Note: Might be offensive, proceed with caution. Enthusiastic bloggers, don't think too little of me.
What I would do to have back all I had lost! Of course that in itself is loss.
Speaking of loss, one of those would be my motivation and passion, in say blogging. Yea, it shows a lot about me, doesn't it? Of how negative, uncommited and undedicated this no-talent jerk is. Well, I didn't know why I lost so much of my motivation and passion myself, as I was so keen on writing and literature upon my younger days when I started learning the English language.
But for some reason, I could and would not bring myself to enjoy this. Upon a shallow instropection the only things, that my currently enfeebled brain could bring about, I discovered some possible reasons.
First and foremost, in a blog you are restricted, binded by the social norms of civility and exposed to the judgement of others. What is nice about a diary is that you can complain all you want and there is that gratification of unleashment without any retort or consequences as the diary swallows all the anger and hate in its white, unblemished pages away from prying eyes. Well, within a blog you do not have that privelege. Eyes scanning through your every word, brains processing mistakes you made, finding ways to point out flaws or how to retort, unleashing their scorn in comments for your sincerity. Even if you just complain or moan about the day; the person's verdict would be, "Oh!This person complains all the time, what's his problem?"
"In space, no one can hear you scream", well, apparently that rule applies too in cyberspace. Whereas in some cases I want privacy, in my fickleness, I want to be heard too at other cases.
In blogs, I experience the inescapable feeling of seclusion. As one puts all drive and passion into an earnest bout of typed statements wanting to make a difference, it is so easy to be crushed as with the advance of time, no one had commented or even viewed the labour of love you had done. Once sweet, the now Sisyphean labour turns sour. Even the most eloquent, the most heartfelt writing wanting change, is crushed as everyone too wants to be heard. Hundreds, thousands, no, millions of blogs out there delivering a death sentence on the read count of your writing. Even if your friends know of your labour, even they too would sooner or later tire of it and bring your work from its dusty shelves, very rarely. Of course eventually people will read it if it is good and interesting but if not, it is so very easy to be demoralized.
Yea, those are the two main thorns upon my desire for blogging. Oh there are others of course but right now even complaining has so little joy for me right now. Maybe upon other times, more happier times would enable me to bring about sparks of negativity and complaints.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Narnian Days
*NOTE: Sorry Ms. Jess, but I have to admit that this blog entry was based on one of my previous essays a few years back. I had writer’s block again…Yea, lame excuse, but at least I have something. I’ll do better next time, I promise!*
As many of us know, the Chronicles of Narnia is a popular children’s series that touched many beliefs adults struggle with during the round-about game called ‘life’. Though written in a very simple and truthful form of writing that would fascinate the young minds of children, the Chronicles have also indeed provoked the pondering of academic intellects. Who is the man behind all these stories that continued to interest many people years after he had passed away? Of course, the answer would be the ever clever, witty and intelligent Clive Staples Lewis. ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ and its following books all have its charm and captivating plots that drew its readers into a world filled with love, treachery, characters that would live in your memories, and also a Being so powerful who has the strength and might to destroy an entire world at his command. C.S Lewis’s Chronicles that was loved by many has many mythical backgrounds that were considered inconsistent. In a way it was a legend, but then again it was also a type of supernatural myth or a lovable folktale that would amuse young children. Whatever it may be, his books would always be recalled as a classic that would be loved and adored for many, many more years to come.
Divine myths are probably the stories that we are more aware of when we were still young. Though we may hear of many other fairytales, the first thing that comes to our immature and primitive minds (well, we didn’t know much when we were only five) when the word ‘myth’ was mentioned, would be gods of great power or a catastrophic doom that would endanger the lives of the entire population of earth. Unfortunately, the Chronicles of Narnia have fewer ideas that have that same fate of ending the world (except for the final book, ‘The Last Battle’, where Narnia comes to an end). In this way of looking at the Chronicles, we would see Aslan as the powering ‘God’ who created Narnia in the first place. C.S Lewis had also described how each spot of ‘The lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ came to be. For example, the lamppost that Lucy first saw when she entered Narnia was planted by an even earlier descendant of the White Witch. It is a long story, but to sum it up, the Chronicles of Narnia has explained itself how it came to be and how it was controlled by a Supernatural yet physical Being instead of a complete systematic and humanistic way of governing this certain world (they did try and rid of the magical creatures and the name Aslan during the book, ‘Prince Caspian’, under the reign of dishonourable King Miraz). However, though the stories take place in many foreign places (its setting was in another world), time and space seemed not to be so distant. One can mathematically calculate how old Narnia is and though time differ in Narnia and in our world you could easily tell when a couple hundred years are a couple of hundred years (meaning you could tell when you were in time). There were many other different gods and goddesses, dryads and spirits, dwarves and fauns, but no one really have any power without it being given to them by Aslan himself! In more than one way, Aslan is the only God in this Divine myth!
