Do not make promises in happiness, and do not take action in anger.

The worst part is that no one can, or will, understand. They ask “What is wrong?” as though it were one answer. Do I appear so weak to you that one mere catastrophe can knock me down? I am anything but weak. And you are foolish if you think that one reason suffices to warrant such a thing as being “upset”. Perhaps for you mere mortals, that might be the case. I may be mortal; but I am not mere.

If I show that I am strong than you assume that I can handle things on my own.

If I show how much I struggle then you assume that I have not progressed. That in all these moons I am still the one who cracks under such impediments.

 

Go off, then, live in your assumptions. That is all you will have.

Empty Nest Syndrome

 

 

You taught me to love even when the love is not reciprocated.

You showed me that I have a light in me

One powerful enough to make the darkest of hearts just that much brighter.

You proved that I had a patience in me;

A persistence that I never knew I had.

You taught me what it meant to provide to those in need, even when they do not want

To be graceful even when hurt is looming all around you

To bring happiness even when there is none to be conjured.

You taught me to fight for a relationship

To keep fighting, even when there was option to quit.

You taught me the joys of being wanted by the most reluctant of hearts.

Now I look at you packing your suitcase

And I wonder if I’ve done enough for you

If I gave you enough

If you can sustain yourself when you are away from me

Was I enough?

Was I good enough?

Are you wise, strong, and respectable?

I know you are.

And your journey is not even a quarter way travelled.

You will continue to grow; I know you will.

No matter where you are,

No matter who you are with.

You will grow.

I have faith in you.

 

 

Yes, I have faith

In you.

No, I haven't abandoned you.

Swamped.
So much to do, so little time. I wonder if all will be well.
I worry that I'm making the wrong decision,
That in some way, I am being short-sighted.
I wonder if it is that youth proving its existence in me.
I wonder if that is god or bad.

I have so much to plan, so much to arrange, so much to complete.
But I can get through this.
I have faith in my wings.
I will get through this.
Whether I walk, crawl, run, or jump out,
Only He knows.
But I will be alright.

I think I will be alright.

What used to be precious.

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

she doesn’t want her milk bottle anymore

She struts across the living room

Toting her carefully dressed up dolls

And has tea parties with them over at the corner.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

Her dolls are tucked away in the box

And she’s sitting transfixed in the living room

Eyes glued onto the screen

As the runway fills up with flashing colors and flawless Walkers.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

She tucks herself away in her room

Only comes out for school and for meals

Even then she doesn’t utter a word.

Except to ask for money and permission to leave.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

She’s gone away to college.

She’ll call to tell us she needs something and

Sometimes she’ll come home for the holidays

To tuck herself in her room.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

She’s found herself a new home

So she packs away her old bedroom

Throws out as much as she could

And clears the signs of the years under our roof.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

She’s standing on her own two feet

She doesn’t need our money

And no longer longs for her old room

So we seldom hear her peep.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

She sends her regards now and then.

I’ve racked my brains making excuses

So maybe she’ll make her way here.

If only she’ll make her way here.

 

Mamma’s girl is all grown up now

I wonder where she is.

I hope she eats well and lives well

I hope she laughs and smiles

Maybe one day I’ll hear from her again.

A Reception's Happenings.

I get scared too. So scared, that I can’t admit it to myself. I can’t say it out loud, in fear of the consequences. Afraid of how you’ll react. Terrified that you’ll tell me that my feelings are wrong, that my thoughts were all wrong, and that I shouldn’t be the way that I am. Understand that it makes me feel even more trapped. I am scared enough as it is; then someone comes along and adds insecurity to that, and doubt, and guilt. It doesn’t help!

 

But I got used to it.  I knew that it was part of life and from there I learnt to keep things that matter only to myself.

 

I don’t remember the last time I had anybody support me in being myself. Sure it’s easy to support those who are on the “right” track..but that is subject to your belief of what is the right track.

 

But yesterday, I had a room full of that. People I had not met in a long time, but listened carefully as I told them my hopes and dreams; people that were quick to gauge that I had made a decision, and that I wasn’t sure in doing so, that I was terrified of my own consequences. They understood that I needed support, and they gave me exactly that. They gave me well wishes, and asked how they could help. They told me of times they too were scared, and how others had helped them get through it. They told me I was going to do great, and to have faith in myself.

