Hanging on (2)

Hanging on to an on-again-and-off-again relationship, the dive trips have become the only times when she got to meet him. She was not ready to call it off for good because the relationship was comfortable. And, she was simply too tired to have to start afresh: "I just don't want to be alone."

I wonder if she realised that more harm would eventually be inflicted on her self-esteem. And, I wonder if she noticed that his gaze often lingered too long on a few of the other women, and friendly pats on the shoulder became a few too many squeezes.

But people do choose to hurt themselves more deeply, rather than deal with the heartbreak sooner, because they would rather not be alone. And perhaps, he did not have the courage to say the words either - words that she should say, if not for him, then for herself.


Hanging on (3)

A careful one-liner a day keeps the girl from running away again? Shrug.

Methinks honesty and some straight talking would have made this hiccup in the friendship easier to bear, if not resolve, but I would not force it, considering how bad it went the first time - for him.


A life too 'ordinary'

Sometimes I wish I could see the world as some people do - how easily and instinctively they find laughter and simple joy in the little things around them, especially the 'ordinary'. When the drudgery of daily living threatens to overwhelm me, I wish I could live this 'ordinary' life as they do theirs. Before I forget. Before I lose myself.

Hanging on (1)

Some people draw happiness from the physical world - material possessions, social standing, achievements, relationships. They seek instant gratification from the Happiness Dispensing Machine - happiness can be easily bought. (And apparently, happiness, weighing in at exactly 100 pounds, can also be bought in the form of Borders Chai. Heh.)

Some people draw happiness from illusions - and live happily ever after. Others are not so fortunate - their illusions fall apart and they flounder in the eternal greyness between dreams and reality, possibly for the rest of their life. Some become voiceless wraiths in the shadows. Others - bitter echoes in the wind.

Some people draw happiness from within - dreams; courage to believe; grace in spite of personal trials and setbacks; patience and faith to continue believing. And sometimes, they draw it from the happiness of others (Happy Trees and Lucky Bastards) and the world around them - and hope for themselves.

A few people draw happiness from the secrets of the Universe. They reach past the illusions of space and time, and finite possibilities, into the Greater Consciousness out there, greater than all six billion individual ones - into the void; the unseen; infinite possibilities.

And some people do not. Not necessarily for lack of dreams, nor inertia, nor that they do not have the patience to wait. Sometimes, in the long wait (and for some, one too many personal trials that they bear alone), they forget how easily laughter once came to them, when they drew upon the wonders in the ordinary and little things they see, hear, smell, touch and know.

Do we ever lose the ability to be happy, with time or age? Can personal trials cause us to lose that ability, irrevocably, to reach for happiness? How do we find what we have lost?

We often console ourselves that our Time has simply not arrived, and we can only wait patiently. And that quietens our restless hearts and souls - for a while - until we notice that everyone else seems to have had their turn, and gone back for seconds and thirds. And we are still trapped in the undifferentiated greys of our Sisyphian existence.

But perhaps the Time that we speak of should not be measured in terms of minutes, hours, days, months and years; nor in relation to other people's lives. In the greater scheme of things, Time - the quantifiable aspect that we are only too familiar with, and constantly reminded of (society's milestones) - is inconsequential.

Our personal trials, lessons, journeys and self-discoveries cannot be quantified; nor taken apart individually to consider on their own; to rage against with clenched fists and ineffectual voices. These are so much more when you step back and consider the bigger picture - of events, people, space and time. How often have we missed things that our limited mortal senses could not grasp in the moment itself, and it is only in retrospect that we, hopefully, see so much more clearly and understand?

Perhaps what should matter most is our soul.


Colours

If you had an aura, what colour would it be today?

Writing.

When I was younger, writing - poems - was mostly about venting. (As it is with a lot of people who turn to words.) Yet, looking back, and comparing how I wrote then and now, it was hardly cathartic. Immediate tensions and frustrations were quickly relieved, but the issues remained. So, they would return to haunt me, sending me into yet another round of ranting. In a way, the writing also fuelled the frustrations, providing a ready platform, when friends had grown tired of hearing the same rants ad nauseam. And, limited insight aside, I also did not have the maturity nor discipline then to seek more than the immediate gratification of ranting - to resolve the issues.

Sometimes, driven by the need to write - anything - I would seek inspiration by summoning unhappy thoughts. And they came readily enough. Indeed, my better writings - or so I thought - were the melancholic and darker ones, even though they disturbed a few people enough to send me concerned emails. Though I sometimes wrote for humour too - parodies to amuse myself and friends - the writing was just not as satisfying. And, I enjoyed the attention and effect that the darker writings had on people. Still, it was not a very good thing for my mental health, to be so driven by melancholia.

Later, during the years of bliss with the ex, I rarely wrote. Though I tried, the words would not come. I was simply not inspired - possibly because inspiration was mostly associated with melancholia in the past. Certainly, there were too many good times in those days for that.

And, when I needed to rant, which I often did (unfortunately), the ex was always there. (Listening or not? Heh. I did not care, actually.) Except, he grew tired soon, and he was also trying to cope with his own frustrations. As my own continued to gain momentum with the increasing pressure of work and living, I turned to writing again - to vent. Instead of poems, I blogged - because it was the 'new' thing then and I thought to experiment with less abstract writing. While blogging provided me with some distraction, rediscovering writing, the angry words, now shed of poetic pretensions, returned sooner and stronger after each rant. Then, the words took on a life of their own, engulfing me, and burning the people around me - especially the one who was closest.

