Into the shadows.

There's listening. And then, there's Listening. Is it me reacting to my own emotions, or me actually feeling another person's emotions? Emotional transference. Is it possible?

Most people just need a listening ear to unload some of the weight; and perhaps, to get advice. But, I also think these things work both ways. The listener gets to feel good about himself / herself, helping another fellow being in distress. It's probably more of a woman thing - wanting to help and be thought of as a saviour of sorts. Heh.

I remember listening used to come to me easily, even with strangers online. The community accepted and encouraged people to confide and listen to each other. One of those I listened to, back in University, went by the nick of SLASH - from Guns and Roses. (Now, why didn't I see THAT?) I listened to him - his unhappiness with having to settle for a tertiary education in Singapore, and life in general. He let me know he looked forward to my emails and online chats. And I felt good that I was helping him to deal with issues. Then, I felt him slipping back into his darkness - except he never did want to come out of it. I realised that he didn't want to be helped. As much as he ranted against his situation, he continued to revel in his darkness. And then, he tried to pull me down with him - he wanted a companion. Actually, I don't know which was worse - that he wanted to pull me into his darkness, or that he eh... liked me in a way that I didn't like him. That episode ended really badly. And it was only after, that I found out from J, who was also his housemate, that the guy had issues from way back. "Why didn't you ask me sooner?"

Somewhere down the road, I stopped Listening to anyone but my close friends. Though, I still Listen to a few people, and even strangers, once in a while. Mostly, it's just listening - looking attentive. Maybe I got tired of listening to the same old stories from the same people, or the same old stories from different people. I thought some of the stories were really silly; people insisting on being silly; people who didn't have the intention of doing anything about it. I don't think such people don't deserve to a listening ear - just that they should seek "more sympathetic" ears; from someone who's less judgemental, I suppose? Shrug.

Sometimes though, it doesn't have to do with the other person being silly. Listening can be draining - when you become aware of the changes in your emotional state. When P started to confide in me once too often - about job woes, sick grandmother, and friend's messy break-up - I found myself managing half-hearted acknowledgements before pulling back. Ironically, I wished that he would just stick to the flirting, though I was finding our encounters increasingly dull - not enough thought. I realised that I was recoiling from the intimacy; the intrusion; his presumptuousness. And I recoiled, because along with those thoughts, there was something not quite platonic. "I don't want to see what's in your head."

Another time, someone looked at me in disbelief and disappointment as her attempts to elicit sympathetic sounds and expressions drew nothing from me beyond my mere attention - listening. As she continued to inundate me with the horror of her recent encounter with an accidental death - she sought more than my mere attention - I found myself pulling back in a mixture of disgust and anger. I can listen - THAT is easy enough. But she wanted more. Her door was wide open, but I refused to enter. "I'll listen, but I'll not stand beside you against the shadows."

Perhaps, I have become insensitive. Jaded? Perhaps.

And yet, it doesn't always feel this way. Perhaps, I've become more sympathetic on some levels and so I've to be more "selective" about Listening to another person's thoughts. Sympathy, even empathy, can come easily when I let all my defences down. Perhaps, I just need to protect myself. As SF said, it's ultimately about privacy and boundaries. Who will I let into MY private space?


Into the mirror.

Reading (and laughing) at someone's take on women in a certain profession, I wonder: do Arians have the same sense of humour? And I remember, even the poems he wrote, they were easy to understand (and edit). SF thinks it probably works differently for those born in the first star sign - all still in the same stage of "undevelopment". Bleah.

Five cents only.



Dr A Chan. BSc(Hons)(First Class) The shrink is - IN. Heh.


Yesterday.

Last Sunday seemed like only yesterday. Then, scrolling through my mailbox, I realised that two months have already passed. Really? I can barely remember when time has passed so quickly; and so imperceptibly. (Except when cramming for exams last minute. Arrrgh!!!) Everything has been an inconsequential blur. Everything - except.

Ride the wave and live the moment?

