Chapter Forty-one: Sitting on a Milestone

I walked with a circle
A company of light
Who glowed in their mischief
And lit my boredom bright

Lightly shadows slip past
Enter and exeunt my head
To paint and daub the canvas
With colours they still shed

Whence my feet hath trodden
The hallway looms ahead
To walk straight up and take a left
Or take a right instead?

Tomorrow I leave to gain reprieve
From the odd world I understand
And till my return, may it yet burn
For a chapter of my loving hand.

Chapter Forty: Oddities of a Ramshackle Mind.

One word of caution
A note to myself
Let thoughts not quicken
But creep by in stealth

For in my head they did race
And whirl me in a dream
Twisted me in an obscure embrace
Beyond my conscious stream

I step far from yon mirror;
It shows the demons within
Yet i needs must see them clearer;
Thus cycles re-begin

Perhaps i need to follow
The breadcrumbs along the way
Your strength perhaps i'll borrow
For sure, i'll wander astray

So i clutch your sleeve and hold on tight
Letting my eyelids close
And entreat you to adopt my fight
Perhaps you'll triumph, who knows?

Chapter Thirty-nine: The World inside One Fragment.

i gazed into a painting, but then it cracked on me
it shattered into fragments, more than i could see
i looked then at the pieces that lay prone at my feet
and wondered why it seemed as though their edges wouldnt meet

picking one of them up, i was shocked to find
that each piece was a picture, a story of its kind
i put them back together, they wouldnt fit at all
for every single one of them was a different world made small

so i took the broken pigments and ran them through my eyes
travesty for honesty, i took the truth for lies
these to melt and splatter, on the canvas inside my head
till they seeped forth from the fabric, colours that slowly bled

i try to scrub them off the walls, scour with turpentine
to have instead a clean white slate, untainted by chimeric state
yet thoughts entice, cling like a vice, by nature serpentine
so how can i my art deny, my power to fabricate? 

Intermission XVII: A (Rather) Strange Kind of Fascination. My Obsession for Paradoxes?

i'm being haunted by a pair of slanting eyes.

till now, i have never truly understood the meaning of imperfect beauty. never in my experience of reading poetry and literature have i ever been able to understand how being imperfect can almost be necessary in order to be beautiful. (not even in those strange sculptures..? they're beautiful, but it simply is beauty in imperfection. the imperfection does not make the beauty.. hmmm...) after all, the greeks believed that beauty was found in perfection. and havent i been raised in a culture that appears to agree with that?

i could not understand what drew me to such a face. neither could i understand why i kept wanting to see what fascinated me so, why i could not get it out of my mind. why i kept wanting to look at those eyes.

slanted, of the asian variety. not slitted, but not wide-open. eyes that were intense, and striking.

i look a little closer, and i notice that the eyes are not proportionate: one is slightly narrower than the other. there. imperfection.

strangely, it does nothing to detach from the beauty of the face. that very imperfection fits into place perfectly, like jagged pieces of a puzzle that fit together to make a hauntingly striking picture. and i dont know what it is about those eyes that draw me. the drooping eyelid of one that hints at secrets forever hidden, and the cold composure of the other, no matter the expression on the face they belong to. the heavy-lidded gaze that studies the world around them, but never reveals what goes on behind them.

the masculinity that peeps out from behind features too feminine to be male. the aura of fragility that belies the toughness of a warrior.

a tantalizing illusion of delicacy...

what is it about androgynous characters that fascinate me so?

Chapter Thirty-eight: I.

I ‘m floating on the horizon

A dot upon the sea

I don’t know where I’m going

Or who’ll be going with me

I’m as like a lost sheep

Baaing her way around

(So) I’m still a-meandering

Hoping I can be found

I hope in time I’ll discover

I’ll still like me, whatever that be

After searching the why;

But as it is, the one I resist

Is no one less than I. 

Intermission XVI: Death, Doubt, and Divinity.

