It's been 3 and a half years of fruitlessly loving a man, whom I finally realised, would never love me in the same way that I do towards him.
It's not that I didn't know it along the way. It's not that I haven't been rejected by him. It's not that there hadn't been other girls he got together with, or expressed his interest for. It's not that he treats me well or expresses much concern about me. It's not that some of my closest friends haven't repeatedly tried to talk me out of this. But it really had to take me this long a time, this many hard blows, this deep a wound to finally jot me out of my denial.
Denial or blind faithfulness? I have asked myself (and God) so many times over the years. I've always asked God to block off the path of unkind men, to guard my heart against men He does not approve of. Each time a setback happened, I paused and surrendered myself to God, acknowledging that it is not His will, and seeking his guidance to redirect my steps. Each time a spark of hope appeared, I also presented my confusion to God, to make His will clear to me. I thought I was faithful because God is a faithful God. But maybe part of me continued to be stubbornly faithful simply because I was holding on to a false sense of hope.
I know that love is a verb, it is patient and it is kind. It does not
dishonour others, It is not self-seeking. It is slow to anger, it keeps
records of no wrongs. But that's love in action and in physical form. It's been such a long struggle to keep up with my word with God to love the man as much as I can. But there's also love in the intangible, unobservable form, with its emotional attachment and attraction. It is hard to sustain love as an action and love as an emotion, when both are not reciprocated. I've tried. Lord, you know I've tried, even though I'm not sure if I should have... and now I'm tired. After all, Jesus was believed to have preached the gospel for 3 and a half years before his crucifixion (Without any desire to blaspheme, I believe he would have gone on much longer, but God kept it as that length). I have drank the cup and my love needs to be crucified now.
As Neale Donald Walsch wrote in What God Said, that in order to live the truth, we have to "tell the truth about yourself to yourself", "tell the truth about another to yourself" and "tell the truth about yourself to another". So I decided to do away with the usual allegories or metaphors that I was tempted to write in, and to bare the nakedness of my soul. I want to stop lying to myself that I only treat him as a friend or a brother. I don't want to tell him this same lie anymore. I don't want to keep up with this act of omission to my friends and family. I think my heart needs to be nailed to the cross, so that it can be born again in the future.
I don't know how to do it, but only by my own human means. If it be God's will, then may He make the way for me (which I believe He already has).
My dearest God, I know you have not forsaken me. After every weeping, after every sorrow, I will always realign my heart back to You. I will still praise You, and I will still sing of You grace in so many other aspects of my life. I know that You are faithful, even when we are not. I know that You are sovereign, You are kind. Your will shall be done, and Your will shall be the best for me, for him, and possibly for other people even though I may not see it now.
1.1.14
20.1.13
His Healing Hands
Today, God delivered me from another one of my painful baggage in my life.
Let me take you from the beginning of how I ended up in social work.
Some time when I was in my late adolescence, I started to be aware of my desire (or calling) to be in a helping profession. The desire grew partly out of a challenging childhood, it also grew out of a sense of fulfilment whenever I can help others work through their own struggles too.
You see, my father was an absent parent in my growing up years. My parents divorced when I was young, and my contact with my father became like a twice-to-thrice a year meet up. So when my father passed away abruptly, I was deeply shocked. Because of my dad's wrongdoings, nobody in the family spoke about losses and pain. There was an unarticulated undertone of "good riddance", "good that he left" that I sensed from my family. As such, loss and sadness became a taboo, an emotion that must be tucked away. I felt alone in my grief, I felt displaced in my grief. As a youth with limited coping mechanisms, I also felt extremely guilty about his death. I felt guilty about feeling relieved about his death, I felt guilty that I was actually happy to receive insurance payouts.
Then I plunged into another ten years of emotional black hole, frequently experiencing emotional short-circuit when the surge of negative feelings was so intense that the fuse broke. My friends may recall me going to school in a half-daze. I felt dissociated from my body and mind, I would curl up my lips when people are laughing, and knit my eyebrows when people are in trouble.
Maybe social work came into picture when my rational mind concluded that instead of feeling bad about myself, I should put my experiences to good use by supporting those who go through similar struggles. Instead of feeling sad that no one spoke to me about these pains, maybe I will find meaning in talking to others about their pains. As the saying goes, do not do unto others what you wouldn't like others to do unto you. Likewise, do unto others what you would like others to do unto you.
So that was a compelling cause that propelled me into the profession, to provide a kind of support that I wished was available to me when I was younger. It was a relatively happy marriage with my career. In my 2nd year into the profession, I was called upon by God and received what I considered a miraculous healing of my heart and soul. Since God spoke to me that day, he gave me the answers I was looking for, and I was delivered from my past baggage. Subsequently, God worked in me to see his purposes for the trials and tribulations that he placed on me, and I was gradually able to experience the real joy that He meant to give us.
But better than I expected, God had in mind a plan to also grant me the desire to release me from the shadows of my past and fill it with his light.
Today during my on-call duty, I was called back to attend to an ICU case. The patient was not doing well, and the family had to break the news to the young children, on top of making a difficult care decision.
During my session, as I was getting one of the children to talk about her fears towards her father's possible death, she started weeping because she can't imagine life without her father. And unexpectedly, I found myself tearing a little too. I assured her that it's alright to cry, it's alright to grieve. Death, to a child, translates to eternal separation - the fear of never being able to survive on your own, the fear of permanent abandonment. Some people may argue that it is not helpful for the therapist to tear with the client, but for me I felt it communicated that I feel her pain and fears.
I encouraged her to talk as much to her father now as she can. She spoke about how she loves her father, how she will miss him, how she will study hard, how she will look after her family. Often, talking to the patient may not be as significant for the patient, as it does for the grieving party. The griever needs to let out of all his/her thoughts and feelings so that they can be achieve emotional catharsis and eventually closure. It is a way to say goodbye, in faith that it will be heard by the dying person. Finally, we spoke about how her father can continue to live in her despite his physical death.
As I delivered these words to her, I felt that I was instantly healed once again. I felt that I was able to offer what I would hope to hear as a bereaved. I felt that I didn't go through the loss and death in vain. I felt that I had valuable experiences that have allowed me to better support others emotionally.
When I left the session, I felt delivered by God. I felt that He has taken me back to why I joined social work and completed the circle. This was a special moment, a cherished memory that I will bring with me to sustain me in my work.
Lord, I leave the family in your good hands and may you one day lead them to you and your purposes too. Thank you Lord.
Let me take you from the beginning of how I ended up in social work.
Some time when I was in my late adolescence, I started to be aware of my desire (or calling) to be in a helping profession. The desire grew partly out of a challenging childhood, it also grew out of a sense of fulfilment whenever I can help others work through their own struggles too.
You see, my father was an absent parent in my growing up years. My parents divorced when I was young, and my contact with my father became like a twice-to-thrice a year meet up. So when my father passed away abruptly, I was deeply shocked. Because of my dad's wrongdoings, nobody in the family spoke about losses and pain. There was an unarticulated undertone of "good riddance", "good that he left" that I sensed from my family. As such, loss and sadness became a taboo, an emotion that must be tucked away. I felt alone in my grief, I felt displaced in my grief. As a youth with limited coping mechanisms, I also felt extremely guilty about his death. I felt guilty about feeling relieved about his death, I felt guilty that I was actually happy to receive insurance payouts.