Until you will become someone else's fairytale, to amuse my idle mind, at times like these.
~ The Girl on the Beach

And then, I think about the wonderful (mostly) six years that have marked me, and changed me. And they seem an eternity away now; a chapter in my (not so ordinary, after all) life - closed.


A life less ordinary.

I: "would you consider yourself an ordinary person?

A: "not really."

I: "why? why do you consider yourself not ordinary. i kinda think i'm ordinary. sure i do strange things sometimes, but i am kinda, well, not outstanding i think"

A: "well, i think my intelligence is above average. i think my experiences are above average. i think my perspective on things are broader. and i think it shows in my advice to people. i feel that the quality of my life is quite a bit above average. not about being rich but being wealthy."

Now this - this is self-awareness and self-confidence. Or else, one really arrogant BSD. Laugh.

Was just telling SF how I used to envy her post-KW days, when she became a swinging AND much sought after bachelorette, again. Her amazing story-telling skills aside ;-) I genuinely thought she was one happening chick who got chatted up at pubs all the time (true), hung out with happening people (well, they were interesting in their own ways), and hot Korean Lieutenants / Admiral Aides from the US Navy (true also). Strangely, I did not salivate over Hank, like all the other females. (Man, you should have seen the way they were all over him - except he had the hots for only SF.) Because it is bad manners to lust after your best friend's romantic interest. And, especially after he saw me in glasses sans make-up. Boy, was I worried about my mortality if word got out that I shared a room with him - unintentional, I swear! Of course, SF knew. But, she already had a room at her father's holiday place in Sebana, and we could not possibly switch places in the night - NOT under her father's watchful eye. And, just in case, I apologised to her for the "arrangements" - Stupid Eel-Phobic Alan and Stupid Eel-Killer Ragu roomed together with glee. See? How to feel hot like that? More like cold sweat!

I remember thinking how different SF was pre-KW, with-KW, post-KW (ah, how very different), and now, just being SF. Strange that we have known each other for 12 years, and I am still getting to know (or just increasingly aware of) her. In the last two years, I got to know her even more - when we found ourselves alone (she, a year earlier), together. Yet, not quite alone - in our not-so-ordinary encounters (all her ideas! not mine!), our fears and our dreams, and shedding our old skins. I also started to observe her in her ordinary moments - in wonder.

A: "everyone has ordinary moments. our lives are not continuous episodes of sex and the city."

I: "laugh. ok interesting analogy."

A: "there're highs and lows but there's also ordinary moments. but that does not necessarily make u ordinary."

In spite of the ordinary moments, I know she is not ordinary. She IS special. Well, not necessarily in a superior sense. (Though she may beg to differ. Sigh. I am surrounded by BSDs - Dickettes?) I suppose, she is just SF. The SF I know. The one and only. The one who pulled me firmly from the brink of despair - in spite of her own broken heart which she is still healing - and self-hate two years ago, and helped me to shed my old skin. The SF I trust.

Do you know why I have so few friends? Because none of them are ordinary. Well, that, and some of them have a few too many screws loose. They are NOT ordinary - to me, anyhow. And I do not always choose them. Often, they choose me. Like a certain someone who ransacked my overnight bag and tried to make me buy her lunch sandwiches a week later. Grrr.


The Bear Hunt.

I used to be proud of the fact that I was the one who made all the moves on the EX-communicated. I am still quite open about it. People either find it unconventional (not in a bad way) or brave - she knows what she WANTS.

They do not realise that I was driven by my insecurity and lack of self-confidence. I grew up a little differently from some people. Perhaps, it had to do with the temperament I was born with. And my mother said things to me - not in malice, I suppose. Perhaps, she was unhappy. Sometimes, my sisters and relatives made careless remarks too. And every single one of them stuck in my mind for a long time.

I did not think anyone would give me a second look, much lest make a move - unless I made it "easy" for him. I hunted the Bear down for an entire year. (Admittedly, there were distractions in between. Well, if he was going to take that long to respond, I figured I needed to take the edge off occasionally, before I lost my BEARings. Heh.) Heck, I even grabbed his hand in the cinema. And that was how the six years started. (Roll eyes. Desperate - me.)