Somewhat more symbolically, Narnia can also be considered as a legend. It tells a bit of history that affected our world for six decades ago and it prominently illustrated the historic story of Christ’s death and resurrection. Truth is behind the stories that C.S Lewis had so carefully made and it also tells of Kings and Queens who goes on adventures so wide abroad the world. Narnia, however, does not contain an explanation of why something is to be in our world but some events were tied together and had involved each other to the end. For instance, the horrible train accident that happened on earth had the children (Lucy, Peter, Edmund, Jill, Eustace, Polly, and Digory) dead, but while in Narnia, apparently, it was also dead because of corruption as the result of the end times (and because of an ape named Shift). In the beginning of ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’, we could easily see which war the children were in the middle of. WWII was not symbolic in history and so C.S Lewis’s Chronicles has a hint of human past. It may not be under the heading of a specific mythical category, but the Chronicles of Narnia certainly has endured these past fifty years without anyone complaining about its written format (except Tolkien, of course, who disagreed about entering Father Christmas into an otherwise mythical world of centaurs, beasts of the wild who could talk and other creatures Aslan had created).
Folktales are another way of saying fairytales. Its stories that belong under this heading are not and should not be considered true. It also taught lessons and beliefs that we are to live by as we go through our own journeys. The characters of the Chronicles of Narnia were ordinary people who have had hard lives (Digory), annoying personalities (Eustace), no real father or mother (Shasta/ Cor), and were people who were just like you and me. In all the books, as it neared to the end, you could always see a change in the characters who turned out rather to be heroes than a traitor. That is another element of a folktale and it should not be ignored. C.S Lewis certainly knew that his story was not real, but on the other hand, it actually is realistic in a way. His stories were handcrafted and are based on his own experiences that had inspired him to write so that perhaps even children may understand the message the Bible had so intended to spread.
I enjoy fantasy books thoroughly and it gives me an escape from the real world every time I have a bad day or have done something embarrassing on a special occasion. C.S Lewis’s books really have been written from the heart and that’d be the reason why I like it so much. ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ is a great movie to watch and I will recommend it to people, but it would be better to have read the books first so that you may understand fully what the author intended to state up on the screen and not pester other people sittin’ beside you by asking too many questions :)
-Carpe Diem!
....I've always wanted to say that :)
As many of us know, the Chronicles of Narnia is a popular children’s series that touched many beliefs adults struggle with during the round-about game called ‘life’. Though written in a very simple and truthful form of writing that would fascinate the young minds of children, the Chronicles have also indeed provoked the pondering of academic intellects. Who is the man behind all these stories that continued to interest many people years after he had passed away? Of course, the answer would be the ever clever, witty and intelligent Clive Staples Lewis. ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ and its following books all have its charm and captivating plots that drew its readers into a world filled with love, treachery, characters that would live in your memories, and also a Being so powerful who has the strength and might to destroy an entire world at his command. C.S Lewis’s Chronicles that was loved by many has many mythical backgrounds that were considered inconsistent. In a way it was a legend, but then again it was also a type of supernatural myth or a lovable folktale that would amuse young children. Whatever it may be, his books would always be recalled as a classic that would be loved and adored for many, many more years to come.
Divine myths are probably the stories that we are more aware of when we were still young. Though we may hear of many other fairytales, the first thing that comes to our immature and primitive minds (well, we didn’t know much when we were only five) when the word ‘myth’ was mentioned, would be gods of great power or a catastrophic doom that would endanger the lives of the entire population of earth. Unfortunately, the Chronicles of Narnia have fewer ideas that have that same fate of ending the world (except for the final book, ‘The Last Battle’, where Narnia comes to an end). In this way of looking at the Chronicles, we would see Aslan as the powering ‘God’ who created Narnia in the first place. C.S Lewis had also described how each spot of ‘The lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ came to be. For example, the lamppost that Lucy first saw when she entered Narnia was planted by an even earlier descendant of the White Witch. It is a long story, but to sum it up, the Chronicles of Narnia has explained itself how it came to be and how it was controlled by a Supernatural yet physical Being instead of a complete systematic and humanistic way of governing this certain world (they did try and rid of the magical creatures and the name Aslan during the book, ‘Prince Caspian’, under the reign of dishonourable King Miraz). However, though the stories take place in many foreign places (its setting was in another world), time and space seemed not to be so distant. One can mathematically calculate how old Narnia is and though time differ in Narnia and in our world you could easily tell when a couple hundred years are a couple of hundred years (meaning you could tell when you were in time). There were many other different gods and goddesses, dryads and spirits, dwarves and fauns, but no one really have any power without it being given to them by Aslan himself! In more than one way, Aslan is the only God in this Divine myth!
