At the height of winter
we exited the cinema
I wished for snow
and it snowed
golden spheres
a hundred suns
above our heads
In the rain
striding along the river
breaking up in melt
crying why why why
Giving up a state
just to stay here a little longer
doing stupid trivial things
Endangering a life
just to stay here a little longer
doing stupid trivial things
Perhaps when I stood in the cold
hoping to soak in as much of it as I could
to last the rest of my life
I succeeded
better than I had expected
the chill stays
even when the memories have decayed
It all began
the slit between the platform and the train
the curtain of snow
that I pushed through
Crying why why why
if it must end, why let it begin
I cannot believe I remember
the exact words
it has been half a decade
At the food court
Vietnamese spring rolls
dim sum
like it was normal
like it was everyday
That beautiful street that I would never have known
with a name I cannot remember
Korean for dinner
novelty bicycles
a drunk stumbling past
perfect weather for a walk
not too cold
but cold enough
an evening unrivalled
and impossible to repeat
I believe we ran errands the final weekend
laundry
post office
why did we do that
why did I allow that
these stupid trivial things
was I too accommodating
I should have insisted on something special
but what for
if it must end
why make the farewell any harder
And before I knew it
Las Vegas
spring rains washing everything away
snow-lined paths
crumbling
giving way
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Sunday, January 11, 2015
The Boat That Breaks
It's 1 am. I am really tired, I have been feeling despondent all day, now here I am, pondering about life (drawn out), my career (bleak), contentment (impossible). Closure for this episode eludes me; I cannot move on. Trying to find the gap in the clouds. The shaft of light to burn them away.
Meanwhile, a song is telling me,
Hold it in
Oh let's go dancing
I do believe we're only passing through.
(His lyrics are incomprehensible. They are burdened with meaning and pain, folded in on themselves to conceal the bald, stark wounds that cannot be faced without metaphor. Then again, is this relatedness or a Rorschach test of my sentiments? Probably the Rorschach. Who knows what he means. The only meaning I know is mine.)
Maybe that is it. Situations, places, people, we're only passing through. Maybe there is no epiphany just out of reach past the horizon of clouds. Maybe I should give up trying to verbalize the mess of thoughts, stop trying to give them form, stop trying to tame them. They are there, they will always return, just let them be, just hold them in.
And go dance.
Meanwhile, a song is telling me,
Hold it in
Oh let's go dancing
I do believe we're only passing through.
(His lyrics are incomprehensible. They are burdened with meaning and pain, folded in on themselves to conceal the bald, stark wounds that cannot be faced without metaphor. Then again, is this relatedness or a Rorschach test of my sentiments? Probably the Rorschach. Who knows what he means. The only meaning I know is mine.)
Maybe that is it. Situations, places, people, we're only passing through. Maybe there is no epiphany just out of reach past the horizon of clouds. Maybe I should give up trying to verbalize the mess of thoughts, stop trying to give them form, stop trying to tame them. They are there, they will always return, just let them be, just hold them in.
And go dance.
Friday, March 28, 2014
And maybe it was peace at last
"What is your purpose in life?" I would demand out of the blue.
I do this to many people. It is one of the liberties I take, broaching this subject far too early in conversation. I am fortunate to be amongst those who tolerate me. But I have to. I have to ask before they rotate out of my life.
I am like a collector, seeking the answers to this question, amassing them, holding them up to the light to inspect them, sticking them carefully in a mental album.
In them, I hope to find the answer to mine. It is a desperate search.
*
I once thought that there is this one thing I am meant to do, the supreme point of all things, the exalted overlap between what I am capable of and what I want to do. Until I figure out what that is, all else is a poor substitute. But more and more I realise that perhaps there isn't such a thing, no such thing as something I'm meant to do, no one true intersection between ability and passion.
If there is no one thing, then all else is an option. Perhaps not equal to each other, but they are not substitutes by nature. Because there is nothing to substitute. Each one is a possible option.
What then? What if there's no one purpose, no singular meaning? That wonderful purpose, that will define the cardinal points of my life, provide the direction for my journey, for everything in my life to align with, the force with which to push on, in failure or success, the grand scheme to devote my life towards.