While we were together, I was always trying to keep him happy and make him laugh. Then, the unreasonable tantrums and fits of jealously. (But, perhaps, my paranoia was not so unfounded after all. Hmmm.) He used to talk about this pretty friend a lot, who also worked with him on the same team. I almost went insane when he told me that she stroked his stubble at work one day. (She whattt??? Ok, she had better know some self-defence. Because!!!) And it did not help a bit that he would stroke his own stubble over the next few days, with that silly grin on his face. Grrr. (Actually, I like her. So. Shrug. Heh.)

H: "it was obvious. whenever i hang out with you two, it's always you 'taking' care of him ... it has always appeared to me that you were going after him more than the other way round."

I suppose we had something good going. But, perhaps, my insecurities destroyed it. AND, perhaps, he never loved me enough. I still think that - actually. It was something about the way it started. And, the way it continued. And, finally, the way it ended.

It drained me - in many ways - always being the one calling the shots. Especially, to be the one who started things AND being "forced" to end it. The ball was always in my court. So tired. So empty inside. Nothing left to give.


Itching. Shedding. Evolving.

Obiwan: "That boy was our last hope."
Yoda: "No, there is another."
~ Star Wars

Things will never change unless I stop hating myself, and living in the past.

Hence, the target practices - the Friendsters, the strangers, and occasionally the Fish. Heh. What? Not as if they are not using me as one too! Then, watching SF and her (very natural) moves, and trying to figure out where she drew it from. From inside. Ah. And, watching the people who were drawn to her. They can smell it - your confidence, and your fears. And so, I learnt to WAIT. And I learnt to smell.

After some time, I do not even think giving the men a "hard time" is deliberate; baiting; a game. Sometimes, it just IS like this.

"It's not you. It's ME."

I do not know when I stopped obsessing if a guy thought I was good enough for him. Hey, if I am not, I am not. It is not a case of apathy or lack of interest. If he finds me interesting enough, then let him make the move. If he does not, well, there is always another train pulling into the station. I know what I want. I just do not do bear hunts anymore.


Thank you.

"Because some stories end, but old stories go on, and you gotta dance if you want to stay ahead."
~ The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, Terry Pratchett.

Well, I guess as long as my toes do not get stepped on. Heh. And if I do not want to dance anymore, well, what better way to let him know than when he feels my heel digging into his toes, eh?

Me and my negative buoyancy. Now, what was it that the Divemaster told me about ditching that fourth weight? Duh.

Thanks, A - for the male perspective :-)

Mentality.

Miss L calls the office once in a while, to rant about the (imagined) biochip in her right hand, secretly implanted by a hospital researcher. She rants about how her hair has turned white, and that she bleeds under the skin. She rants that there are others like her. She rants about government conspiracies, the PAP, and George Bush. She rants that we should represent her and expose these conspiracies. It is always the same old story.

Harmless mostly, except when work needs to be done, and nobody really wants to listen to the 20-minute (usually) rant. Otherwise, whoever happens to pick up the call will just 'listen' to her, in OFF mode. Yesterday, I picked up the call.

It was 1800 hours. I was feeling restless. I was mentally drained. I was so sleepy. And I was hungry.

Sometime into her rant, I asked her if she had dinner yet. Because I had not had mine. And I was hungry. Was she hungry? Would she like to tell me what she was planning to have for dinner? Where did she intend to have her dinner? Where does she live? I was hungry. Would she like to know what I intended to have for my dinner?

A pause on the other line. She laughed nervously and was lost for words, for a while. When she called back again - she always does, within five minutes - I tried to talk to her about dinner again. She ended the rant quite sooner than she usually does.

My colleague in the next cubicle was amused. But behind the laughter, there was a flicker of something else in her eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mental illness - a medical condition or social definition? I think it is the latter, mostly anyway. It is about doing things differently from the rest of society. The unexpected. The glitch in the programme.

