http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/en-EUMokoFeed10http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/http://data5.blog.de/design/preview/7a/d7a2cc5457bb15044a889e9018b293_160x200.jpghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2007/09/21/the_language_of_despair~3017447/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2007-09-21:/2007/09/21/the_language_of_despair~3017447/Fri, 21 Sep 2007 13:42:14 +0200 <p>I taught him English.<br> He spoke of mirrors and empty glasses,<br> Things he had always wanted to break<br> Like promises and relationships.<br> Ours had no beginnings,<br> Neither endings.<br> We shall be contented,<br> Even though we can never write in the future tense<br> Nor in the past.<br> The serpent bites its tail<br> In a cosmos caught in angled revolutions.<br> How many verbs of immobilisation do I have to use?<br> The sands of time flow like blood,<br> Burying us in multiple narratives and divided visions.<br> The ancient tale tells nothing in its existential destiny.<br> Adam gave God a reason to live and have his being,<br> Eve was dead right from the beginning.<br> Time metaphors or mysterious rhymes,<br> We understand nothing.<br> Not knowing is a bliss<br> Yet when we don’t pursue,<br> Truth or otherwise,<br> Some things are lost into an eternity<br> That even Time cannot recover.<br> We can hold on to nothing.<br> He hates writing in the present tense.<br> For him, living is a thing lodged in the past.<br> One day, he threw a glass into the mirror<br> The ground was strewn with books, broken glass and a bruised psyche.<br> I walked the frail memories of estranged fellowship,<br> Picking up fragments of our separated ribs,<br> Yet I could not reach him.<br> Time spelt disparity,<br> An anti-clockwise phantasm,<br> The sea of glass and drowned destinations<br> Stood between us.<br> No spoken word (within a word) this time.<br> Genesis and other myths<br> Formed the beginning<br> And the end of every human history.<br> We await a future time that will never come. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2007/09/21/the_language_of_despair~3017447/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>futurememoriesdespairpoemhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2007/09/21/the_language_of_despair~3017447/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2007/09/20/broken~3011941/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2007-09-20:/2007/09/20/broken~3011941/Thu, 20 Sep 2007 15:17:28 +0200 <p>The droning voices around submerge </p> <p>The weary soul within.</p> <p>Even in the midst of a multitude,</p> <p>The heart is capable of feeling alone.</p> <p>Solitary songs are not for those </p> <p>Who have never traversed the wilderness</p> <p>After dusk;</p> <p>Treading on pathless partings lit only by star lights </p> <p>Which have disappeared into the silence of the night.</p> <p>His presence has become fleeting shadows that </p> <p>Arise from the sea of emptiness.</p> <p>Hugging and loving me as a lover does,</p> <p>Yet there is no one there.</p> <p>I walk gently into the desert of the human soul</p> <p>Leaving my name behind</p> <p>And hoping to forget</p> <p>One whose entire being has been written into my being;</p> <p>One who has been the very essence of my lifesong.</p> <p>Yet how does one forget?</p> <p>To avoid remembering or to deny one's longings?</p> <p>To shield our eyes from random objects of love </p> <p>Or from the recurring sights </p> <p>That endlessly replay themselves in the mind's eyes?</p> <p>Time does not heal </p> <p>And space suffocates what little room </p> <p>The heart exists in to breathe. </p> <p>Perhaps it is easier to fall into a deep sleep.</p> <p>One no longer has to remember in our waking anguish</p> <p>The pain of living and loving</p> <p>And having all of what you are</p> <p>Leaving you.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2007/09/20/broken~3011941/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>love-lostbroken-hearthttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2007/09/20/broken~3011941/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2006/10/14/love_is_not_such_a_wonderful_thing_after~1220559/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2006-10-14:/2006/10/14/love_is_not_such_a_wonderful_thing_after~1220559/Sat, 14 Oct 2006 14:24:27 +0200 <p>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?</p> <p>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'. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>I am losing both my authenticity and sanity.</p> <p>I am not happy, he is right. I don't know how long I can hold on... </p> <p>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.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2006/10/14/love_is_not_such_a_wonderful_thing_after~1220559/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>lovepainhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2006/10/14/love_is_not_such_a_wonderful_thing_after~1220559/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2006/02/19/solitary_exi_s_tence~573779/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2006-02-19:/2006/02/19/solitary_exi_s_tence~573779/Sun, 19 Feb 2006 05:53:19 +0100 <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2006/02/19/solitary_exi_s_tence~573779/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>lifeexistencesolitudewritinghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2006/02/19/solitary_exi_s_tence~573779/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/12/17/found_and_lost~393934/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-12-17:/2005/12/17/found_and_lost~393934/Sat, 17 Dec 2005 14:32:12 +0100 <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>"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."</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.' </p> <p>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. </p> <p>'Merry Christmas. Hopefully this will land you in the hands of someone you love. For my love too will come.'</p> <p>After lo(o)sing the ring, the forlorn lover might have come full circle. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/12/17/found_and_lost~393934/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>christmas-wishjoylovehttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/12/17/found_and_lost~393934/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/12/03/putting_the_death_of_nguyen_in_perspecti~357635/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-12-03:/2005/12/03/putting_the_death_of_nguyen_in_perspecti~357635/Sat, 03 Dec 2005 16:02:23 +0100 <p>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? </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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!</p> <p>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? </p> <p>And it has always been that Man must pay for his own transgressions. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/12/03/putting_the_death_of_nguyen_in_perspecti~357635/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>drugsdeath-penaltynyugenhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/12/03/putting_the_death_of_nguyen_in_perspecti~357635/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/11/28/a_teacher_s_joy_her_kids_are_grown_up~344306/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-11-28:/2005/11/28/a_teacher_s_joy_her_kids_are_grown_up~344306/Mon, 28 Nov 2005 16:20:54 +0100 <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>I have until 7 December to do so.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/11/28/a_teacher_s_joy_her_kids_are_grown_up~344306/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>teachinggrowing-uplovinghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/11/28/a_teacher_s_joy_her_kids_are_grown_up~344306/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/10/31/true_friendship~273593/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-10-31:/2005/10/31/true_friendship~273593/Mon, 31 Oct 2005 16:57:27 +0100 <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>I am reminded of some verses in David Whyte's poem <em>Sweet Darkness</em>:</p> <p>'Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet<br> confinement of your aloneness<br> to learn</p> <p>anything or anyone<br> that doesn't bring you alive</p> <p>is too small for you.'</p> <p>It is wonderful to know there are friends who are a matching fit and that there's no settling for anyone or anything less. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/10/31/true_friendship~273593/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>sweet-darknesstrue-friendshipdavid-whytehttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/10/31/true_friendship~273593/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/10/20/unwilling_to_leave~248780/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-10-20:/2005/10/20/unwilling_to_leave~248780/Thu, 20 Oct 2005 18:25:49 +0200 <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/10/20/unwilling_to_leave~248780/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>memoriespartingnostalgialeavinghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/10/20/unwilling_to_leave~248780/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/11/an_old_town_s_love_story~173903/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-09-11:/2005/09/11/an_old_town_s_love_story~173903/Sun, 11 Sep 2005 09:39:56 +0200 <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p>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.</p> <p>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. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/11/an_old_town_s_love_story~173903/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>losslovehttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/11/an_old_town_s_love_story~173903/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/09/waiting~171225/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-09-09:/2005/09/09/waiting~171225/Fri, 09 Sep 2005 15:20:49 +0200 <p>I sat by the window.<br> Perhaps I was waiting for the rain<br> That Gerontion died waiting,<br> In a dry season that provided inspiration for writing unfinished poems.<br> Without a muse, only lines and lines of agonising aspirations<br> Write themselves unabashedly on nothing.<br> There was no light again.<br> The beams from the jaded moon shone into the room,<br> Casting a vacant weariness upon Time and Memory,<br> Forlorn lovers in a space that has no room for them<br> Or reconsidered passion.<br> I thought I heard your footsteps;<br> It was just the rain pouring desolation upon endless sorrows.<br> My heart beat a thousand times your going away.<br> My afflictions stretched for miles and miles,<br> Under the scattered colours of the night.<br> How your gentle whisperings into her ear<br> Twisted daggers into my sides<br> And silenced my deepest cries for the absent presence<br> Among the shadowy linings.<br> You were right beside her playing a lovesong.<br> Your music I could no longer understand,<br> A medley of madness and confusion.<br> Our fates intertwined into a triangle of distorted edges<br> Along the contrived passages of unuttered desires,<br> Intensified by unanswered prayers.<br> Only teardrops and broken promises now remain.<br> When all love ends,<br> Waiting will only lengthen love's longings.<br> The skies began to darken on the edge of the desert<br> Our story ended where it first began:<br> In the room where Emptiness waited.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/09/waiting~171225/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>lovelongingshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/09/waiting~171225/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/07/the_language_of_despair~167309/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-09-07:/2005/09/07/the_language_of_despair~167309/Wed, 07 Sep 2005 14:46:38 +0200 <p>I taught him English.<br> He spoke of mirrors and empty glasses,<br> Things he had always wanted to break<br> Like promises and relationships.<br> Ours had no beginnings,<br> Neither endings.<br> We shall be contented,<br> Even though we can never write in the future tense<br> Nor in the past.<br> The serpent bites its tail<br> In a cosmos caught in angled revolutions.<br> How many verbs of immobilisation do I have to use?<br> The sands of time flow like blood,<br> Burying us in multiple narratives and divided visions.<br> The ancient tale tells nothing in its existential destiny.<br> Adam gave God a reason to live and have his being,<br> Eve was dead right from the beginning.<br> Time metaphors or mysterious rhymes,<br> We understand nothing.<br> Not knowing is a bliss<br> Yet when we don’t pursue,<br> Truth or otherwise,<br> Some things are lost into an eternity<br> That even Time cannot recover.