Do I fall into pleasure? If there is only the present, and sensory stimulations are all there is to it, is endless pleasure it?
Or perhaps altruism? Or the pursuit of knowledge? Truth?
*
I'm pretty sure philosophers have pondered over this for ages. I should read on this. But if the answer had been found I wouldn't need to wonder, would I? The answer would have spread, like fire on eager branches, and we would know. We would all know.
*
Do I invent my own? How do I create a purpose to last my life, this long, dreadful life, these thousands of thousands of hours?
Maybe I invent a few things I want to do now, and then I add more as I go along. Yes. That sounds like a practical thing to do.
*
The rest will come. I do not fear it, I need it. If I do not fear this thing, then I really have nothing to fear. Because it is the only thing that is inevitable, all else, no matter how terrible, will buckle before the coming of the end, consumed by the end.
What do I do in the meantime? I have no fear.
*
The current of time bears me on a dark, roiling sea, without stars, without direction, but also without fear.
*
Maybe this is the answer. I do not know. Only time will tell if it sticks. If it sticks then I'll stick to it, if it doesn't, then there's nothing. Then the search continues. But for now this will do.
*
I am on a dark, roiling sea. I do not know where I am headed. There are no stars to guide me, I have no direction. But I do not need it, because I have no fear. This peace will do.
I do this to many people. It is one of the liberties I take, broaching this subject far too early in conversation. I am fortunate to be amongst those who tolerate me. But I have to. I have to ask before they rotate out of my life.
I am like a collector, seeking the answers to this question, amassing them, holding them up to the light to inspect them, sticking them carefully in a mental album.
In them, I hope to find the answer to mine. It is a desperate search.
*
I once thought that there is this one thing I am meant to do, the supreme point of all things, the exalted overlap between what I am capable of and what I want to do. Until I figure out what that is, all else is a poor substitute. But more and more I realise that perhaps there isn't such a thing, no such thing as something I'm meant to do, no one true intersection between ability and passion.
If there is no one thing, then all else is an option. Perhaps not equal to each other, but they are not substitutes by nature. Because there is nothing to substitute. Each one is a possible option.
What then? What if there's no one purpose, no singular meaning? That wonderful purpose, that will define the cardinal points of my life, provide the direction for my journey, for everything in my life to align with, the force with which to push on, in failure or success, the grand scheme to devote my life towards.
Do I fall into pleasure? If there is only the present, and sensory stimulations are all there is to it, is endless pleasure it?
Or perhaps altruism? Or the pursuit of knowledge? Truth?
*
I'm pretty sure philosophers have pondered over this for ages. I should read on this. But if the answer had been found I wouldn't need to wonder, would I? The answer would have spread, like fire on eager branches, and we would know. We would all know.
*
Do I invent my own? How do I create a purpose to last my life, this long, dreadful life, these thousands of thousands of hours?
Maybe I invent a few things I want to do now, and then I add more as I go along. Yes. That sounds like a practical thing to do.
*
The rest will come. I do not fear it, I need it. If I do not fear this thing, then I really have nothing to fear. Because it is the only thing that is inevitable, all else, no matter how terrible, will buckle before the coming of the end, consumed by the end.
What do I do in the meantime? I have no fear.
*
The current of time bears me on a dark, roiling sea, without stars, without direction, but also without fear.
*
Maybe this is the answer. I do not know. Only time will tell if it sticks. If it sticks then I'll stick to it, if it doesn't, then there's nothing. Then the search continues. But for now this will do.
*
I am on a dark, roiling sea. I do not know where I am headed. There are no stars to guide me, I have no direction. But I do not need it, because I have no fear. This peace will do.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
The Land Between Dreams
Perhaps it was a dream, or perhaps it was one of those brief dazed interruptions in sleep, but there was that singular moment, there I lay, feeling nothing. Nothing at all. For that moment, the sea was still, the clouds froze, the heat of the sun passed over, and there was nothing to feel. It was beautiful. And then I drifted back into sleep, thinking no no, and everything returned.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
The Last Spring
You should not do this, I told myself. It will come to no good end. You are advancing a moment of bliss which you will have to repay with misery for a long, long time (this was later the substance of an unspeakably amateurish sonnet—I had far too much time).
