If there were no woods, then where would he be?

He flew through the woods, panting and gasping for air. Breathe in, breathe out, he told himself. Stray twigs and leaves struck his face with every step but he pushed on. Pebbles and rocks on the damp earth threatened to make him lose balance any second. He spread out his arms so he wouldn’t fall. His pace quickened; he never looked back. He flew on and on and on into the dark nothingness of the woods. In the far north, there was the faint gush of water. They won’t be able to trace his steps after the stream, he tells himself. Unsure, but those words were as much comfort as he could have at the moment.

Gasping for air, his heart pumping so hard it nearly burst into a million pieces. Don’t give up on me now he begged. His feet kept moving forward, one sure step at a time. A rock unhinges from the soil and rolls him veering to the left. He catches his breath. He starts running again. This time, his feet felt heavier than before. Like a sudden block of cement was tied to each calf, he could feel his pace slowing down. Noooooooo he silently begged. He looked up at the sky. Panting, gasping for air, he looked up at the sky.

He tried to continue running. This time it felt like quicksand was drawing him down; but there was no quicksand. Just the limp limbs of a terrified soul. A distant howl wakes him from his agony-ridden thoughts. It approaches. He knows it will be soon. He closes his eyes and opens them one last time to look up at the sky. One final time, to look up at the sky.

It’s the little things that matter.

There are so many things we do again and again in our lives. In a way, we should know everything there is to know about them; we do it everyday. But more often than not, we know nothing. We ignore them and take them for granted that it has to be done. We lose those little pleasures. Remember when walking was a joy? When it was a great accomplishment to run up and down the hallway, when having that one cone of ice cream was like a piece of heaven…

Going to the toilet; we all do it. It’s the same, but it’s different. If it’s the toilet at home, or if it’s the one at a mall, or if it’s at school; it’s different, but it’s the same. At home, you might push the door open, slip your feet into the bathroom slippers, touch the sink, close the door….but if it’s a public toilet, there is that necessity to take a peek before going in. Ask yourself why. I know that years ago, it was just the typical “beware” signs to be hyper vigilant about. For instance, if the door is closed, or if the toilet cover is down, or there is a lump of toilet paper that is suspicious-lookingly-lumped on the floor. But with the technology advancement we have had, there are other reasons to be wary. Yes, toilets have gone through great changes. From having bidets that shoot water at weird angles to unwanted parts, to having blow dryers! Yes, you read that right. You know how in the olden days, we used to dry our freshly washed hands with towels, then we “evolved” to paper towels, and then (due to pollution and waste) to air hand dryers? Then the old hand dryers were pointless until the double blade hand dryer came to existence and we were all like “Woohoo, our hands are actually dry from being blown.” Well, now comes the “butt dryer”. But let me tell you, I felt harassed the first (and thankfully, only) time I used it. It is not pleasant to have your butt blown from the inside of a toilet bowl. Call me conservative if you will, but is this not the very bowl upon which I have just defecated into, and now as a “hygiene” process you propose to blow upon me air that comes from within your vicinity? I beg to differ! My goodness, it was horrible! All this, from a toilet!

Then there are those routines that coincide with other people. I mean, we are all different, but in a way, we are all the same. When you live in a household with those “dearly beloved”, it’s very apparent that these mindless, thoughtless routines connect us. Your bottle of shampoo he always uses, her bar of soap that is always in the bathtub instead of in the soap dish, the bundle of toothbrushes that always find a way to “kiss” in the toothbrush mug (especially when one of them is wet), the tangled and drenched jumble of hair that decorates the drain.

The toothpaste.

Some people are very particular about how the toothpaste is squeezed. Some just grab it by the gut and pour out toothpaste enough to lather a small animal, some pinch the ends of the tube, trying tho make sure every drop is pushed slowly (but surely) to the top, some like to even out the pressure, so that the toothpaste can always “stand” in the toothbrush mug. And don’t forget the toothpaste nozzle. You know, the part where the toothpaste come out? Some like to keep it clean and clear away any excess that wasn’t swiped by the toothpaste, some don’t bother and leave the nozzle all crusty and it eventually forms a small “head” that seals off the toothpaste exit and then the toothpaste are all like “oh God, we’ll never get out of here” ‘cuz sometimes these people will just leave the sealed-in toothpaste be, and they think like it’s fate that they shouldn’t be using that toothpaste anymore and they go out and get a new tube of toothpaste until that new tube of toothpaste gets sealed-in and they go out to buy yet another tube of toothpaste, but there are also those that go through hard labour to chip off the sealed entrance and release the remaining toothpaste to serve their selfish purposes of toothbrushing. Then there’s the amount of toothpaste that people put onto the toothbrushes (I’m going to stop here for sanity purposes)

Irritating. You have good reason for wanting the toothpaste to be squeezed form the very bottom, so that each drop is used. Everyday you wake up knowing, just knowing that your perfectly bottom-squeezed toothpaste is going to have a mangled body and sticky nozzle because that person used it before you. Every night you put in muscle and brawn to form that perfectly icing-bag of toothpaste so that all the unused toothpaste is united at the top of the tube. And every morning you wake up to see that it is mangled yet again. You labour to “fix” the tube, hoping that this time, this time, that person will get the message and follow suit. But no, always, always it is found mangled and dirty-nozzled on the sink.

