Venn Diagrams-
Our lives spin out like circles-
Widening, Shrinking, widening.
Fate steps in,
Spin its compass round,
And we're overlapping
A sudden surprising convergence
I see in you familiarity.
Bits of myself,
Shared memories. Overlapping memories.
Songs we both heard before
Just at different times,
In a different place.
Tell me, tell me a story of loss,
And I'll tell you mine
Widen the circle.
And you will find, for your reward
A greater area where we overlap,
A larger space to rest your wings.
In our zone of intersection,
I find momentarily rest
Sheltered by your boundaries
Comfortable in my own.
Widen widen, widen it...
Don't let it shrink.
Please.
September 18, 2007
September 14, 2007
1.
do you hear...?
the cackling sound
of your very own skin
turning, to crisp among those dove-grey ashes...
the incessant drip
plonk, plonk,
plonk.
I hear it. I see it - blood,
splattering into scattered rubies of tears.
so red, so red, such a deep deep red.
and hear, hear,
the whistling slice of the air
piercing your very heart
with the swiftness of death.
2.
those dove-grey ashes fly
floating lightly about the air.
some still red-hot, glowing
before fading into an ashy grey.
some darker, some lighter, white as snow
and yet others charred around the edges
all curled up.
So pretty, so very pretty,
so delicate in their curves.
and oh the way they yield so
to the lightest of touch
crumbling into little pieces.
sing, my pretty, sing a song
to the low sweet tune of death.
do you hear...?
the cackling sound
of your very own skin
turning, to crisp among those dove-grey ashes...
the incessant drip
plonk, plonk,
plonk.
I hear it. I see it - blood,
splattering into scattered rubies of tears.
so red, so red, such a deep deep red.
and hear, hear,
the whistling slice of the air
piercing your very heart
with the swiftness of death.
2.
those dove-grey ashes fly
floating lightly about the air.
some still red-hot, glowing
before fading into an ashy grey.
some darker, some lighter, white as snow
and yet others charred around the edges
all curled up.
So pretty, so very pretty,
so delicate in their curves.
and oh the way they yield so
to the lightest of touch
crumbling into little pieces.
sing, my pretty, sing a song
to the low sweet tune of death.
September 11, 2007
Feeling a fraction of the pain I once used to feel.
And that fraction, with all its intensity, is stronger than any other rocking feeling I ever had in the past year. Which is curious. Which is interesting. In the end the outer turmoil cannot beat the inner storm.
Ah. Take a breath in, deeply. Was this not what I had craved for a little after all? Yes yes.
Snap, snap, capture, capture. Today I'm the camera. A pause, another snap. Fleeting moments, stills of a second. Lavishly loving words in a sms. The blush of a pink wall against the cold grey sky. A brown squrriel on the fence. The grey expanse of clouds and sky. The first few droplets of cold cold rain. The physics practice paper. The lesson. The prose and the poetry. The math of it all. Friends having lunch together at the bench.
Ahh, the brightness of a day.
The night. Work. Solving, writing, doing. Conversations, contributions. The planning, the behind-the-scene work. A slight thrill. A light-hearted teasing of another friend.
Then, the linger; the start of it. Ah. I remember this. I remember this nuance.
I remember this prayer.
And that fraction, with all its intensity, is stronger than any other rocking feeling I ever had in the past year. Which is curious. Which is interesting. In the end the outer turmoil cannot beat the inner storm.
Ah. Take a breath in, deeply. Was this not what I had craved for a little after all? Yes yes.
Snap, snap, capture, capture. Today I'm the camera. A pause, another snap. Fleeting moments, stills of a second. Lavishly loving words in a sms. The blush of a pink wall against the cold grey sky. A brown squrriel on the fence. The grey expanse of clouds and sky. The first few droplets of cold cold rain. The physics practice paper. The lesson. The prose and the poetry. The math of it all. Friends having lunch together at the bench.
Ahh, the brightness of a day.
The night. Work. Solving, writing, doing. Conversations, contributions. The planning, the behind-the-scene work. A slight thrill. A light-hearted teasing of another friend.
Then, the linger; the start of it. Ah. I remember this. I remember this nuance.
I remember this prayer.
