just go straight

Like a gentle breeze that sweeps past the blooming evergreens,
as the morning sun embraces the break of a new beginning,
announcing the end of the cold harsh winter,
and the welcoming whispers of a summer's renaissance.

As the frozen river bed melts away at the winter's end,
sinking into the deeper depths,
shying away from the warm summer rays,
as the morning sun breaks through that vivid horizon,
the solitudinal line from a distance,
that separates the days from the nights,
the living from the death,
and the new from the old.

A single croak echoes in the cloudless skies,
coloured by a splash of orange and red,
with a clouded blanket of morning mist,
disguising the escapade of its nightly guests,
the shiny crescent moon and its colony of stars.

As i find myself with a new source of strength to lift myself off my feet and take a step, and another, and another towards the arousing smells of the summer breeze, leaving the baggage of the past behind, carrying along only the tender memories of the days of 'we' and the faith of rejuvenation, i find myself being much more light-heartened as i venture towards the journey of self-recovery and the healing of a broken heart, like a completed jigsaw that has been patiently put together. Nevertheless, even with that new source of strength and courage to move on, i do still, lack direction, like a unexperienced soldier lost in the depths of the jungle, with no ability to read the compass that i hold in my hand. Nevertheless, in time, it will all be much clearer, as the sourching sun takes its place in that empty spot in the sky, with that cloud of morning mist diving into the hilly mountains and the flowing river beds.

Someone once said 'If you have no idea which way to go, just go straight'. For now, till the day i grasp the meaning of that luminox needle spinning in the black little compass that i hold on my hand, i will, as lost as i am, like a lion cub that had lost sight of its party...just go straight. Just go staight, what else can you do? Just go straight, what's the point of standing here, refusing to bulge? Till you hit a wall, just go straight...Till you see the sun, just go straight...

Awakening of a new dawn

Having had dwelled in the shadows of the day for the last couple of months,
lingering in the cold embrace of solitude,
that carries the familiar whispers of self-pity,
the timely awakening of the self was much welcomed.

Having been jobless and idling for the last couple of months, it has finally dawned upon me to take the responsibility of looking for a job seriously. Being unable to perk myself up to pursue the next phrase of my career, i had been half-hearted in my job-hunting efforts. Nevertheless, i witnessed countless heart-felt support from my friends and close ones in these shallow times. Seems like it is time to finally get up on my feet and start treating myself right, to gain back the respect and repay the faith that my close advocates had bestowed upon me.

Having resented the idea of going back into the sales line despite the many consensus that i should stick to it, i had somewhat found that glowing path in the middle of the forest, lighting up to me, guiding me like the soft hands of a mother's clinging onto her precious child. I had finally decided that i should do what i am good at, and that is to pursue the next phrase of my career in sales.

Having screened through the endless sales job opportunities out in the market (some genuine, some fake), i had just finished selecting a handful and submitted my resume accordingly. Mundane tasks like this always takes up far too much effort and unknowingly, the sleepy bugs had made their way up, forcefully stamping on my tired eyelids, as i eventually succumb to its relentless attacks, drifting into the night, keeping my fingers crossed and hoping that i might get lucky and back to work soon.

bonne nuit, bonne chance

the broken-down silence

its been a long while, since i felt that simple pleasures of joy, relief and calmness within me. it's been a long awaited talk between me and her. It seems that my persistence and sincerity had melted the iceberg and given her the opportunity to pour out her feelings and the tough moments that she had to endure through in the last few months. It had been a eventful period of unfortunate happenings for her and it was clear that it had not been any easier for her as it had been for me. That tender vulnerability of her soul had severed from the tough facade of strength as that erupting bottleneck of confused and tender emotions were slowly revealed.