Have finally finished off all seven volumes of happy rotter, and I must say, I enjoyed them more than i initially thought I would (here I sense the jester doing a peevesiesque whoop of glee).

So many deaths occur in there, with enough anguish and sense of loss written into the pages for it to hit me how fragile life is, both in and out of fiction. And then it struck me hard, all these thoughts of the brushes that my family's had with death and survived.

My earliest memory of such an incident was as a child of four, five, when I contracted a severe case of dengue. Those who know about it will remember that there isn't any surefire treatment for it. I remember my gran and my mum desperately making herbal (eeeuch) concoctions, forcing it down my throat daily. But that didn't help, if the doctor's gloomy warning to my dad was any indication. 

I have been told, and I believe, that I survived solely by the grace of God's mercy. And I have often wondered, what made Him grant my father, then a non-believer's plea? Perhaps how my father put his faith in Him, despite not truly knowing Him? Acknowledging His might and will, in saying 'I beg you, give her back to me, but if it's Your will to take her, take her?'. In any case, after prayers were said over me, I passed the night of reckoning unscathed, the virus having disappeared from my blood completely by the next morning.

And so my survival became the pivotal point of change in my parents' attitude towards Christianity. 

Thinking about all the times my mum's had brushes with death, it makes me shudder. Just recently, she's had a brush with another snake, only this time the idiot creature was hiding in the house. It doesn't come as any relief that it wasn't poisonous this time round; the last one she encountered was mildly venomous. And the time a top heavy branch crashed down onto the road right after her car passed, barely missing her boot? 

Sometimes, thinking about my dad going on trips overseas, my mum being on her own at home with only Doong as companion... it shakes me up, thinking of what could possibly go wrong. And then I mutter a quick prayer to God to watch over them, remembering that He's kept us all safe all this while. I betcha my parents do the same thing, except perhaps my mum's prayers will be much longer. 

But then the next time I hear news about a trip, the worry creeps back again, and I say another prayer, which calms my fears down for the meantime. Does that make me a person of little faith? Feeling fear and worry despite having known His protection and care all these years? Should I not worry, since I know He'll protect us anyway (that smacks of taking things for granted though)? Or is it only human frailness that makes us worry and doubt, despite everything He's done?

But I guess that's the very reason we run to Him. And hence, the very essence of our faith: leaning on Him because we are, essentially, very frail beings, and knowing His strength can and will support us all. 

Chapter Thirty-seven: Knocking You Off Your Pedestals.

Caught the end of a whiplash tongue

From one whose praises I might have sung

Why does it feel like stigma by association

Or is it merely just me imagination

I caught myself from sassing you back
And not just because I abide by tact
Or disdain to hit you with knowledge you lack
Now I'm just disgusted by your collective act

The words one gave, yesterday and today
Did all but give your sentiments away
Looks like you've indeed found your own kind
In my eyes tis fitting that like does like find

I poured enough of the bitterness that some did beget
The rash words I uttered in anger I do regret
Remain in there, as mere acquaintances met
Or perhaps as lessons I'll never forget.

Chapter Thirty-six: A Fire to Warm Your Bones.

Once upon a curious world four wanderers lived, each in their own corner of the land.

Now then, in each of their own corners, these four had lived twenty moons or more, and indeed had felt joy, sorrow, and created their own share of havoc in their own day. And as the young are wont to do, they set out to travel down the twisty forest of living. And so they slung their weighty burdens over their shoulders and off they went away,  trying to find their paths while steering free of the brambles that grew over and around the way. 

Meandering and blundering through the tangles of the forest, two of these four came together, and in gladness they joined hands and walked forward together, yet going around in circles and losing their way. 

And yet another one, chasing a rainbow that appeared bright in the sky, found himself tripping on vines that lay across his path. Still did the rainbow tantalize him, for it appeared before him in all its glory, only to disappear when he stretched his hands to grab hold of it.

And the fourth wanderer, who was carefully exploring his way, found a wounded fox that he took with him as he journeyed, gently nursing it back to health. But alas, as stronger it grew by the day, the fox did leave the wanderer, and ran away. And so he was left alone, in the darkness of the forest's gloom. 