Then I plunged into another ten years of emotional black hole, frequently experiencing emotional short-circuit when the surge of negative feelings was so intense that the fuse broke. My friends may recall me going to school in a half-daze. I felt dissociated from my body and mind, I would curl up my lips when people are laughing, and knit my eyebrows when people are in trouble.
Maybe social work came into picture when my rational mind concluded that instead of feeling bad about myself, I should put my experiences to good use by supporting those who go through similar struggles. Instead of feeling sad that no one spoke to me about these pains, maybe I will find meaning in talking to others about their pains. As the saying goes, do not do unto others what you wouldn't like others to do unto you. Likewise, do unto others what you would like others to do unto you.
So that was a compelling cause that propelled me into the profession, to provide a kind of support that I wished was available to me when I was younger. It was a relatively happy marriage with my career. In my 2nd year into the profession, I was called upon by God and received what I considered a miraculous healing of my heart and soul. Since God spoke to me that day, he gave me the answers I was looking for, and I was delivered from my past baggage. Subsequently, God worked in me to see his purposes for the trials and tribulations that he placed on me, and I was gradually able to experience the real joy that He meant to give us.
But better than I expected, God had in mind a plan to also grant me the desire to release me from the shadows of my past and fill it with his light.
Today during my on-call duty, I was called back to attend to an ICU case. The patient was not doing well, and the family had to break the news to the young children, on top of making a difficult care decision.
During my session, as I was getting one of the children to talk about her fears towards her father's possible death, she started weeping because she can't imagine life without her father. And unexpectedly, I found myself tearing a little too. I assured her that it's alright to cry, it's alright to grieve. Death, to a child, translates to eternal separation - the fear of never being able to survive on your own, the fear of permanent abandonment. Some people may argue that it is not helpful for the therapist to tear with the client, but for me I felt it communicated that I feel her pain and fears.
I encouraged her to talk as much to her father now as she can. She spoke about how she loves her father, how she will miss him, how she will study hard, how she will look after her family. Often, talking to the patient may not be as significant for the patient, as it does for the grieving party. The griever needs to let out of all his/her thoughts and feelings so that they can be achieve emotional catharsis and eventually closure. It is a way to say goodbye, in faith that it will be heard by the dying person. Finally, we spoke about how her father can continue to live in her despite his physical death.
As I delivered these words to her, I felt that I was instantly healed once again. I felt that I was able to offer what I would hope to hear as a bereaved. I felt that I didn't go through the loss and death in vain. I felt that I had valuable experiences that have allowed me to better support others emotionally.
When I left the session, I felt delivered by God. I felt that He has taken me back to why I joined social work and completed the circle. This was a special moment, a cherished memory that I will bring with me to sustain me in my work.
Lord, I leave the family in your good hands and may you one day lead them to you and your purposes too. Thank you Lord.
20.11.12
Pursuit
At the gentle touch of God's word, the unveiling of His grace, I knew I
was no longer the ugly, unloved Orual. I shed away her loathsome face, her painful losses, her unspoken sorrows.
I experienced the peace and stillness of the moment as time froze in His presence. With His gracious hands, He lifts the baggage off my shoulders and leave me with the lightness of my spirit. His beauty poured generously into my heart, overflowing from the vessel. The joyous songs of His love sing to me, the captivating view of His art work wooed me, silenced me, awed me.
I feel like I just heard a really beautiful love story, realising the author had written it for me.
My Lord, I feel beautiful as Psyche tonight.
I experienced the peace and stillness of the moment as time froze in His presence. With His gracious hands, He lifts the baggage off my shoulders and leave me with the lightness of my spirit. His beauty poured generously into my heart, overflowing from the vessel. The joyous songs of His love sing to me, the captivating view of His art work wooed me, silenced me, awed me.
I feel like I just heard a really beautiful love story, realising the author had written it for me.
My Lord, I feel beautiful as Psyche tonight.
19.11.12
Pensive Moments
"The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy." -- Proverbs 14:10So the good news came. The heart was relieved of its long-carried burdens. Some joy was expressed, a prayer was said and thanks given.
But the flight of words also brought along a tinge of sorrow, a heaviness that began to sink in. Sorrow started as a small teardrop, that slowly, quietly, madly spread like a crimson ink blot over a white bibulous paper, a wildfire in the rainforest. It uncontrollably expands its circumference across the territory, contaminating the purity of the land and robbing it of any joy and life that previously sprouted.
I tried to contain the fire, I tried to stop the ink. But the selfishness that I did not discard catalysed the catastrophe. Bad thoughts fuelled the imagination, and imagination ignited more bad thoughts.
I re-read Till We Have Faces and felt like Orual in her veil. The ending lifted my veil, and brought some light, but I remained unconsoled.
It has only been a short journey, a small fraction of my entire life, but it felt like forever. It still feels like forever before eternity.
In between work and sleep, in between morning and nightfall, in between now and then, I carry this cup of penitence in hope that age will one day take it away from my hands.
5.11.12
1.4.12
A long drought
It has been almost two years since the wonderer came to this piece of land and settled down. When she first arrived, life was scarce and the vegetation was sparse. The land had been battered by harsh weather condition, and there were still evidence of desolation from the ravage of the last habitants.
The wonderer had come in search for companionship. She came in search for peace and warmth in a place that she can call her own. Realising the state of the land had been poor due to a long drought, she started tending to the land in good faith that the land will one day blossom and bloom. She began to water the land with the spring water that she had previously collected and carried with her, leaving only some for her own subsistence. She listened to the sorrows and troubles of the land, and felt a deep sense of empathy towards the hardship that it had been through. Gradually and naturally, the wonderer began to grow roots to the ground.
All would have been rosy, if the Lord had put a quick end to the painfully long drought. Unfortunately, the wait had been futile and the land did not bear fruits. As the days went by, the wonderer grew more and more disheartened. Everyone sows in hope of a fruitful harvest, but for the wonderer, it has been a barren effort. As much as she enjoyed giving and tending to the land, she became downspirited when the people of the land started making demands of the wonderer, sometimes picking on her flaws. She longed to relinquish her role and assumed responsibility, but felt a sense of obligation and sympathy for the land and people. After all, life always has its ups and downs, and kindness almost always bear good fruits for both the giver and the receiver. As a consolation to herself, she made up her mind to leave when heaven finally decides to open its floodgates.
It has only been two years, but it felt like ten. And month after month, the wonderer continues to wait, continues to pray for the drought to pass, and for the life-giving showers to arrive. Spring will certainly come, and everyone's miseries shall end with His deliverance.
The wonderer had come in search for companionship. She came in search for peace and warmth in a place that she can call her own. Realising the state of the land had been poor due to a long drought, she started tending to the land in good faith that the land will one day blossom and bloom. She began to water the land with the spring water that she had previously collected and carried with her, leaving only some for her own subsistence. She listened to the sorrows and troubles of the land, and felt a deep sense of empathy towards the hardship that it had been through. Gradually and naturally, the wonderer began to grow roots to the ground.