The words changed many things.


Itching. Shedding. Evolving.

As I continued to work on refining my style and words in prose, I discovered the discipline to control and change my thought processes, as I managed many more words and threads of thoughts, rephrasing and rewriting (sometimes, umpteen times). No longer just recording or ranting. But, also giving form and shape to hazy thoughts, and summoning the hidden ones to fill the gaps - to provide the answers. Now, seeing much more and understanding. And finally, purging - catharsis. As my writing evolved, so did I.

Although I still write to vent, drawing upon my frustrations and seeking instant release, I also write frequently for humour. And, I no longer find inspiration wanting even when I am happy, because I now know how to draw upon the good things in my life. My words no longer just seek the ever present darkness and fear; they seek goodness and courage; and they seek dreams and hope for the future. They embrace all of life, drawing upon the extraordinary and the ordinary - that makes each lifetime the rich tapestry that it is. This, to me, is the art of writing.

The words changed many things. The words became who I am; and yet, not quite. Or, perhaps, it was never meant to change all of me, to become ALL of who I am.

I suppose the words will show me, as they always have.


Tales from the Crypt.

"hey, are you a linkin park fan? wanna attend their concert? i've got 'front row' tickets."

Once again, he demonstrates his uncanny sense of timing.

Now, watch.

Afterthought:
This appears to be the season of 'free' tickets falling out of the sky, no?

Unhappily ever after.

She: "i hate it when my illusions about the world are shattered ... it was much more comfortable having those illusions"

I: "sometimes what lies behind illusions can be more beautiful. it's just not a very pretty kind of picture, not like illusions which are nice and shiny. there is grit but also beauty in reality"

She: "a world where true love is a rare commodity, where infidelity is a norm, that's not what i'd necessarily consider more beautiful"

I: "would you rather live with the fear of an illusion always on the verge of breaking"

She: "when i'm living in an illusion, i dont know it's an illusion"

She asked if I believed in true love, amidst the broken marriages and relationships that seem to be happening with alarming frequency in recent years. If true love exists, why do relationships fall apart? If true love exists, why is it so hard to find? Maybe true love does not exist. Then, why do people get married? To live unhappily ever after?

The growing disillusionment in her words assumed form and fury in the voice of another who I had lunch with recently. The latter, a self-confessed swinging bachelorette, was ranting about all men being bastards. She even wanted me to attend some business cocktail so I could see for myself what idiots (and bastards) the men were, and we could have a good time laughing AT them. I did not go.

There was also something different about her that afternoon. When we last met three months ago, she seemed happy with the new job. She was bringing in sales, and I suppose, from her healthier glow, keeping saner hours. I thought, and told her so, that she looked very attractive. She continues to be doing well in her job, and she still looks good. But, there was a hard glint in her smothering eyes, which seemed darker than before. Defences. Anger. That probably explained the unsolicited and explicit confessions of her liaisons over lunch.

Is The End over-rated? In The Big Break-up's head-on collision of pain and confusion, tears and anger, it is easy to forget that things can go wrong much earlier; sometimes, from the beginning. People can get together for the "wrong" reasons. People can also continue to stay together for the "wrong" reasons. It is easy to rant about the wasted years - your youth and "better" years given to another whose heart was already not with you a few years into the relationship; the opportunities that slipped away. It is easy and reassuring to tell ourselves that it was all a mistake. And so, it was, in a sense. But, what if it was meant to be? What if, it was something that you had to go through? People do change. And sometimes, you have to walk through fire to shed your old skin.

Without Endings, there can be no new Beginnings. Unfortunately, some people only see the Endings. Perhaps, that is why some people do not believe in true love, or stop believing. And that, to me, is more tragic than if I was to be told, that true love does not, and never existed.


Hung out.

"I have no professional training as a counsellor, I tried my best, and I have no regrets about everything said to you and about you (including the GOOD things)."

My thoughts ticked as I watched and followed the words that were not contented with content, but pulsed with intent. They pointed the way - to a familiar looking path that I walked not too long ago. (And I remembered the anonymous message that was left for me here about my choice of content. My entries dwindled in those few months, as I first seethed, and then mulled about what was said. I never forgot the message, but I remember it for a different reason now.) This is now his path, and this is where he wants me to go. I followed. And, I watched.

When I finally looked away, I wondered why I did not feel the urge to defend my words, or correct assumptions and perceptions.

(Too many words. Too much noise. The art to writing is in intimacy. Embrace the words as they rush into your head and fill all your senses. Breathe the myriad essence of their top notes, the intricacy of blends, and the lingering scent long after. Taste and appreciate the lightness of their simplicity. The art to writing is also in humiliation. Bare your softest core to the world. But, also know how to hold back when you have to. Never let your words overwhelm you.)

I suppose it is this. That it is not my intent to engage in a war of words. Touché? I think not. And, that quite possibly, it is not his too. Having had only three hours of sleep the night before, and then having to work the entire Saturday, probably helped to numb my senses too. Heh. Or else, I'm just one nasty hussy. Not.

Instead, I opened the door to yet another person. Perhaps it will help. Perhaps it will not. Who knows?

I only know that all around us, life continues to go on. Time did not stop for me two years ago; and it still has not. In a way, I am glad for that.


Tales from the crypt.

Dense - moi?

My mind skipped too quickly over the mumbled words before it registered the intent behind them. Oh. Ohhh. Of course, I could always blame it on the earache and the sleep debt. Heh.

Another Numero Uno? Wahlau. Probably "something in the air" again.