely present. The lights will guide you if it loses its direction or falls along the way. Such a subtle expression in what a tangible activity. It speaks of an aspect of love that I've yet come to terms with.

Kids

I used to count the alternate white and black as I crossed the road when I was young. And now as I step on the last I'm thinking this will also be the last time I'll ever cross this road. The void deck with the stone benches. Six round seats. I remember how I used to sit there and wait while observing in silence. Right behind is a choice between a slope and a small flight of stairs. I always chose the latter. Face the clinic that has undergone renovation so many times. And out to the carpark because the badminton court site has been fenced with barricades. Lift upgrading, the signage reads. I recall us hauling the rackets and net down the stairs. I was always the lazy one who stood by and watched them tie the net to the poles. She would look at us from the window while we waved frantically and pretended like we were too carried away with the game. When she signalled that she'd be going to the kitchen to prepare dinner we'd wink at each other, then fish out the coins in our tiny pockets and race to the vending machine a block away. We had to be quick, because she didn't allow if she knew. This is how we grew up.

Indelible

Past midnight. Through the dim lights. We watched on as they incessantly gave you a diagnosis every few minutes. Each one lasted eternity. We're silent, while the smell of drugs hung heavy in the air. Perhaps at that point of time, we all knew. But no one dared mention a word. Because it would be real the minute we say anything. And we were all just deceiving ourselves. Hoping against vacant hope, that what we're thinking of isn't true. We wanted somebody to walk out that corner and reassure us that our fears were unnecessary because you'd be fine. But none did. And we finally had to face what had to come. Too quickly, but not unexpected. We had to make a choice. Let go and spare you the agony, or cling onto every possible way in a bid too desperate to keep you by our side? Amongst us, some were relenting. Finally the tears came. On every single face. As we each walked to your bedside and let you watch us for the last time. You were too tired to speak, while my voice faltered as I attempted to. I held your hand tightly in mine, hoping that you would suddenly be strengthened to pull through this. I knew you could, because you did. But in the end you chose to stop battling. Too weary. You made your decision, and I found it the hardest to respect. But God taught me to see this beauty in letting go. Till today, I never forgot how you chose to finally breathe for the last time when no one was by your side. Alone you came and alone you left. To be with the one who has blessed me with your very presence for more than half of my life. I miss you.

Overrated

I awake to the smell of cinnamon and inhale the air. Dense. Still, quiet. The road's in solitude and its tranquility murmurs of reluctance. Reluctance, that makes things too apparent. When do we know we're no longer what we are? There comes a point when we have to learn to let things go. Not because it's the right option, but because holding on wouldn't make things better. We will all be reluctant. Who's to say we've never wanted this more than anything? At the end we all just settle. It's when we realise we're just like everyone else. It's when we stop trying to be different because there's no way. It's when we tread our toes on soft sand and forget how we used to build sandcastles. It's when we stop doing what we love. Because we think there's little time we should afford for ourselves. We all hear and speak about our lofty ambitions. Dreams that are seemingly unattainable, but made believable when we pat each other on the shoulders. And so we work hard, thinking that we are in control and that what we do today determines the results we will face. But growing up also means you have to learn to accept. That we have no idea how our life really turns out albeit meticulous planning. We write them down, make oaths to ourselves. We clench our fists and say we're determined. We focus on nothing but what we design and eventually label as goals. We get distracted along the way and wake up to the ugly side. Realise that life isn't all pretty. And struggle to come to terms with the truth that ultimately we'll never know how things pan out in our lives. So this makes the idea of having dreams moot. There's no point, isn't it? We search for information, get obssessed and busy ourselves with the whole planning of our future, battling against the parts of our selves that tell us it's impossible.
We listen to inspiring stories and listen to all the successful accounts, and finally believe that if we really put in more than enough, we would be where we want to be. But we all forget too easily: we too are in the midst of people who're just living the norm. They're not exactly unsuccessful, they just don't hold anything impressive. And this is majority. Which means a greater probability of us being one of them. So when all has dissolved, what do we hold on to?
Consider finding joy amidst all the drudgery and reluctance. A road less traveled indeed, but maybe this is the way I want it.