<br> We can hold on to nothing.<br> He hates writing in the present tense.<br> For him, living is a thing lodged in the past.<br> One day, he threw a glass into the mirror<br> The ground was strewn with books, broken glass and a bruised psyche.<br> I walked the frail memories of estranged fellowship,<br> Picking up fragments of our separated ribs,<br> Yet I could not reach him.<br> Time spelt disparity,<br> An anti-clockwise phantasm,<br> The sea of glass and drowned destinations<br> Stood between us.<br> No spoken word (within a word) this time.<br> Genesis and other myths<br> Formed the beginning<br> And the end of every human history.<br> We await a future time that will never come. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/07/the_language_of_despair~167309/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>unfulfilled-lovedespairexistential-beinghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/07/the_language_of_despair~167309/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/05/lost_not_yet_found~163646/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-09-05:/2005/09/05/lost_not_yet_found~163646/Mon, 05 Sep 2005 15:26:41 +0200 <p>Feeling kinda lost, and not knowing why. It's that 'feel like running from it all' experience. No more accountability, no more duties, no more hypocrisy, no more need to be cordial and cooperative and considerate, especially in front of people who do not deserve even an iota of goodwill. So much for loving the unlovable. Maybe only god can do that...it is difficult to compromise in the face of injustices.</p> <p>The dissatisfaction increases each day, and I do not know when I might just blow it and at whom. It is a fettered heart that sits on a heavy spirit now and I am not quite sure where the first source of frustration or disdain came from. And there does not seem to be any respite that might come anytime soon. Everything looks bleak and dreary, like Thornfield in <em>Jane Eyre </em>after it has been set aflame by Bertha Mason in love and madness.</p> <p>And I thought I was always above my circumstances, like some wonder woman ruling her life and universe with an iron fist. Feels like nothing except Prometheus, after he has stolen fire, in the face of Zeus having his liver nibbled away by the eagle each day, and his lifeforce slowly ebbing away. Yet there is nothing he can do to change his fortune, except to wait for death, or for Zeus to be destroyed. </p> <p>What wishful thinking. My Zeus will not be destroyed, at least not by me, not now. I have learned to pick my battles wisely and understood that some people we should never fight or struggle against. Neither submit to, nor sleep in the same tent as an ally. A kinda Catch-22 situation. </p> <p>I am still helpless and naked in my crucible of pain. Maybe there are some transcendental lessons to be learnt, maybe there are some (in)tangible weaknesses to be overcome...who knows? Why now? Why me? </p> <p>But what was wrong with stealing fire to light up the world? And why should a tyrant, less than a man and in all ways fallible, be allowed to rule the world and terrorise those with noble intentions?</p> <p>Silence answered me in the midst of falling stars crashing into oblivion and I am still lost... </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/05/lost_not_yet_found~163646/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>thornfieldzeusprometheuslifecatch-22lostfrustrationhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/05/lost_not_yet_found~163646/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/chanced_meeting~160957/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-09-04:/2005/09/04/chanced_meeting~160957/Sun, 04 Sep 2005 09:46:49 +0200 <p>It was the same place<br> The world disappeared behind his gaze.<br> All of a sudden,<br> Time froze,<br> Love turned to water<br> In the garden of Eden,<br> Eve lost her Adam<br> And God hid himself from her.<br> Her prayers became the forbidden fruit that she must swallow.<br> It was an empty, formless universe.<br> They were separated by that desolate, unspeakable nothingness<br> The winds wept as the mountains moved away,<br> Unwilling to hear the tales of tragedy<br> That so often defined the existence of (wo)men<br> Memories crystallised into a string of teardrops<br> Blazing across the night sky.<br> His absolute silence and placid touch<br> When she tries to hold his hand<br> Speak the estranged language of togetherness.<br> His wandering heart leaves her wondering<br> Why her world is covered with yellow wallpaper still.<br> Yet at every point of origin their shadows meet.<br> She looks into the broken mirror<br> And sees him there,<br> And he still calls her by her name.<br> She knows she cannot give voice<br> To melancholic passions that yearn for him anymore.<br> Every wing of love and freedom is destined somewhere;<br> To love him is to let him go free<br> And watch him disappear in the crowds<br> Into the horizon where water turns to clouds.<br> She continues to dwell in the old place of misty icy daggers<br> His countenance she can no longer behold. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/chanced_meeting~160957/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>forlorned-lovehttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/chanced_meeting~160957/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/30/title~151745/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-30:/2005/08/30/title~151745/Tue, 30 Aug 2005 16:16:20 +0200 <p>I did not forget that I wrote, as a debut for this blog, I had promised myself I would never do a blog, or if I did one, my first entry would most probably be my last. Well, almost. Fourteen entries later, I am still writing, and writing. It feels more like obeying some deeper metaphysical instincts, rather than writing as a means of holding out or caving in. </p> <p>Talk about a love-loathe relationship with blogs, the natural fear of losing one's privacy juxtaposed with the need for connecting with kindred spirits who might understand without knowing and indulging in the myth of words and what they might do for someone who can no longer remember some of the most important words spoken to her. Time-battered and memory-forsaken soliloquies, I call them. </p> <p>Yet there might be more, though I never thought I would find strength in the encouragement of strangers. </p> <p>The cyber world is a strange space where the real meets the reel, and online stories, in my case, connect me to friends I have not yet known or loved. If sanity could really be kept in any sense, I'll keep all of it in these friendships which I now hold dear and reserve much gratitude towards. </p> <p>Distance, real or imagined, is of no consequence. We might be half a world apart or drink tea of different brews or appreciate silence and music in myriad of ways, what matters is there is an unspoken language that holds our joys and loves, angst and pain together, like spells cast in words.