Chapter forty-four: My Heart Lives

I thirst for the arts

Like a man parched dry

To look not at a ceiling

But a clear blue sky

I long for the freedom

That my words once took

Spirited, unfettered

Not all by the book

I turn to the rhythms

Like a flower to the sun

To return to the warmth

As a prodigal son

But trapped as I am

In these blank white walls

Begrudging the time

As it sedately crawls

Only my words

Here they spill and seep

As my fingers fly

And my heartbeats leap

The tang of freedom,

A tantalizing thought

A respite from tedium

No matter how short

Though long is the distance

Between now and then

Yet I rejoice,

Because my heart lives again!

Chapter Forty-three: Holding on Tight.

I felt beneath my fingertips

A solid wall of glass

The faint outline of a faraway door

Yea, the lock was fast.

I sat amidst the whispering blooms

An interloper in their midst

The warmth they held against their wombs

I.. was not part of that bliss.

The sun that walked with us part way

It fell not on my face

But cast me in such shadowy gray; 

I was far from grace.

Give me strength to battle despair

I have not fallen to thee

But I, in loneliness, I write to me

And such, my heart repair. 

Chapter Forty-two: Taking a Deep Breath

My heart is heavy with tenderness

Tipped full to its brim

With thoughts so filled with gentleness

 Soft as the sun’s first beam

The unuttered hope that seeds within

Blossoms I cherish sweetly

Gives me courage to finally begin

A babe’s steps still wobbly

Too many doors have I closed before

All in the name of fear

Tracing scars from departed sores

Chasing apparitions that appear

Thus today I cut the leading-strings

That tied me to that past

From here I’ll take what tomorrow brings

And hope my courage will last. 

Intermission XVIII: A Note to the Little Ones Residing in My Hea(rt)d.

Strange bedfellows, you little fellows are. Whimsical, petulant things who constantly float about in my head, who swell into gigantic proportions and clog my heart, whenever prodded. And I cannot place you in a box nor seal it tight, for fear of feeding you a compression that causes you to grow, and grow, and grow. And then burst open like a fanfare of colours-in-a-box, splattering and staining everything inside and/or around me.

Just like the frame that captures the colours on each canvas, you swathe my world, whispering in my ears. Naughty things that tint my world rose, twine my heart with green, stain my emptiness blue and make me see red. I both envy and pity those who do not find themselves needing to deal with these little devils. Envy, because they've have cost me many a pretty pound in scrubbing the bruises they leave, both outside my shell, and inside my heart. Yet, if ever I would reach into my heart and my head and not find you there, I would find myself unbearably.. lonely. And my world would fade into monochrome dullness, losing the edge that your colours give.

Why I felt the need to write about these particular little devils, especially after waking up from a period of hibernation (from updating the blog)..  I know not. A manifestation of self-reflection after the abundant discussions about MBTI types, perchance? I have often considered you a nuisance, having associated with you various memories of losing hold of your leash and watching you lunge forward with a vengeance, suffocating the person(s) nearest to me. And often the dearest.

Good God, I’m sorry. To those who've had to scrub the splatters of emotional excess after the explosions. I’m only too glad that I found my paint rag to help cleanse some of the messes before the stains soaked in too deeply to be removed. Mum has ever told me I don’t control you enough for my own good; yet, realizing that I am an ISFJ is like being shown the reversed side of the story.

Together, how much pain have we dealt out, how much remorse have we suffered? But I have not been fair to you, you poor little devils. I have not tried to understand you, always letting you run wild, only to lock you in that prison of a box when I didn’t like how you were ringing the alarm in my head. But listen to me: I have finally accepted that I cannot shut you away in the hopes that you'll shush and not try to break free.  I promise you, although I will still stuff you in there from time to time, I will heed you when you knock on the lid and ask to be let out. And I will guide you out myself, in harmony, you and I hand in hand, walking together, finding the answers we need.