September 9, 2007
Wet and heavy, wet and heavy. This was how the water drummed down from the shower head. Wet and heavy, heavy and wet, pressing, pressing. Oh! He felt like, wanted to, just, sink down, way down, sit down, crouch down, hide his face, lower his head, avoid looking.
The walls were cold, and he bit back the exclamation he wanted to give upon accidentally leaning back on that cold. The white tiles surrounded him, the water continued to drum. Wet and heavy, heavy and wet, wet and cold, heavy and cold. It was cold! What a shock. He hurriedly turned the tap, it was still cold, cold, cold! Did he turn on the heater? He couldn't really recall. But it was left on, most of the time. It has to be on. It had to be, it had to be, the impulse to cry was strong in his heart, and then, and then,
Warm water gushed out.
But it was still wet. It was still heavy. Heavy and wet, wet and heavy. The angry strong tears of his shower head, gushing, the sounds of water hitting ground, water pounding against body, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, patter-pitter, drizzle, drizzle, drizzle!
Could he cry, could he shed tears to? Did he have it within himself to cry? Cry, he told himself, cry, cry, cry! Don't you feel remorse? Don't you wish you knew for sure that you have repented? The weight of his actions pressed down on him, and he wished he was free from it, but yet all he could do was think, think about them, and this wasn't guilt, this wasn't remorse, was it? Because he was wanting, wanting to feel remorse and guilt, to repent.
But he was surprisingly numb. Numbed, and thinking.
In his intensity of thoughts he envied the shower head, who was able to have water pouring out so much so, and thus cry in that sense. How bitterly he almost hated that shower head then - but yet how could he blame the shower head, envy it for what is its nature? His inability to cry - that was the real reason for his current anguish; his lack of motivation to cry, his numbness, his pain, his conflict and turmoil.
Useless useless. It was all useless. He yearned to feel guilt, feel remorse, feel pain for it all. Or were such thoughts enough? Could a desire, a craving, an admittance of his weakness and plea for help work?
The water drummed on. Heavy and wet, heavy and wet. He felt defeated, worn, like tired ancient stone, beaten by the never-ending flow of water. He breathed, choked. And then breathed again.
It was about time to get out of the shower. He turned the tap off, quiet. One hand pulled his shower curtain to one side, another reached for the towel at the other end. He buried his face into it, breathed in that clean smell of it, and toweled his hair dry, head still bent.
It wasn't long before he rose his head. There were symbols on the mirror, letters. He looked long and hard, and he suddenly felt like laughing, about the sheer magic of that moment. He did not laugh out loud though. But he was considerably happier.
Written on the mirror by a childish hand was, "God ♥ Me".
The walls were cold, and he bit back the exclamation he wanted to give upon accidentally leaning back on that cold. The white tiles surrounded him, the water continued to drum. Wet and heavy, heavy and wet, wet and cold, heavy and cold. It was cold! What a shock. He hurriedly turned the tap, it was still cold, cold, cold! Did he turn on the heater? He couldn't really recall. But it was left on, most of the time. It has to be on. It had to be, it had to be, the impulse to cry was strong in his heart, and then, and then,
Warm water gushed out.
But it was still wet. It was still heavy. Heavy and wet, wet and heavy. The angry strong tears of his shower head, gushing, the sounds of water hitting ground, water pounding against body, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, patter-pitter, drizzle, drizzle, drizzle!
Could he cry, could he shed tears to? Did he have it within himself to cry? Cry, he told himself, cry, cry, cry! Don't you feel remorse? Don't you wish you knew for sure that you have repented? The weight of his actions pressed down on him, and he wished he was free from it, but yet all he could do was think, think about them, and this wasn't guilt, this wasn't remorse, was it? Because he was wanting, wanting to feel remorse and guilt, to repent.
But he was surprisingly numb. Numbed, and thinking.
In his intensity of thoughts he envied the shower head, who was able to have water pouring out so much so, and thus cry in that sense. How bitterly he almost hated that shower head then - but yet how could he blame the shower head, envy it for what is its nature? His inability to cry - that was the real reason for his current anguish; his lack of motivation to cry, his numbness, his pain, his conflict and turmoil.