</p> <p>And for that I am grateful. Life has been gracious to a forlorn sojourner like me, one who has been trying to forget, some sorrows, some people, some storms, some dreams...</p> <p>Not that I forgot what I needed to forget after reading the comments posted on my blog by total strangers, but it certainly made everything more bearable, knowing that someone out there understands. It certainly made a difference to someone who needed to know that she was still alive and had the strength to carry on, even though the temptation to give in to despair and disrepair was just as great. </p> <p>I might never meet some of these angels who have visited my blogs, but thank you, thank you for simply being there when there was momentary darkness and gloom in this sea journey of life. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/30/title~151745/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/30/title~151745/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/30/longings~151387/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-30:/2005/08/30/longings~151387/Tue, 30 Aug 2005 14:12:51 +0200 <p>Maybe when time flows into a river,<br> The world will be without her lover.<br> Memories explode into fragments of desires,<br> The weary heart into its own abyss retires.<br> Poignant longings,<br> Unfulfilled yearnings<br> Reverberating through the walls of silence.<br> Crying is a form of penitence,<br> Not catharsis.<br> Nothing but innermost paralysis.<br> Unable to speak,<br> The word without a word,<br> The world without a word.<br> Moanings and groanings,<br> Lengthened thrills and drills,<br> Climaxing into hysterical shrills<br> And laughter of fear and pain<br> The sheets are tainted<br> With forgotten passions and desolation.<br> The lights go off.<br> This is the price of love<br> And fantasy.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/30/longings~151387/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>price-of-loveforlorned-lovelongingslovehttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/30/longings~151387/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/28/scrambled_thoughts_about_my_life~147338/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-28:/2005/08/28/scrambled_thoughts_about_my_life~147338/Sun, 28 Aug 2005 14:33:58 +0200 <p>It's been a heady week, filled with presentations and rehearsals. And I fell sick after that. What an icing for the cake! </p> <p>Still, I have to finish marking some exam papers. Falling sick is a curse. In my case, it usually leaves behind a backlog as long as the Great Wall of China, with no final destination, which ever angle one looks at it.</p> <p>There is no particular theme to this entry. I am just gonna randomly jot my scrambled thoughts down. </p> <p>Kinda feel a little unsettled by some things that have taken place in the last few days. There're probably some misunderstandings, misgivings, and miscommunication going on in my interactions with people. Some, I feel very hurt by because the comments made were unjustified; others, I guess I was a little impatient. But if you ask me what I am gonna do with them...</p> <p>Well, nothing. Never believed in explaining anything. Those incidents of which I was the one at fault, I have already made restitution. Hence my conscience is clear.</p> <p>I realise I have to practise what I preach. We all must stay true to ourselves. There should be no compromise or the need to apologise for the one who is hurt or disappointed. It has been, and will always remain thus, regardless of rank or race, though I have no idea why people would not hesitate to strike daggers into another's heart of kindess. Maybe the world doesn't go round anymore. Maybe I am just going round in circles loving and caring for hearts that have fossilized. Well, guess it doesn't matter anymore. Friendships and loveships are made in heaven and secured on earth. Sometimes we must learn to let go.</p> <p>I realise the kids in my form class are gonna graduate very soon. I am slowly losing them to Time and the days we spend together will become mere memories, never to return. Well, they won't read this, but I know I am gonna miss them. Time can create physical barriers by decreeing that people move on and be separated by space but it cannot take away one's passions. Nothing consumes me now, except knowing that in the days that follow, all will be well within their souls and that I might be there to support them in whatever way I can. It doesn't matter what others say about them, in my heart, they are God's kids and I love them, just as they are.</p> <p>I hope they do well. Well, I know they will do well.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/28/scrambled_thoughts_about_my_life~147338/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>lovegraduationlifepassionshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/28/scrambled_thoughts_about_my_life~147338/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/21/forgotten_memories/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-21:/2005/08/21/forgotten_memories/Sun, 21 Aug 2005 11:30:28 +0200 <p>It is still difficult to forget, especially when every object and sound around me brings with them his presence and all memories shared since time between us began.</p> <p>Yet that time between us now flows gently and painfully along the river of forgetfulness. I sometimes wonder how he is and if our past can be restored, just like when people pour sand back into the hourglass and then naively inverting the vessel back into its original position to turn back time. Nothing but an exercise in futility. For us, I believe right from the start, even the beginning has, almost insouciantly, declared its refusal to journey towards any end or ending.