Then one day, one precious day, you find that your battle has ended. That tube of toothpaste you labourously pinched into shape remains in that same shape! You won! Victory at last!

You rush out to declare your triumph, and you notice your shampoo has been left untouched, less hair covers the drain, the bar of soap is neither in the bathtub nor the soap dish, and the toothbrush lies on the bare sink next to your precious, “perfectly” squeezed tube of toothpaste.

I have no pity for you.

I don’t know about you, but I believe in that essence that makes you, you. You know, that thing that sets you apart from others; those traits that make you unique. That signature within you that remains intact despite your years, experiences, and added knowledge. Some people call it spirit, some people call it personality.

There’s no one word to describe it. Courage, for instance, had many shapes and forms. One “courageous” person may not be alike to another. But sure enough, everyone has that. You know when people say “that’s who he is.” And there isn’t that exact word to pin on it.

Anyway, I’m writing to a different you this time.

Everybody has that essence of themselves. It morphs, develops, shrinks or dilutes; but it will always be there. I believe in it. While I may not be able to put the word to what essences you hold; this much I can say: you are not kind. You are not nurturing. And you certainly are not loving. You want to be; or at least, you know that you should be, but it’s not who you are. It disgusted me all this long, painful while to see how you convinced yourself that you had to be in order to be happy.

You were never happy. At least, the side of you that was visible to me never was. How you blamed all those around you for their shortcomings; how you turned up your nose all high and mighty and scorned those who were not within your ideals. What joy did this give you?

You horrid, evil person. That’s you. You try to be better than the rest of us, but what you fail to see is how vile you are. You want to know why you aren’t happy? It’s because you tried to obtain happiness through that “tried and tested” road that everyone said would make you happy. You let that consume you and you became bitter and horrid, spiteful and vengeful.

I am not your friend. I am not your confidant. I may not oppose you, but I am also not your council. I understand what torture solitude can bring, but it doesn’t mean I am your relief. Yes, I am an adult, I am capable of understanding, but you forget my other titles as well. You forget the most important one that should tell you why I don’t deserve this burden you recklessly throw onto me. Understanding doesn’t mean that I am on your side. No one should be on your side. Or by your side. Don’t you see that then and only then will you obtain at least some shred of peace? You ridicule those who you call “the undeservings”. What do you think you deserve? Do you think turning martyr will erase those dreadful tears shed behind dirty curtains, wishing, just wishing that one innocent be set free so that you, you could obtain your peace of mind? You blind, ignorant, self absorbed creature! You never saw how they scuttled at your feet. You never saw the agony you caused. You only saw you. Your pain. Your grief. Your sacrifices. Oh, how awful that must’ve been for you.

Missing you.....my love.

It’s a nice, fat, fluffy cat

with padded paws and a small little jaw.

It’s a fluffy and soft, purring cat

With two spots on his head

You’d want to hug him instead.

Chubby drumsticks instead of thighs

He plods into a room and lights up your eyes

He’s the most tubbiest, fluffiest, fat cat.

He has greatest purpose in his life.

Yet he’s never seen with a knife.

To find the best nap spot in the house

To dream away of finding a mouse.

Sometimes he tucks away in the bookshelf

Sometimes he keeps the cool toilet to himself

Sometimes it’s a sunny spot in the backyard

But only on days when he’s not on guard.

Oh he makes such a wonderful guard

He’s rewarded with off-duty time

Which is no less than 7 days a week

But nothing about him is meek.

Mention “fat” and he lifts his head

Mention “short” and he glares at you.

Apologize, quick! Or he walks away.

To the sunny spot or the bookshelf or the toilet

He loves belly rubs, and the occasional head pat..

But most of all he loves cuddles on a stormy night

His thick coat of fur kept him from knowing when it rained

He plods across the lawn wondering why the others are running home

He tries to jump through the gates but gets stuck in the middle every time

He enters and claims fresh fish for din-dins and noms

He curls up to dry himself then beg for cuddles.

He’s warm, fluffy, and stout…

The picture of perfection.

A failed tribute.

Be strong my little one, for I am here. I am right here. You can’t see me, you can’t feel my warm embrace, but I am here. Mama’s right here.

