Contemplations at Night

I taught him English.
He spoke of mirrors and empty glasses,
Things he had always wanted to break
Like promises and relationships.
Ours had no beginnings,
Neither endings.
We shall be contented,
Even though we can never write in the future tense
Nor in the past.
The serpent bites its tail
In a cosmos caught in angled revolutions.
How many verbs of immobilisation do I have to use?
The sands of time flow like blood,
Burying us in multiple narratives and divided visions.
The ancient tale tells nothing in its existential destiny.
Adam gave God a reason to live and have his being,
Eve was dead right from the beginning.
Time metaphors or mysterious rhymes,
We understand nothing.
Not knowing is a bliss
Yet when we don’t pursue,
Truth or otherwise,
Some things are lost into an eternity
That even Time cannot recover.
We can hold on to nothing.
He hates writing in the present tense.
For him, living is a thing lodged in the past.
One day, he threw a glass into the mirror
The ground was strewn with books, broken glass and a bruised psyche.
I walked the frail memories of estranged fellowship,
Picking up fragments of our separated ribs,
Yet I could not reach him.
Time spelt disparity,
An anti-clockwise phantasm,
The sea of glass and drowned destinations
Stood between us.
No spoken word (within a word) this time.
Genesis and other myths
Formed the beginning
And the end of every human history.
We await a future time that will never come.

The droning voices around submerge

The weary soul within.

Even in the midst of a multitude,

The heart is capable of feeling alone.

Solitary songs are not for those

Who have never traversed the wilderness

After dusk;

Treading on pathless partings lit only by star lights

Which have disappeared into the silence of the night.

His presence has become fleeting shadows that

Arise from the sea of emptiness.

Hugging and loving me as a lover does,

Yet there is no one there.

I walk gently into the desert of the human soul

Leaving my name behind

And hoping to forget

One whose entire being has been written into my being;

One who has been the very essence of my lifesong.

Yet how does one forget?

To avoid remembering or to deny one's longings?

To shield our eyes from random objects of love

Or from the recurring sights

That endlessly replay themselves in the mind's eyes?

Time does not heal

And space suffocates what little room

The heart exists in to breathe.

Perhaps it is easier to fall into a deep sleep.

One no longer has to remember in our waking anguish

The pain of living and loving

And having all of what you are

Leaving you.

love is not such a wonderful thing after all. What happens between those saccharine-sweet love vows and honey-smitten angst of not seeing the one you love and the perpetual silence and waiting for the call that might never come?

Why cling on to a relationship even though deep inside, one knows it was never meant to be. Perhaps it's love, but not love that would last forever. There's too many contrivances, whisperings and murmurs and sighs of 'I can never make you happy'.

Not love, just a feeling of painful weariness of having to continue the search if this one doesn't work out. Just a refusal to admit that one is not perfect enough and has failed, in love.

He doesn't identify with my fears, hopes and dreams. Yet he says he loves me and I am very important to him. There is no one who is more important than himself to him. Life for him is meant to be lived without having to compromise his personal interests, and love has to somehow fit into all those convoluted angles. Self revolutions for him and love compromises for me.

I am losing both my authenticity and sanity.

I am not happy, he is right. I don't know how long I can hold on...

p.s Singapore is blanketed by haze right now, much like the lovescape in my life, saturated with a certain degree of unspoken fuzzy confusion.

This blog has slept in the depths of the earth for a while now. I know not what to write, therefore I do not write. Maybe not knowing what to write is simply an excuse. An excuse to not write. Writing is both a form of catharsis and a rite of passage that continues to bring deeper pain.

The past one year was not worth reading, even if it were faithfully reproduced. He bade farewell without saying a word and from then on, the emotional roller-coaster crashed down death valley. Hell fires raged deep within my soul. Waiting did not bring hope, though it almost destroyed time and all manner of existence.