Having tried her best to make a point not to hurt me any further, she had taken the destructive path of keeping her true feelings from me, and yet, as i know, in the end, it had and was to be only me who could deep down, understand and appreciate what she had gone through. In every right, she was as lonesome a traveller as i was. That illusionary circle of protection and refuge that encapsulated her was not to be the saving grace, and unfortunately at the darkest of her moments, she stood alone, helpless like a little child cooped in a lion's den. Like me, it has been a tough phrase in her life, thrown into the chilly waters of the arctic ocean with no more than a winter coat, the harsh coldness sending surges of frozen spikes down that tormented spine, numbing all our thoughts and visions of the future, blinding us instantly.

and now, as my eyes grow accustomed to the pit darkness at the bottom of that treacherous well, i would offer my hand, to accompany her and move forward hand-in-hand, to lead both her and me, out of that darkness, to the end of the tunnel, that concealed entrance of a new beginning, shyly lit only by the faintest of lights, the promises of renaissance.

The monotony of a day that ended with the charming moonlight

Undecided as the awl-like leaves that stayed on the white cedar tree, pondering on its existence as a light breeze carries whispers of the end near of winter and the break of summer, i had wanted to lay still in the middle of that frozen lake and await the penetrating rays of the rejuvenated sun as it melts the icy bed that i lay upon and sink into the non-existence with the forgetten departure of that last winter.

Nevertheless, like i was being tugged into the open skies from the hook of a fisherman's line, the bleak future had left me with a silver lining to take a step forward and await the sights and smells of that approaching summer. The new Her, so to speak, had dropped an sms saying 'hi'. We did exchange a couple of words through the mobile and bid each other goodnight with well wishes. It did send a small surge of delightfulness in me as i managed a subtle smile to myself in my heart. It was nice, to simply know that whether there were any good intentions or just a simple gesture of friendship, i was not as isolated or deserted from the mesmerizing sights and hidden promises of what this world was capable of or had in stall.

Settling down from that temporary state of euphoria, i was able to catch back my level-headedness and get my feet back on the dry solid ground. It will be nice to start off as friends, and then, with each step i take, i will stop to look and ponder, to ensure that its a clear and right path that lies ahead from a distance, for with the hurt that still bleeds from the wound that has not healed, i will not want to hurt another with the knife that still sits between my open wound.

Note to thyself : I could be thinking too much too...it could be just...you know...u know...either way, the patience of my bed is wearing thin, i guess its time for a long-awaited reunion. If dreams are the opposite of reality, let us pray for the most horrendous nightmare that our imaginations could render. Run wild, leave no stones unturned for with the break of dawn, as i tear out of that fearful vision of a bad dream, the sweet promises of a good day lingers.

A Walk in the swamp

A phrase by Murakami that had so accurately and vividly depicted the feelings that i had been unable to pen into words. (Norwegian Wood)

'Time itself slogged along in rhythm with my faltering steps. The people around me had gone on long before, while my time and i hung back, struggling through the mud, through the endless darkness of a swamp.
I trudged along through each day in its turn, rarely looking up, eyes locked on the never-ending swamp that lay before me, planting my right foot, raising my left, planting my left foot, raising my right, never sure where i was, never sure i was headed in the right direction, knowing only that i had to keep moving, one step at a time.'


The now familiar feeling of walking through a misty fog or a barren stony landscape in the strange darkness of the night, lighted only by the palely illuminated ends of a dozen fireflies on the verge of death had transported me back to the initial days of my break-up with her, if not more misty or the darkness amplied as if a night guard had turned the black light several notches up in my prison cell. With the passe of time, i was muddled to believe that i had gotten better or was at least more ready to perk myself up and get on my feet.

Nevertheless, these couple of days had enlighted me with the knowledge that undoubtedly, time is indeed the catalyst of the healing of wounds, but like all things, time moved at a pace of its own, unaffected by all or any.

Having taken a considerable amount of time to sort my thoughts out and get back in the game, in life, so as to speak, i instead now find myself more puzzled and confused if not better. The vision of the pathway in front of me is still as blurred as if someone had stolen my glasses, leaving me with a bad pair of eyes and a translucent plastic wall between me and the happenings of the world.