All would have been rosy, if the Lord had put a quick end to the painfully long drought. Unfortunately, the wait had been futile and the land did not bear fruits. As the days went by, the wonderer grew more and more disheartened. Everyone sows in hope of a fruitful harvest, but for the wonderer, it has been a barren effort. As much as she enjoyed giving and tending to the land, she became downspirited when the people of the land started making demands of the wonderer, sometimes picking on her flaws. She longed to relinquish her role and assumed responsibility, but felt a sense of obligation and sympathy for the land and people. After all, life always has its ups and downs, and kindness almost always bear good fruits for both the giver and the receiver. As a consolation to herself, she made up her mind to leave when heaven finally decides to open its floodgates.
It has only been two years, but it felt like ten. And month after month, the wonderer continues to wait, continues to pray for the drought to pass, and for the life-giving showers to arrive. Spring will certainly come, and everyone's miseries shall end with His deliverance.
4.3.12
Buried
Often in my lucid moments
when I'm lying
in bed and deep in thought,
I question
the irrationality of my actions
Like a gambling addict who claims,
"I will throw in the towel after this round",
I never do.
And the casino,
sensing my forlornness,
hands me a new stack of chips at the exit
lures me back to a new game
Certainly it is not the acrylic's fault.
I am buying hope with my time
I'm burning the wick on my head
I'm living on the words in a book
But maybe when I finally win a game,
and I bring the chips to the counter
only to get paper in return
Then the full magnitude
of my foolishness shall
befall me.
Awake, await
Bury the dead and marry life
The Lord is my gold.
-
I don't know better but I pray He does.
when I'm lying
in bed and deep in thought,
I question
the irrationality of my actions
Like a gambling addict who claims,
"I will throw in the towel after this round",
I never do.
And the casino,
sensing my forlornness,
hands me a new stack of chips at the exit
lures me back to a new game
Certainly it is not the acrylic's fault.
I am buying hope with my time
I'm burning the wick on my head
I'm living on the words in a book
But maybe when I finally win a game,
and I bring the chips to the counter
only to get paper in return
Then the full magnitude
of my foolishness shall
befall me.
Awake, await
Bury the dead and marry life
The Lord is my gold.
-
I don't know better but I pray He does.
5.1.12
Withering, blooming
Ever since I started serious doodling (which sounds like an oxymoron), I have almost completely abandoned writing altogether, apart from the regular emails and reports at work and the daily prayers in my journal.
2011 had been such a slow year. When I was going through the days, it felt like a painful crawl. But now that it is over, it feels like it had happened at the turn of a page. I feel a little sad to confess that the year had started like a flower budding with hopes for a beautiful blossom, only to wither and die before its time. And when it died, it took away a part of me. I woke up from my dream in the middle of summer, and started spending much of my off days hiding in the shroud of anonymity of a crowded cafe, busily reading or drawing away. And time, the magical solution, shall distort memories, dilute sentiments and dispose whichever of the two that we choose not to keep.
I really delight in this solitude while I am at it, but the comfort of this reclusiveness may end as I move on to a new workplace and possibly new phase of life. You know, one of the most beautiful things I find about life is how with every fall of a fruit comes many new seeds, with every dark chilly night comes a new dawn, and with every winter comes a blooming spring. As with nature's cycle, with every fall comes a rise, with every loss comes a gain, with every end comes a new beginning.
My friend, thank you for dropping by. May the new year bring joy, comfort and peace to you. :-)
2011 had been such a slow year. When I was going through the days, it felt like a painful crawl. But now that it is over, it feels like it had happened at the turn of a page. I feel a little sad to confess that the year had started like a flower budding with hopes for a beautiful blossom, only to wither and die before its time. And when it died, it took away a part of me. I woke up from my dream in the middle of summer, and started spending much of my off days hiding in the shroud of anonymity of a crowded cafe, busily reading or drawing away. And time, the magical solution, shall distort memories, dilute sentiments and dispose whichever of the two that we choose not to keep.
I really delight in this solitude while I am at it, but the comfort of this reclusiveness may end as I move on to a new workplace and possibly new phase of life. You know, one of the most beautiful things I find about life is how with every fall of a fruit comes many new seeds, with every dark chilly night comes a new dawn, and with every winter comes a blooming spring. As with nature's cycle, with every fall comes a rise, with every loss comes a gain, with every end comes a new beginning.
My friend, thank you for dropping by. May the new year bring joy, comfort and peace to you. :-)
24.10.11
Only God Knows
As the book of life says, there is a time for everything.
There is a time to sow, and a time to reap,
a time to give, a time to take
A time to speak, and a time to be spoken to
a time to coax, a time to rebuke
A time to rejoice, a time to be in remorse
a time to laugh, a time to cry
A time to run helter skelter, a time to be at ease
a time to fall, a time to rise
A time to be afraid, and a time to be brave
a time to be strong, a time to be weak
A time to be young, and a time to be old
a time to be first, a time to be last
A time for rain, and a time for rainbow
a time to hurt, a time to be healed
A time to love, and a time to be loved
a time for fellowship, a time to be alone
A time to fill the cup, and a time to empty it
a time to embrace, a time to withdraw
A time to build houses, and a time to tear them down
a time to seek others, a time to be sought
A time to keep, and a time to throw away
a time to hang on, a time to let go
A time to open a chapter, a time to close it
a time to linger, a time to move on.
-
Certainly, there is a time to show appreciation, a time to praise, a time to give thanks. Of everything that is not going well in my life, I pray I will always remember the many others which are.
And the greatest One above, who lays out every time for every thing. There is a time to be near, and a time to be far that I scramble my way back.
-
Ending with a lovely melody that makes me wonder if every song was written with someone in mind, and if every song was sung for someone we have met, or have yet to meet.
Just A Song by The Crookery
There is a time to sow, and a time to reap,
a time to give, a time to take
A time to speak, and a time to be spoken to
a time to coax, a time to rebuke
A time to rejoice, a time to be in remorse
a time to laugh, a time to cry
A time to run helter skelter, a time to be at ease
a time to fall, a time to rise
A time to be afraid, and a time to be brave
a time to be strong, a time to be weak
A time to be young, and a time to be old
a time to be first, a time to be last
A time for rain, and a time for rainbow
a time to hurt, a time to be healed
A time to love, and a time to be loved
a time for fellowship, a time to be alone
A time to fill the cup, and a time to empty it
a time to embrace, a time to withdraw
A time to build houses, and a time to tear them down
a time to seek others, a time to be sought
A time to keep, and a time to throw away
a time to hang on, a time to let go
A time to open a chapter, a time to close it
a time to linger, a time to move on.
-
Certainly, there is a time to show appreciation, a time to praise, a time to give thanks. Of everything that is not going well in my life, I pray I will always remember the many others which are.
And the greatest One above, who lays out every time for every thing. There is a time to be near, and a time to be far that I scramble my way back.