The hollow men walked the face of the earth, among the ranks of the forsaken. I found their company pleasing but membership with them was not a possibility in my shattered world full of impossibilities and futile time-bound responsibilities.

I continue my walk of aimless searching, sometimes stopping to make sense of the strangeness that draws my soul into the phantasmagoria of the nightscape. The myriad of sleeping images and the languishment in the air bring back the lost appendages and idle fancies of yesterday's passionate but now passionless dreams.

I am still struggling to make sense of this human exi(s)tence that has been thrusted upon me, an unwilling taker. Why should I continue life in a lifeless space that is full of the rules of living that suffocate the very core of being? Why do they continue? And continue to make unreasonable demands on runaway souls like mine? Nothing holds up anymore...absolutely nothing.

After writing, the waiting continues, in wordless eternity. The deep ennui that is the obelisk of modern life speaks cold comfort to all who hope in the future. And I continue my journey on foot into the land where the waking sleeps.

Today, I read about a man who left his car unlocked at a train station and upon returning, found a box containing a diamond ring and a note.

The band was a spectacular one set with a large diamond and two smaller diamonds and each diamond was surrounded by a circle of smaller diamonds.

It was not so much the authenticity of the ring or its stature that awed me; it was the sentimentally helpless note left behind by the owner of the ring that left an indelible impression upon me.

"Merry Christmas. Thank you for leaving your car door unlocked. Instead of stealing your car, I gave you a present. Hopefully this will land in the hand of someone you love, for my love is gone now. Merry Christmas to you."

The man who could have lost his car as a result of his carelessness actually gained and the man who lost his love had given away what could have been a symbol of passion and eternal commitment.

Such are the ironies of life. He who has much will have more and he who has little, even the little that he has will be taken away, or given away.

It is not good to have loved and lost. It is better to not have loved at all, if the end of a beautiful beginning finds resolution in endless sorrows and tearful farewells. And the rest is silence and emptiness. No one should dwell in the vicious comfort of having once possessed that which is now lost.

The devastation of losing someone dear and the pain after being wounded by the object of our desire are akin to having a thousand daggers digging at and tearing out the flesh. The sufferer must rid himself of the thorn in his flesh, or else face death in his emotional wasteland.

Perhaps for the man, his morphine lies in giving away the only remembrance of the relationship he once shared or hoped to share with the woman he loved. Since the woman has now gone away, the ring will only bring back the memories that ought to be forgotten. But the absence of the symbol of pain does not mean the obliteration of suffering or the end of passionate longings. Time does not bring healing on its wings because Time too is hurt. Only the lover can mend his own rended heart and bring cathartic healing unto himself. Maybe it comes with letting go.

I see the blithe abandon in leaving behind one's token of love in another's car as a charitable act of spreading glad tidings and sowing the seeds of new love along the journey of life. It comes with the silent utterance of prayers from one who suffers the throes of passion: 'With this ring and the powers that be, may you find true love this Christmas. That will bring me joy and comfort.'

Even one broken heart and one more forlorn lover like the man who left behind his ring walking the streets this Christmas is one too many. With this entry, I send his love and prayers out to all who have loved and lost and all those who are seeking true love.

'Merry Christmas. Hopefully this will land you in the hands of someone you love. For my love too will come.'

After lo(o)sing the ring, the forlorn lover might have come full circle.

Nguyen has been hung in Singapore after he was caught with nearly 400 grams of heroin while on transit in Singapore. The death penalty that killed him has been in the spotlight and is labelled as a third world practice used by a first world country to dehumanise. Yet the death penalty also exists in America and the superpower has just executed its 1000th prisoner since 1977. No one is making a fuss about it. And Singapore has had the death penalty for so long. Why is she coming under fire only now?

