Torn Asunder

things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

(i've moved.)

Life Sucks

Hmmm. Why does life suck?

If it doesn't (to you), why do so many people say it (and maybe even believe it)?

A year older, and none the wiser.

More questions, less answers.

More problems, less presents.

More friends, but even more who want my head.

They say change is the only constant in life; I say it's God.

Good Morning Revival

It's been a while since I last came here. But I'm back to brush the dust of what remains here.

Scholarship interview on Thursday. Not looking forward to it at all.

And it's been a while since I last felt this way.

I Need You

I'm having withdrawal symptoms!

It's been so long since I last had you.

It's all in the chase; the thrill; the exhiliration; that one moment of passion where you lose it all and give it all.

I miss the loosening up of muscles for vigorous activities.

I miss chasing after certain people.

I miss the moments of ecstacy when all is brought to completion - you know it is done.



I miss you - Track and Cross Country.

Burn the Ships

It's been really trying at times. I want to go back to my old life. I want to go back - to running; to track; to cross-country. Why CF? Certain people are called to greatness, and they'll gladly take on the challenge. Why don't You just call those who want to do it?

But I guess Monday's chapel session spoke to me in a different way.

God doesn't call us to serve within our comfort zone, and that has been so clear across this year. Leading the younger youths has never been something I would have kindled a passion for, yet He placed that passion within me. It's not about who they are or how different they are from me, but they are lives entering the Kingdom of God. It's not who they are now, but I believe in who they will become.

And here an old song comes to mind.



Burn the Ships
by Steven Curtis Chapman

In the spring of 1519
A Spanish fleet set sail.
Cortez told his sailors,
"This mission must not fail."
On the eastern shore of Mexico,
they landed with great dreams,
but the hardships of the new world
made them restless and weak.
Quietly they whisper
"Let's sail back to the life we knew"
but the one who led them there was saying,

Chorus:
"Burn the ships!
We're here to stay.
There's no way we could go back now that
we've come this far by faith
Burn the ships.
We've passed the point of no return.
Our life is here so let the ships burn.

In the spring of new beginnings
a searching heart set sail
looking for a new life
and a love that would not fail.
on the shores of grace and mercy
it landed with great joy.
but the enemy was waiting
to steal kill and destroy
Quietly he whispered
"go back to the life you knew"
But the one who led us here was saying

Chorus

Ouch

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.



After Love
by Sara Teasdale

There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.

The Story of Me

We all have our own stories to tell no matter how mundane a life we lead.

And we all want an audience - to share our moments of joy, jubilation, melancholy, sadness, and loneliness with. We all want someone to listen - to our crowning moments of success, to our achievements, to or struggles both within and without. We all want someone to share our views, perceive in the same manner, comprehend with the same thoughts.

We all want to be in touch; we all desire to be touched, to reach out to someone else both physically and emotionally. It is an innate instinct and desire that overpowers, often, any rational sense. We all need to be needed. And that yearning can be so powerful it oftentimes does not matter who that person is.

And at the end what we really want, as Kundera curtly points out, is just for someone to hold a mirror up to ourselves. Friends, companions, acquaintances exist for the sole purpose of reflecting to us what we would like to see and hear of ourselves.

It is the condition of alterity. Empathy, no matter how powerful, is never about the Other. It is always only about 'me'.

Inaction

It's at times like these where I hope my inactions speak louder than my actions.

But who would have read them?

It's not that I don't care.

But maybe I should have acted. Maybe I should have said something. Maybe I should have said everything would be alright.

It's not about the 'maybes' in life, is it?

Less than a week to make up for it.

I dare you to move ;

Ennui

SYLVIA PLATH

Ennui

Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.

The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

Quintessons

For anyone who watches the ever so popular Transformers series, you would know what I'm talking about.

For those who don't, I shall be kind enough to explain. Quintessons are creatures with 4 to 5 faces. Each face represents a different characteristic, comes across with a different tone, and is unique and different from the other faces. However, the most feared is the face of death, which appears when Quintessons pass sentence on criminals to send them to their demise in the Sharkticon pit.

But are these Quintessons all but a work of Science Fiction and animation?

Apparently not. We all are Quintessons in our own way. We were our different faces (they go by a more common name - facades) to blend in to our circumstances. We switch roles throughout the different acts and scenes in our little micronarrative known as the stage of life. We play the friend, then the backstabber. We play the villain, who saves the life of the hero in the end and redeems himself. We play the leader of the pack, and the follower of another. It does beg the question: what is real(ity)?