Everyday i would wake up, with no desire of any accomplishment except to immense and find myself in the books of Murakami, playing the 'spotting-myself' game myself and yet, the more i entangle myself in this web of despair, the deeper i sink in, like a coin that has been dropped into the ocean, stretching endlessly in search of the rocky sea bed, knowing in time that the day will come where it will lie in between the blanket of corals,a sea of hidden beauty, a oasis of delightful happiness that lie in the deep within, unknown to all but the fortunate, but when it will be, it will not know.

In the distant front, i spotted a faint speck of light, deep down in the dark chilly waters of the sea, with the hollow depths emphasizing the beauty of its existence, as the swivelling waves lure the promises of hope, love and renaissance into my sight, and yet, without courage and undecided am i, as fragile and vulnerable as a sea turtle that has lost its shell, its refuge, and yet must swim through the treacherous village of a thousand sharks, what would be my course of action?

Would the skies clear up to reveal the soft break of a new dawn, or will i leave my shades on and continue walking towards the journey of 20,000 leagues under the sea, turning away from that hidden oasis of a promised land?

Letter

Here I am, sitting on a white comfortable couch in TCC Parklane with no other customers in the place except 5 other waiter/waiteress with a manager…Seems like I am immersed in a lap of luxury and a great deal of indulgence. In contrary to that, the small circular glass that was filled to the brim with ice water carrying a twinge of lemon with it just a while ago had stayed empty for close to half an hour. It does make me feel like an invisible figure, just sitting alone at a corner of the café, unaffected by any typhoon or tornado that had just took place outside this café, leaving behind nothing but twisted lampposts, overturned vehicles of all sorts, uprooted trees and a hundred thousand people who were just, when my cup was full with ice water, smiling happily, strolling along the streets on this lazy afternoon, pleased with the way their lives had turned out and yet in a tragic twirl of fate, finding themselves as helpless and dejected as myself, looking into the café and into the dark expressionless eyes of mine as I returned a cynical smile, either as a way of welcoming them into my part of this world or to inject an extra dose of sarcasm of being on the inside instead of the outside, I was unsure.

I guess one of the waiters got the message. With that giant jug of chilled sky juice decorated by a generous amount of sliced lemons that had sink to the bottom like an anchor into the ocean, my empty cup was once again filled to the brim, rejuvenated. With a word of appreciation, my attention was turned back to Mr Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, a successor to my last literature meal, which also turned out to be Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. A delightful book which draws you into it so effortlessly as you find yourself walking helplessly into the edge of the world, looking for that small pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. The ending did send me spinning like I was caught in the epicenter of a whirlwind, bringing me so high above the clouds where the unfinished giant ferris wheel that sits silently near the bay and the skyscrapers all look only like tiny specks of dust on a giant white sheet of paper, but yet, I never feel so lonely and clueless as before, as if I was the only fool who had been silly enough to take a slide down that deep old well that stretched to the dark unknown, borrowing its way straight down to the earth’s core. Subconsciously, I had picked up the next of his book and embarked on my next journey to that faraway land. A village hidden from the ways of the world and so secluded that you could never find on any map. A place hidden so deep in the tropical forests of the unknown, in search of that pot of gold, resting at the end of the rainbow. Someone had mentioned during a time of his life that ‘Curiosity kills the cat’. If it is so, then I have nothing to fear for I have nine lives. Even so, so drawn in it am I that every time I am murdered by the hands of curiosity, I would eventually find myself making that same journey to that unknown village, till the day I lay down, exhausted but glad, as I close my eyes for the last time with a smile on that weary face and nine pots of gold beside me. I seek to believe that Mr Murakami must have purposefully and selflessly spent a fair deal of his time writing those books not for the countless who had been fortunate to have read it but for me, for in his books, I see myself so many times and in so many ways. I had never realized that I was a man with so many faces. The man knows me well.