We are no longer in the colonial times when one country has to bend to the whims and fancies of another. Every country has a right to execute (no pun intended here) its own laws as she deems fit and other countries should not try to interfere with domestic politics or undermine her sovereignty by exacting pressure in a bid to get its own citizen off the hook, whether condescendingly or otherwise. To do it now and not in the past when the citizens of other countries faced the death penalty after transgressing the laws of Singapore is both partial and inconsistent.

Moreover, Nguyen has seen the devastating effects of heroine abuse as his own brother was an addict yet he was bringing 26000 doses of drugs to poison the country that provided refuge to him when he was a child. Surely that is mindless profiteering and ingratitude. The irony of it all!

Death is never the best solution and I can understand why some Australians are upset that their fellow countryman has to be executed in another country after exhausting all means of clemency. But might this be a better way out than having more countrymen killed if the 26000 death doses were to reach the streets of Australia?

And it has always been that Man must pay for his own transgressions.

Some of the kids in my class are inviting me for a class party on 7 December. And they don't want me to bring anything, except my presence.

Not taking the kids for a year was a nice little break for them I think, academic or otherwise (since familiarity often breeds contempt). But even after a year of being weaned off them, I realise I cannot really be separated from them.

I still love them like the first time we met when they were in Secondary 1. And it warms my heart to know the children who called me mama when they first entered class then are now grown up, with or without my intervention. That is the marvel of time and nature. The little we have is tranformed into something great with each new morn.

The kids probably won't need me soon. They will get to know the world and all its workings as defined by both the ancients and the moderns in endless cycles, and then choose to live life in their own terms, without intrigue or rue.

I would love to stay and watch them, perhaps at a distance, take life at its promises. I want to be able to do so with respect and awe and smile at the miracles that will define their coming in and going out. But my fortune calls me elsewhere. And I cannot explain how the powers that be bring people together or separate them.

Perhaps that is of no consequence. It is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all. What matters is our present moment of togetherness and all the blessings I want to see showered upon their lives and all the prayers I have yet to finish saying for them.

I have until 7 December to do so.

I saw tears well up a colleague's eyes today. She cried because I was leaving. Leaving for a new beginning and a future that is not yet mine. The same thing happened two days ago.

Couldn't bear to see a friend go, they both said, when I caught sight of the teardrops that had no place to hide. I had never thought my departure would cause anyone to feel a sense of loss, much less to cry for me. I had always been straight-faced and almost severe-looking. And I always jokingly say that I am only kind to animals and objects to give the perception of one made of sterner stuff.

Yet who doesn't love? Love seems to be the only raison d'etre for our existence. In Jane Eyre's words, "Human beings must love something". And I must add, we must love unconditionally and love like we have never been hurt before.

Hey, and 'unconditionally' means not merely loving the beautiful, the humourous, the classy, the talented, the colour of our own etc. It means loving even those who continue to test our patience, those whom we love yet persist in hating us, and generally, the unlovable.

Loving unconditionally has been my deepest struggle. And after having been cynical and sceptical half my life, it is hard to convince others that I too have the flame of love and gentleness that is slowly burning at the core of my being.

But I have been a recipient of unconditional love. The love of God and the love of all the wonderful people he has graciously and generously placed in my path. Some might have moved on in life, but I know without them, a part of me would be missing.

I hope it is the same with the two colleagues who were trying to hide their tears, that there is a part of me that is in them. I didn't have a chance to wipe those tears away or say things to help them feel better about my leaving, but I wish them love and abundance, for showing a cynic like me that love does bear all and can conquer all.

I don't know what my future holds or when we meet again, if things would still be the same, if we would still find each other's voices just as familiar, or if the shadows would lengthen its reign on us. But I know a part of me remains in these friendships that I will always treasure. This now moment of friendship is all that matters to me.

I am reminded of some verses in David Whyte's poem Sweet Darkness:

'Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that doesn't bring you alive

is too small for you.'