Useless useless. It was all useless. He yearned to feel guilt, feel remorse, feel pain for it all. Or were such thoughts enough? Could a desire, a craving, an admittance of his weakness and plea for help work?
The water drummed on. Heavy and wet, heavy and wet. He felt defeated, worn, like tired ancient stone, beaten by the never-ending flow of water. He breathed, choked. And then breathed again.
It was about time to get out of the shower. He turned the tap off, quiet. One hand pulled his shower curtain to one side, another reached for the towel at the other end. He buried his face into it, breathed in that clean smell of it, and toweled his hair dry, head still bent.
It wasn't long before he rose his head. There were symbols on the mirror, letters. He looked long and hard, and he suddenly felt like laughing, about the sheer magic of that moment. He did not laugh out loud though. But he was considerably happier.
Written on the mirror by a childish hand was, "God ♥ Me".
September 7, 2007
The precipice. But she did not know she had arrived.
One step.
And then she realised that there was no ground coming up to meet her feet.
The world was panic. There was a slightest moment of disbelief - but the downward plunge told her this was real, and her heart gave a silent cry of pain, and an incredible sadness rose up within her, as tears stung her eyes. For a moment it seemed she could cry and cry, and the tears were threatening to spill even, but she held it back.
An instinct told her to grab, and grab she did with the wildest of hope...
A solid firm grip she had. A sigh of relief. She made her way back up, one hand following the other hand, legs pushing, hand pulling. Her muscles strained, but she made it. Ground. She sat there, quiet.
The urge to cry danced within her, a graceful dance that twisted itself so gently around her heart, landed on it with the softest of kisses and hugs. But she did not give in. She pulled her legs back, hug them tight, buried her head in the warmth and darkness of the hollow she created for herself, and drew in deep breaths, shakingly. The lone tree seemed to shudder along with her.
It was a long moment before she allowed to look over, down below. And then the desire was replaced with one of laugher, of having escaped the hands of Death, of having a situation turn favourable again.
Oh laugh, laugh she could indeed! But she did not.
Deep below, the sheer height of the fall yawned, and the yawn echoed round.
One step.
And then she realised that there was no ground coming up to meet her feet.
The world was panic. There was a slightest moment of disbelief - but the downward plunge told her this was real, and her heart gave a silent cry of pain, and an incredible sadness rose up within her, as tears stung her eyes. For a moment it seemed she could cry and cry, and the tears were threatening to spill even, but she held it back.
An instinct told her to grab, and grab she did with the wildest of hope...
A solid firm grip she had. A sigh of relief. She made her way back up, one hand following the other hand, legs pushing, hand pulling. Her muscles strained, but she made it. Ground. She sat there, quiet.
The urge to cry danced within her, a graceful dance that twisted itself so gently around her heart, landed on it with the softest of kisses and hugs. But she did not give in. She pulled her legs back, hug them tight, buried her head in the warmth and darkness of the hollow she created for herself, and drew in deep breaths, shakingly. The lone tree seemed to shudder along with her.
It was a long moment before she allowed to look over, down below. And then the desire was replaced with one of laugher, of having escaped the hands of Death, of having a situation turn favourable again.
Oh laugh, laugh she could indeed! But she did not.
Deep below, the sheer height of the fall yawned, and the yawn echoed round.
I thought, for a moment, that I had lost this entry. The sense of loss was so strong I nearly wanted to cry.
And this is why I say, don't spread the link of this blog. Don't link it. Don't pass it around. Because even, even if they are mere words to you, to me, they mean something different. Something dear.
A sickening smell of pressed wood, stuffy and smothering, fills my nose. Are treasure always kept in such treacherous places? Oh help me, help me, before I drown.
The intensities of my emotions are rocking me, so hard, so hard. I’m like a ship tossed by the waves, oh up and down, up and down. Giddy, giddy, giddy. Oh irrationality. Oh the intensity of an emotion which I cannot place, a rocking that is caused by something which I cannot give a name to. Not exactly pain, nor longing, missing or yearning.
But I do remember a time when it seemed that time would not be able to soothe my wound any at all. Then days passed, months passed, years went by. And I look back, and I think about it, but less. The frequency has decreased, and so has the intensity of it all.