Please don’t give up Mama, I still need you. I still want to hear you speak; I still need to hear you sing. My eyes cannot yet see far enough to know the devils from the angels. My ears are not strong enough to filter the lies from the truth. My speech is not clear enough for me to voice my grief. My hands are not strong enough to carry sustenance to feed myself. My body has not grown enough to bear the brutal beatings of the world. Mama, please come back.

Feel me in your heart my dear; my voice may not reach for me to sing to you, my arms may not be there to hold you tight, but I am with you. My love for you is as sure as that heart that beats within you. I will be there for you as soon as I can, my angel.

But I need you with me now Mama. I need you to be strong for me for I am weak. I need you to hold me tight and fight off the monsters that come for me in the middle of the night. I need you to fend off the demons that make me curl away to empty shadows. I need you to hear my cries for no one hears them better than you, Mama. Please, come back.

It is not my will that keeps me away from you. I wish you no burden in knowing my suffering from being away from you. I wish you to live in bliss in loving arms, even if it means that it is not mine. I wish you happiness and joy; and if that means that I have to carry the pain of being away from you, then so be it. That is how much I love you.

My happiness is only in your arms, Mama. How can you be so selfish to leave me dangling over the fiery pits of doom? How can you bear living with yourself knowing that I am here in agonizing pain from just being away from you?

For I am no longer living; my poor, sweet child.

The towel is slipping...

Today:

ð        I made a difference.

ð        I found a sign of how much I matter to someone.

ð        I did a good deed.

ð        I made someone smile. A genuine one, not the kind people give out of common courtesy.

ð        I smiled.

ð        I made someone feel like they mattered.

ð        I felt loved.

ð        I thanked someone sincerely.

ð        I looked at someone in the eye.

ð        I listened to someone wholeheartedly.

ð        I shared a story, not because I wanted the attention.

ð        I comforted someone who needed it.

ð        I told the truth even when it was hard to do so.

ð        I tried something new.

ð        I sang.

ð        I performed an act of kindness even when it was easier not to.

How many boxes get checked off today?

Hector's defeat.

I have no more will to fight.

I have no more will to fight.

I have no more strength in me.

It matters not how many weapons are strewn at my feet.

It matters not what foul words you hurl at me.

I just have no more will to fight.

Have your victory.

Tie my heels to your gleaming chariot,

Cast your whip across your stallions,

Drag my limp, lifeless body through the dirt.

Dance in your victory.

Stand pride with my dead soul beneath your feet.

Howl your victory cries over your comrades.

Have your moment.

Relinquish it.

Ravish it.

Have your men stab me and laugh in glee.

Spit upon my unarmoured bodice and curse at my afterlife.

Have your winning joys.

But do not insult me with your petty martyr woes.

Do not sing of regret.

Do not sing of a would-be beautiful friendship.

Do not mourn for my loss for it was you who struck your spear deep into my heart.

It was you who tore my flesh from my body.

It was you who jeered at my pain.

You.

You who stomped over me.

Do not tell me that you cry for me now.

Do not tell the living of your petty repentance.

Live in your glory.

That you have rid your world of the horridness that is me.

Live in the joy of causing my pain.

For stretching ever ounce of pain and made me beg.

Made me beg.

I was a mighty warrior.

I was a mighty leader.

I was a beloved soul.

None of that now.

Do not tell me that you would return my life if you could.

For a loss can never be gained in the same form.

Look at my dead, lifeless body.

Look at my unloving eyes.

Look at my stone cold stare.

There is nothing more for me.

Nothing you can give me.

And certainly none that I wish to give to you.

It shouldn't hurt, but it still does.

She had bright blue eyes that shone brighter than any diamond.

He had a smile that could melt chocolate on a cold winter’s day.

She looked at him from across the street.

He looked back.

Then they both walked away.

She continued her journey, went to school, had her lunch, went home.

He was right there where they had seen each other the other day.

She was wearing a pink frock.

He was in dirty blue jeans.

She skipped her way to school, ate her sandwich, went home.

Their eyes met again at that same spot.

He looked at her, she looked at him

They smiled.

She went home, bathed, did her homework, went to bed.

He was at the same bench where he always was the next day.

He smiled first.

Then she smiled back.

She went to school, talked about prom, went home.

They saw each other at that same spot.

The bus was late, but neither was waiting for it anyway.

He smiled at her, she smiled back.

She went home, looked at a note her mother left her, went to bed.

He was there at that same spot waiting for her the next day.

She stopped, just for a second.

He straightened himself, gave her a slight nod.

She went to school, handed in her homework.

But she never went home.

And he waited for her.

But she never came.

He stood in the rain.

He stayed fast in his spot.

She never appeared.

She who he never spoke to.

He who she did not know his name.

Now they will never know of what could have been.

But for a while, they exchanged smiles.

They were there for each other.

But no more.

For a while she depended on him to be there.

The way he looked forward to seeing her.

But she’ll never pass by again.

And he’ll never know why.