Mental patients are not that scary. It is the ones who work in the cubicle next to you, with the social skills to fit seamlessly into the rest of society - when they want to - who are.

The Sixth Sense.

Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. Touch.

And some say, we have a sixth sense. Telepathy?

noun:
communication from one mind to another by extrasensory means

"What if he..."

A question (and thoughts) that was unbidden - because it was too soon. Yet, the thought continued to drift alongside the others for the rest of an otherwise, lazy Sunday. It was not even my thought. It pushed - if thoughts could 'push' - too hard at my consciousness. Though it was not an unpleasant thought, it felt... strange... lingering the way it did in my head. This thought was not born of me, but its presence was persistent, undeniable, even as my own thoughts touched this Stranger, this Other Thought, and wondered at its presence.

A question, a mere thought - immaterial - found form and substance in words a few hours later. But they were not my words.

This telepathy? or synchronicity of thoughts? has happened before - text messages that seemed to arrive within moments of thinking about the other person. With H, my entire being had shrunk from the 'intimacy' - not mutual. And it was easier to discount some of it as mere coincidence. But, this, now, so much more undeniable - immaterial thoughts given form and substance, and a strange precision. Almost purposeful.

Was H just a teaser of what was to come, or rather, is before me now? Does it mean anything? Or have I just been more tuned into the Universe lately? Seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, and sensing what I had not been aware of before?

What do I see?

Two different lives. Two different worlds. When one wakes to the light of a new day, sleep draws its veil over the eyes of the other. Yet, mirrors to each other. Knowing that some things will be there, as they are here. Alternating flares of light that illuminate the dark corners on the other side. Uncanny similarities - and polar opposites.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, which one is the real thing, which one the illusion?

Do you ever wonder if the face looking back at you in the mirror is thinking the same thought too?

Dangerous Beans.

A thought that I was beginning to think like him - the self-awareness. (Bleah. Who wants to stew in the same pot as him. Heh. Anyway...) He understood how this consciousness, articulated, made people give us strange looks; uncomfortable; and think: "This One is dangerous."

I guess that is why I do not have many friends. (Things were different when I was younger.) There can only be that many of us Dangerous Beans in the dented can, mayhaps?

Hmmm.

I need - Sleep.

Must get eight hours of sleep for the rest of the week and next. Brain malfunctioning. Have been in my monosyllabic (extremely offensive to most humanoids) yes-no mode on the telephone again. Adrift above the sea of sights and sounds. Disconnected.

Struggled through last night's three-hour meeting in a numb daze, and after that, the fish had walked over to ask for something.

Sounds. His request for some historical records. Me - nodding.

Sights. His face hovering above mine. Me - twisting around in my seat to look up. His grinning smile. Me - slowly smiling in return and trying my darnest not to fall asleep in his face while he was talking and talking and talking. His lingering gaze. Me - visualising home -> bed -> sleep. (And earlier, from the corner of my eyes, his widening as I stretched across the table to pass a file to someone, the blouse riding up a little, and his eyes following the navel back as I retreated into my seat.)

Emotive. ...... Me - malfunctioning -> dense -> me. Duh.

Heh.

Or maybe it had something to do with my head making this LOUD sound when it moved up and made contact with the edge of the shelf yesterday afternoon. (F... shhh... don't let the boss in the next room hear you swear!)

ZzzZzz...

Harder to look for the glimmers of light and good in a person - to love. Much easier to close your eyes - and hate.

My Sin.


The Balance.

Recent weeks have been, carefully, uneventful. An impasse, or rather, a mutually sought truce. The mood, for a very brief few days, was even light-hearted. She returned my smiles and even sought my company. Then, came the shift in the delicate balance. Again.

