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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

High

Woke up to this old favourite from the Lighthouse Family:



Always keep it flying high in the sky of love.

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.

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.