Indeed, we weave our lies of deceit and deception ever so well nowadays. We get so caught up in weaving the webs, hoping that they will catch the fragments of life which we want so bad to live out; to become perfect. Do we, at times, live the life we so loosely term "hypocritical"? Do we live lives that are not ours; that cannot be ours? They exist so often in our imagination, in our subconscious, and we blur the distinction between the Dreaming and the Real World.

I've been questioning myself lately. Have I succumbed to the life of duality and double standards? Indeed I wonder whether I would have done things differently if it were in the past. I've thought about it, and the answer is no. It wouldn't change. You've forced my hand. I gave you all the signs, the ominous writings on the wall. You didn't heed them. You've ventured forth obnoxiously, bravely (yet foolishly) incurring my wrath. Now it is my turn to strike back.

Reciprocity

Reciprocity. It sustains the human soul, it gratifies the heart, it stirs a warmth within.

We crave to be reciprocated in every thought and action.

Yet often we give more than we receive... even when we believe we seek not equal measures.

We love more than we are loved... or so we think.

We hope more than what hope can give.

We imagine more than what reality constructs.

We expect more than what reason and rationality can provide.

And so we spend a lifetime waiting for the moments which we feel the exchange to be all worthwhile, and the gift which reciprocates in fullness. But more often than not, these moments rarely arrive. And with each fading hope, each failed attempt, each disappointment, each loss, we die a little inside.

Yet we convince ourselves that it is okay, that life moves on, and that there'd be future opportunities. Our youthful optimism is rekindled. We wander into imagination to hope further even when we know some things will never be. But we do so regardless.

This is the paradox of human nature - between memory and desire. We will always set ourselves up for a fall. We are addicted to pain and disappointment. Yet we are creatures of hope, desire and dreams. For without these hopes and aspirations, anticipations and expectations, life remains a meaningless monotony. Thrown into the throng of life we will always be struggling to accept reality or re-create it.

Which is the lesser of two evils?

I haven't found mine yet.

Regardless of all this, I know that I love you. I do.

Demons

We all have them.

They came in all shapes, sizes, forms, and manifestations. We call them skeletons in the closet; we call them the repressed; we call them desires; we call them vice; we call them greed. But a rose by any other name... We all have them.

Most of us have more than just skeletons. Within us are corporeal, carnal beasts of burden. At times they incestously breed; at others it is a mere solitary beast. But they are ever present, every waking moment, with every passing consciousness. They haunt existence itself.

It is the condition of life - to be constantly struggling against the beasts we lock deep within in the dark abyss that is our soul. Each day, from behind the dim-lit dungeon walls they seek to claw their way to consciousness, to action. They howl, they shriek in agony, they yearn to be fulfilled, to be satisfied, to be released from the grills that encage desire and instinct.

These are our inner demons, ever trying to break free of their imprisonment within us. We suppress them, yet they yearn to be unleashed. These are the more dangerous breed; demons that no one else sees nor knows of their existence, until they take us over. We fight valiantly against them, locking them inside their cages, hoping that we can throw the key away forever. Yet ethereal bars of steel cannot keep them in. At times, they take over, and at times we lose all control and succumb to the beast within us. We go on rampages, acting on all our deep subconscious desires, and especially that of our repressed fantasies. They tear down our defenses, changing us from Jekyll to Hyde, empowering and embodying us. We leave a trial of destruction in our wake, seeking that which feeds our darkest desires - of lust, of greed, of revenge.

Some of us pretend they don't exist for ignorance is indeed bliss. Some choose to admit defeat and succumb to the demonic devourings. Those who storm the battlefronts valiantly and vigilantly suffer the fate of battle scars and weariness.

But for us who do, each demon we confront and choose to banish is a moment of triumph, a growth for the inner child. At the end, we hope that in the twilight of our years we could return to the state we came - pure, untainted, beautiful... and good.

But if, and should, my inner demons take over, rest assured, once they are done with me, they'll come for you.

Accessorise

A recent shopping trip and the conversation that ensued brings me to this.

Is anything around us ever as simple as it seems? In almost everything around us today, there is a need to be more than normal; to stand out; to be different; to be noticed. The saying goes, "A rose is a rose is a rose," and indeed, a rose by any other name is a rose. Therefore, by applying that, if I wanted to get a bag, I should be able to just grab one off the shelf and use it. But that's not the case, is it? So many things today are more than what they were made to be; they need serve more than their basic purpose so they sell. We craft, design, innovate to make our products (be it material or ourselves) stand out from others.