It is wonderful to know there are friends who are a matching fit and that there's no settling for anyone or anything less.

some colleagues have been playing oldies at the workplace recently. maybe as the time for closures and endings come, people get nostalgic and turn to familiar tunes of yesteryears to hold on to some memories that refuse to be forgotten. and prevent the remaining days, often pretty predictable ones by now, from slipping away too quickly.

the year is drawing to a close, just like a chapter of my life on 15 december 2005. i will leave the school that i call home and my students and embark on a whole new journey elsewhere. I don't know what to expect or look forward to, suffice to say the recent days have been marked by anxiety and much melancholic pangs. And sometimes a tinge of regret to have said yes to a new job posting. career advancement they say. tho it feels more like an emotional avalanche. but i said yes and i can no longer stay.

to regret is a regrettable thing, is a trying process that wastes the psyche and mind away. i can't help it now. i can't help feeling this way. the truth is i do want to stay, and be with those i both love and hate. there are people who make leaving attractive but i don't wanna leave home and embark on a journey all by myself. even having an enemy who rises up against me is more tolerable than fighting lone battles with the self. how can i get through such dark nights of the soul and face the inner struggles that the wintry winds bring with them? deep inside, i know the winds do not carry these answers to be whispered across the corners of the earth. i shall never hear.

i only have about two months to finish loving those i can no longer love or hold on to. people i can no longer feel anguished about, lose sleep over, shed tears for, talk to and laugh together with. Those who have never known separation will never appreciate the precious present of togetherness, or understand the heart-wrenching moments of being away from people whom we cannot live apart from.

never knew i would get so emotional about parting. never thought it would be so difficult to say goodbye. time is almost relentless now. it passes so silently and solemnly, and so swiftly, refusing to stop for me or my passionate longings for those i will miss like crazy once i leave this place. the old melodies are still playing and speak of a time past. soon i will be writing all these as yesterday's memories. maybe by then, i might have lain down my pen, so that i will never have to remember i once was happy and loved so well.

There was no paradise that buoyed hope up or dispersed despair in the old town that the woman dwelled. Her daily routine included a trip to the well, where she saw her own shadow when she peered into the well. She always did this before she drew water, or blood, from it.

The tepid heat brought along with it a placid torpidity that settled dreamily on the almost hollowed out streets since the children of the soil moved out, in search of golden promises that enticed even the most homebound and stability-seeking souls. The desire to journey into the new lands could not be bridled by the pleading cries of the ancient presence that guarded the old universe that had shrunken in stature and psyche.

The woman never married, so her children never left her. In the twilight of her consciousness, she remembered the lover who left under the lighted pallor of the solitary moon. No letters of explanation or notes of resentment. And there were no raving quarrels or disturbing silences that told of acrimonious undercurrents or spoke of a love that was submerging into a formless ocean that housed forlorn tales of shipwrecked passions that broke a thousand hearts.

The fading flame from the oil lamp was dimming the memories of love and loss that she hoped would somehow remain distinct despite an inscape that had been emotionally razed to the sinking ground that could bear it up no longer.

Anyone who has known love and lost it knows the heart-wrenching moments that assail whatever is left in the broken bottle of life that floats aimlessly in the night sea. The unfinished books, the torn photographs and the unwritten verses are all vestiges of a bruised being that stands naked in the wind-battered nothingness embracing her throbbing pain and pang.

She languished in the surrounding dreariness that cuts off any harbinger that presaged a change in the seasons. Night and Day no longer marked the passing of time, for time had died when her heart died the day he left her. The cracks on the walls which were raddled with age resembled ageless writing that carefully carved her desolation in an endless non sequitur.

The old town is falling asleep, in the midst of soulful sunset melodies reverberating through the sand-blown shadows of dusk. The woman no longer draws water from the well. The roses that lie on the floor are last season's blooms. No one picks them up anymore, no matter how beautiful they once were. Maybe one day the lover might return, but the woman would have disappeared into the night as she continues to whisper prayers for him among the stars and her own quiet solitude above that little old town.