Grandma

You try to pick up something from the cold tiles on the floor. There is nothing there but yet you scratch the ground. Yam. You explain that you are trying to pick up yam from the ground. For the soldiers. And you nonchalantly ask us to put the salt on the table for their porridge.


Grandma Grandma, why did it turn out this way? Is this what happens when men grow old? They return to their cheerless past, and forget the hopeful present?


Do you still remember me Grandma?

Dreams

Everyone has a quest in life. To find fame; to uncover riches; discover love, love once thought lost to all humanity. Everyone has a purpose, a dream, an ultimate destiny.


All I ever wanted was comfort, shelter, relief. Life is supposed to be all struggle, unflagging action and affirmation, the will butting its blunt head against the world's wall. To be concealed, guarded, is all I had dreamed off. To burrow down into a place of womby warmth and cower there, hidden from the skies indifferent gaze.


We can but dream.
What is your dream?

Second best

All my life, I've always been second best. Good enough to have some mention, but never good enough to be first. Never. Seems like things haven't changed one bit.


A nice guy who'll always be there, but never a good enough guy to be number one. Guess I just have to get used to it. Maybe I should adopt the name, The Substitute. Heh. Pretty apt, don't you agree?

Desolation

You look at me with that pathetic gaze, giving me an ingratiating grin. You launch into a litany of the possible commiserable reasons to explain your actions. But it serves no purpose. Delve into your heart, miserable soul, and you will not find a single emotion worthy of any anthropic being. You presence itself, is a sign full of portent.


I hate you, man in the mirror. I hate you.

25th May

On such a day, one should be happy, without burdens, without despair. But I am not. A heavy heart, a troubled soul, plague me. A sombre sigh, a morbid moan. This fool's paradise, is but without hope. But what is hope? Is what I feel caused by the the deprivation of hope? Or is it the abundance of emptiness?


But who am I to complain? I brought it all upon myself.
On this day, my heart weeps.

Enchantment

For once, I do not have much to say. Maybe I've said my peace, or maybe I would just like to reserve my counsel on certain happenings. Maybe.


Perhaps I am just tired, drained. But at least, for once, the mind is invigorated and jubilant, while the body is weary.


Till tomorrow then.

Dreams

I used to believe that life was all planned out for me. I'd study, get a degree, land a nice job, settle down and have a few (dozen) kids. All i had to do was to go through the suffering, and life's major decisions would take care of themselves. My career, my love life, my life in general.


Now I realise how naive I was, and to a certain extent, still am. Ignorant even, for lack of a better word. Despite constant proddings, and stark reminders that life can be as painful as riding a bicycle when you're suffering from piles, I seldom took heed. But I was not without ambitions, no. Striking the lottery within a few months of reaching the legal age, flying around the world by the ripe old age of 30, just to name a few. But grew up knowing these were not meant to be. I would not be impecunious, but neither would I be living an extravagant lifestyle. I would be comfortable, living each day as it comes. Life goes on, doesn't it?


Something struk a chord in me recently. Something dug a spur in the hide of my ambitions, waking me up, partially, to life and its deplorable decisions. I do not want to continue on this one-way street to mediocrity. Mediocrity of vocation, mediocrity of love, mediocrity of life. When you wait for something to happen, more often than not, you will be waiting forever.


I do not mean to sound overly ambitious. But to dream, that is my prerogative. And men are made of dreams.

Courage? Or mental incompetence?

Watching the little raindrops buffet the unruly back of the sea, I thought of my Goddess, the enchanted one, from a past best, but never, forgotten. It was not her burden to forgive me. She could have, and just ask me to, in her own unfashionable words, "Scoot". Unfashionable, but so piquant. It's so riveting, how a single word from Her, is able to conjure a multitude of emotions.


It would be so easy to walk away, away from the demons, away from the past. What existence, really, does it have, the past? After all, it is only what the present was, once, the present that is gone, no more than that. And yet. It has nothing to do with my tenacity of purpose, nothing about pride or ego. Just a sincere longing to be with my Goddess.


What I intend to do may be idiocy at its best, ludicrous even. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And I am desperate, to be back in Her favour, to have the blessings of Her household.


The sun peeped through the glowing clouds, and in an instant, all was calm.

Darkness

When the sun sets, darkness and its minions sieze their moment of fame. Filling every crevice, claiming every corner as its own. Lights from the labouring candles offer relief from the nefarious darkness, but that is at best fugacious.


The minions steal into my head, coercering the sad mind of this mortal into even greater depths of despair. The candles flicker out in the cold draft. Fatigue sets in, but my weary eyes refuse to shut, cheating my consumed body of rest. I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue.


Every night I fight this battle with the minions, the henchmen of my past. A stark reminder of the wrong I am guilty of. Every night.


I may have lost all these battles thus far, but the war has not yet begun.

Words

You notice my eternally constipated face, that scowl that joins my eyebrows, the look that I am reticent. You look at me and ask if something is on my mind. I force a smile and shake my head, knowing that I was as convincing as the antiChrist preaching the Gospel.


How do I tell you that you are on my mind? How do I tell you that I am sorry? In fact, how do you apologise to a bird whose wings you have clipped off? So many emotions I have inside me. So many thoughts shouting in my head. So many things I wish to tell you.


But I just do not know how to.