</p> <p>This was his favourite song and one that he asked me to translate:</p> <p><em><strong>Forgotten Memories</strong></em></p> <p>The one who is beckoning at the window,<br> The one whose hands are playing upon the strings.<br> A time forgotten,<br> Bit by bit, the passions return to the heart.<br> The rains fall gently<br> Unceasingly, it makes its presence felt by the window.<br> Silence consumes me<br> As I keep reminiscing about the past.<br> The one who is beckoning at the window,<br> The one whose hands are playing upon the strings,<br> The past keeps replaying in my mind.<br> I remember the moments of joyful bliss<br> As each scene replays itself in the sea of remembrance.</p> <p>But now it reads like a sad story that I have translated and can relate to like a page out of my personal diary, yet can interpret no more. </p> <p>Can anyone tell me how memories can be forgotten? </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/21/forgotten_memories/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>lovelifesad-storyforgotten-memoriespainforlornessmemoriesforgettinghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/21/forgotten_memories/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/20/without_you_1/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-20:/2005/08/20/without_you_1/Sat, 20 Aug 2005 11:17:29 +0200 <p>For all the people who matter</p> <p><strong><u>Without You</u></strong></p> <p><em>Night is incomplete without Day</em></p> <p>The flowers die without sunshine,<br> The sheep loses its way without the shepherd,<br> The valley disappears without the mountains,<br> The land cracks open without the rain.</p> <p>The writer dies without words,<br> The verses lose their coherence without the poet,<br> The story digresses without the plot,<br> The world degenerates without knowledge.</p> <p>The heart dies without love,<br> The mind loses itself without imagination,<br> The soul dissipates without virtues,<br> The spirit comes undone without faith. </p> <p>I take too long to say this:<br> Life loses its meaning without you.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/20/without_you_1/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>poempeople-who-matterlovekinshiphttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/20/without_you_1/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/18/created_for_life_not_death_exist_to_love/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-18:/2005/08/18/created_for_life_not_death_exist_to_love/Thu, 18 Aug 2005 15:21:17 +0200 <p>Sometimes I can't help wondering why there is so much hostility and ill will in the world. From petty tiffs between lovers to full-scale wars between nations and genocidal terrorism between life and madness, aren't we spending too much time and resources fighting each other? And over what?</p> <p>Sovereignty, pride, wealth, religion, or race? Out of spite, envy, jealousy, pain, disappointment, anger, disdain, or simply the sadistic pleasure of seeing another suffer without reprieve or respite?</p> <p>Death is the great leveller and all will cease to be important vision or motivation once the worms of mortality begin the act of returning to the earth that which has lived on borrowed time.</p> <p>Who has the right to take away life, when he did not give life? Who has the right to pronounce judgment, when only the perfect can cast the first stone? Why should anyone bear grudges? God has blotted out our transgressions and remembers our sins no more. How can anyone dole out criticism in heaps when his own life is in need of betterment and altruistic adjustments?</p> <p>That which lies beneath the skin flows through all mankind. Therefore, no one is superior or subordinated, neither through adhering to warped statistics and crooked yardsticks or attaining some achieved or ascribed status which is self-defeating and ridiculous in its hollow stature.</p> <p>And the ultimate pathos? If we had spent the same amount of time living and letting live and loving our neighbour as ourselves, and learning to forgive even when the bruises still tingle in the raw nerves, wouldn't paradise be right here and there would be no need for a second or third coming? But we continue to be each other's hell and terrorise and murder every atom of flesh that was created for life and not for death. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/18/created_for_life_not_death_exist_to_love/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>painconflictfightingterrorismantagonisationhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/18/created_for_life_not_death_exist_to_love/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/17/teaching_hard_work_or_heartwork/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-17:/2005/08/17/teaching_hard_work_or_heartwork/Wed, 17 Aug 2005 14:16:56 +0200 <p> It has been five years since I began teaching. It has been a journey of the heart. The panoramic landscape of a future that is at various stages of creation is still unfolding miraculously every moment as I enter and exit but never really leaving the classroom each day.</p> <p>Well, there are still moments of anguish and frustration when abandoning all seems to be a more attractive, if not a more reasonable, option but teaching has become an aspect of living and loving that grows on me; moreover no one gives up just because a good outcome seems unlikely sometimes. Instead we will continue to do what human beings have always done: keep trying.</p> <p>Because of teaching, many everyday objects and experiences have coalesced into the motif of Time and Memory and hold the essence of my being in them: a lone stalk of daisy given by a student who made me cry and almost give up teaching, a posy of ninety-nine roses from a class who said they would love me forever, little wooden caskets of stars with blessings contained in each one, flights of paper cranes with peace written on them, bottles of honey lemon syrup and herbal teas bought by students when I lost my voice, drawings of their dreams and mine, tortoises and oranges I brought into class during Literature lessons, sandwiches which remind me of those we made during an English class, flowerhorn fish, cards, mugs, key-chains, necklaces, music cds, letters of encouragement and ‘smses’ of greetings and words of advice, fast-food restaurants where we revised for the ‘O’ Level examinations when the school no longer opened its door for the day, karaoke sessions and lunches with students, present and past, and pictures of the teacher and her children growing and learning together, among others.