-The Swan Song?

If I want to mock myself, I would say here, right now, that this blog has been a journey. A journey filled with pain and aches, with some pebbles of joy and happiness scattered along the way.

It started as an impulse, a novelty. A, "hmm. everyone is doing it. should I?" floating around in my brain. Oh, and I was encouraged to when I voiced out that little thought. I started. Basic recounts of the day. People came to tag, I said hi, we had fun. A change of blog templates now and again. Playing around with html codes, wasting hours, sending seconds into the fabric of the past.

And then on yet another impulse, I deleted the blog. Only to start a new one after a few weeks.

Ahh yes, this time I did not make it public. It was a private blog, my own blog, an outlet for some rantings here and there. Then I started to enjoy writing. And I would play around with words, play around with structure. I had fun. I won't deny that. It was somehow strangely satisfying to be able to express the nuances of something, to write something out and feel a strange sense of pride. To be happy and content with one's work. I was a player. Playing around with words, toying them, slotting, rearranging, finally in a position where everything seemed picture-perfect.

But things change, don't they? Time passed, and I wrote more often. I'm writing to clear my thoughts, I told myself. And I expressed every nuances of my thoughts, my purpose. And then after I wrote them out, seeing them in letters, in form. In something almost tangible. And I'll admit this. It was satisfying to be able to express. Why? Perhaps it was due to that element of control. Of being able to put a word here, or choose not to, or put a word there, and then look at it, and felt that indeed, that was what I wanted to say. Perhaps. What I do know, is that I often then argued with myself. I tried to qualify the reason for writing. I tried to evaluate why I write. In the midst of examining, I continued to wrote. Short stories, small quotes, dedications etc.

Friends started asking me to help them in their essays. For some others, I was their real life walking dictionary. Throw something to me, and I will willingly edit it. Into something that pleases my eyes. And it apparently pleased them too. I enjoyed editing as much as I enjoyed writing. But yes, I continued writing.

Seconds trickled and turned into minutes, which in turn became hours. And those hours made up days, which became weeks. And many weeks became months.

And now, can I still write?

Somehow, along the way, the blog link was given out. Things happened, and I gave the url to even more people. And then some more things and, "um, ok, I'll tell you my blog url". And then it was, "fine, I can give you my blog url. But would you mind not linking me?"

And in a sense I became a snob. A blog-snob, if there is such a thing. I could not bear leet langauge, I could not bear blogs that simply recouted their days. If your day was interesting, special and memorable, fine, record it then. But if you're going to blog stuff like, "oh today right, woke up at 8am. Then brush teeth lor. Then it was raining lar! So cannot go out. Haiya, stay at home, so sian leh. So I call my friend lar. But haiya, she very what lor. Never picked up her phone. So irritaing can? But never mind, I'm a nice person. Hee. Ok, nothing else to say le. Buaix Buaix"... well, I get irritated reading it halfway through.

And I don't think that's right. Who am I, to look down on people? Others, can come to my blog, and realise behind every pretty word, behind every elegant sentence, there is an immature rant by a teenager. "Written form of life tainted with romantic ideals." Yes. If the meaning of the word "life" is defined as rants and complaints, that blog description couldn't be more apt. Sheer genius in fact.

And as my link gets passed out to more and more people, some who are not even close to me, it seems like once again, I am writing just to please the random readers who comes. Just like what I did with my previous blog. I am forcing myself to write. Partly due to the readers that do come.

Partly due to the fact that somehow, some emotions are not meant to be written down at this current moment. Partly due to the fact that there are people who should not realise what I'm thinking. Partly due to the fact that somehow, even if I do try, I feel that I don't do the matter justice.

This is my struggle. And then I tell myself, fine, stop blogging. But still, at times, I find myself coming back to the blogger posting page. I find myself trying to compose, trying to put down into words what I'm thinking and feeling.

I end up finding it disjointed. I end up feeling that somehow, I am just unable to capture it. And then I force some random scribble and rant out, and hit "Publish Post".

So I thought, let's delete the blog. But no, I cannot bear to do it, somehow. It is like looking at something that has accompanied you for part of your journey, and feeling that little unwillingness in your heart to get rid of something that meant something to you. That was a little significant, somehow, though you can't explain it.

But at the same time, leaving this blog there, would see me often coming back to the create entry page.

So, this is the final decision. The compromise I need to come to, for now.

Maybe one day I will 'revive' this blog. Or maybe I would finally be able to cut the strings and bonds, and have the courage to delete it. But for now, this is it.

And if anyone ridicules me at still posting this one last final entry as I stopped showing my posts, they're free to.