The others had met her before and engaged her in most of the small talk, while I ate, listened and watched. People are used to me being quiet in my little corner. But this time, it felt different. (As it has been for quite a while.) They did not tread warily in my presence; they were comfortable - because I was too; no more the Bad Guy. One of them kept smiling at me in a familiar way, and touched me as she talked. Then, they turned to me and asked about the tan and gushed about the exciting 'life' I must have. (Eh?) Though I did not look at her, I felt her buoyant mood change as she retreated in an instant. With anyone else (and a long time ago, with me), she would have joined in, sometimes, even out-performing the others, for the glory of the centrepiece. I silently wished the others would move on to something else - I could not bear the weight of the dead eyes on me.

(A shift in the balance.)

Then, losing my temper later that afternoon with her. The snide undertone in the 'compliment' - undisguised envy - to get me to do something. I reacted, reflexively - not reflectively.

"I hate her. I hate her not. I hate her. I hate her not. I hate her. I WANT to hate her." The monologue clicked in turns behind dead eyes. Not so opaque, after all. I saw. And I brooded. I should have bit my tongue.

(Lurch.)

The next day, an opportunity stood before me. It was a simple setting, repeated too frequently to be considered out of the ordinary. But THERE it was, and the air felt different. (Do it now - or not. And if not, do not regret your choice. I need - Courage.)

I managed to swallow my pride and broached the issue in a tactful and conciliatory manner, so that it was face-saving for both of us. And sincerely done - I had to; and I was. The darkness lifted for the moment - faint flickers of light in her eyes.

(Tilt.)


Fire is a good servant but bad master.

Our first instinct when threatened is to react in the offensive. Hit the iron while it is hot. Strike down your adversary before he can catch his breath and come back at you. Maintain your upper hand, always. Other people react by retreating; defensive. Do not be soft. Do not be a COWARD. Do not fear. You need - Courage. Now, I wonder if all that is... wrong. Maybe. I do not know... yet.

"It would have been so easy to let anger sweep me into the same maelstrom of fear and hatred that she is in."

So much easier.

SF: "You were telling me about how she is warming up to you again because you are treating her like anyone else, rather than being hostile. That led to my observation that you have the upper hand since the tone of the relationship is being set by you. Being willing to take charge of the tone is a form of power you have, which she does not have. But once you start being aware that you can influence the mood and tone of a given situation or relationship, it then behooves you to take some responsibility for moods of the social situations you get involved in. It is a kind of freedom, because you are not doomed to dumbly accept the mood / tone in any given situation, but are able to contribute or change it."

It was like this with the other one (who has since left - consumed by her own fear), and with her too. Circling each other warily; each unwilling to give in. To be the first to open up was unthinkable - to be at the mercy of the other. I have tried them all: passive-aggressive; offensive; defensive. But mostly, just an uncomfortable truce.

"Aikido is believed to be one of the most spiritual of the martial arts. Morihei Uyshiba developed the art in the early 1900's after experiencing a moment of spiritual enlightenment. The physical side of Aikido involves throwing, joint manipulation and special weaponry training. Aikido does not focus on striking of one's opponent, but on using their energy to gain control. Aikido places its greatest emphasis on the motion and dynamics of movement and the control of one's Ki (energy or spirt within the body). Aikido itself has many different styles and many of those styles consider themselves to be a non-competitive art."
~ The Martial Arts Institute

Power, not as we commonly know it - brute strength and speed. But one that is more contemplative, and is capable of, for want of a better word, submission - something to do with humility.

To rule, you must - first - serve.

To receive, you must - first - give.

To love, you must - first - lose.

So, so, so much harder.

Courage and Fear. Without Fear, will you know true Courage?

Light and Dark. Without the Dark, will you know what is the Light?


Let's play poker.

I have been told that it is hard to read my face; that, or people tell me I look too grim. At my first job, a Psychology Medicine professor asked the ex-boss if I would like an appointment to see him. "How come she NEVER smiles / laughs? If she has problems, she can see me." He was disturbed by my mirthless face at meetings when everyone else would be laughing (stupid jokes - most of these political creatures laughed to give face) or emoting (but, but, I thought it was not appropriate for the minute-taker to partake of the Gods' revelries).