</p> <p>Some I no longer recall perhaps, but I will never forget.</p> <p>It is amazing how humans react to all the binaries and dualities of life. Love, and hatred ceases. Heal, and hurts vanish. Light up, and darkness dissipates. Strengthen, and weaknesses diminish. Forgive, and grudges are forgotten. Renew, and the old passes away. Comfort, and the storms are stilled by a peace that settles all round. Nurture, and the stunted grows in stature and grace. Encourage, and disappointments make way for hope. Create miracles, and hopelessness becomes fleeting shadows. Impart the vision of success, and defeat is defeated. Teach, and life begins. </p> <p>Teaching is not merely the dispensing of knowledge. If it were, the Internet would do a far better job than teachers. It is also not about negotiating the didactics of morals and values with those under our care. If those were the requirements of the profession, only priests, sages and religious leaders need apply. Neither is it just about reproducing replicas of good people who will ultimately establish order and contribute to society and the world at large. If that were the reality of education, then politicians would be called teachers. </p> <p>Teaching is about helping a child and loving him into embarking on a remarkable journey where he can follow his heart, pursue his dreams and start to write, and perhaps rewrite, his personal (hi)story, and ultimately reach both his destination and destiny. When that happens, man would have discovered fire a second time.</p> <p>Five years and about forty classes later, I have not looked back. The passion of a teacher is an all-consuming one, because every child is more precious than the whole world. I am reminded of an exchange between the Little Prince and the fox in the famous book, The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery:</p> <p> ‘The rose is important to you because you’ve been caring for it for such a long time.’<br> ‘It’s because I have been caring for it for a long time…’ the Little Prince said.<br> ‘It’s a simple truth, but people have forgotten it,’ the fox told him. ‘Don’t you forget though. If you have tamed an animal or something, really got fond of it, then you are responsible for it always. You’re responsible for your rose…’<br> ‘I’m responsible for my rose…’ the Little Prince repeated so he would remember.</p> <p>I am still walking the gardens and nurturing the life found there because of my fondness for my rose. It is the only difference between waking and sleeping.<br> <img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/w/wintersolitude/img/12303_wallpaper280_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""> </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/17/teaching_hard_work_or_heartwork/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>loveteachingpassionheartworkhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/17/teaching_hard_work_or_heartwork/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/15/love_in_a_desert_landscape/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-15:/2005/08/15/love_in_a_desert_landscape/Mon, 15 Aug 2005 17:30:42 +0200 <p>Sometimes the Lover waits in anticipation for someone or something without really knowing who or what she is waiting for. Perhaps someone who would stimulate her senses, someone who would cause her to believe in love once again, something that would help her regain her sanity after the mindless drudgery of clockwork routine, something that might redefine existence... She knows she needs something that can speak volumes without uttering a word, offer comfort without drawing close, illumine hope without chasing away the encroaching darkness and rivet stability without invoking nostalgia.</p> <p>In the emotional wasteland of Eliot, she searches for the ballads of Wordsworth, and inevitably, songs of yesteryears, fragments of herself and perhaps, visages of him and all the happy but now fragmented moments of their time together. Only desert memories now stretch for miles and miles in the midst of fog and sandstorms, like a colossal wreckage. </p> <p>She sits all alone in the desert. She tries to look for signs of life and strain her ears to hear Hope mounted on the wings of the wind now blowing the sands of endless sorrows into her face and that of the universe. The flight of the birds foretells nothing while the desert speaks silence and masks itself with darkness. She continues a shadowy wait that has been lost in eternity and an impossible possibility.</p> <p>Perhaps, forgetfulness; not ignorance, brings us a certain degree of comfort in our inner tempests. Ignorance dislodges itself from cosmic reality and can offer no more than cold comfort. Silent derangement exists in want of knowledge and introspective awareness. Yet how can we forget? Those who eventually arise from slumber leave behind dreams and can no longer ignore existential forces shaping the consciousness and destinies of Man. Yet every insight lengthens loneliness and increases suffering in a timeless vacuum that operates independently of change. Time does not bring with it any healing or solace. </p> <p>The pain of loving and learning to forget having once loved can be a recurring dream which often ends in wakeful fits and tearful embraces, only for the dreamer to realise that the one you love is no longer beside you...and the desert too has disappeared.</p> <p><img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/w/wintersolitude/img/18828_wallpaper280.jpg" border="0" alt=""> </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/15/love_in_a_desert_landscape/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>lonelinessloveexistentialemptinessdesertdreamswaitinghttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/15/love_in_a_desert_landscape/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/the_peace_within/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-14:/2005/08/14/the_peace_within/Sun, 14 Aug 2005 13:20:23 +0200 <p>There is peace in my heart today. Kinda beyond comprehension. The fount of blessing flows gently in the courts of love and holiness. No matter what mountains stand before me, my eyes will be fixed on God.