Somewhat more symbolically, Narnia can also be considered as a legend. It tells a bit of history that affected our world for six decades ago and it prominently illustrated the historic story of Christ’s death and resurrection. Truth is behind the stories that C.S Lewis had so carefully made and it also tells of Kings and Queens who goes on adventures so wide abroad the world. Narnia, however, does not contain an explanation of why something is to be in our world but some events were tied together and had involved each other to the end. For instance, the horrible train accident that happened on earth had the children (Lucy, Peter, Edmund, Jill, Eustace, Polly, and Digory) dead, but while in Narnia, apparently, it was also dead because of corruption as the result of the end times (and because of an ape named Shift). In the beginning of ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’, we could easily see which war the children were in the middle of. WWII was not symbolic in history and so C.S Lewis’s Chronicles has a hint of human past. It may not be under the heading of a specific mythical category, but the Chronicles of Narnia certainly has endured these past fifty years without anyone complaining about its written format (except Tolkien, of course, who disagreed about entering Father Christmas into an otherwise mythical world of centaurs, beasts of the wild who could talk and other creatures Aslan had created).
Folktales are another way of saying fairytales. Its stories that belong under this heading are not and should not be considered true. It also taught lessons and beliefs that we are to live by as we go through our own journeys. The characters of the Chronicles of Narnia were ordinary people who have had hard lives (Digory), annoying personalities (Eustace), no real father or mother (Shasta/ Cor), and were people who were just like you and me. In all the books, as it neared to the end, you could always see a change in the characters who turned out rather to be heroes than a traitor. That is another element of a folktale and it should not be ignored. C.S Lewis certainly knew that his story was not real, but on the other hand, it actually is realistic in a way. His stories were handcrafted and are based on his own experiences that had inspired him to write so that perhaps even children may understand the message the Bible had so intended to spread.
I enjoy fantasy books thoroughly and it gives me an escape from the real world every time I have a bad day or have done something embarrassing on a special occasion. C.S Lewis’s books really have been written from the heart and that’d be the reason why I like it so much. ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ is a great movie to watch and I will recommend it to people, but it would be better to have read the books first so that you may understand fully what the author intended to state up on the screen and not pester other people sittin’ beside you by asking too many questions :)
-Carpe Diem!
....I've always wanted to say that :)
Thursday, October 25, 2007
My Mother; a role model. a nightmare
A bond of flesh. A bond of blood. A bond created deep within the exterior of our frangible bodies; our soul. The foundation of all mother-daughter relationships. The one reason strong enough to push you to deal with that intolerant woman who has always cared for you with a gentle firm and loving hand. My mother, my aim and my nightmare has fused itself together through the twisted desire and search of myself.
Born in the womb of a woman I long to be; intelligent, wise, talented and firm, I never knew that one day, as I step into my own space in time I would loathe the mere thought of being her; intolerant, know-it-all and a bigot. Now don’t judge me just yet. You have yet to understand the bewildering experience of my life, you have yet to know and understand me. I use to question myself about my own mother. Do I love her for who she is? Or is it merely because she is after all my mother? The one woman who chooses to risk her life for the third time to bring my very existence into the world I now aspire to be a part of. The answer is not as simple as the ink that seeps into a piece of parchment or the logical equation of 1+1 = 2. It is that unspoken love that surrounds us both, like the air that we breathe; invisible yet a necessity of life. Akin with the language that we no longer fluently speak a language of truth and love that has diminished in the grounds of society; tainted by the corrupt and ostentatious lifestyle that many celebrities and media have exploited to the mind of the young and innocent. One the thousands of lessons she has always reminded me much too often, is that only I can define myself in this raving world, that only I would have to live with myself and that no one else but me could determine my own fate in this world and whatever comes after. She is my constant reminder to never lose myself to what others might stray to; she is the anchor that pulls me back from being adrift in this vast harsh world. Until one day, I would be strong enough to venture off by myself and discover the world she has once questioned. No matter how I retaliate, shrug and pull her iron chained soul will never let me go, no matter how I distaste such control. She knows the actions I will take and receives them open-heartedly; when the wind changes and the storm come she is my anchor, my rock and my safety net.