A bag serves the purpose of a storage space, to take something along with us, yet at the same time, freeing our hands. But just look at the deviations today - harversacks, pouches, sling bags, sling bags with compartments specially meant to store laptops in, and so on. And within each subgroup lie even more variants. We have different colours, different sizes, different materials, but all for what purpose? More than to give the option of choice, it stems from the need to create identity - to be unique.

But the more pressing question has nothing to do with consumer goods and marketing strategies. It begs us to take an introspective approach and reflect upon how such culture has become a part of our lives. What has happened to the saying, "Just be yourself" ? Have we lost who we really are?

Why do we dress up (aside from wanting to look our best)? Why don't we just standardise what we wear and create a uniformity which many claim will bring stability? Why do we accessorise - the bracelets, chains, necklaces, earrings, bangles? Why have we come to the place of wanting to BE somebody, instead of embracing the fact that we ARE somebody? Why do we paint, refurbish and refurnish the rooms of our lives? We do so to look presentable to those who will step into ours, and hope to make that impression on them. And indeed, I see nothing wrong with doing so.

But who are we when we are bare; when we remove all that we put on to look good? Are we still presentable, or do we only look good wearing the facade that masks our scarred imperfection we try to hard to sweep under the rug? Who are we, really - masks and all aside?

I've realised I've painted my walls, brought in new furniture, desperately trying to make that impression. But like someone once asked me...

what really matters?

Hourglass

A draft I never did have the time to publish last year, so here it is.



We mark yet again the end of a year, the trace of history, the passing of time. And it is that time we set new resolutions, project futures, emplace hopes and dreams for the coming year.

Yet why do we celebrate the end of a cycle and desire a new one? Why do we rejoice in what is merely an arbitrary concept of entities passing through, flowing, and 'moving' somewhere. Why do we exult in what is perhaps a mental measure of our ageing process.

Time (as it is so commonly touted) the very essence.

But what is time? Its definition is, perhaps like all linguistic signifiers, elusive and dislocated for one can only explain time in the discourse of signifiers. We never can explain time without gesturing to other signifiers. Time has always been, is and always will be defined in terms of its manifestations, of other sign systems.

For many, time is a concept known as minutes and seconds, the ticking of the clock, the digital turn on the screen, the ripening of years, the succession of generations, the passing of moments, the setting of milestones, wealth and profit, the rising and going-down of the sun, daylight and darkness, revolutions of the earth, distance, duration, memory, deja vu, the beginning and the end, the past, present and future, life, death, and eternity.

However we choose to define it, time cannot be defined. It is always already the impossible. Yet it dictates social structures and convention, manipulates our routines, cripples the mind with fears of mortality, establishes culture and cultural beliefs, tradition and action, entraps with transcience. And when we ponder on how mankind celebrates somewhat significant and cherised moments such as a birthday, the passing of a year, and the enterprise of festivals and festivities, we ask of ourselves why.

Everything is built on the unchallenged dogma that time passes and is therefore precious, invaluable and real...

But Time is the very construct of man. It is artifice itself.

Devised by the Sumerian civilisation in 2000BC, refined by the Greeks and Romans, mechanised by the English, adopted by the world, time is, for all its worth, a construct, perhaps an illusion. And so are all facets and the many faces of time - the lunar, solar, gregorian calendars, dates, months, years.

So here's to a Happy New Year. There is indeed much to celebrate when we realise how we have become victims of our own device / devise.

Educators

Educators - most call them teachers, a few term them friends; but what they do is teach.

They are set in the system to teach us about life and what is important to life. They teach to prepare us for the world and work ahead. They teach to impart skills that are said to transcend the classroom and its learning. And in doing so, as is the inevitable when teaching about life, they teach us what it means to be human.

Yet, recent experiences have cast doubt on the goals and purposes of educators as I've known them for the past two years. What I've seen and witness has not adequately reflected and embodied behavior and attitudes that we should live life by.