 

I read one of those “inspirational” quotes, and found one that particularly speaks to me:

 

I'm not one of those who can boast having "a tonne of friends". In fact, I don't know if I really have any to name. But today I know I do. People who will help me in need, and not just give me self doubt and worry..People who I know I can help, without worrying they are just sponging off of me.

 

 

But yes, I am still scared; and yes, I'm grateful for what you have done.

As much as I could say...it's here.

Staring at the bottom of your glass
Hoping one day you'll make a dream last
But dreams come slow and they go so fast

You see her when you close your eyes
Maybe one day you'll understand why
Everything you touch surely dies

But you only need the light when it's burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missin' home
Only know you love her when you let her go

Staring at the ceiling in the dark
Same old empty feeling in your heart
'Cause love comes slow and it goes so fast

Well you see her when you fall asleep
But never to touch and never to keep
'Cause you loved her too much
And you dived too deep

 

 

(Passenger "Let Her Go")

 

 

 



What good children do.

There was one time in kindergarten the teacher told us to come the next day with tupperwares. I was so excited thinking there was going to be a party. I asked my mum for the biggest one we had. Turned out we were learning how to properly close a Tupperware. Everybody else came with sandwich sized Tupperwares and there I was, with my mum’s vegetable Tupperware, large enough to house my head and neck.

“Ok, everybody open your tupperwares. Now, pretend to take something out.”

*noises of 6-year-olds rummaging through empty tupperwares*

“Now, after you open a Tupperware, you should close it. That is what good children do. Now show me how to properly close a Tupperware”

*noises of 6-year-olds banging on the lids and corners, some screaming in pain, some crying out in agony*

Rain the blows like a drizzle during the sunshine. (Part 1)

His gallant stature illuminated the hallways, as he strode towards the square. His club, brandished and gleaming under the hot sun, was handed to him by his late father. He held it with strength and grace. Each lengthy stride cheered on by the strongest of men, eager for a glimpse of the Event. His armor, polished and embellished by the most respected of servants, caught the sunlight and shot out to a man standing in the audience. That person shielded his sight with his forearm, never ceasing his battle cries.

 

The crowd cheered on. Our assailant, ready for his duty, stood fast in the middle of the square. The cheering stopped in an instant, and a ceremonial hush fell over the stone floors. Footsteps echoed from the other end, two soldiers this time. They are not the assailant’s opponents; he has no worries of them. Their steps clink over the cobbled circle surrounding the square, approaching nearer and nearer to him. The large wooden burden they shared between them swayed as they walked to the very center of the square. They lay it down, and walk away.

 

The heavy casket, having been kept underground for the past three days, emits a foul odor which all the audience shy away from; not out of disgust, but out of a secret fear that they should be Chosen next. It is an honorable duty: one of which sustains their very livelihood; but no one wishes to endure being Chosen. Even as all of them stand with pride and excitement over the Event, they all bore secret dread of being in such proximity of that substance. That substance that was their wealth, that substance that was their curse, that substance that was their manhood, that substance that made up their life.

 

He stood there, awaiting the signal. Was the process done? Should he unlock the crate presented before him? Behind his armor, he knew he was immune. He knew his responsibility was not in being Chosen, but it was one of equal dread. The near fortune of the entire village depended on him extracting as much as he could, as well as he could. It depended on how much the Chosen one was willing and able to fight. It was dependent on his ability of knowing when to strike and when to yield. He shifted his feet, perspiring under his gleaming armor. He heard the tiny crackle. It was time. The crowd drew their breath.  Everyone was silent enough for each man to hear his own heartbeat. It was painful for each of them, but even more so for one man in particular.

 

This man, was he who was Chosen. It was not his choice, nor was it within his power to resist. Once the substance finds its host, the option was either to die or to endure the process. The process itself took three days. The first, of the deepest sufferings of Hellfire and the Wrath of God himself, beating upon him hour after hour, minute after minute, second after second. Then came the emptiness. When the substance has vacated all his mortal consumptions from his living carcass, it gives the carcass life; if life were what you deemed as a beating heart and surrounding flesh and bones. A full grown man, returned to its foetal state; not capable of thought nor movement. His beating heart was because the substance made it beat, made his carcass pump itself through his veins and into the pits and crevices of his being.