-
Ending with a lovely melody that makes me wonder if every song was written with someone in mind, and if every song was sung for someone we have met, or have yet to meet.
Just A Song by The Crookery
7.9.11
The cloud that weeps
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Falling endlessly on every tent
Thunder roars in protest of your grief
Lightning runs to strike the ground
That has long become dry and barren
Tell me my cloud, when will you gather the water again?
To carry them all up to you as fruitful grain
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Lands on every concrete wall and floor
On towers and obelisks that lie far beneath you
On asherah poles that decay with passing time
On metal that corrodes, and mud that erodes
Tell me my cloud, is there anywhere you haven't been?
The traces you have left, few have seen
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Taps gently on every window pane
The children peer out in curiosity
But the fathers close the curtains tight
And the mothers that pull the eyes away
Tell me my cloud, will you have many more tries?
Before you turn your back and say goodbye
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
The one whom I sob quietly to in my bed
May the tears bring me closer with you
As you read my thoughts and search my heart
As you open my mind and open my eyes
Look on me my Lord, here is my door
Please come in to stay, it's you I've been longing for
Falling endlessly on every tent
Thunder roars in protest of your grief
Lightning runs to strike the ground
That has long become dry and barren
Tell me my cloud, when will you gather the water again?
To carry them all up to you as fruitful grain
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Lands on every concrete wall and floor
On towers and obelisks that lie far beneath you
On asherah poles that decay with passing time
On metal that corrodes, and mud that erodes
Tell me my cloud, is there anywhere you haven't been?
The traces you have left, few have seen
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Taps gently on every window pane
The children peer out in curiosity
But the fathers close the curtains tight
And the mothers that pull the eyes away
Tell me my cloud, will you have many more tries?
Before you turn your back and say goodbye
The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
The one whom I sob quietly to in my bed
May the tears bring me closer with you
As you read my thoughts and search my heart
As you open my mind and open my eyes
Look on me my Lord, here is my door
Please come in to stay, it's you I've been longing for
29.8.11
Ice cube tray
Sometimes, we do much injustice when we confine something as fluid and versatile as water, into an ice cube tray. We cannot hold water in our hands without it escaping from our grasp, so this is the only way for us to capture them and hold them in our palms in absolute certainty.
As we pour them, droplet by droplet, into the fanciful trays, we cast them in our moulds and assign them to our predetermined shapes. We put them in the freezer, and leave them in the cold for a while. Shortly after, we have nice pieces of well-formed ice, in an orderly fasion. No one is out of place, no exceptions, no differences other than the ones we have allowed.
But as soon as they leave the ice box, they start to shed away their defined edges, and return to their uncongealed state, to a free-form substance again.
As we pour them, droplet by droplet, into the fanciful trays, we cast them in our moulds and assign them to our predetermined shapes. We put them in the freezer, and leave them in the cold for a while. Shortly after, we have nice pieces of well-formed ice, in an orderly fasion. No one is out of place, no exceptions, no differences other than the ones we have allowed.
But as soon as they leave the ice box, they start to shed away their defined edges, and return to their uncongealed state, to a free-form substance again.
21.8.11
Water in the Mail
At times, I liken the act of communication to sending a parcel of water over the mail. Tom wants to send a message to Jerry, so he folds a piece of paper into an envelope, and pours some water inside. But before he can seal the top of the envelope, he realises that all the water have seeped through the paper.
Then he takes some time to think about his failed attempt, and decides to give it a second shot. This time, he puts the water in the refrigerator, and allows it to freeze into a cube of ice. Then he takes out the ice cube and wraps it in an aluminium foil to place it in a box. Indeed, the box reaches Jerry, but when Jerry opens the box and unwraps the package, the melted ice spills out from the box and onto the floor. He looks at the mess and ponders over the real intentions of the person who mailed the parcel.
Determined to give it one last chance, Tom decides that he is willing to spend some money to get his point across. He purchases a vacuum flask, pours the water into the flask, and brings it to the post office to send out as a registered mail. The postman takes the parcel, dumbs it in his huge bag of mail, and carries them all to the door of the recipient. When he reaches Jerry's house, he rings the door bell several times, and does not get an answer. He takes out the registered article collection form and sticks it on the door, as part of the evidence of his delivery attempt. On the note, it says, "There is a package for you. The postman came at 3pm, but you were not around. Please collect your package at the nearest post office, or contact us to arrange for a second delivery."
Misrepresented, misunderstood, or missed altogether.
Then he takes some time to think about his failed attempt, and decides to give it a second shot. This time, he puts the water in the refrigerator, and allows it to freeze into a cube of ice. Then he takes out the ice cube and wraps it in an aluminium foil to place it in a box. Indeed, the box reaches Jerry, but when Jerry opens the box and unwraps the package, the melted ice spills out from the box and onto the floor. He looks at the mess and ponders over the real intentions of the person who mailed the parcel.
Determined to give it one last chance, Tom decides that he is willing to spend some money to get his point across. He purchases a vacuum flask, pours the water into the flask, and brings it to the post office to send out as a registered mail. The postman takes the parcel, dumbs it in his huge bag of mail, and carries them all to the door of the recipient. When he reaches Jerry's house, he rings the door bell several times, and does not get an answer. He takes out the registered article collection form and sticks it on the door, as part of the evidence of his delivery attempt. On the note, it says, "There is a package for you. The postman came at 3pm, but you were not around. Please collect your package at the nearest post office, or contact us to arrange for a second delivery."
Misrepresented, misunderstood, or missed altogether.
30.7.11
Desensitization
Have you ever taken a cold shower on a cold day?
It was not intentional. You were not aware that the heater had broken down. You had massaged all the shampoo into your hair, and soaped yourself from your head to toe. Then you turned on the shower and the water came pouring down in torrents.
You stuck your hand out to intercept the downpour. The water ran through your fingers, sending a chilling sensation to your spine. You waited for the hot water to come on, but the falling stream remains too cold for comfort. You held your hand in front of the nozzle and anticipated for a change of temperature. Somehow after a while, your mind was tricked into thinking that the water had become warmer when it was your palm that became desensitized to the cold.
You dip toes into the shower, followed by your thighs. It was tolerable. Then you took a step closer, and the icy waters landed on your torso, making a run down your chest and your tummy before passing down your legs. You felt your body trembling, your muscles shivering under your skin. Then you struck up more courage, and moved your head under the shower. Your brain just froze for the next few seconds.
In your mind, you told yourself to get it over and done as quick as you can. Gathering much will power, you turned the flow to the maximum. Vigorously, you rubbed the soap off your skin.
Just when your skin started to feel clean and clear, you noticed a change in the temperature. Gradually, the water became warmer, and warmer. Then you saw some fog forming on the mirror beside you. Steam rose to the ceiling and out of the cubicle. It was getting hot.
By then, you did not need the heater anymore. Your body had already accustomed itself to the cold water, your skin had desensitized to the adversive stimulus. And the warmth - it no longer mattered.
It was not intentional. You were not aware that the heater had broken down. You had massaged all the shampoo into your hair, and soaped yourself from your head to toe. Then you turned on the shower and the water came pouring down in torrents.