The Death of Hector.

On the outskirts of the city our hero is brought home

Cold, lifeless, and deformed.

They sing for him the tunes of grief

Of a dearly departed and beloved long gone.

Their voices pierce through the silence and cuts through

Each soul of mortal flesh.

The grief and sadness envelopes the city

And the songs carried by their tunes sing of

Love and hearts torn to pieces.

Of hope flying through the windows and into the abyss.

Yet, in the high castle our hero’s wife remains in oblivion.

She stirs the hot baths and breathes in the scented oils

She grips through the bath salts and hums a tune of solace

Oh happy days when her husband would hold her in his strong arms

And no danger of the world could possibly rip her away

For she was protected in his arms

Of his loving arms

She inhales the moist airs and lets out a contented sigh.

Soon he will be home and she will rush to his side

Place her soft palms against his rugged face,

Kiss him softly and his war-ridden paws would rise to her slender waist.

 He pulls her close.

The bath is ready and our princess stands to exit the bath chambers

But the doors are opening.

Her eyes flutter to see who enters

Her heart jumps in hopes it is the return of her beloved.

A smile creeps up to her face and joy rises in her spine.

But she who enters is the chambermaid.

“My Lady,” her words meaning nothing, but her tone giving away everything.

The bath salts scatter to the floor as our princess’ hand flies to grip the edge of the bath.

The chambermaid stands at the door

No words escape her

No words need to.

Our princess and the chambermaid hold each other’s gaze for a moment.

The princess searching for that tinge of hope that it is not what it is

The chambermaid at a loss for words

But the truth need not be spoken.

For death hung in her eyes.

The death of a great hero.

Our princess tries to breathe deep

She tries to steady her breath

Her eyes start to swell and her mouth opens,

But no words come out

Just another second, please.

Just one more.

She begs to the air as she tries to gather her will.

The chambermaid, her face as white and frozen as ice

She knows.

She allows her Lady to have one moment.

One more precious moment

 To be in that world.

One where she did not have to be afraid

One where she had a loving husband to await for

One where there was hope of his return.

Our princess can hold her tears back no more.

Hot tears roll down her beautiful cheeks

As the words sink in.

I am a widow now.

My husband has died at war.

My children will no longer have a father.

My chambers will no longer have company.

No words are spoken.

And no words need be said.

Sir-Rant-A-Lot's return

It’s been many years since Sir-Rant-A-Lot played court jester to the evil reptile. How he witnessed her breathing fire and calling out power over her cowering foolish subjects. Poor Sir-Rant-A-Lot, he knew not of the future he held in her presence; but without it, we have no story. So here it goes…

The crowd gathered silent in the new hall. They were neither friends nor foes to Sir-Rant-A-Lot. They just gathered together; in hopes that the lord before them would prove just and full of grace. But he turned out to be a damp sort of creature; putrid gank oozed out of his nostrils as he spoke. Poison to those only that he chose. And the crowd? Stupid, foolish, unintelligible crowd; they were enchanted in his rapture. “All hail the lord for he is great!” said they. The reptile crawled around his silver throne, split tongue flicking over his eyeballs. He dealt out his daily sermon and the foolish crowd with glinting eyes gazed up at his glory. His glory.

Alas for Sir-Rant-A-Lot who had no pledge for foolish insolence, he misread the reptile-lord’s orders and brought to him a more mediocre offering, unbound in gold as Sir-Rant-A-Lot had not known that such a fine ruler should order a grand offering at his first inquest. So Sir-Rant-A-Lot, with his wits and humor about him, set about making the reptile-lord accept his mediocre offering. The crowd was silent, but their thoughts rung through, how dare you question a lord, reptile as he may be, he a lord nonetheless!

How he heard none to the pleadings of Sir-Rant-A-Lot and jeered upon Sir-Rant-A-Lot’s grieving back “Off with his head!! Do you hear me? Off with his head!!”. How he sat back in his reptilian throne and muttered in victory of Sir-Rant-A-Lot’s insolence at bringing such a mediocre offering. The crowd, stupid and helpless, began to whisper of the one whose head was to be brought to the ground. Sir-Rant-A-Lot should have known better. These are not people worthy of respect: be it the reptile-lord or the crowd. They are nothing but one. None worthy of respect, for they rule with wrath and prejudgements.

Years from that time of my life, I look upon it and today I say to you madam: you are nothing but a bully. You have no greatness about you that you can only resort to finding that poor soul who is helpless against you and then you start working your sorcery. … “because I am kind and fair…” was what you said. Fine enough, I shall allow for that possibility that it was in my youthly foolishness that brought on your wrath. But let God be the judge of how you misused your power against me. How you let wrath and rage be your ruler. How you let your emotions run through your putrid veins and break down an untouched soul. You may be great in your reptilian world; but I know. You are nothing but a bully.