 

 

………………to be continued.

What matters, is what matters to him.

 

 

 

It was late in the afternoon, and my wife was bustling about the kitchen as she usually does. My son was upstairs, probably tapping away at his computer. Tea was being served, and I was telling my wife that my back was hurting. She looked at me, unsure if it was anything serious (I wasn’t young, and elderly ailments of all sorts were already starting to dawn on me), or if it was one of my countless vies for attention. You can’t blame an old man for wanting to have some humorous fun with his wife of almost 40 years, now can you?

 

The wife was telling me about the next door neighbor’s children, and how they kept coming into out yard. I assured her that they probably meant no harm, but my back was starting to throb. The tea felt like it was “hanging” inside of me. The wife was saying something about missing plums and broken clotheslines, but all I could feel was the cakes coming out in ten-folds. I vomited onto the floor, careful trying not to hit the carpet, but it was beyond me. My wife turned, and it took some time for her to realize what was happening. She called out frantically for my son, rushed to my side. It mattered not that I was covered in putrid acid spewing across the floor. She held me close to her and rubbed my back.

 

My son sauntered down the steps, unaware of anything happening. His mother sounded just as frantic as if a lizard had wandered too near for her liking; he had no notion that anything was at all wrong. When he saw the mess I had created, he jumped the remaining of the steps, and ran towards me. He turned back, saying he’ll get the keys to the car. I told him I was fine, and that I just wanted to go to the toilet. He didn’t seem to like the idea; he wanted to take me straight to the hospital. But I assured him I was fine, and that I just needed to go to the toilet, and clean up.

 

He hoisted me up with incredible ease; and it occurred to me that I have grown a strong, but gentle son. He carried me to the toilet, put me down, and waited. He refused to budge, saying that if anything happens, he’ll be right there. I was embarrassed, but I understood. He was worried for me; and I had to let him worry.

 

My wife was anxiously cleaning up in the kitchen, and telling my son a long list of do’s and don’ts. After he cleaned me off, he helped me dress and put me in bed. He sternly looked at me and told me I was not to get out of bed. Think of that. He who I used to bathe, clothe, and carry to bed. Now he does the same for me. I didn’t know how to feel. Ashamed that he had to see me in such weak conditions, but proud that he did so without so much as a bat of the eye. Not a single sigh, not an ounce of a grumble.

 

Later that night, I felt a sharp tingle at the end of my toes. It shot up towards my chest. I tried to calm myself, telling me that it was just a slight aftermath. But the pain was too much. I reached out to my wife. She must have been sleeping than her usual deep slumber. She shot up immediately, and just as fast her hands reached out to mine. As much pain as I was in, I took comfort in her being there. I didn’t have to worry about getting out of bed; my son took care of that. I didn’t have to worry about packing my bags; my wife took care of that. My son carefully carried me to the car, locked the doors, and drove out into the still of the night. He must’ve been driving fast as I could see my wife clutch her bracelet like she usually does when she’s anxious.

 

I didn’t have to worry about looking for parking, or about telling the nurses what had happened. I knew I was safe; as safe as I could be. I could trust my son, I could trust my wife. What more could an ailing old man ask for?

 

He sorted out all the papers, he called my workplace for me. He inquired about insurance. Thank the Lord we were covered. He took care of that. He and my colleagues took away my worry for that. All I had to do, was to recover.

 

As I look at my fatigued wife’s eyes, she whose tears I have caused to shed, she whose hands have become worn out and wrinkled in her years of cooking, cleaning, and accompanying me. Me. A man who has nothing, who is nothing. I look at her and reminisce of those dark days when she cried because of me every single day. When I inflicted pain on her, and for what exchange? My happiness. How she begged me to make her pain stop, and yet I only told her to be strong, be patient, and accept what the doors of fate had brought us. Here was the same woman, holding my limp, lifeless hand. Here was that same woman, going back and forth searching for anything she could do to make me a little more comfortable.