Because if you and I end up hurting the precious ones again... I couldn’t forgive either you or myself, and might wish for you to disappear. And know that if I reach inside and find that you're no longer there... I simply wouldn’t know how to live anymore. 

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 faces 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? 

Intermission XIII: Howling for the Moon.

Sometimes, i wonder what it truly means to be talented.

People throw the word talented around so lightly. They tell me i have a talent for writing, a talent for drawing or whatever, and sometimes, i really don't think i deserve the word. if i truly had talent, why am i only able to churn out half-baked stories, or repetitive, depressing poetry? 

Ugh. Hardy-esque. And here i'm doing much the same as he is, with nary a slice of hope peeking through my verses. 

Remembering what dr M (not that damn maverick; one a helluva lot more deserving of respect) said about competencies, i think i know myself well enough to accept that i have a competency for language and writing; the question is, how far does it go before it's really talent?

Nothing makes one feel more helpless than having hit rock bottom, and being trapped in a stretch of quicksilver. or worse, a bog. And once you've climbed out of it, you never want to go back there, even if it means you're gonna have to die trying to keep yourself away from there.

So many ways i could've gone wrong. Any one would've left the trail of broken hearts and hope behind, but why one that nearly broke my spirit? Why one that took so much from me only to have me struggle so hard to find it?

Perhaps... as i told the guys... perhaps one doesn't truly know who they are until they've broken themselves (over and over again) and tried to put the pieces back. and continue to look for others to cement the gaps. 

Perhaps i'm just one idiot dog out there howling for the moon, all by its lonesome self.

Intermission XII: I'd Grind Your Bones to Make My Bread and Use Your Brains for Jam.

For a long time, i haven't quite felt as furious as i did today, so much that my hands were shaking, and i had to draw deep breaths to calm myself down.

Whoever you are, you foolish clodhead(s) with mush for brains, your pure idiocy and selfishness cost the entire class our three final quizzes and any possible chance for everyone to redeem those lost marks. 

Personally, if i ever catch who you are, i'd like to give you a sound thrashing, and a kick down the stairs, to boot.

I wouldnt at all be surprised if the rest of the class were devising all manners of horrific, vile tortures for you in their minds. Especially since miss W warned us multiple times that if you didnt give back her answer sheets, she'd punish everyone. And since you were blockheaded enough to not heed her warning, our wrath's well earned.

And oh, to another bloody hole in the buttocks, i hope you go to hell for the things you put him through. I've been told to pray for you, that you'll open your heart and not be the way you are, but for years, you've only gotten from bad to worse. And i wonder if our prayers seem like they're unanswered because even God doesn't want to bother with someone like you. 

Chapter Thirty-five: Peas in a Pod.

Once upon a time, there lived a single little pea in a pod. 

Now then, this little pea grew up snuggled comfortably against mama-pod and papa-plant, who fed it and nourished it till round and full it grew. For many years, the little pod stayed close to mama-pod and papa-plant, and did not dare to venture out into the great wide world, for fear of being eaten.

Now then, the time came for the little pea to roll out of mama-pod's embrace and find it's own way in the world. And so tearfully mama-pod and papa-plant sent the little one on its way.

And so the little pea happily rolled along.

Along the way, the little pea met a pin lying across the path. Now then, the little pea took a fancy to the pin, and told it so. But alas, the pin liked not how the pea looked, and hopped up to prick it hard, causing the pea to bleed and shrink into a wrinkled little ball. Crying in dismay, the little pea stumbled away as best as it could, while the snail, centipede and spider watching nearby laughed at it.

And so it rolled on.

Now then, this time it rolled into a fresh garden patch, in which there were many other peas growing. Pleased to see a fellow pea, the others welcomed it cheerfully into their midst. Here the little pea was happy, for it'd made new friends, and life felt good. Fond it was of another pea, who took charge of it, and showed it around, taking it to visit the other pods and plants. And thus they grew to be close friends, for are not such friends as close as peas in a pod?

Intermission XI: Phonological Loop.