You stuck your hand out to intercept the downpour. The water ran through your fingers, sending a chilling sensation to your spine. You waited for the hot water to come on, but the falling stream remains too cold for comfort. You held your hand in front of the nozzle and anticipated for a change of temperature. Somehow after a while, your mind was tricked into thinking that the water had become warmer when it was your palm that became desensitized to the cold.
You dip toes into the shower, followed by your thighs. It was tolerable. Then you took a step closer, and the icy waters landed on your torso, making a run down your chest and your tummy before passing down your legs. You felt your body trembling, your muscles shivering under your skin. Then you struck up more courage, and moved your head under the shower. Your brain just froze for the next few seconds.
In your mind, you told yourself to get it over and done as quick as you can. Gathering much will power, you turned the flow to the maximum. Vigorously, you rubbed the soap off your skin.
Just when your skin started to feel clean and clear, you noticed a change in the temperature. Gradually, the water became warmer, and warmer. Then you saw some fog forming on the mirror beside you. Steam rose to the ceiling and out of the cubicle. It was getting hot.
By then, you did not need the heater anymore. Your body had already accustomed itself to the cold water, your skin had desensitized to the adversive stimulus. And the warmth - it no longer mattered.
23.7.11
Song of Hope
Then you sing me songs of hope
And I danced and every line becomes a ray of light
Song Of Hope by SOULNIDUS
On a sidenote, soundcloud has a thriving community of independent singer-songwriters. If you agree that mainstream music has been strewn with much thrashy pop and distasteful lyrics, then do check out this alternative channel.
And I danced and every line becomes a ray of light
Song Of Hope by SOULNIDUS
On a sidenote, soundcloud has a thriving community of independent singer-songwriters. If you agree that mainstream music has been strewn with much thrashy pop and distasteful lyrics, then do check out this alternative channel.
26.6.11
Woe of a mortal
(Since this is open to public scrutiny, I must make a disclaimer before I begin. I am unworthy to speak of the topic, neither am I an expert. Do pardon me for any misinterpretation on my part; differing opinions are welcomed. If you find this offensive, or feel that I've said something wrong, then please correct me by making a comment below so that we can all learn.)
You are sitting at a hawker centre with only have a few dollars in your wallet. A rugged old man approaches you and asks you for some money. He looks like he does not have a home to go to, or anything to eat for the day. You feel sympathy (or perhaps empathy if you had been in similar situation) and decide that you can part with some money for his sake. He walks away with a few dollars. After your meal, you walk past the void deck and sees the old man sitting at a corner with a few cigarette sticks (or a can of beer) in his hands.
Taking into account the likelihood that he had spent your money on vices, you may feel that you have been cheated, or you may experience a little bit of anger, or regret. Or perhaps you would just sigh and let it pass. The range of reactions are non-exhaustive, I am only able to think of those which I have personally experienced. But something which I read some time back helped me to come to terms with the frustrations of my work, and with life in general.
Mahatma Gandhi once wrote in an article, Ethical Religion, that a man is a master of his own morality, but not its results. A man who has committed an immoral act is deemed as guilty, even if his behaviour has no adverse impact on others. Likewise a man who has acted morally is still guiltless, even if few have followed him. So if a man offers his help to his neighbour because he perceives his neighbour is need, only to find out later that the neighbour had lied about his circumstances, is this man guiltless? Or would he be guilty if he had not offer help in the first place? But what if this man did not help because he were certain that the neighbour was lying? Or what if this man only helped because he is of a certain social status and did not want to lose his social standing? It seems that most laws, have clauses and exceptions, is it possible for us to cover all grounds when we only have a short span of time to decide the cause of action?
Or consider this situation: A woman sees that her neighbour's clothes on the clothesline had been blown away by the wind, she runs downstairs to pick it up. Unfortunately, on her way back, her neighbour sees her with the clothes and accuses her of attempting to steal. If the next time it happens, would it be more right for the woman to do the same as she did the last time, or to inform the neighbour and leave it to the neighbour to decide if her help is needed, or for her to ignore it altogether? Can we decide what is more right without full understanding of an her intentions?
Unlike arithmetic where the answers are definite, it seems that the answers to life's questions are often ambiguous. If you have experienced the futility of an action which you did in the hope of being helpful, I hope you won't be discouraged or disappointed. We often cannot control the outcome of our actions, but we can at least control our actions. So perhaps the best defence is to do whatever that is deemed as right based on the understanding of each scenario.
I shall end with the article by Gandhi, if you are a keen reader. I hope the article will have useful insights for you; and I hope there will always be mutual tolerance, and an agreement to disagree at times.
You are sitting at a hawker centre with only have a few dollars in your wallet. A rugged old man approaches you and asks you for some money. He looks like he does not have a home to go to, or anything to eat for the day. You feel sympathy (or perhaps empathy if you had been in similar situation) and decide that you can part with some money for his sake. He walks away with a few dollars. After your meal, you walk past the void deck and sees the old man sitting at a corner with a few cigarette sticks (or a can of beer) in his hands.
Taking into account the likelihood that he had spent your money on vices, you may feel that you have been cheated, or you may experience a little bit of anger, or regret. Or perhaps you would just sigh and let it pass. The range of reactions are non-exhaustive, I am only able to think of those which I have personally experienced. But something which I read some time back helped me to come to terms with the frustrations of my work, and with life in general.
Mahatma Gandhi once wrote in an article, Ethical Religion, that a man is a master of his own morality, but not its results. A man who has committed an immoral act is deemed as guilty, even if his behaviour has no adverse impact on others. Likewise a man who has acted morally is still guiltless, even if few have followed him. So if a man offers his help to his neighbour because he perceives his neighbour is need, only to find out later that the neighbour had lied about his circumstances, is this man guiltless? Or would he be guilty if he had not offer help in the first place? But what if this man did not help because he were certain that the neighbour was lying? Or what if this man only helped because he is of a certain social status and did not want to lose his social standing? It seems that most laws, have clauses and exceptions, is it possible for us to cover all grounds when we only have a short span of time to decide the cause of action?
Or consider this situation: A woman sees that her neighbour's clothes on the clothesline had been blown away by the wind, she runs downstairs to pick it up. Unfortunately, on her way back, her neighbour sees her with the clothes and accuses her of attempting to steal. If the next time it happens, would it be more right for the woman to do the same as she did the last time, or to inform the neighbour and leave it to the neighbour to decide if her help is needed, or for her to ignore it altogether? Can we decide what is more right without full understanding of an her intentions?
Unlike arithmetic where the answers are definite, it seems that the answers to life's questions are often ambiguous. If you have experienced the futility of an action which you did in the hope of being helpful, I hope you won't be discouraged or disappointed. We often cannot control the outcome of our actions, but we can at least control our actions. So perhaps the best defence is to do whatever that is deemed as right based on the understanding of each scenario.
I shall end with the article by Gandhi, if you are a keen reader. I hope the article will have useful insights for you; and I hope there will always be mutual tolerance, and an agreement to disagree at times.
21.6.11
High
Woke up to this old favourite from the Lighthouse Family:
Always keep it flying high in the sky of love.