 

There was my son. He who I raised in the barracks of decaying wood, he who cried himself to sleep after a day at school being teased for being the only one not joining the school trip. He who could not go to college because I said our future would be better off if he found a way to help me pay the bills now rather than in five years. Here he was, on the phone asking if there was better care he could provide for me. Asking for help to aid his ailing father.

 

 I am a blessed man, I am. And as these eyes flutter to a close, I can’t help but allow just a moment to relish the various blessings I have been given.

Coffee happenings.

I am guilty of much overthinking. I sing out loud mostly because when I sing, it drowns out the noise in my head. I can focus more on a task because those little voiceless sounds are distracted with the sounds coming out of my own mouth.

I come across as judgemental.
I come across as weird/psychotic/disturbed
I come across as abrasive/aggressive
I come across as nosy.
I come across as _________________________.

Would it make sense to think less? To shut out my thoughts so that I can be "lighter". Or should I keep my incessant questioning limited to my own ponderings? But wouldn't. Be more likely to live in assumption and self-weighed judgement if I do not question others?



Read.

I read; and from there stems a gazillion more ponderings. Each person offers a somewhat unpredictable chain of reaction to these ponderings. Sometimes it is not the answer that is valuable; it is the reaction.


Write.

I write; mostly to clear my head. But it is never clear. It will never be clear. Why would I want it to be?


Converse.      (No. NOT the footwear)

What is the purpose of conversation if not to learn?
There is to bond, there is to release, there is to educate,...
True, that sometimes it is not about the content, but the intent behind it. Small talk, for instance. I've always considered it petty and foolish; done by those who have no weight to their thoughts. They talk small because their minds are small.

Very few people are able to speak to my mind. It always irritated me that they bring up things that I had already thought of and disputed 7 years ago. When people point out things I already knew. When people brought up issues I had already debated.

But then I was enlightened by an afternoon conversation. A meaningful one at that, but one thing struck me. That small talk wasn't meant to enlighten one's mind alone. It was meant to put another at ease, or to start off on some sort of common ground.

Patience.

Some conversations never escalate to anything substantial; and that is perfectly fine. It doesn't make you less intelligent, it merely means that for a time, you spent it talking to another person. Whether you learn or not from them, no matter how small the talk, that is up to you. Perhaps the lesson was in listening.

Listen.

It is very rare that I encounter a person bent on making a point to me and actually succeeding.
You are rare. And I value that.

But I have also learnt to value the mass.


Thank you, you.

Take your own medicine.

Your limbs, gut, mind, soul, heart,...are all part of you. But at different intervals, different parts take charge.

- That paintbrush you scored high grades with
- Printed out photos of you
- Anniversary cards
- Birthday cards
- Sorry-please-take-me-back cards
- Sorry-please-take-me-back handwritten copied song lyrics
- The second gift you ever gave me (the first was a ball point pen. I have no idea where that is).
- A heartshaped pendant necklace which I wore until it became rusty and some of the stones had popped out.
- A hand drawn portrait of me
- A congratulatory letter which apparently came with a gift. I have no recollection of what that is.
- A Cadbury chocolate wrapper (yes, only the wrapper. God knows what if there were still chocolate to speak of).
- Old consignment notes and wrappers
- Photos of your younger siblings

All of which was handwritten. All of it was sent with care, items put inside were carefully chosen; as well as the words put onto paper. Promises were constantly made, vows embedded in handwritten faith of some wonderful future. Distance was a measure too great that care had to be made that the other person saw those vows and promises written down. It made things real, despite the person never really being there.

Eventually, the person started really being there. So the handwritten promises and vows ceased. There was no more need for them. Or was there? The person was in truth there. Physically, emotionally, whole-heartedly there. Look at me, feel me, see me. I am real, and I care for you. I will not write about it because now I can show you.

But then, there was so much proof being put forward. How could one possibly question the vows and promises once upon a time ago profoundly proclaimed; how could one deny the years of physical, emotional, and whole-hearted devotion? It is real, the heart, soul, mind, is there. The feelings are just as real. What has a person to prove now? Isn't it obvious that the feelings are pure, true, and sincere? Why should I be there? Why should I always rush to your aid? Why should I always have to be your shoulder? You have your own. Learn to use them.