But in truth, part of the reason is because I finally found something I can really truly write once again.

Though, in the end, perhaps I do have this little narcissist lurking in my heart. This little pride, a load of vanity. Which is detestable. And which is why, this first step had to be taken.

the end.-

Moaning. A very very powerful word. The very sound of it, soft, low, dragged out cries. That deep low sound that sends chills down your very spine, a tremble that grabs your body, tight and close. A warm embrace of air around your neck, damp with the moisture that comes from the mouth of a creature as it lets out another, and another... and another moan.

And your neck tingles, your hands tense, your whole body cold, knowing fully well how vulnerable you are. The moans continue, getting softer and softer. But one can only stand stock-still, and ears strain to catch the moans. In fear perhaps, but partly in awe. To catch that celestial sound of sorrows, that beautiful grievous sound.

Time seems to halt to a stop as the song that speaks of the finer details in human nature, that coax the subtle hues of resignation out, ebbs and flows. Soft and quiet, you stand alone, a sense of dread creeping through your body. But all you can do is to listen on, your very soul long ago bound and trapped as though in an enchantment, cursed forever to listen to that sweet low sound, to drink the wine of others' sorrow, that deeply savoury bitter wine.

***
And is your heart breaking? Are your lips protesting, sealed shut, refusing to swallow any more of that liquid, tears flowing out, head shaking, sweat dripping from the sheer exertion to turn yourself away? Cry on dearest, cry on. No use keeping those tears in. Swallow what's in your mouth, and take more of it. You're able to handle it. Drink on drink on. Don't let the moans get you down, dampen your spirits, though cursed you are, to have to drink this wine.

***
And you can't see, thoughts disjointed, your only conscious memory is the moans swimming around you, above you, below you, and in you. Images swirl. Of the inside thrown to the outside. Of the expression of emotions. Of the cries, the tears, the sweat, a blur, the redness of necks and faces, eyes, ears and open mouths. The humour gone, the forced smiles and laughs of courtesy thrown to the wind, cast all aside.

***
The moans are so soft.

The moans are so loud.

I'm quiet. You're screaming. Right in my ear. The screams are loud. Deafening. I'm pretending I can't hear you. But these yells are so true. So alive. So painful.

I'm numb and dumb. Head cuddled up in a mummy wrap. My eyes are shut tight. You think I can't hear, and you go on. The sound can travel through my mummy wrap. I don't move. I lie on the white bed, and wait for fate.

It gets a little tiring lying so still. I open my eyes a little, almost dream-like. You're still screaming. I see your wet red mouth open and shut, open and shut so quickly. Your eyes are red too. Eyebags hang from your lower lid, big and puffy. I wonder when you had grown so old. The signs of aging are suddenly so apparent on your face. Your eyes betray weariness. Your yells continue.

Someone stop this noise. Someone please help drown out your voice.

I close back my eyes. And I'm cold. My legs feel like jelly. I wonder if I'm invisible. Whether you're actually screaming at air. A mirage of me. That will be cool.

Or not.

Your smile, your laugher. The beautiful way your eyes crinkle up as you laugh hard from amusement. As my eyes meet your eyes I can't help but to smile and laugh helplessly too. Oh you silly boy.

So often does your smile appear, the friendly crinkling of bright eyes. I see the reflection of it; in all different places, on the faces of others. I see your smile on others and recognise it as yours. With a tiny ache at my heart, I can recall that beautiful curve. I see it on anyone who smile.

And I believe I can stop time by placing the hourglass on its side. I can escape into this little world I've weaved in my mind. I can lose myself in words, in reading, in remembering.

Bright, soft, tender laugher.
I can lose myself in fantasy.
Your smile continues to shimmer at the back of my mind.

The crash back to reality hurts a lot with no cushions to soften the fall. The cushion has been gone for so long, you'll think I would have gotten used to it already, but apparently I have not.

So this hurts.

But oh, who cares?!

"hello! yes I'm fine"

Someone stop this noise.

-Of self control.

Dearest dearest, I drowned in words today. I couldn't stop myself. It felt so much like the old days of the past, and I read on and on, drawn into a new world. Of spells and magic, fantasy and love, secrets, mysteries. And I forgot about time, forgot about burdens, forgot about duties, forgot about struggles and conflicts. In one moment I had cast away all of these without a care.

I knew that I had things to do, but fatigue and temptation was too overwhelming. And I threw myself out, and the book caught me safely in its trap. And I read on and on, my shallow heart beating in sync with the book.

And when the book ended I was thrown back into reality.

Harsh cold world it is.

Oh, this is cruel.