Nevertheless, I was stuck by the sudden impulse to write a letter to myself halfway through ‘Norwegian Wood’. After reading the part where Naoko had finally found the ability and courage to write a long-due letter to Watanabe, I was inspired and driven by an unsatisfied desire to write a letter to myself and so here I am, finding myself typing effortlessly as these strange thoughts and feelings engulfed my entire soul and flow instinctively into my fingers, as I pen it all down and put it into these very words.

I do realize that all this would seems strange to many but then again, like the countless who had been fortunate to read the books of Murakami, the ones he had written for me, this was a letter to myself and it was all that matters.

Until recently, I had been living in my world of darkness, a place I had called home for the past 2 months. A place so deep down and dark that I could light a candle and watch it blow itself out. A place where it doesn’t matter which day and what time it was as the Mondays feels like Tuesdays and the Tuesdays like a Thursday. The skies were never lighted as if that sunny yolk in the sky had collaborated with the suicidal candle flame and deserted all of us, and more rightly all of me. Until recently.

But even with the mind pulling all kinds of tricks out from the bag, I do know that I could be an ass, which I beg to differ and seek to avoid. A certain girl had caught my eye recently. ‘Caught my eye’ not as in ‘Oh my god, she is hot and I think we could do good together’ but as in ‘This girl looks really sweet and it would be nice if we could be friends.’ Working in a hip part of a neighbourhood, I did not have to embark on an epic journey or take extreme measures to drop by. Even though I had been there for a couple of times, we had never been granted the opportunity of a conversation. Always looking reserved and quiet, her silence and smile enticed me and captured my attention. Nevertheless, to be fair, I was unsure of these subtle feelings that had slowly crept into the void of emptiness. Apart from the loneliness that had consumed my entire existence, it does not help to mention that this particular her does bear some similarities with my previous her in the sense that they were both petite, had a sweet smile that set the butterflies free in my heart and looks as likeable, loveable and vulnerable as I could recall the first time I set my eyes on. That was and still is the image of both of the HERs in my heart. Incidentally, this new her was the one who started getting us talking. Had I let the opportunity slipped by the four seasons, with winter passing to summer, spring and autumn, only to find myself back in winter, opening my eyes to the nine pots of gold lying beside me in this far remote village of the unknown in the deeply-stretched regions of the forests. With mixed feelings of what I had felt for her, of whether it was really her that had captured my attention or a reminiscence of the old her. Of whether I was truly capable of leaving the memories of my past in a safe old box, locked away in a small corner of my heart, if not only for the sake of memories but gratitude that I had once loved and been loved so wholeheartedly. With that cloud of uncertainty and unwillingness to be unfair or an ass, would I have let the summer passed by so helplessly, through the seasons of spring, autumn and then unknowingly, as the chill winds knocked on the village door and the snowflakes pour down shamelessly on the white untainted landscape, I was back in winter. With nine pots of gold and no one to share, am I able to wait for the next rainbow to appear and return the pots of gold to the rightful owner, and await the return of that sweet, lovable, likable and vulnerable summer breeze?

A successful life

A bubble of thought floats into the air,
trapped by the low reachable ceiling of the room.
It lingers in the constrainted,
suffocated by that thin layer of vacuum,
keeping me wide awake,
as i wondered and pondered...

What exactly is a successful life?

At the end of my journey, as i lay there, awaiting for the shivering cold embrace of death's own hands, what will be my state of mind at the last few moments of my time? will i step into the gates of heaven or hell with a subtle smile off the side of my pale pink lips, or end up with a frown on that old wrinked face with both ends of my lips facing southwards. As my eyelids are put to rest for the last time, would i be satisfied with the way i had pursued my life? would i step into the treacherous flames of death leaving behind not only the ashes of time but regretful regrets?

I do believe that in some time of our lives, earlier or later, the question of 'My Life' would definitely pop up, as we playback the past of our lives like an overhead projector in the walls of our mind and ponder on the 'been-there, done-thats' and the 'should-haves'.