I read again all those handwritten vows; and now I understand why I kept returning at the time. And I also understand why I eventually gave up. But when it comes to the matters of the heart, understanding something doesn't quite guarantee it amounting to anything.

Scarred tissue is stronger than pampered skin. It has been through damage, pain, and healing. You may wince if you poked the old wound, and that very same spot may be torn again; but in doing so you gain... what you gain, is up to you.

We meet again..I am Mr. Jeffrey.

Remember the government agency? They've started calling again!
But there was one day coincidentally I had a guy friend nearby who I had told about the situation; so when I handed him the phone he knew what to do.

Him: Helo
Caller: Good morning, I'm calling from -agency-, is this Mr. Jeffrey?
Him: yes, I am Mr. Jeffrey. How can I help?
Caller: This is regarding your property at _______________. There has been a complaint of overgrown grass from your property. It's getting out of hand and we take this matter quite seriously, Mr. Jeffrey.
Him: Oh, but I didn't know about this!
Caller: Did you receive our complaint letter?
Him: Nope.
Caller: Ok, no worries. Here, take this number (gives number) as reference, and we will be resending the complaint immediately.
Him: Alright. Thank you.


No wonder I've been receiving texts from these 6-digit numbers about community complaints. Nothing about overgrown grass, though. All of it has been about uncollected garbage. Now it all makes sense (sort of). Thank you, friend. Now I must continue my crusade.


However, before that, they had called a few times and I had had some fun

Ring Ring

Me: [sings] Dominoes pizzaaaaaaaaaa 1-300-xxx-xxx
Caller: What the....*hangs up*



Ring Ring
Me: Na Na Na Na Na Batmaaaaaaaaaannnn
Caller: *hangs up*



Ring Ring
Me: [In office clerk tone/speed] Good morning, -the calling agency's name-
Caller: Hello, I'm calling from -agency-
Me: No, I'm from -agency-. Can I help you?
Caller: *hangs up*


Ring Ring
Me: Hello
Caller: hello, may I speak to Mr. Jeffrey?
Me: No
Caller: Why not?
Me: Cuz I'm Batmaaaaaannnnnnnnn
Caller: *hangs up*



Ring Ring

Me: Hello
Caller: Good evening
Me: Hi! Hello! Hello! Hi! Mm-hmm..Hi!
Caller: Hello, I'm calling from -agency-, may I speak to Mr. Jeffrey?
Me: He's bathing now. What is this regarding?
Caller: I'm from -agency-, I'll call back later.
Me: Is this regarding the overgrown grass?
Caller: ah yes!
Me: Oh, Mr. Jeffrey says he doesn't care about that.
Caller: Err..I'll call back..
Me: He say he no love grass. So he no care. He no care you. He care me only. Because I very beauty.
Caller: Thank you, but I'll call back..
Me: Me mistress very hot hot yum yum.... you don't....

*hangs up*


I honestly don't know how else to handle this. I've tried telling them nicely that I'm not harbouring any Mr. Jeffrey, but they just keep calling..

So be it. Let the calls come. I shall wait.

Bedbug detectors and revelations (of sorts)

Don't ask me why, but I found myself in a hardware store. I guess it's cuz Imma hunky dude..I'm a hot hunky dude in a hardware store looking at duct tape and brass chains. Yeaaaa...


Yuck.


But I was  in a hardware store, going back and forth between aisles trying to figure out how things were organized, because they didn't seem to be at all. I saw all the American brand stain removers, which, is crazy expensive. Doesn't matter because I don't think I'll be scrubbing any filthy house parts any time soon.

Being in a hardware store has some charm to it. Now, at least, I know some of the car oils on the shelves and how to choose/use them.

I bought a new can of pepper spray because the old one was old and should probably have been changed many moons ago.

I also bought a pack of microfiber towels (err... this will take a few months for you to get the tail end of things).

I spent almost an hour in there, going back and forth, trying to educate myself on the various things one could find in a hardware store.

Not interesting? Of course not!

This hardware store had a few male employees (duhhh...) and what attracted me to them was not their gender..it was their conversation.