I remember the nights I spent as a little girl, not more than four to six years of age. I cuddled up next to my brown teddy, feeling the soft fabric against my arms and face, I’d listen to the sounds of my sister working on her work, my brother attempting to get out of his bed time once again, the sounds of the T.V downstairs that my father would just put on to soon fall asleep on the sofa and the clicking of my mother’s slippers coming closer and closer while I anticipate her entrance through my bedroom door. She would look at my sister and warn her of the time and moved across the room towards the door that connected my room with my brothers. She debated simply yet firmly with a hint of loving care to persuade my mischievous brother to finally go to bed for school early the next morning. She would then turn off the lights while I pretended to sleep as I closed my eyes comfortably in my twin bed with a pillow below my head, a teddy in my arms, my body neatly under the soft cushion of the comforter. My mother would simple place a strand of hair from my face and kiss me goodnight, knowingly that a few hours later she would have to come back to place the blanket that has fallen onto the floor once again. I then drifted to sleep finding comfort with the small fid ling and the sounds of the T.V knowing that my family is never far from me.
It didn’t take long for me to remember these small things of the past. With or without the two new members of the family that soon came into my life. That has come to destroy my life and break everything I own. No, no; to brighten and excite my life just a little more. They were my little brats, my little devils, my little so-called sisters. They brought me tears, envy, sadness along with laughter, smiles and the innocent perspectives I have once lost during the years that has past. More importantly, they brought me freedom, lessons that words can never convey and a chance to change. Something I have never thought of, they have taught me more than I ever thought I could teach them. They taught me respect, patience, compassion and a love that has no raison d'être. Something my mother has tried so hard to teach but failed. A lesson she had secretly taught me through the joys, tribulation and pain that only a family can bring.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
part one: excuses.
The thoughts in this blog (or series of blogs) were concieved over the course of the 2-week holiday and I had to do some rethinking to place them into a properly constructed structure. However, this is still part one of my blogs concerning the subjects discussed in this entry. Enjoy!
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Men say:
"We do not cry. Shedding a tear now and then is reasonable, but bawling and sobbing is just ..pathetic. Let the women cry; yes, stay at home while we invade another country. We are men, therefore we are tough."
Please, don't jump to conclusions. It is not the way I see it. I believe many, if not all men cry - and men being boys who had reached 'adulthood'. I could imagine men bawling during the first few hours of D-Day, or men sobbing over the loss of their loved ones. However, I honestly think a number of men do hold the stereotypical image above as what 'seperates the men from the boys'.
I was taught years ago to always check the reliability of any given resource, be it the latest gossip, a newspaper article, even a 99.9% accurate documentary. Two years ago, Mel Gibson's "The Patriot" movie was shown to me (and my classmates) and we were then tasked to make an essay concluding whether or not the given resource was reliable enought to research about the American Revolution. I got a 5 out fo 7.
A friend of mine had asked me about countries having civil wars, brothers killing each other, neverending wars, and the absence of peace that eternally haunts the darkest of human hearts. I did not understand how that person may have felt, and even though I had tried to help, it was as futile as not speaking to that person at all. We were not seeing each other eye-to-eye and were both stuck in each other's worlds.
Well, that was the way I saw it.
I haven't seen my share of blood and violence, but I do have pictures of rage, anger, paranoia, and depression stuck in my mind; pictures that had made the world what it is now today. I play video games so violent that pictures of victims of war are now no different than that of beautifully-pixelized rays of light shown off a glass surface of a television. I've gotten so used to seeing newspaper headlines about dozens getting killed everyday in countries I do not live in that I don't even bother wondering why and how. That's my world, and somehow I just live through it each and every day.
On Tuesday, during Chapel, we watched a sermon about God creating the universe to show us how 'undescribable' he is in our eyes. The man who talked also showed amazing images of stars and nebulas that were billions and billions of light years away from Earth. He snapped all the time repeating: "A star is born *snap*, a star is born *snap*, every second a star is born." It was supposed to be touching, if not amazing. However, I snickered and repeated with a different, but true, version: "A child dies *snap*, a child dies *snap*, every second a child dies."
They say: "Life is priceless."
No. That's what they said.
Now it's worthless.
Referring to my previous blog entry, a lot of events happened that made me realize only a small segment of what my friend had tried so hard to explain to me. A friend of mine had died, on Valentine's day. My father's friend had died, early one morning. And had I known that my grandfather would die a few hours after we have left his house, I would have opened up my lazy eyelids and hugged and stayed with him until he dies. One reason why I get used to all the violence and the destruction is that it's happening so far away from home. My friend talked about what happened here. And still, it's just too far away from where I am to make any significant change in my life, to make me look back and say, "Pardon me?"