I still have it. It is easy to stop people from looking past my face; easy to shut the door in their face; easy to shut myself in, too.


Let me in.

Dead eyes. Her doors are closed to me. (But, not just to me. To many of the others too.)

But doors can be opened. I discovered this by accident. It started with willing myself to look at people differently, and choosing to seek the light in them. Opening the eyes, on various levels. Letting down my defences - trust; do not fear; believe. Everything looks different - sharper; clearer; subtleties in contours and colours. And I can see... glimmers of light in their faces and eyes. Not quite dead.

Somewhere in there, they started to open their doors for me, too.

SF: "You are dangerous." (sic)

Hmmm.


My Sin.

"Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."
~ Lady Macbeth, Macbeth. (Act 5, Scene 1, 52-54)

During those dark months, groping in the dark and looking for the 'lost' pieces, and realising it was inside me all along, I ripped myself apart. I had so many questions, and was often frustrated and fearful when the answers eluded me. Sometimes, there did not even seem to be answers at all. And sometimes, the answers came - many, and fast. Infused by the knowledge, I fancied in my pride and folly that I would 'teach' others. She was an easy target, though not willing. I picked at her happy shiny skin until she saw and recoiled in horror from the raw flesh. But she did not understand - and could not; no capacity, yet. (Do not judge.) It is simply not her time, yet.

Instead, there was Envy - Fear - Anger. So much Anger. Once upon a time, she knew only Happiness - the shiny type. (Ignorance is bliss.) She fears me, still.

I. Should. Not. Have. Judged.

Regret. (Ignorance was bliss - hers.)

Yes, I am - dangerous.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My Sin. Revisited on me - as she now judges me, relentlessly. (Though I suspect it has as much to do with the newfound faith.)

My Sin. Revisted on me many times over. Her friends and family look at me now with so much loathing. And some with FEAR. In the early days, one of them, who is also of the faith, physically recoiled from me in horror, as if I was the Devil's spawn.

Mirrors - looking back at me.

My Sin. My Lesson to Learn.


Ah.

"The vague shapes and voices in the darkness - understanding a little more each day."

So, so many words. Holding on to them. Laying out the pieces. Fitting them into their places. Each too precious to be lost. He points. Illumination. I turn. And I see.

This One is 'dangerous'.

What if this is not a rabbit hole? What if this is a mirror too? (But, not a broken one.) Infinity. If not, illusions? With mirrors, you will never, can never, stop falling. And so, 'dangerous'.

I think the words are finally done with me. Exhausted, I am. Sleep, I shall.

"What I'm saying is - and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form - is that men and women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way."
- Harry Burns, When Harry Met Sally

SF does not believe that men and women can truly be friends, in a platonic sense.

Strangers twice met.

The past two years of actively 'widening my social circle' have been interesting, and at times, enlightening. With most of the new acquaintances (few become friends), I have always had 'ulterior motives' - as do they, of course. Companionship, contacts, or a date (also commonly referred to as 'target practice'). Heh. Heh. I tend to spend a lot of time planning ahead, considering and calculating my next moves. Lust at first byte - in the internet era - baser instincts flooding my senses.

Some harmless fun and laughter have provided the occasional (and much needed) excitement and variety to daily living. But these have mostly been meaningless liaisons; no depth; no purpose; no loss. It was touch-and-go, figuratively speaking. With acquaintances like P, a Friendster pick-up, there can never be anything more - for me - than word porn and cute emoticons. Flirt Mode 'on'. P often told me funny stories of his nights out, getting rubbed against by various female body parts (shows that you can never tell about a person's appeal just by looking at how he is shaped, or rather, NOT, in this case); suppers with various radio DJs and personalities in the industry. He readily shared his friends' problems and issues - someone else's stories. That was about it. (And yeah, the tiresome fawning and attempts to impress me that increasingly got on my nerves.) After a while, the novelty wore off - for me. He felt this and I sensed his desperation to fill the increasingly obvious emptiness. It was not that I did not try to engage him in more reflective conversations - but they did not interest him, and started the snipes about me being too 'smart' for a woman. Duh. The pebble hit the bottom pretty quickly. Splish. No depth.