At first, I wasn't tuning in at all, but between bath salts (why on earth would a hardware store sell bath salts?) and tile cleaner, I heard one of them singing!

Oh, I sing as well. In the shower, when I (think)'m alone at home, in the car,.. no harm in that. But, he (the employee) was singing to his buddy! Ah-ha! Immediately I wonder what it was..because he wasn't just singing to pass the time while some lost crazy hunky dude roamed their store..noooo. He was making a point to his friend. As in, he was telling his friend something, and he was reinforcing his point by singing a song! A religious song, at that.

Now, I'm no religion-a-phobe, but this struck me as rather bizarre. What is it that they were talking about that led up to him singing this excerpt to his esteemed colleague? I didn't stop to eavesdrop or anything, mostly because I realized I didn't have to..no matter where I was in the store (given that it was quite a big store), I could hear at least one of them speaking.

So aside from pilfering with knobs and radiator fluid, I listened in and realized it was their very own in depth discussion. They were sharing views of their faith (I assume they were all one of the same faith), interpreting ideologies, and retelling historical religious pinnacles..and at times, if the need (or opportunity) arose, they would include songs. Most enlightening!

Again, I'm not particularly disturbed (ok, I felt a bit heat-y all of a sudden), but I couldn't help but wonder: do they do this everyday? All day? Assuming they've been working together for quite a while, did they all come together under this great love for this type of discussion? Were they all apart of this wholeheartedly, or is it one of them that keeps bringing it up, forcing the others to join in out of sheer boredom (kind of the I-don't-really-want-to-hear-you-talk-so-let-me-talk-instead conversations).

I was so very curious, I asked the lady cashier if this was a daily occurrence. She sheepishly smiled yes. She said they would quickly dissipate should the boss arrive, but otherwise, yes, this is their normal daily conversation.

I wanted to ask so much. Do they know that much of their religion (in order to uphold such lengthy talks)? Do they go home an find out more for the next day's talk? Do they repeat things? Do they make stuff up?


I guess some questions will have to remain unanswered.

An existential state of being.

So I was walking back to my car, and I looked around and saw this car. Nothing much out of the ordinary. It had one of those sticky mats laid out on the dashboard. You know, the ones you use to put tissue boxes on so that when you turn a corner, the tissue box doesn't slide across the dashboard? Well, this car had that.

Nothing weird about that, surely?

Now, on top of this mat, and this mat being red, was a plate.

 

A plate.

 

As in, those things you use to put food in and then you eat from it.

 

A plate.

 

A glass plate.

 

A clear glass plate.

 

Not particularly beautiful, and not much of a decorative item either.

How on earth does one decide to put a plate on their dashboard? I assume such a decision was made, seeing as the plate was there and someone must have put it there. It looked like one of these plates that you got free when you bought the bigger packs of toothpaste.

Now, don't get me started on why toothpaste companies looooooove to give free plates!

Back to what I was saying. So, there was this plate on the dashboard.

Whyyyyyyyy????

What joy do you derive in having a plate in plain view of your vehicle's dashboard? Is it temporary? Did you just think, oh, I'll only be a while, let me just put this plate on the dashboard.

What??

What sort of historical moment in your life led up to the pinnacle moment upon which you decided to place that plate on your dashboard, and then proceed to leave your car. Does the mat really keep it from moving about? What if it suddenly wasn't sticky anymore, and then you turned a corner, and then it smashed against the steering wheel or something?

Who put it there? An absent minded housewife, a distracted husband? A playful child? A cranky adolescent? Who? Who??


Why was there a plate on your dashboard??? Who are you? What do you have to say for yourself?

An almost encounter.

To say I was shocked is an understatement. For a moment, as cliché as this may sound, my heart skipped a beat. I was looking down and when my gaze lifted and I saw that shirt, I was profoundly shocked. I recognised that shirt. My eyes suddenly refused to obey my commands and stayed down. Then, I realized you had noticed me and were about to move your vision towards me. I was at a loss for words! I wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared, and certainly had no notion of how to handle the situation. I was petrified. Would you even recognise me? If you didn't, would it be appropriate for me to react to you in any way? Or should I pretend to just walk away..?

 

But it wasn’t you.