My father gave me a file in the form of a PowerPoint presentation a colleague had given him. It showed forensic photographs taken from various crime scenes and mortuaries across Indonesia. Needless to say, most of the bodies shown - or at least, body parts - belonged to dead people. There were pictures of victims who died due to stabbing wounds, suicide, drugs, road accidents. There were pictures of broken bones, blood, and splattered brain goo. They were downright horrifying.
At first I thought: "I've seen worse. Try me, dad." I was wrong. Dead wrong.
All I could think about after I ended the presentation was how people might even have the heart to take the lives of other people in such brutal fashions. I showed it the next day to a friend of mine, and he also had familiar thoughts on it. It was horrifying. If you wish to see it, I'd be 'glad' to show it to you; but think twice.. or probably three times. It's scarier than any horror/thriller movie you've ever seen. Why? Because it happened. That 'chunk of meat' once had a human soul in it. And now it's what? Mutilated, burned, skinned, disembowled... I know people abort their babies every single day, but..
--------
This blog isn't complete yet. And it'll go unfinished, but rather than letting it go unpublished. I'll end 'part one' here. :D
--------
Men say:
"We do not cry. Shedding a tear now and then is reasonable, but bawling and sobbing is just ..pathetic. Let the women cry; yes, stay at home while we invade another country. We are men, therefore we are tough."
Please, don't jump to conclusions. It is not the way I see it. I believe many, if not all men cry - and men being boys who had reached 'adulthood'. I could imagine men bawling during the first few hours of D-Day, or men sobbing over the loss of their loved ones. However, I honestly think a number of men do hold the stereotypical image above as what 'seperates the men from the boys'.
I was taught years ago to always check the reliability of any given resource, be it the latest gossip, a newspaper article, even a 99.9% accurate documentary. Two years ago, Mel Gibson's "The Patriot" movie was shown to me (and my classmates) and we were then tasked to make an essay concluding whether or not the given resource was reliable enought to research about the American Revolution. I got a 5 out fo 7.
A friend of mine had asked me about countries having civil wars, brothers killing each other, neverending wars, and the absence of peace that eternally haunts the darkest of human hearts. I did not understand how that person may have felt, and even though I had tried to help, it was as futile as not speaking to that person at all. We were not seeing each other eye-to-eye and were both stuck in each other's worlds.
Well, that was the way I saw it.
I haven't seen my share of blood and violence, but I do have pictures of rage, anger, paranoia, and depression stuck in my mind; pictures that had made the world what it is now today. I play video games so violent that pictures of victims of war are now no different than that of beautifully-pixelized rays of light shown off a glass surface of a television. I've gotten so used to seeing newspaper headlines about dozens getting killed everyday in countries I do not live in that I don't even bother wondering why and how. That's my world, and somehow I just live through it each and every day.
On Tuesday, during Chapel, we watched a sermon about God creating the universe to show us how 'undescribable' he is in our eyes. The man who talked also showed amazing images of stars and nebulas that were billions and billions of light years away from Earth. He snapped all the time repeating: "A star is born *snap*, a star is born *snap*, every second a star is born." It was supposed to be touching, if not amazing. However, I snickered and repeated with a different, but true, version: "A child dies *snap*, a child dies *snap*, every second a child dies."
They say: "Life is priceless."
No. That's what they said.
Now it's worthless.
Referring to my previous blog entry, a lot of events happened that made me realize only a small segment of what my friend had tried so hard to explain to me. A friend of mine had died, on Valentine's day. My father's friend had died, early one morning. And had I known that my grandfather would die a few hours after we have left his house, I would have opened up my lazy eyelids and hugged and stayed with him until he dies. One reason why I get used to all the violence and the destruction is that it's happening so far away from home. My friend talked about what happened here. And still, it's just too far away from where I am to make any significant change in my life, to make me look back and say, "Pardon me?"
My father gave me a file in the form of a PowerPoint presentation a colleague had given him. It showed forensic photographs taken from various crime scenes and mortuaries across Indonesia. Needless to say, most of the bodies shown - or at least, body parts - belonged to dead people. There were pictures of victims who died due to stabbing wounds, suicide, drugs, road accidents. There were pictures of broken bones, blood, and splattered brain goo. They were downright horrifying.
At first I thought: "I've seen worse. Try me, dad." I was wrong. Dead wrong.