No more pain, no more missing, no more tears for you. Gone are the coded language, the imaginative metaphors and imagery born by a heart in pain. The slightly bitter humour, the rocking emotionality propelling the words that crafted imagery and metaphors - they have disappeared.
Am I better without it?
I half-miss it. And now I do not know what I really do miss. You? The thoughts? The pain? The accumulation of them all that brought about all this writing?
But ah. This feeling is familiar. I've felt it once before, not too long ago. Where I yearned for this emotional self to take over - not the crazy irrational one, but that reasoned measured sadness and pain, that came out with what are still rather beautiful metaphors and imagery in my eyes, the abstract figments of mind.
How I crave for those images. Suddenly the desire for violent dreams make sense, for here I am, feeling a measure of that desire. Oh for a scene, a plot, a story, a poignant muse! For a reason to write..
Perhaps, the days of this blog falling into disuse may not be far.
And yet perhaps they will not be near.
And this is why I say, don't spread the link of this blog. Don't link it. Don't pass it around. Because even, even if they are mere words to you, to me, they mean something different. Something dear.
A sickening smell of pressed wood, stuffy and smothering, fills my nose. Are treasure always kept in such treacherous places? Oh help me, help me, before I drown.
The intensities of my emotions are rocking me, so hard, so hard. I’m like a ship tossed by the waves, oh up and down, up and down. Giddy, giddy, giddy. Oh irrationality. Oh the intensity of an emotion which I cannot place, a rocking that is caused by something which I cannot give a name to. Not exactly pain, nor longing, missing or yearning.
But I do remember a time when it seemed that time would not be able to soothe my wound any at all. Then days passed, months passed, years went by. And I look back, and I think about it, but less. The frequency has decreased, and so has the intensity of it all.
No more pain, no more missing, no more tears for you. Gone are the coded language, the imaginative metaphors and imagery born by a heart in pain. The slightly bitter humour, the rocking emotionality propelling the words that crafted imagery and metaphors - they have disappeared.
Am I better without it?
I half-miss it. And now I do not know what I really do miss. You? The thoughts? The pain? The accumulation of them all that brought about all this writing?
But ah. This feeling is familiar. I've felt it once before, not too long ago. Where I yearned for this emotional self to take over - not the crazy irrational one, but that reasoned measured sadness and pain, that came out with what are still rather beautiful metaphors and imagery in my eyes, the abstract figments of mind.
How I crave for those images. Suddenly the desire for violent dreams make sense, for here I am, feeling a measure of that desire. Oh for a scene, a plot, a story, a poignant muse! For a reason to write..
Perhaps, the days of this blog falling into disuse may not be far.
And yet perhaps they will not be near.
to realize a christmas play-
First add an ounce of genius, a hand to whirl the pen that would jot down the words that come to mind. Settle the story, the speeches, the actions. This shall be the setting. This shall be where dreams are dashed, where a person fall to their knees. Where forgiveness is then freely given, oh grace so sweet!
Let the director cast his eyes on it. And let him, with some deep discussion with his assistant, determine the players. Ah yes, unknown to the many guys, their fates had already been decided, the dice cast as to whose identity they would adopt. All by the hands of the director, and his assistant.
What follows next shall be quick and swift. The hard decision-making is over, and all that is left shall be the approaching, the persuading, the winning of the player's hearts. To make that join us a captivating lure that they cannot resist. We don't promise stardom, but we promise escape. Sweet sweet escape.
They'll fall in.
Then it shall be sessions of rehearsals, repeating of lines, getting bored, laughing again, getting into the role, testing out actions, finding the right way. Costumes, discussions of hair, make-up. Dress rehearsal.
And before you know it it shall be the big day. Or the big day before the big big day. Make-up fully on, hair set, in-costume. All shall see.
Then it'll be over. And the bubble bursts. But oh oh, what an end to a year! What an end.
Repeat next year, after a few months in between.
First add an ounce of genius, a hand to whirl the pen that would jot down the words that come to mind. Settle the story, the speeches, the actions. This shall be the setting. This shall be where dreams are dashed, where a person fall to their knees. Where forgiveness is then freely given, oh grace so sweet!