Tired of the shadows in the forest, the bramble-weary wanderers, while seeking shelter from the cold winds that blew their hearts cold, finally, wearily stumbled into a clearing.

And so sat they down to rest awhile, when they began to stoke a fire to warm themselves. Gently did the fire flicker, and grew stronger as the foursome fed it, till it became a warm glow that held them close.

And here this wanderer prays that they can keep the fire glowing, a fire not only of humans' making, that gives a warmth that will see them through the deepest chill. 

May the Father grant this prayer. Amen. 

Intermission XV: A Rueful Admission.

It's sobering, when you take a good look at yourself through another's eyes, and find that you're not as good as you thought you were (or would like to be).

I have a tendency to ruminate, and repeat things all over and over again, which i am trying to not do. ick. jCe once told me that the way i view things can be too extreme, too black and white. Which kinda makes sense, i suppose, since i either veer sharply towards thinking highly of myself, or simply thinking i'm the most appalling creature on earth. 

Where does the line cut in between good and bad? At this moment, i'm finding it very difficult to think of myself as a 'good' person, because i recognize that i've done something(s) bad. Sometimes i wonder if i'm simply some yucky creature hiding behind the shields of 'goodness', and that if i don't keep ahold of meself, that insistent fellow's going to pop out and rear its ugly head. and i fear that i'll one day lose control over it, and people're going to see me as the  yucky creature i am and despise me for it.

And in thinking that, i begin to depise myself. in the process of depising myself, i trap myself in a circle where i simply end up repeating that behaviour, which causes me to despise myself even more. In the end, i simply get pessimistic, and all hung up about the idea of people disliking me, without having done anything about the whole issue in the first place.

Yet, yucky or not, there're those who would walk with me, and help me work on it. those who believe i can do something about it, and that i shouldn't simply ruminate and wallow in self-pity over it. those who give me the courage to do something about it. 

And i'm grateful to you (all). More than i know how to express.

Thank you. It's way too short a phrase for all i'm wanting to say, but know that i mean it in all sincerity. *hugs*

Intermission XIV: Because That's What 'Love' Truly Means to Me.

When i hear people talk about love, as that wonderful fantastic all encompassing answer-to-all never-ending entity, i wonder what love really means to them, what they really see it as, anyway. All those symbols for love, roses, hearts, cupids, chocolates and the like. Does that all really, and i mean really, adequately symbolize love?

I've always been more of a realist than a romantic. If someone asked me how it'd like being in love.... i think... i wouldn't know what to tell them, because... to me, love's so much more than just a bunch of pretty symbols and words, or some trumped up hollywood/kdrama cliche.

I like sternberg's triangle theory of love best. intimcy, passion, commitment. all important for a consummate, fulfilling relationship. but again, that's just one part. that's about... romantic love.

To me, love isnt just 'love', per se. Love isn't some mysterious, inexplicable entity that stands completely alone by itself, untouched and separate from all other feelings or emotions. I see it as a combination of many many things, the parts of which manifests themselves in different ways in relation to different people.

My father loves me, just as he loves my mother. But he loves us both in different ways. I love the jester, but in a different way from bosom friends, and even more differently from my parents. All forms have the elements of trust, emotional intimacy, friendship, commitment and care, but each form differs from the other. Love for my parents and friends doesn't include passion, and love for my friends and the jester doesn't include filial piety.

Love is my parents not giving up on me, even when everyone else thought me hopeless and couldn't care less.

Love is my mum staying up at night to bake me muffins, so that my dad can bring them to me the next day.

Love is the friendship between the jester and i, and his doing all sorts of little things for me, his having faith in us both.

Love is those friends of mine who would come to my aid should i ever need it, and who know that i'd do the same for them.

And last, but never least, love is God having given me all, despite me being imperfect.

Looking at it in such a way, how can i say that love is just one, single entity?