All I could think about after I ended the presentation was how people might even have the heart to take the lives of other people in such brutal fashions. I showed it the next day to a friend of mine, and he also had familiar thoughts on it. It was horrifying. If you wish to see it, I'd be 'glad' to show it to you; but think twice.. or probably three times. It's scarier than any horror/thriller movie you've ever seen. Why? Because it happened. That 'chunk of meat' once had a human soul in it. And now it's what? Mutilated, burned, skinned, disembowled... I know people abort their babies every single day, but..
--------
This blog isn't complete yet. And it'll go unfinished, but rather than letting it go unpublished. I'll end 'part one' here. :D
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Yet Another Drabbling of a Bored Blogger
*SIGH* Yea, hope you enjoy the story I made up when I was bored. None of it is true, but it's not even finished yet since I still have to edit most of its previous draft. Anyway, enjoy!
A wise old man who lived not long ago once said to me, “When I was just your age, the world was as free as a bird soaring endlessly through the skies. Wild horses galloped wildly through the open wilderness. Trees dominated my land and the fish swam deep in clean waters.”
The old man laid his back on his rocking chair, creaking, and sighed longingly. He looked at me straight in the eye and said, “The world was once a beautiful place, where limits were non-existent and the air as clean as its pure water as it reflected the shining sun on a hot afternoon,” He paused for a moment once more, as if he felt his memories calling him from a distance, of a time long ago, before he finally said, “The world was never meant for polluting and abusing, but for us to take care of and enjoy. We were given this gift,” He gestured and pointed to his backyard, “This world long ago…” He stopped when he saw the look on my face. He knew well that I didn’t agree with what he was about to say.
The old man looked at me again in the eye until I couldn’t match his gaze. I stared at the ground in silence. He gave me a sad smile when I had the nerve to look back at him again.
“The world was made by a Creator, a great, mighty and loving Being who created the heavens and formed the earth, weaving our lives like ornate robes of many colours. He gave His Son as a sacrifice for worthless humans to save them from an everlasting regret and mourning in Hell, away from His presence.” He cocked his eyebrows when I opened my mouth to cry out in protest.
“Yes, even humans are worthless. Try comparing yourself to the Universe, and you can see how insignificant you really are. However, His love for you, and for me, makes us special beyond all means. He created us to be unique because we would form a relationship with Him, so that we may bring glory to His name.” He shook his head at humans’ folly and nodded towards me, “I have made my decision long ago, and have not regret it since. My master’s burden is light, his hand guiding me wherever I may go…” His words were lost by the strong winds approaching from the north, but his meaning was clear.
He suddenly turned to me and asked me urgently, “It is your turn to choose your path. What will it be?”
That was the last time I ever heard that question. The old man passed away unexpectedly the next week after our conversation, creating a gigantic tidal wave of sadness within our community. My family and I attended his recent funeral in reverence. It was a difficult time for all of us. We mourned over the dead man and when I viewed his face before they sealed the casket, I was overwhelmed with tears. I was surprised that his face revealed a smile he used to give me when I visited him. His forehead gave way to mysterious wrinkles that I had seen so many times before.
I may have had my share of arguments with him, which had often filled my lazy afternoons with excitement, and what he called, ‘a youthful passion’, but he was my Grandfather. The only adult in this entire world who would be willing to listen, understand, and guide me through life. Why did he leave me? Didn’t he know that he just carried away the only thing that matters in my life to his so-called ‘heaven’? Sobs heaved out of me as I watched them seal the casket and I began to sink into the ground, surrounded by blurred hands trying to keep me standing, trying to comfort me. Why? Why him of all the people in the world? Questions like these burst out in my mind until I was no longer able to think clearly, succumbing to an unshakable grief.
A wise old man who lived not long ago once said to me, “When I was just your age, the world was as free as a bird soaring endlessly through the skies. Wild horses galloped wildly through the open wilderness. Trees dominated my land and the fish swam deep in clean waters.”
The old man laid his back on his rocking chair, creaking, and sighed longingly. He looked at me straight in the eye and said, “The world was once a beautiful place, where limits were non-existent and the air as clean as its pure water as it reflected the shining sun on a hot afternoon,” He paused for a moment once more, as if he felt his memories calling him from a distance, of a time long ago, before he finally said, “The world was never meant for polluting and abusing, but for us to take care of and enjoy. We were given this gift,” He gestured and pointed to his backyard, “This world long ago…” He stopped when he saw the look on my face. He knew well that I didn’t agree with what he was about to say.
The old man looked at me again in the eye until I couldn’t match his gaze. I stared at the ground in silence. He gave me a sad smile when I had the nerve to look back at him again.