Let the director cast his eyes on it. And let him, with some deep discussion with his assistant, determine the players. Ah yes, unknown to the many guys, their fates had already been decided, the dice cast as to whose identity they would adopt. All by the hands of the director, and his assistant.
What follows next shall be quick and swift. The hard decision-making is over, and all that is left shall be the approaching, the persuading, the winning of the player's hearts. To make that join us a captivating lure that they cannot resist. We don't promise stardom, but we promise escape. Sweet sweet escape.
They'll fall in.
Then it shall be sessions of rehearsals, repeating of lines, getting bored, laughing again, getting into the role, testing out actions, finding the right way. Costumes, discussions of hair, make-up. Dress rehearsal.
And before you know it it shall be the big day. Or the big day before the big big day. Make-up fully on, hair set, in-costume. All shall see.
Then it'll be over. And the bubble bursts. But oh oh, what an end to a year! What an end.
Repeat next year, after a few months in between.
September 4, 2007
2, 3, 4.
Days have passed so quickly. In sickness, in haziness, in dazedness, in weariness. And perhaps a dash of happiness - but just a dash.
A barrage of thoughts I'm not supposed to have. Hmm hmm!
She posted my words on her blog. "and i repeat her words verbatim." she posted. I reread my words. Did I really say that? How cynical. But ah, I had detached myself from emotion then.
Besides, it probably made some sense if she had actually quoted it on her blog, her space.
Tomorrow shall be the 5th. Not that dates matter anymore. Not when there's a pile of work to get through.
Days have passed so quickly. In sickness, in haziness, in dazedness, in weariness. And perhaps a dash of happiness - but just a dash.
A barrage of thoughts I'm not supposed to have. Hmm hmm!
She posted my words on her blog. "and i repeat her words verbatim." she posted. I reread my words. Did I really say that? How cynical. But ah, I had detached myself from emotion then.
Besides, it probably made some sense if she had actually quoted it on her blog, her space.
Tomorrow shall be the 5th. Not that dates matter anymore. Not when there's a pile of work to get through.
September 3, 2007
Your presence.
A flush of warmth. Your skilful hands writing, writing, the pen running across the paper; the writing messy, yet beautiful, because they are yours. Flexing your fingers, spinning your pen. I look on, not daring to seem interested. But I am. There's a special burst of emotions in my heart, one that only I can feel, to be able to see you so.
You smile. My world lights up. Your voice finds its way, over the noise of others, to my ears. Because, they are meant for me. Such rare pleasant notes... how I wish I could bottle them up. If sound could be seen I know your voice would be the most beautiful thing in the world. Why wouldn't it be? Beautiful, beautiful, like your smile.
Yes, your smile. So many times I've tried to capture it, so many times I felt that I still had not done it justice... drizzled with dewdrops, as radiant as the sun, touched with the sweet curve of the rainbow... but how do you describe a smile that has been kissed by love itself, and glows with the very essence of it?
I could look into those dark eyes of yours forever, so full of kindness they are. How I long to do so, to hear your voice in my ear, and to have you, just sitting beside me. How secure that would make me feel, to know that I have someone, you, by my side.
And if I could, I would want to wipe off every worried crease from your brow, be the one who sets your smile off, do antics that makes those lips curve upwards, so that your voice would always be merry and brimming of joy and hope.
Oh how I wish, how I wish, how I wish...
A flush of warmth. Your skilful hands writing, writing, the pen running across the paper; the writing messy, yet beautiful, because they are yours. Flexing your fingers, spinning your pen. I look on, not daring to seem interested. But I am. There's a special burst of emotions in my heart, one that only I can feel, to be able to see you so.
You smile. My world lights up. Your voice finds its way, over the noise of others, to my ears. Because, they are meant for me. Such rare pleasant notes... how I wish I could bottle them up. If sound could be seen I know your voice would be the most beautiful thing in the world. Why wouldn't it be? Beautiful, beautiful, like your smile.
Yes, your smile. So many times I've tried to capture it, so many times I felt that I still had not done it justice... drizzled with dewdrops, as radiant as the sun, touched with the sweet curve of the rainbow... but how do you describe a smile that has been kissed by love itself, and glows with the very essence of it?