Always keep it flying high in the sky of love.
20.6.11
Finding roots
Once upon a time, there was a tiny little seed, hidden inside the fruit of a very huge tree. While all the fruits on that tree were wholesome and healthy, the fruit that this seed dwelled in was small, dull-colored and deformed. Despite its imperfections, the fruit was still able to serve its purpose well. It nourished the seed with nutrients, and protected the seed from animals and bad weather.
Months after the formation of the seed was completed, the tree decided that it was time for its fruits to leave. So with the help of a gentle breeze, the tree swayed its hands and wriggled its fingers, sending all the fruits to descend from its branches. The moment the fruits fell onto the ground, the fullest, juiciest-looking ones were carried off by the passing animals. Squirrels, birds, cats and wild boars came to enjoy the harvest. However, none of them would take the deformed and ugly fruit. So the fruit sat on the bed of the forest, and waited. For days and nights, it waited.
After a long long time, when the colors had faded and the pulp dried up, the fruit finally caught the sight of a passer-by. A hunter was on his way home with a bag of game for his family when he tripped over the fruit. Looking down on the floor, he saw the shrivelled fruit in his path. Thinking that it might be a pity if the seed of the fruit was to go to waste, he said to himself, “Why not bring it back to plant it so that my children may play under it when they are older?” So he put the fruit into his bag and went back home, where his wife and offspring were expecting him. While his wife was in the kitchen to prepare the dinner, the hunter went into the garden. He extracted the seed from the fruit, and placed it deep in the soil. He also took some of the animal waste to put around it as nutrients. Contented with his day, he returned to his house to enjoy the company of his loved ones.
The seed was happy that it has found a place to plant its roots. Whenever the animals came to lay their waste on the soil, the seed ate heartily from the remnants. Whenever the sky cried and sent its tears down to the ground, the seed drank to its heart’s content. So quietly and peacefully, the first year passed and the seed blossomed into a young sapling.
In the second year, leaves began to sprout from the sapling. So whenever the sun came out, the leaves would be busy making food for the sapling. Whenever the wind passed by for a visit, the leaves would rustle and dance in joy. When it was night time, they closed up and fell into sleep. And so the second year went by, followed by the third year.
By the fourth year, the sapling had already grown into a small tree, eight feet tall. The leaves were thick, and the branches were few but strong. By then, the children in the house had also grown taller and bigger. There were two boys, and two girls, from the age of four to nine. In the day, the eldest boy would follow their father to hunt for food, while the other three children stayed at home with the mother. They were all very active, and spent much of their time playing in the garden. And to its greatest delight, the small tree became the children’s favourite spot.
In the afternoon when the sun was high up in the sky, the children would hide under the cooling shade of the tree. When the boys wanted to get away from the girls, they would climb to the top of the tree. As the girls were not as athletic as the boys, they could only watch the boys from below, much to their dismay. However, the girls enjoyed doodling which the boys did not, so they often stole chalk from the house to doodle on the tree trunk. Sometimes they would write their birthday wishes or ambitions, sometimes they would do arithmetic, and sometimes they would draw pictures of their family or their home. Each time after a downpour, the rain would wash away the writings and drawings, so the girls were able to start all over again. The presence of the children made the tree very happy. It thought to itself, “I have found a home and made myself useful”. So firmly and faithfully, it stood in its spot in the garden.
In happiness, the fifth year flew by. Followed by the sixth year, seventh year and the eighth year. With each passing year, the children grew, and began to enter adolescence. Unfortunately, as the children matured, the tree also started to see less and less of them.
By the twelfth year, they had stopped being children, but teenagers who were no longer interested in playing under the tree. All the tree saw of them, were their passing shadows as they moved in and out of the house. Unlike the children, the tree could not talk. Neither could it walk with its roots already entrenched in the soil. So it could only remain still, as each afternoon became very quiet, and each day crawled by very slowly. Thinking that it had outlived its use, the tree felt very downcasted and dejected. The only friends who visited were the occasional breeze and drizzle. Over time, the tree was filled with loneliness.
One morning, when the tree was at its lowest point, a bird stopped by and started picking at its twigs and plucking its leaves. It was terribly painful for the tree. To add on to the discomfort, the bird would not stop chirping, and this disrupted the peace that the tree had. Then the bird sat down on the branch and refused to barge from its position for the next few days. The tree felt even more forlorn and discouraged. “Even the birds have come to bully me!” it cried in despair.
On the third morning, at the break of dawn, the tree woke up an incessant chirping that was louder than before. Irritated that its sleep was disrupted, the tree looked down at its branches. Lo and behold, on the branch was a small nest, and in the nest was the bird, surrounded by five tiny ones! The tiny ones had very fine feathers, and they looked very tender and vulnerable. And the mother bird was busy attending to each one of them, carrassing them and feeding them with food that she has collected. Together as a family, the choir of birds sang in joy.
This was a very, very pleasant surprise for the tree, who had never experienced something like this before. By now, the branches of the tree were firm and well-shaded enough for birds to set up its nest. Furthermore, the tree was well-situated in the garden, where there was plenty of food for the young. Indeed, it was a blessing for the tree. Realising that it had now moved on to the next stage of its life, the tree was filled with happiness and excitement. “You and your little ones are most welcomed to live here,” it said to the mother bird. “I will shelter them from the sun and storms until they are able to take flight on their own.”
It had been a long search, but the tiny seed had finally found its place and purpose, one that it could keep for the rest of its days. With every year added on to its age, the tree only grew bigger and stronger, making it a more comfortable place for each generation of birds. So firmly, it stood at its spot, and faithfully, it provided and protected. There was never a lonely day again, and you can very well say that it was a merrily ever after.
Months after the formation of the seed was completed, the tree decided that it was time for its fruits to leave. So with the help of a gentle breeze, the tree swayed its hands and wriggled its fingers, sending all the fruits to descend from its branches. The moment the fruits fell onto the ground, the fullest, juiciest-looking ones were carried off by the passing animals. Squirrels, birds, cats and wild boars came to enjoy the harvest. However, none of them would take the deformed and ugly fruit. So the fruit sat on the bed of the forest, and waited. For days and nights, it waited.
After a long long time, when the colors had faded and the pulp dried up, the fruit finally caught the sight of a passer-by. A hunter was on his way home with a bag of game for his family when he tripped over the fruit. Looking down on the floor, he saw the shrivelled fruit in his path. Thinking that it might be a pity if the seed of the fruit was to go to waste, he said to himself, “Why not bring it back to plant it so that my children may play under it when they are older?” So he put the fruit into his bag and went back home, where his wife and offspring were expecting him. While his wife was in the kitchen to prepare the dinner, the hunter went into the garden. He extracted the seed from the fruit, and placed it deep in the soil. He also took some of the animal waste to put around it as nutrients. Contented with his day, he returned to his house to enjoy the company of his loved ones.
The seed was happy that it has found a place to plant its roots. Whenever the animals came to lay their waste on the soil, the seed ate heartily from the remnants. Whenever the sky cried and sent its tears down to the ground, the seed drank to its heart’s content. So quietly and peacefully, the first year passed and the seed blossomed into a young sapling.