All I see is the strife and ambition, bearing no consequences to what destruction they leave in their wake as long as they get what they so desperately long for. To them, the means will always justify the ends. I see backbiting and betrayal as if loyalty were a foregone utopia. I see no semblance of the friendships and brotherhoods they tell us our youth would forge. I see no care nor concern for "the future of the nation", when all they want is in the now. Students and their grades are but the tools by which they get what they strife for. Fame, accolades, promotions, recognition - all these are more important than the well-being our the very fragile minds they were meant to nurture and develop.

Whatever happened to morals, ethics and values; to trust, love, integrity and honesty? What happened to the practice of doing what's right instead of what's easy? These people have become the values they so falsely preach against.

It is indeed a shame...

And that is why I'm leaving. For more than all the academic purposes and courses I seek to take elsewhere, my value system cannot be eroded by such false prophets in our midsts. I am shunned, for I dare to be different; for seeing more than my peers; for realising the falsehoods and lies that they would try to cover up in their hypocrisy.

And that is why I'm leaving. I love to learn, and they have taught me nothing.

Wishful Thinking

I'm back from the doctor's. No history exam tomorrow for me. Two day MC. Brilliant I say. More sleep's around the corner. The much needed respite's always welcome.

I was wondering today if the world would be a happier and simple place without reasons and reasoning; without the very art of substantiation and logic that grounds our faith in society; that restricts the mayhem and chaos from being unleashed, bounded by legislation.

I suppose it would be. We would do thinks as mindless beings, going about our daily routines because "we have to" and "we are told to do so". We do not question, but we trust in the system which governs our lives. (Why does this sound like I'm advocating totalitarianism ala V for Vendetta?) We lose our choice and free will, to relieve ourselves of the strain of thinking and perceiving. Is that an exchange that is worth it?

I don't know. Really. It was just a passing thought. But there are traces of the mindless drones carrying out their daily activities. As much as we like to believe that we have the power of free choice, it is actually restricted to a large extent.

Why do we go to school? Or to work? Why can't we go to School A one day and School B the next? Why must we take exams? Why do we have to do homework (or face punishment)? Why are we given parents whom we did not choose (no I am not advocating rebellion or for people to start ill-treating their parents)? All these point to the lack of choice, and the innate power of control that the system or higher beings have over our lives.

It is, scarily, quite apparent that there is little choice we possess in governing our lives. Our lifes are but pawn pieces in a game of chance played by higher beings, be it God or the system. Indeed, "ours is not to question why, ours is but to do or die".

Meaning and Significance

More musings, in the face of the highly insurmountable stack of revision notes / exercises to be done before my Math paper tomorrow. I'll be glad the day I can upload thoughts direct from my brain to my blog. Until then, I'll have to make do with creating notes and my handphone and uploading them here if I have the time.

We all know the effects of time, and the change that it brings. We all know how time clouds our vision of the future; we don't know what it beholds, and the past; we leave the memories behind and cloud them in the thickest fog conceivable only in our subconscious so we never see them again.

With all the changes brought about over time and space, the greatest impact is brought about in the changing of meaning and significance. Historical monuments from the past lose their greatness. (Who wants to preserve some ancient Aztec or Mayan temple of worship?) Nuclear weapons, once greatly feared all across the world, lose their significance as mass production begun; whether it be five thousand or five, they are enough to bring the entire world to its knees. We change presidents and governments every few years, and we forget the little additions into the state law, and any reformations that they may have brought about. We accept all these as a continual, inevitable part of life, and we move on not bothering to think back upon them.

It becomes worse when this is brought down into the little things in our lives. When the sunrise we see each morning holds no more meaning than our very next breath; when the people around us come and go without us knowing; when we accept that there will always be another tomorrow to make up for our lack of discipline and procrastination, we just lose the meaning and joy of life. It is indeed sad that things which once held such great altars in our lives can fade away into the sands of time.

I've learnt to treasure what I have, and not let time devalue the currency of importance and significance of the things in my life. I've erected my own altars, altars which commemorate the different events and milestones in my life, and they do not lose their value, simply because they are not physical forms. The world subjects everything to the value of the lords of wealth and prosperity, but existence is clearly worth more than that. I will not sell my soul, no matter what the cost.

Counting the Cost

I'm tired...

Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. It's a lethal combination. Really.

I feel like giving up. To just mess it up, to let go, to be ill-disciplined; to be all the vices that I strive so hard to flee from and disregard from my life. I feel like not studying, not preparing. The urge to deliberately rebel and submit a blank sheet of paper and shove it down their throats to pay them back is just pulsating through the very essence of my being.