I could look into those dark eyes of yours forever, so full of kindness they are. How I long to do so, to hear your voice in my ear, and to have you, just sitting beside me. How secure that would make me feel, to know that I have someone, you, by my side.
And if I could, I would want to wipe off every worried crease from your brow, be the one who sets your smile off, do antics that makes those lips curve upwards, so that your voice would always be merry and brimming of joy and hope.
Oh how I wish, how I wish, how I wish...
September 2, 2007
Today marks the day I've finished the Harry Potter series. The last two days was another mind-blowing journey - the plentiful twists and turns captivating. Though some had said that the plot had gone totally off-tangent, it was still as captivating, still the world of Hogwarts. Eyes took in the words, almost greedily, but not. Images flew through one's mind. The last two sentences was a bit of a dampener, so painful in their redundancy, but at least the epilogue did act as a close, for this was a tale that had sub-plots of love weaved into it, and it was only befitting that there would be a report of the result.
And so there I was, ushered out kindly out of this magical world. The epilogue had done a wonderful job of quelling the yearning for the next recount of their adventure - the kind of feeling I always have after reading the Famous Five or Secret Seven series, those books that actually ends on a comma and not the fullstop.
Still, I had been ushered out of the Hogwarts world.
I would not call myself an avid follower of the series, but that book, like the Famous Five and Secret Seven of lower primary school days, had managed to pull me into their world. And it was a rather good series, off-tangent or not.
But now I've been ushered out of that world. Why that should make me feel a little pang, I know not, though I'm glad there was an epilogue, for I'm sure it reduced the intensity of the echoing pang.
After finishing it I had taken a bath, and a certain phrase flitted into mind: "Life after Harry". Ah yes. What other books would be able to capture my mind and bring it into their world again? What fantasy could I drown myself in? This was once my tool of escapism. It could still be. Those beautiful enchanting words, spinning their many worlds and universes, their own perception of time and space. Some magical. Some dreamy. Some raw. Some heavy. Some thudding.
Then, "no". The word was like a magical broom that somehow cleared all the hazy cobwebs, the after effects of having allowed oneself to drop into another world. This couldn't go on. I had my own world. My own tale. My own friends, the grand characters of my little story.
Thoughts of all the characters who had an impact on me, who had tugged at my heartstrings flew through my mind. Too many, too many, but not too many to list. But still it is late, and my eyes are hurting from the strain of even blogging this, so I would have to try to keep the thoughts sealed, and pick this up another day. Aye, another day, even though the feeling may be lost a little, or lost entirely.
And so there I was, ushered out kindly out of this magical world. The epilogue had done a wonderful job of quelling the yearning for the next recount of their adventure - the kind of feeling I always have after reading the Famous Five or Secret Seven series, those books that actually ends on a comma and not the fullstop.
Still, I had been ushered out of the Hogwarts world.
I would not call myself an avid follower of the series, but that book, like the Famous Five and Secret Seven of lower primary school days, had managed to pull me into their world. And it was a rather good series, off-tangent or not.
But now I've been ushered out of that world. Why that should make me feel a little pang, I know not, though I'm glad there was an epilogue, for I'm sure it reduced the intensity of the echoing pang.
After finishing it I had taken a bath, and a certain phrase flitted into mind: "Life after Harry". Ah yes. What other books would be able to capture my mind and bring it into their world again? What fantasy could I drown myself in? This was once my tool of escapism. It could still be. Those beautiful enchanting words, spinning their many worlds and universes, their own perception of time and space. Some magical. Some dreamy. Some raw. Some heavy. Some thudding.
Then, "no". The word was like a magical broom that somehow cleared all the hazy cobwebs, the after effects of having allowed oneself to drop into another world. This couldn't go on. I had my own world. My own tale. My own friends, the grand characters of my little story.
Thoughts of all the characters who had an impact on me, who had tugged at my heartstrings flew through my mind. Too many, too many, but not too many to list. But still it is late, and my eyes are hurting from the strain of even blogging this, so I would have to try to keep the thoughts sealed, and pick this up another day. Aye, another day, even though the feeling may be lost a little, or lost entirely.
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