For some strange reason, today i find myself repeatedly thinking about (psychspeak: ruminating) the conversation i had with Dr.A that day, when i went to return her hair slide to her.

Frankly speaking, i had no idea i'd end up having that conversation with her, considering i'd just meant to drop the slide off and pop off, but her asking about my birthday sort of opened the gates to conversation, and well, one thing led to another.

So i just sorta kind told her a little of what i (we) did, and mentioned that its no big deal, after all, seriously, what's the big deal about birthdays? especially since the 'special' ones're over and done with. and she said: don't la be so negative about birthdays.

Now that kinda knocked me off kilter, since i'd never thought about me being negative, but simply indifferent. But Dr.A being Dr.A, perhaps she picked up on something else that even i'm not aware of.

Cant say as how i havent have had good birthdays. the year before, they pulled a whopper on me (and me being the blurqueen, i didn't realise a surprise was being sprung on me till it slapped me in the face). last year, i had a simple celebration with mum and dad, then the jester and R, courtesy of the jester.

And then this year's the most wonderful of all. ethics, 306 midterms (oral somemore!) and counselling. COUNSELLING. on my birthday. Dr.A said i should've told her it was my birthday, but i laughed it off. and then she said i should've told my counsellor no sessions on my birthday. oh well.

An eventful birthday not withstanding, i think one of the most valuable things i gained that week was attending the talk J invited me to, and listening to Dr.N talk about those other religions, and our own. That gave me insight into things, and generated all manners of thoughts, some of which led me into a theological -sorta- argument/discussion with SR all the way to Ming Tian.

I lose, SR. I am simply not well equipped enough to debate and argue properly, much less convince anyone. lol. Lemme go arm myself, then i'll give it another go, kay? XD

I'm glad for you guys, who cheered me on while i was trying to swallow that burning hunk of sausage meat. I'm glad for A's getting us together with a bunch of his fellows, and for being thoughtful enough to plan in a way that allows people to be able to bond. 

I thank God for having friends with whom i can sit down trade banter over cookies with ice cream(SR, bake more cookies and the jester and I'll bring the ice cream) , and who can talk from nineteen to the dozen and back again. (oh, and get pyromaniacal with matches, a cup and a sacrificial fly. gads, i can still remember the evil look of glee on you two's faces. seriously.) i'm grateful for friends who can tell awesomely disgusting jokes (its the joker that counts, not the joke. XD) and who can tell me, don't worry, just join for the fun. Most of all, i'm grateful for the jester, who's there to tell me when i'm wrong, when i'm doing what i shouldn't be, and who's there to lecture me when i need it. 

And when my thoughts hit this spot, then i think, i no longer feel the need to write just to exorcise lingering shadows of the past. For perhaps, as someone told me, perhaps, it shouldn't be anger and betrayal i'm feeling, but resignation. And with it, more than just a wee bit of pity, for you'll not be someone i'll keep in my phonological loop.

Chapter Thirty-four: Vermillion Wash.

My heart bled the colour of a painted sky
Fresh reds and golds of a marigold's eye
Work, my lips and tongue, to speak in flames
The gush of wild words that my mind tames

There on the hearth did the creature lie
Burnt, purified, dying with one final cry
Once, twice, thrice more did it haunt me
Have the shackles finally finally broken free

Brilliant vermillion, crimson in its heat
The colour draws me, hard does my heart beat
Red, the colour of life, the colour of blood
May you my life, my soul with vitality flood.

Intermission X: Post Tenebras, Lux.

Today, You called me home.

i cried out in my despair, Kyrie, Kyrie eleison. Lord, dona nobis pacem.

You said to me

Come home, o sinner. ye who are weary, come home. I will wait with arms wide open

Your words came to me in the voice of an angel

You opened my ears to words that i've heard, but not listened to

You gave me tears to wash away the darkness and anger in my heart

You lifted a lost child on wings of an eagle

And now she lies, safe and at peace, in the palm of Your hand.

Thank You, Lord.