We were Strangers once; though not quite now. We were never Intimate; nor can ever be.

And thus, easily forgotten; no loss. We are becoming Strangers. Twice over.

Dangerous liaisons.

There are strangers. And then, there are the Strangers.

With a few people, I just want to talk and listen; to know their minds and hearts; and perhaps, to learn something along the way too. There just seems so much to know, share and experience. Perhaps, that is why my baser instincts never quite get to slip in as often. Crowded out by meaning. (Ok, no more space here. Go away. No loitering. Find someone else's dirty little mind to corrupt. Heh. Heh.) The 'ulterior motive' rarely makes its presence felt. Though, I do not know about the other. Nor care to know, really. I do not feel like I want any... thing... from these people. And yet, these are meaningful liaisons.

Dangerous? It does not feel that way.

Dangerous. Perhaps, because the pebble has not hit the bottom. How deep does this rabbit hole go?

No butterflies. The waters are too still, perhaps?

I do not know. It just feels... different. The experience and sensations are so surreal - so far removed from the rancid bodies and musty voices of my daily world. Like... like... like waking up under a veil of star dust :-)

For You.

I was asked what I thought of The Passion of Christ. By two of the faith. To one who does not walk in the same light as they do, but tries her best, nonetheless, to stay on the path.

I felt their hungry eyes on me. Waiting. Expectant. Unspoken: He Suffered. He Bled. He Died. For Us. For YOU. Appraising. Judging.

They said so as much - about how Christ suffered and bore the burden for Man. (After I said something 'harmless' about the production.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thoughts I have. But I would not share these with their kind. Because I know they do not care for my thoughts; they only want to hear the echo of their own thoughts. And I know they fear... my questions.

Well, what if He did not suffer, did not bleed, did not die, FOR you?

Would it make any difference to you?

What if He did not bear the Cross FOR you?

Would it be harder for you to stay on the path? Because His Blood is not on YOUR hands? Because you do not feel the burden of your own... Guilt?

Do you walk in the light - for Him? Or yourself?

What if you were not told that He would give you His Strength and His Courage?

Would you call upon your own faith in Him (not His Strength nor His Courage, two different things, believing in Him, and believing He would share His Strength and His Courage with you) and yourself, to continue on the path?

Happy shiny polar bears.

As long as he's happy, I'm happy.

I believed, and still do, in the happiness of the Other - even if it necessitated a trade-off with my own.

Once upon a time, I had a book with happy pictures and shiny people. And then, it became a twisted tale, the kind that you tell only at campfires late at night, as fire imps leap from face to face, delighting in rapt faces, widened eyes and parted lips.

I wanted him to be happy. Because. And then, Because became - words, deeds and gifts, which trial and error had taught would make him smile or laugh, acknowledgements of my time and effort. His happiness became mine - my happiness was dependant on his. I fed on him. Voraciously.

Even he, who had few security issues, did his 'share' because he wanted me to be happy too. And because I kept raising the ante. It was a vicious cycle that bound us to each other. It made me blind to his deepening unhappiness; and mine. And it made it harder for him to say the words that he really wanted to say to me. Entangled. Sinking. The Titanic of our six years together. So much to lose. For both of us. For each of us.

The eventuality of an untenable situation - disentangled and unravelled. Freed of each other, I finally began to learn how to live for myself. To seek happiness, not from another person or the external world, but to draw it from within myself.

In the bigger picture, who can say if the 'trade-off' does not eventually work out for both parties? All things work out in their own way, and their own time. Time. Patience. The heavens' teardrops on a boulder. Some months back, I realised that I can only give happiness to the Other, when I find and recognise my own.

Would you rather have a book of happy pictures and shiny people? Or, a significant story of "happiness, anger, sadness, comfort, pain, laughter, tears, warmth, cold, life, death"?