If i could, i would.
If i could live a life without any regrets, i would.
If i could live life to the fullest, i would.
If i could live a life which i am proud of, i would.
If i could be the man i was to be, i would.
If i could be the husband, father, son and friend i seek to be, i would.
If i could find the courage and strength to do all that i could, i would.
In the end of my day, i do wish that for all the 'I Could's , i would have had.

Like a pheasant trapped in the mind of a prince,
i am a walking twirl of confusion.
I seek a life with all the riches without the rags,
with all the love without the hurt,
and simplicity of life that comes without burden
Yes, in this part of my utopia,
what i wish to have,
i wish to share,
not with the masses,
but the privilege of the ones i care.

Waking up every morning to the one i love,
spending every precious moment of this short-lived journey through life with her,
without any of life's burdens weighting on us,
the magnitude of our love shielding us against everything else,
but the simple gratitude of being destined to be together,
as we cherished and ravished every single moment in time,
with our hearts connected in the unfathomed caves of the ocean bed,
undisturbed by the gushing of the treacherous waves above,

In the tireless pursue of a life without regrets,
i seek to be the faithfully departed,
leaving behind not only my legacy,
but the fruits of labour of my love to the ones i left behind,
bringing with me nothing more,
but only the tender cherished memories of my life,
the sweet reminisces of every single day that we had spend together,
as i paddle my way into the burning flames
that flickers through that small open window,
with that smile from my pale cold lips.

A felicitous end to my successful life.
My last words being,
Au revoir, mon amour

Joyeux anniversaire

The 26th of July 2007...
A significant day to the tens of hundreds of thousands of birthday boys, girls, guys, gals, monsieur and madame out there... Joyeux anniversaire
but as the tens of hundreds of thousands of birthday candles are being blown out by the delightful tunes and best wishes of families and friends,
i do suspect or seek to believe that somewhere in this open vastness,
there has to be a certain someone who feels exactly like i do.
Lying in the misty fog, deep in the wilderness,
i look up and see from a distance, silhouettes of dark lonesome figures,
sitting in solitare as i am,
staring into the blankness,
without desire of any companionship nor birthday wishes,
begging for this day to whisk past,
or be washed away by the horizon,
as the blue skies dived into the hills,
making way for that blanket of darkness,
that had never seemed to be devoid of the moon and the stars,
like tonight.

Of all the days of the year, it was this fateful day,
where my heart yearns for the one i love,
and weeps into the darkness of the night.
the tears that fell like dripping blood,
from the heart of a aimless soul,
praying for the break of dawn,
of a sweeter Joyeux anniversaire,
same time next year.

That was my love

Like the sailing away of a paper boat,
from the narrow stream,
thru the streaming rivers,
to the blue rivering seas,
i had to lift my anchor,
and set her free.

A phrase from Mr Haruki Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart
would best sum up the me in my world :
I feel like some meaningless bug,
clinging for no special reason,
to a high stone wall on a windy night,
with no plans,
no beliefs.

My true possession. Memories

Dwell not on the promises of the future,
but the gifts of the past.

going thru my drawers, sorting out the memories,
trying to keep the last 8 years of us in a box,
hoping to seal the lid and leave the past behind,
and to lock it in the darkest end of the room.

Nevertheless, tears flowed openly with every reminisces of the past,
love letters she wrote, that once meant so much and now so little,
photos we took, once so much, now so little,
gifts of love, once so much, now so little,
places we visited, once so much, now so little,
restaurants we patronised, once so much, now so little
good o me, once so much and now so little.

and yet, i could still say with absolute sureness,
that there was never a moment of regretfulness in me,
as was in the past and the present.
With fate and destiny standing on the other side of town,
it was no one's fault nor wishes to have us ended this way,
to forsake that beautifully painted picture of the future,
or that meticulously sculpted vision of our lives,
till death do us part, till the end of time
and to the far end of the world we shall be, heart to heart
it was not to be the fault of me, her nor us,
but that we were simply not to be,

memories...with all that fate and destiny could snatch from my very hands,
it was my one true possession...