Rain

The morose clouds, sluggishly lumbering across the sky, broke down. Sullen, withdrawn, and in a languid mood the past few days, the clouds finally emptied their eyes. With thoughts blazing through their minds, ghosts of occurances past still echoing in their ears. Confused, uncertain, frightened, with only a glimmer of sunlight visible to their teary eyes.


Though not yet broken, the clouds will be on their way again soon. Diligently labouring towards their Goddess. Not losing faith, and stoking their fire of hope. Perhaps this is called blind faith. Then again, perhaps it is called love.


Always aim for the moon. If you do fail, at least you know you did your best. And besides, you will end up amongst the stars.

She said..

"I'll stop if you stop." To most, I figure that 5 word sentence does not signify anything worthy of noting. But to me it meant so much more. I'm just a lowly sacrificial pawn in this game, where kings and knights would line up for her. Perhaps it does not mean a thing to her. But let me live in my fairytale, and maybe, even in self-denial.


Little things appease little minds? Maybe so.
No one knows if life is greater than death. But love is greater than both.

Contempt

And as he lay there, the malevolent stars stabbing him with their firey eyes, decay slowly consumed his motivation. His desire for life unceremoniously sucked out of his aging body, which was nothing more than a shell.


He pondered over his life. Had he been a good man? Had he brought gaiety to those unfortunate enough to be around him? Had he tried his utmost to discharge the daily duties of life, to live honourably and be undefiled? To answer yes would be nothing more than a pompous proclaimation.


He only recalled incidents. Incidents horrible enough to strip him of all dignity. All linked to the same Goddess. And although he knew how much he wanted to be back in her favour, he also knew all she felt for him was disdain and contempt.


Beggers can't be choosers.

Beggers Can't be Choosers

They are in no position to make demands. They are in no position to reject any commiseration shown to them. They simply accept what is given to them.


But then again, as a begger, you really can't afford to reject any sympathy so graciously bestowed upon you, can you? Accept what is given with a smile. The path you chose has led you here, this is your just rewards.

Speed of Life

Life goes by too fast. From a fumbling toddler to a grumbling adult. From an action to a ghost of the past back to besiege you. I am guilty of failing to spare enough thoughts to others around me then. And it has grasped onto me ever since.


A thousand apologies could not express the self-disgust I feel. But know I am disconsolate.
A thousand tears could not reveal the remorse I endure. But know I cry.
A thousand flowers could not evince my adoration for you. But know I do.


It is said that knowing and learning from your mistakes is good enough.
This just isn't the case now.

If I could turn back time..

to 6 years ago. A daft 19 year old who thought the world of himself. Who had an ego too big for him to handle. Who envisioned the world revolving around him. Who was too proud to realise the harm he was doing. Who broke a little girl's heart. Who destroyed a life with her.


History has a funny way of coming back to haunt us. And I am no different. The events of that night still plague me. I never forgave myself, and I guess I will never. To think I could commit an act so inhuman, so lacking of any human emotion is beyond me. Death by stoning would have seemed deserving.


Now, 6 years on, older, maybe wiser, but still holding onto the chains of the past. To say that I am sorry now would probably mean nothing to you. But with words, that is all I can offer. To shed a tear would probably be nothing more than a drop of water.


You probably won't ever see this, but I will still write it. What I did has stayed with me everyday since then. Not deserving forgiveness, not deserving mercy. But yet I beg for it. Yes I'll beg for it.


Why do I still write this? For closure? To justify that I still have a conscience? No. It's simply because I still love her.

Love Hurts

If love is not reciprocated, what does one do? Flail at the wind and lament about the sorry state of his/her affiars? Or withdraw into the darkest smallest corner he/she can find and bawl his/her eyes out?


Why does it hurt so much? To know that you have given everything you could have ever given, and yet he/she acknowledges you with so much as a blow of the nostrils. The smile on my face could not and would never be able to conceal the hurt that stems from my heart.


It is often said it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. You think?

Charm

Oozing with charm, brimming with confidence. As fair as the winter snow, draped on the chimney-smoking rooftops. Aware of my existence, but denying it. Forlorn of all hope, metamorphosed into a despairing despondant. I barely recognise myself, yet I recognise her. A self-administered drug, that has me dancing in her palm. And yet my feelings endure.


Regardless, still alluring, still very charming.

Frustrating Disgruntlements

In the spring of discontent, she departed, the Goddess, on the dawn of the strange tide. The waters came in at ungodly hours, rising, rising, rising, under the milky skies, to unheard-of heights. The sands tasted water again. Their parched throats lapped up the salty mixture. The creatures scurried away, in fear of an aquatic burial. One that I was going to experience.


And yet She walked away, oblivious to the anguish She would dispense. The waves wiped away Her delicate footprints, creeping further towards me, taunting me. The barley dripped, intoxicating me. She walked on, further and further, till She was a silhouette against the morning sun, determined to address the demons in Her head. Demons, of which I was one. She bore a rock on her hand, a shiny rock that glistened in the sun. A rock I gave her. But She still walked.


The waves edged towards me, covering me, slowly, slowly. I would not swim again, after that day. I would not swim, no, not ever agin.


I was buried, but She was not bothered. She walked away from my grave.

Crossroads

There comes a point in everyone's life, when they sit down and think about their future. Are they happy in their current job? Are they happy with the prospects the job offers? You know the rest.


I guess I'm questioning myself now. Somehow the answers I get aren't the ones I expected. Maybe I'm getting disillusioned? I don't know. But what I do know is that I've got to sort it out. Soon.

Love

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony’s forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.


-Rupert Brooke