But this is a system where they don't care. There is no individual, only the collective. We don't remember who failed or passed. Just numbers, figures, and statistics. We don't remember the highest PSLE, O or A level score from our school, just the grades and percentages.

Our very being is just so insignificant... so very insignificant.

It shocks me, and I don't know how I should respond. Someone came back yesterday. And it seems like so long ago when we last met. But everyone responds as if it was a given. What if nothing caused the person to walk back and turn around? What if he never saw the light of day again? Would we know, or care? I'm not free from this; I admit I do not try at times. And it's just so shocking. I contemplate the legacy (I think) I've built, and what would happen if I were to leave it all behind one day. No one would remember me, that I'm sure. Maybe for a couple of weeks, but nothing more.

I cried my heart out yesterday. I prayed with everything I had. I wanted to see him come back; to not throw everything away. We were close before he left, but I guess it's really sad that your space determines your relationships. When he left church, who actually bothered to keep in touch with him? I know I did, but at times I just didn't notice him anymore. And it saddens me. I prayed with all I had, because I felt so much. I felt his hurts and his guilt, and His Hurt. I prayed that His Love would come fill his life all over again. And when he was touched, I cried more because I knew You would never let him go, and You'd always take him back.

But really, who remembers us? Are we but heads on shoulders, two hands and two feet? Are we but numbers in the populace? We are five hundred strong. No one would see those leaving by the backdoor. We don't care about relationships. The space and condition comes first, everything else is about convenience.

The exodus draws nearer. And I'm going to give it all up soon, but not now.

Maybe when you read back, you'll realise I had once been there (if ever in your life) in that space we once shared. But my set moves on, and there's no longer the union and intersection. The space shares no overlap, and we move...

Maybe... just maybe...

The Book of Life

History is based upon the discovery and unearthing of past artifects and documents, which in the process allow us to discover more about what has been. We flip across the pages, we counter-check; we hypothesize; we postulate; we conceive ideas; we piece the pieces together, hoping that they fit and we can see the whole picture. By doing so, we unknowingly write the chapters of life in reverse.

We live in the present, and know only what today has brought and will bring. There is no mention of tomorrow, for tomorrow never comes, and yesterday is but clouded in a fading mist. We weave our tales, hoping to attain immortality, for our names and deeds to be forever etched in the minds of those who come after us. What the future holds we cannot fathom nor understand, and so we try to predict what is to come from the past.

Herein lies the element of time's cyclic nature. Almost everything natural is bound by time's cyclic forces, and once it makes its rounds, it comes back full circle. We have seasons, which go on year after year. We have the rotation of planets around the sun. But the most disputed of all these natural acts would be the course of human action. Are we bound by this cyclic nature? Will another Hitler rise up in the future? Will there be another superpower to match America's might? Will the choices we make be bound, if we can look back upon it and learn from the past? Therein lies the paradox.

History, as often propogated in the classroom, is the study of the past to learn from it. But one does question whether it has any use, or whether we are just playing the roles in a game of chance played by higher beings. Do we learn? Or are we doomed and destined to make the same mistake over and over again.

I do wonder really, whether I do learn from my history. Reflecting and thinking back, I see my errors, yet when choices come again, I repeat them. Yet it is not unknowingly, for I know that I am conscious of my choice. Yet there seems to be a lack of control over my life, as if there is some pre-destination that ensures I'm to be forever bounded by those issues. And one does wonder how something so wrong can seem like the best.

We dig up, search through the upheaveled mess in our past to search for the answers to the future. But what about the present? Where does it lie on a time line? What do we do, not then nor there, but now? Mistakes in the past carry wisdom for the future, but what does it hold for the present? What are we living in? Can existentialism be bound by time and space?

Questions unanswered. Musings about the larger issues of the human condition and life. Each time I go over a chapter of my life, it plays over and over in my memory, and it cannot be erased. Perhaps, the greatest book of history... is memory. The Watchers in the X-Men were beings who just watched and observed, noting everything that happened, but not playing a part in it. If such higher beings existed, perhaps the fusion of memories throughout time and space would unravel the truths we have all been seeking. But in truth, such an encyclopaedia and manual of life will never exist. We live based on instinct and advice.

I do wonder, whether that chapter in my life will come about again...

Arrgh

And I thought the night could not get any worse...

I feel really bad. Not bad in the feel bad way, but bad in the bad way. Oh nevermind. I'm incoherent anyway.