Don't do this.
But I could not resist. The flurry of snow and rain, almost as if I had wished them into being, spun in helices of gold in the cones of light from the street lamps.
I hugged my jacket tightly, absorbing the cold. To make up for the life I had spent not experiencing this wonderful, wonderful cold, to store enough for the remainder of my life.
Absorbing the moment. For safekeeping, for the remainder of my life.
Please let there be snow, I had wished, and there was snow.
Whenever I feel down or let down I would think of this singularly beautiful moment. One that can never be replicated. One that is so utterly perfect that it can never be matched. Which would make me feel even worse and let down, but that is what I gravitate towards.
When I had returned to my room I wrote something about cold down falling, the trees forming an arch, and words I wanted to say being caught in the mist of my breath.
I cannot find those three lines anymore (and I do not know where the sonnet is).
Don't do this.
But I could not resist. The flurry of snow and rain, almost as if I had wished them into being, spun in helices of gold in the cones of light from the street lamps.
I hugged my jacket tightly, absorbing the cold. To make up for the life I had spent not experiencing this wonderful, wonderful cold, to store enough for the remainder of my life.
Absorbing the moment. For safekeeping, for the remainder of my life.
Please let there be snow, I had wished, and there was snow.
Whenever I feel down or let down I would think of this singularly beautiful moment. One that can never be replicated. One that is so utterly perfect that it can never be matched. Which would make me feel even worse and let down, but that is what I gravitate towards.
When I had returned to my room I wrote something about cold down falling, the trees forming an arch, and words I wanted to say being caught in the mist of my breath.
I cannot find those three lines anymore (and I do not know where the sonnet is).
Friday, September 6, 2013
Statue
I squat by the toppled Statue and finger the pieces morosely. Did I build him too grand? Did I build him too immaculate? Perhaps I should not have built him at all. What did I do wrong? Now do I build a smaller, humbler Statue from the remains, or do I remake him in all his fullness?
The landscape is littered with pieces of broken stone. In the distance the sun hovers, a circle of inscrutable, yawning blackness, both too near and too far at the same time. It draws nearer with every moment, imperceptible, until I get distracted, and when I turn back—it is frighteningly near. And at the same time too far, wretchedly far.
The toppled Statue stands, or lays, by the Marble Ruins. I approach the Marble Ruins. I kneel down, and pick up a piece of marble. Until the sun arrives I toil away, repairing what I can, all the while hoar frost forms; maybe I can find some warmth tonight. Maybe the sun will finally arrive. I gaze longingly at it. But it does not respond, it will never respond.
What about the Statue? I do not know. I do not know what I did wrong. I do not know what to do.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Have Yourself Another Dream
It is 2 am, I am staring out the window, soft music, everyone else asleep.
In some ways, very little has changed. My room has remained more or less the same, my shelves still filled with the books from ten years ago, furniture unchanged. Perhaps I am actually dead, and my room has been left untouched for my memory. But I doubt it.
More and more I find the need to live. To care less, but to live more. To live boldly, cheerfully, recklessly, passionately. To be generous, to be selfish.
To dismantle the expectations I had, my old dreams, and put up new ones. Not dreams to be happy, not dreams of what I want, because those dreams will ultimately disappoint, but dreams that somewhere in the distance, the shore will meet the sea, by which these trappings are shed.
Meanwhile, with that thought, I can be cheerful. Against the distance between here and the horizon, I can measure all else by their true diminutiveness.
In some ways, very little has changed. My room has remained more or less the same, my shelves still filled with the books from ten years ago, furniture unchanged. Perhaps I am actually dead, and my room has been left untouched for my memory. But I doubt it.
More and more I find the need to live. To care less, but to live more. To live boldly, cheerfully, recklessly, passionately. To be generous, to be selfish.
To dismantle the expectations I had, my old dreams, and put up new ones. Not dreams to be happy, not dreams of what I want, because those dreams will ultimately disappoint, but dreams that somewhere in the distance, the shore will meet the sea, by which these trappings are shed.
Meanwhile, with that thought, I can be cheerful. Against the distance between here and the horizon, I can measure all else by their true diminutiveness.