“The world was made by a Creator, a great, mighty and loving Being who created the heavens and formed the earth, weaving our lives like ornate robes of many colours. He gave His Son as a sacrifice for worthless humans to save them from an everlasting regret and mourning in Hell, away from His presence.” He cocked his eyebrows when I opened my mouth to cry out in protest.
“Yes, even humans are worthless. Try comparing yourself to the Universe, and you can see how insignificant you really are. However, His love for you, and for me, makes us special beyond all means. He created us to be unique because we would form a relationship with Him, so that we may bring glory to His name.” He shook his head at humans’ folly and nodded towards me, “I have made my decision long ago, and have not regret it since. My master’s burden is light, his hand guiding me wherever I may go…” His words were lost by the strong winds approaching from the north, but his meaning was clear.
He suddenly turned to me and asked me urgently, “It is your turn to choose your path. What will it be?”
That was the last time I ever heard that question. The old man passed away unexpectedly the next week after our conversation, creating a gigantic tidal wave of sadness within our community. My family and I attended his recent funeral in reverence. It was a difficult time for all of us. We mourned over the dead man and when I viewed his face before they sealed the casket, I was overwhelmed with tears. I was surprised that his face revealed a smile he used to give me when I visited him. His forehead gave way to mysterious wrinkles that I had seen so many times before.
I may have had my share of arguments with him, which had often filled my lazy afternoons with excitement, and what he called, ‘a youthful passion’, but he was my Grandfather. The only adult in this entire world who would be willing to listen, understand, and guide me through life. Why did he leave me? Didn’t he know that he just carried away the only thing that matters in my life to his so-called ‘heaven’? Sobs heaved out of me as I watched them seal the casket and I began to sink into the ground, surrounded by blurred hands trying to keep me standing, trying to comfort me. Why? Why him of all the people in the world? Questions like these burst out in my mind until I was no longer able to think clearly, succumbing to an unshakable grief.
random thoughts: on death, on life, on everything.
I remembered being fully awake in my car as my family got ready to leave my grandparent's house. At 52, my grandfather had heart problems and had to use a special equipment to help him breath normally. However, it didn't stop him from kissing me on the forehead and telling my family to come back again the next day. It was 1 A.M. in the morning.
I remembered my sister shouting to me from inside the house, disrupting my leisure swim around the swimming pool. I scolded her for interrupting and asked what seemed to be the problem. She told me to get dressed as soon as possible.
"Kung-Kung meninggal."
It was 8 A.M. of the same day.
I remembered Ringo, my dad's friend's son, driving me to the mall with his siblings as our family treated them to a movie and a few games at the nearby arcade. He was curious about my personal life, something I did not wish to meddle in at that time. However, it still turned out to be a fun day for all of us.
I remembered playing a game late at night when I heard cries of shock upstairs. My dad rushed downstairs and asked whether or not I'd like to accompany him to the morgue. Needless to say, Ringo had died. He was in his 20s.
My dad's friend was surprisingly calm as we met him in the hospital. Ringo was lying on a bed, his face covered by a white sheet. The nurse removed it, and all I saw was an all too familiar face covered in blood-soaked bandages. An ambulance took Ringo's body to his house as my car followed behind it. I got to see Ringo's siblings mourning for him; a sight I've never seen, and an emotion I've never felt. Ringo died instantly trying to stop a hit-and-run bus from escaping. He was riding a motorbike, which was completely destroyed.
And I thought these stuff only happen in movies and to strangers I've never met and cared about..
"Stuff like these happen even in your own backyard."
This is true, but before it does happen, we still fail to understand how close it really gets.
Parents scold. It's what they do.
It gets so annoying that I still can't get used to it.
I was reading a book a few days ago when I overheard my mother scolding my little brother about how he treats his homework jokingly. Every time, my parents would tell me of how I'd miss their scolds when they have died. I closed my eyes and imagined a world without them, without their advices, their scolds, and their presence. It was scary.
It's 3 in the morning and I still have no idea why I write this post. I am aware however, that these were thoughts that kept me awake at night these past few days, thoughts that wrestled with my rational and moral approach on how to see the world, and thoughts that create nightmares, doubts, and regrets.
"Live life to the fullest. Live it as if every day's your last day on Earth."
Superman once saved a man from a falling building, and the man asked him: "What can I do to repay you?"
The caped crusader calmly replied, "Live a life worth saving."
I'll do just that.
The man became Steel, another superhero, and a close friend of Superman. :)
I remembered my sister shouting to me from inside the house, disrupting my leisure swim around the swimming pool. I scolded her for interrupting and asked what seemed to be the problem. She told me to get dressed as soon as possible.
"Kung-Kung meninggal."
It was 8 A.M. of the same day.