</p> <p>After so many years of being a Christian and sometimes running away from being one (because it's always easier to live life the crooked and wide way, rather than the straight and narrow) it's almost like coming full circle now. </p> <p>I will never forget the story 'Footprints in the sand'. When the man in pain asked God where He was when he was suffering as there was only a set of footprints locked heavily in the sand, God answered, "When you could not bear it anymore, it was then that I carried you." Tears never fail to well up in my eyes whenever I recall these lines.</p> <p>I also remember a friend who declined my prayers for him and said that God had left him some time ago.</p> <p>I think God is no hater of man who delights in seeing mankind being slain by the sword or singed by tongues of fire. The God who owns the cattle on a thousand hills and holds the universe in His hand surely desires to bless and draw all who will come to Him.</p> <p>Sometimes the going does get difficult and there are so many unspoken anxieties and lingering fears, of the unknown future, of the uncertain present and even the fateful past. The soul does get weary and troubled and the feet refuse to walk another mile, on the straight and narrow or otherwise.</p> <p>Yet it is a marvellous thing to know that I do not have to face dark nights of the soul alone or navigate unchartered waters with someone who has no knowledge of the sea. Jesus walked on water and He is the Captain of the Hosts. And the good news? I am on board His ship bound for a divine destiny and destination.</p> <p>The horizon looks good as I continue to fix my eyes upon Jesus.<br> <a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/w/wintersolitude/img/82034389qkIuph_ph.jpg" title=""><img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/w/wintersolitude/img/82034389qkIuph_ph_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""></a> </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/the_peace_within/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>peacebelieffaithgodchristianityreligionhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/the_peace_within/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/13/stabilisers_not_tranqulilisers/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-13:/2005/08/13/stabilisers_not_tranqulilisers/Sat, 13 Aug 2005 13:27:39 +0200 <p>Decided to balance my sometimes pessimistic vision and at other times melancholic musings with some philosophers' stronger mettle and sterner stuff. Let me know what you think.</p> <p>Among all human beings, first respect yourself.<br> Pythagoras</p> <p>No one is free, who is not master of himself.<br> Pythagoras</p> <p>The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and, not withstanding, go out to face it.<br> Thucydides<br> The History of the Peloponnesian War</p> <p>The virtuous man has a steadfest character and opinions and he is daring whether in pleasant or unpleasant situations.<br> Theognis</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0">These two are talking about having the courage to act so there will be no regrets yah?)</p> <p>All virtues are cultivated by studying and learning.<br> Xenophon</p> <p>Being mortal, never pray for an untroubled life. Rather, ask the gods to give you an enduring heart.<br> Menander, fragment</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0"> Quite a bit of stoicism here, or is it a sort of attraction to sorrow and suffering, self-inflicting or otherwise? Or perhaps it's just a case of 'without suffering, there can be no growth or insight'.)</p> <p>It will be impossible to defeat the enemies outside the city, unless you defeat the enemies within it.<br> Demosthenes, Philippic</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0"> Self-mastery here I believe.)</p> <p>Admit to your companionship, not those alone who show distress at your reverses, but those who show no envy at your good fortune; for there are many who sympathise with their friends in adversity, but envy them in prosperity.</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0">Reminds me of John C. Maxwell's point about how true friends will celebrate our success with us, without jealousy or envy.)</p> <p>Be slow to give your friendship, but when you have given it, strive to make it lasting.<br> Isocrates, letter to Demonicus</p> <p>As to reasoning, you are not inferior to the gods, nor less than they. For the greatness of reason is not determined by length nor by height, but by the decisions of its will.<br> Epictetus, Discourses</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0">Makes me think about Nietzsche's Will to Power and man's responsibility to act and change what he thinks needs to be changed.)</p> <p>I grow old, ever learning many things.<br> Solon</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0">This is what I call ageing graciously and happily.)</p> <p>And here are my favourites:</p> <p>The unexamined life is not worth living.<br> Socrates, as quoted in Plato's Apology</p> <p>No genius has ever existed without some touch of madness.<br> Aristotle, fragment</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0"> Passion anyone?)</p> <p>Waste not fresh tears over old griefs.<br> Euripides, fragment</p> <p>(<img src="/img/smilies/icon_smile.gif" alt=":)" class="middle" border="0"> Makes sense, why waste? But sometimes it's not easy to move on though...)</p> <p>Happiness demands not only complete goodness but a complete life.<br> Aristotle, Ethics</p> <p>Goodwill seems therefore to be the beginning of friendship, just as the pleasure of the eye is the beginning of love.<br> Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics</p> <p><img src="/img/smilies/icon_biggrin.gif" alt=":D" class="middle" border="0"> Cheers to life and wellness, my friends who are reading this.<br> Wintersolitude</p> <p><img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/w/wintersolitude/img/40082_wallpaper280.jpg" border="0" alt=""> </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/13/stabilisers_not_tranqulilisers/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>life-and-livinggreek-wisdomwise-sayingslifephilosophyhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/13/stabilisers_not_tranqulilisers/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/13/leaving_the_past_behind/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-12:/2005/08/13/leaving_the_past_behind/Sat, 13 Aug 2005 00:39:54 +0200 <p>I have been thinking quite a bit about closure: leaving the past (and the sometimes foolish things I have done) and starting afresh. Yet I am not sure if the past is ready to let me go, or if there is a future... </p> <p><u><strong>Leaving the past</strong></u></p> <p>I am supposed to leave the past behind<br> And start afresh,<br> If there is such a thing as a new beginning<br> And a better tomorrow.