In the second year, leaves began to sprout from the sapling. So whenever the sun came out, the leaves would be busy making food for the sapling. Whenever the wind passed by for a visit, the leaves would rustle and dance in joy. When it was night time, they closed up and fell into sleep. And so the second year went by, followed by the third year.
By the fourth year, the sapling had already grown into a small tree, eight feet tall. The leaves were thick, and the branches were few but strong. By then, the children in the house had also grown taller and bigger. There were two boys, and two girls, from the age of four to nine. In the day, the eldest boy would follow their father to hunt for food, while the other three children stayed at home with the mother. They were all very active, and spent much of their time playing in the garden. And to its greatest delight, the small tree became the children’s favourite spot.
In the afternoon when the sun was high up in the sky, the children would hide under the cooling shade of the tree. When the boys wanted to get away from the girls, they would climb to the top of the tree. As the girls were not as athletic as the boys, they could only watch the boys from below, much to their dismay. However, the girls enjoyed doodling which the boys did not, so they often stole chalk from the house to doodle on the tree trunk. Sometimes they would write their birthday wishes or ambitions, sometimes they would do arithmetic, and sometimes they would draw pictures of their family or their home. Each time after a downpour, the rain would wash away the writings and drawings, so the girls were able to start all over again. The presence of the children made the tree very happy. It thought to itself, “I have found a home and made myself useful”. So firmly and faithfully, it stood in its spot in the garden.
In happiness, the fifth year flew by. Followed by the sixth year, seventh year and the eighth year. With each passing year, the children grew, and began to enter adolescence. Unfortunately, as the children matured, the tree also started to see less and less of them.
By the twelfth year, they had stopped being children, but teenagers who were no longer interested in playing under the tree. All the tree saw of them, were their passing shadows as they moved in and out of the house. Unlike the children, the tree could not talk. Neither could it walk with its roots already entrenched in the soil. So it could only remain still, as each afternoon became very quiet, and each day crawled by very slowly. Thinking that it had outlived its use, the tree felt very downcasted and dejected. The only friends who visited were the occasional breeze and drizzle. Over time, the tree was filled with loneliness.
One morning, when the tree was at its lowest point, a bird stopped by and started picking at its twigs and plucking its leaves. It was terribly painful for the tree. To add on to the discomfort, the bird would not stop chirping, and this disrupted the peace that the tree had. Then the bird sat down on the branch and refused to barge from its position for the next few days. The tree felt even more forlorn and discouraged. “Even the birds have come to bully me!” it cried in despair.
On the third morning, at the break of dawn, the tree woke up an incessant chirping that was louder than before. Irritated that its sleep was disrupted, the tree looked down at its branches. Lo and behold, on the branch was a small nest, and in the nest was the bird, surrounded by five tiny ones! The tiny ones had very fine feathers, and they looked very tender and vulnerable. And the mother bird was busy attending to each one of them, carrassing them and feeding them with food that she has collected. Together as a family, the choir of birds sang in joy.
This was a very, very pleasant surprise for the tree, who had never experienced something like this before. By now, the branches of the tree were firm and well-shaded enough for birds to set up its nest. Furthermore, the tree was well-situated in the garden, where there was plenty of food for the young. Indeed, it was a blessing for the tree. Realising that it had now moved on to the next stage of its life, the tree was filled with happiness and excitement. “You and your little ones are most welcomed to live here,” it said to the mother bird. “I will shelter them from the sun and storms until they are able to take flight on their own.”
It had been a long search, but the tiny seed had finally found its place and purpose, one that it could keep for the rest of its days. With every year added on to its age, the tree only grew bigger and stronger, making it a more comfortable place for each generation of birds. So firmly, it stood at its spot, and faithfully, it provided and protected. There was never a lonely day again, and you can very well say that it was a merrily ever after.
18.6.11
The black hole
When my father passed away when I was sixteen, I fell into a huge black hole.
By then, we had already spent half my life apart, and the parent-child relationship had diluted to an unfeeling, material one. Whenever I met him, it was always about money, a collection of extra allowance for me. Apart from that, there were also occasional gifts, things I would not receive from my mum. Most kids at our schools were well-to-do and well-endowed with many expensive items, a clear evidence against our apparent meritocratic education system. We were living on the line. That was why I always got excited whenever it was time to meet him.
Our meet-ups were scarce, a handful of times in a year or two. It usually took place over a lunch, at a Chinese or Western restaurant, because that was just about what he would eat. Conversations were superficial, though I can no longer recall what we used to talk about. It was more like a quick meal, followed by a pick up of cash. The air was always cold, and he probably felt it more than I did.
The evening when the news came to me one evening, I was overcomed with shock. He was in the hospital for a while, but had chosen not to inform us. I was angry to have been kept out of the loop. It was later on that I found out the reason. You might be able to guess it. I am too ashamed to confess it.
The period that followed was an awful black hole. I did not have to make an effort to carve it out of my memory, it was just an absence of any, a complete gap. When I tried to return to school that following week, I found out that the teacher had announced the news to the whole class. I detected an unusual level of concern in people, a sort of sympathy that made things worse. I tried to hide at home, but the lack of engagement sent me straight into an engulfing state of hollowness. Time crawled by as I spent many afternoons staring at the ceiling in a daze. It was a mental paralysis, an emotional blackout. I tried to sleep the day away, but the floodgates wouldn't close and the dams were broken. I tried to deny, to forget, to externalise, to rationalise, but each comfort was momentary. It didn't help that it was a taboo to talk about anything related to the event. I had just lost something important but I couldn't tell or show anyone. It was a silent, lonely grief. I went to school and did my exams with my mind and body, and locked everything else in a safe.
This was the inaugural black hole, the beginning of many black holes in my life over the next eight years, many of them with no identifiable cause. But even if there were a cause, there is a no cure for loss, no lost corner in Norfolk that we can retrieve what we had left behind, or what had left us.
By then, we had already spent half my life apart, and the parent-child relationship had diluted to an unfeeling, material one. Whenever I met him, it was always about money, a collection of extra allowance for me. Apart from that, there were also occasional gifts, things I would not receive from my mum. Most kids at our schools were well-to-do and well-endowed with many expensive items, a clear evidence against our apparent meritocratic education system. We were living on the line. That was why I always got excited whenever it was time to meet him.
Our meet-ups were scarce, a handful of times in a year or two. It usually took place over a lunch, at a Chinese or Western restaurant, because that was just about what he would eat. Conversations were superficial, though I can no longer recall what we used to talk about. It was more like a quick meal, followed by a pick up of cash. The air was always cold, and he probably felt it more than I did.
The evening when the news came to me one evening, I was overcomed with shock. He was in the hospital for a while, but had chosen not to inform us. I was angry to have been kept out of the loop. It was later on that I found out the reason. You might be able to guess it. I am too ashamed to confess it.