- -
I remembered Ringo, my dad's friend's son, driving me to the mall with his siblings as our family treated them to a movie and a few games at the nearby arcade. He was curious about my personal life, something I did not wish to meddle in at that time. However, it still turned out to be a fun day for all of us.
I remembered playing a game late at night when I heard cries of shock upstairs. My dad rushed downstairs and asked whether or not I'd like to accompany him to the morgue. Needless to say, Ringo had died. He was in his 20s.
My dad's friend was surprisingly calm as we met him in the hospital. Ringo was lying on a bed, his face covered by a white sheet. The nurse removed it, and all I saw was an all too familiar face covered in blood-soaked bandages. An ambulance took Ringo's body to his house as my car followed behind it. I got to see Ringo's siblings mourning for him; a sight I've never seen, and an emotion I've never felt. Ringo died instantly trying to stop a hit-and-run bus from escaping. He was riding a motorbike, which was completely destroyed.
And I thought these stuff only happen in movies and to strangers I've never met and cared about..
"Stuff like these happen even in your own backyard."
This is true, but before it does happen, we still fail to understand how close it really gets.
- -
Parents scold. It's what they do.
It gets so annoying that I still can't get used to it.
I was reading a book a few days ago when I overheard my mother scolding my little brother about how he treats his homework jokingly. Every time, my parents would tell me of how I'd miss their scolds when they have died. I closed my eyes and imagined a world without them, without their advices, their scolds, and their presence. It was scary.
- -
It's 3 in the morning and I still have no idea why I write this post. I am aware however, that these were thoughts that kept me awake at night these past few days, thoughts that wrestled with my rational and moral approach on how to see the world, and thoughts that create nightmares, doubts, and regrets.
"Live life to the fullest. Live it as if every day's your last day on Earth."
Superman once saved a man from a falling building, and the man asked him: "What can I do to repay you?"
The caped crusader calmly replied, "Live a life worth saving."
I'll do just that.
The man became Steel, another superhero, and a close friend of Superman. :)
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Sitting On My Bed; at 12AM
After 30 minutes of tossing and turning around my bed, I got up. Feeling hot and humid I stood up walk off this itch I felt. This icky disgusting and agitating feeling that lay on the pit of my stomach till the tip of my now thumping head. No longer did I think of how my currently incredibly short hair has irritated me these past few hours, thanks to the broken down AC of my humid room, I thought of what really is bothering me. Was it the sudden loneliness I felt, the feeling I now have dragged on and yet gone through a roller coaster ride that I have ridden to this very moment since the summer. Was it the irritation of my parents that never really got me? Or was it something else? Whatever it is, it has grabbed me on not only mentally but physically. I do not doubt that it will soon bother and poke around the stand I have in my own spiritual balance and beliefs.
These days I’ve spent smiling and thanking everything that is around me. My oh-so-weird friends of mine, my oh-so-annoying family and the oh-so-dreadful tear I have recently caused in my heart. Waking up everyday seems like a miracle, getting out of bed sometimes makes me feel so great to be alive and well. Other times I wish the sun would just bugger off and mind its own business elsewhere, anywhere but where I was lying. Not truly understanding this mood swings that has no physical basis what so ever, I simply shrug it off and do whatever I have planned for the day. The thing is I can’t stand it any longer. It has finally comes down to this. Either I force myself in being all happy all day, or I have to find some reason in my own behavior. I’m restless. I’m confused. I’m agitated to the point where I just might pull of all of what is left of my hair. Unlike most of my days, spending time with my friends and family, or shopping till the soles on my feet can no longer carry on, or even a day of relaxation and enjoyment can only bring me up for a short period of time. A momentary high.
Oh, how I long to be normal again. Then again, when have I ever been normal? It seems to me that I was not created to be categorized as such but to be bizarre, indifferent and unique. Have you ever been awake one of those nights and feel totally breathless and feel as if someone or something is out to get you, and your running out of time? These so called “abrupt realization” has occurred to me once or twice. I would suddenly jolt out of bed into a sitting position breathing heavily, throat dry, eyes wide, heart beating fast, terrified, paranoid, scared and no one there in the room; but me. I never really understood why I was so scared or why I felt as if time was running out on me. All I knew was that my sisters heard me screaming from next door and my older brother heard me crying. I never really remembered what I was dreaming about. I felt my life was perfectly fine. Until… my silly adolescent upbringing pushed me towards something totally neurotic and moronic to the point in which we all get blinded and driven into a bliss which in the end we would end up flat on the floor with nothing but a shattered heart and a sparkle of what can only be called hope; something we all like to call, love.
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