The period that followed was an awful black hole. I did not have to make an effort to carve it out of my memory, it was just an absence of any, a complete gap. When I tried to return to school that following week, I found out that the teacher had announced the news to the whole class. I detected an unusual level of concern in people, a sort of sympathy that made things worse. I tried to hide at home, but the lack of engagement sent me straight into an engulfing state of hollowness. Time crawled by as I spent many afternoons staring at the ceiling in a daze. It was a mental paralysis, an emotional blackout. I tried to sleep the day away, but the floodgates wouldn't close and the dams were broken. I tried to deny, to forget, to externalise, to rationalise, but each comfort was momentary. It didn't help that it was a taboo to talk about anything related to the event. I had just lost something important but I couldn't tell or show anyone. It was a silent, lonely grief. I went to school and did my exams with my mind and body, and locked everything else in a safe.
This was the inaugural black hole, the beginning of many black holes in my life over the next eight years, many of them with no identifiable cause. But even if there were a cause, there is a no cure for loss, no lost corner in Norfolk that we can retrieve what we had left behind, or what had left us.
17.6.11
The Atonement II
Dear S,
How have you been? We haven't spoken in years, and I would be surprised if you still frequent this place. And probably embarrassed too if you read this. But this has been overdue for too long, so please lend me some time.
Life officially began in secondary school for me, how it started in our blue uniforms and berets. I have lost count of the afternoons we spent in the scorching sun, marching for hours after hours. And then there were also those quiet saturday afternoons when we would go to the swing in the neighbourhood where our school was, and talk about practically anything under the sun. Not forgetting the training camps during the holidays, the ones that I was terribly terrified of, because I felt that the seniors were just waiting to give me a hard time. (But in retrospect, it was certainly my fault, because I was so irritating, childish and arrogant that I would want to scold myself too! Haha) This is strange, I can't believe how long ago it has been. I can't believe how close these distant memories still feel. I can't believe how many memories I've swept under the carpet all these while. Now that I take a peep under the carpet, the nostalgia is heavy enough to drown me. Adolescence was a sweet lingering scent, innocence a warm protective coat, and youth a light pair of shoes. Now that I have lost them, I miss them so much. I have lost so many years in between, so many years.
I still remember the day when things took a complete turn. The fateful day when I asked you what was wrong, and you handed me a letter that was tightly sealed. You had written a note to me, in hope that I would understand your pains. But I not only did not empathise or ease your pain, I multiplied it in return. What makes me worse, was that I did it knowingly. I was aware of it, aware of the times you were crying, aware that you could have turned spiteful but did not. You might be wondering why I'm unwrapping the unpleasant parts of the past. I must confess unto you, that after so many years, and some repetition later, I finally have a taste of my own poison.
I don't think you would have difficulty understanding what I'm talking about. Please listen to me one more time, this time. All these years, I have always thought that we have to be cruel to be kind. I always feel the kindness will come through later. But now that I'm at the receiving end, I am thinking maybe sometimes, being cruel, is still cruel. What comes around goes around. I must have been evil too many times.
Dear friend, I'm sorry this apology and acknowledgement is a decade late. I know it is too late, because there is nothing I can say to make up for those months of pain you went through. I'm really sorry for what I did, how I reacted. Now that I know the pain myself, I'm truly grievously sorry. I felt betrayed that time. I wished things hadn't changed. But I come to understand that it was not your fault. I cannot blame you. I know how difficult it is to control our feelings, and how hard it is to resist the forces of attraction or pretend there is when there is none. But I shouldn't have shut the door. I could have helped you walk through it by treating you more kindly. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Previously, I was happy that you moved and found a new place. But my happiness had evil roots, because I was happy not purely for your sake, but my own as well. I was relieved it took away my guilt, my responsibility. But now, I truly hope that you are happy for your own sake, I hope that He has been kind and has given you what you should have, and what it should really be. I hope you are happy too. Please be happy.
Thank you for thinking of me still. I owe you a proper thank you for your fantastic hand-made birthday card this year, which I received late because I was overseas. Since we can't turn back time, we should all move forward, and I hope your road ahead is well-lit.
Wishing you joy and bliss, whenever and wherever you are.
Warmest Regards,
A good friend once upon a time
How have you been? We haven't spoken in years, and I would be surprised if you still frequent this place. And probably embarrassed too if you read this. But this has been overdue for too long, so please lend me some time.
Life officially began in secondary school for me, how it started in our blue uniforms and berets. I have lost count of the afternoons we spent in the scorching sun, marching for hours after hours. And then there were also those quiet saturday afternoons when we would go to the swing in the neighbourhood where our school was, and talk about practically anything under the sun. Not forgetting the training camps during the holidays, the ones that I was terribly terrified of, because I felt that the seniors were just waiting to give me a hard time. (But in retrospect, it was certainly my fault, because I was so irritating, childish and arrogant that I would want to scold myself too! Haha) This is strange, I can't believe how long ago it has been. I can't believe how close these distant memories still feel. I can't believe how many memories I've swept under the carpet all these while. Now that I take a peep under the carpet, the nostalgia is heavy enough to drown me. Adolescence was a sweet lingering scent, innocence a warm protective coat, and youth a light pair of shoes. Now that I have lost them, I miss them so much. I have lost so many years in between, so many years.
I still remember the day when things took a complete turn. The fateful day when I asked you what was wrong, and you handed me a letter that was tightly sealed. You had written a note to me, in hope that I would understand your pains. But I not only did not empathise or ease your pain, I multiplied it in return. What makes me worse, was that I did it knowingly. I was aware of it, aware of the times you were crying, aware that you could have turned spiteful but did not. You might be wondering why I'm unwrapping the unpleasant parts of the past. I must confess unto you, that after so many years, and some repetition later, I finally have a taste of my own poison.
I don't think you would have difficulty understanding what I'm talking about. Please listen to me one more time, this time. All these years, I have always thought that we have to be cruel to be kind. I always feel the kindness will come through later. But now that I'm at the receiving end, I am thinking maybe sometimes, being cruel, is still cruel. What comes around goes around. I must have been evil too many times.
Dear friend, I'm sorry this apology and acknowledgement is a decade late. I know it is too late, because there is nothing I can say to make up for those months of pain you went through. I'm really sorry for what I did, how I reacted. Now that I know the pain myself, I'm truly grievously sorry. I felt betrayed that time. I wished things hadn't changed. But I come to understand that it was not your fault. I cannot blame you. I know how difficult it is to control our feelings, and how hard it is to resist the forces of attraction or pretend there is when there is none. But I shouldn't have shut the door. I could have helped you walk through it by treating you more kindly. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Previously, I was happy that you moved and found a new place. But my happiness had evil roots, because I was happy not purely for your sake, but my own as well. I was relieved it took away my guilt, my responsibility. But now, I truly hope that you are happy for your own sake, I hope that He has been kind and has given you what you should have, and what it should really be. I hope you are happy too. Please be happy.
Thank you for thinking of me still. I owe you a proper thank you for your fantastic hand-made birthday card this year, which I received late because I was overseas. Since we can't turn back time, we should all move forward, and I hope your road ahead is well-lit.
Wishing you joy and bliss, whenever and wherever you are.
Warmest Regards,
A good friend once upon a time
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