<br> From where I lie,<br> I can’t see the future.<br> The past too has passed into oblivion.<br> Presently,<br> The earth shifts in the grain of sand which contains it.<br> The sky is overcast with the melancholic consciousness<br> Of fluid passions<br> And forgotten reconsiderations.<br> There is no voice in the words I speak anymore.<br> Yet the voices around wouldn’t stop talking<br> And sighing.<br> They drown me<br> And tear the universal Psyche<br> Into no more than pulverised dust,<br> Pounded and compounded<br> Into bleeding atoms and screaming shards.<br> The glass is broken again.<br> So is my hand<br> And the hand it holds.<br> Maybe it is time to let go.<br> The act of breaking<br> Is easier than keeping,<br> And separating more bearable than bonding.<br> Saves us all the repairing<br> And educating<br> About damage done and<br> And all manners of prevention.<br> Maybe the only reason why we create<br> Is so that we might destroy,<br> Including accountabilities and responsibilities<br> And the people who came up with concepts like these<br> Which no longer make sense<br> In a world of exploding possibilities and disjointed realities.<br> It is time to let go of the past<br> And embrace a world<br> That is still in the dawn of creation.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/13/leaving_the_past_behind/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>poetryleaving-the-pastcreative-destructionbearingsstarting-afreshhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/13/leaving_the_past_behind/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/11/forgetting_is_a_tough_act/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-11:/2005/08/11/forgetting_is_a_tough_act/Thu, 11 Aug 2005 16:22:36 +0200 <p>I wonder if anyone has tried to forget someone. And just when we are all ready to let go and blot the object of our desire out of our mind into the sea of forgetfulness, something, could be a song, an image or even just a whiff of fragrance, cuts through the air to bring one back to a certain point of origin.</p> <p>Once upon a time, I waited for the 'happily ever after' ending; yet that time has passed. Sometimes the memories come flooding back, but I realise he will not return and my dream, which was once beautiful, remains a dream, a distant dream.</p> <p>I was trying to forget. Just when I thought I was free from the shackles of thinking and waiting for someone who is passed waiting and thinking, the melody of his favourite song filled the air. Why didn't I choose a different route to make my way home? Thinking of something or someone we've lost makes us wanna cry sometimes. That feeling is worse than watching sad movies. At the very least, we know the sadness in the movie will end somewhere, sometime. But our personal plots sometimes write sequels without end. </p> <p>I was trying to start afresh. Just when I hardened my heart to choose not to call or sms him again, he has to call five minutes after I made my resolution to talk about nothing in particular. Was God trying to test my resolve or fate trying to make a sport of me?</p> <p>Why do I write this? Maybe as I write, I am forgetting, or trying to forget. Yet I might start to remember everything I hope to forget all over again. Maybe it is the beginning of understanding some things that can only be understood in words not yet spoken or written. Maybe I might be thrown further into the abyss of confusion and scrambled emotions. Well, who cares? I have already written. I have already tried forgetting... </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/11/forgetting_is_a_tough_act/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/11/forgetting_is_a_tough_act/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/the_sojourner_in_my_life/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-10:/2005/08/10/the_sojourner_in_my_life/Wed, 10 Aug 2005 15:53:38 +0200 <p>In his latest book, The Zahir, Paulo Coelho grants his male protagonist, whose wife has just left him, an epiphany. Yet it is probably a truth I can relate quite empathetically. It is this:</p> <p>'Being with someone else and making that person feel as if they were of no importance in our life is far worse than feeling alone and miserable in the streets of Geneva.'</p> <p>I have known C for a couple of months. No sex. I don't believe in one-night or multiple-night stands. It all started in a very bizarre manner. I was 'counselling' him online over someone he loved yet had disappeared after their first meeting. </p> <p>He was facing his emotional tempest and we logged on everyday just to talk, maybe more to distract him away from his melancholic thoughts on my part.</p> <p>There was an unspoken kind of connection and he told me no one had been able to reach out to him so poignantly or understood him so well.</p> <p>I was happy, maybe because I sensed that he was happy. He was in Korea at that time. (At the time of this writing, he has just flown to Korea on a second work assignment.)</p> <p>When he returned, he called me everyday. Talking to him was one of the happiest moments in my life. He was witty and candid, always said what was on his mind. </p> <p>But I knew that such times would not last, simply because I was an emotional crutch to him, providing the emotional stability in some dark nights of the soul.</p> <p>We went out a few times. That was it.</p> <p>I did tell myself not to fall in love with him, or feel too attached to him. But we know the drill and outcome. The opposite often happens.</p> <p>I found myself waiting, sometimes in dreary silence and sometimes in helpless desperation, just to hear his voice, or to see him come online, so that at least, in some unknown space and time, we might be closer together. </p> <p>Then the phonecalls ceased. I missed his voice and all the funny things he would tell me. I still see him online. But even when we talk, I know we are one universe apart. Even though I love him as before, I realise my love has outlived its stay.</p> <p>I guess he is never here with me.We are just sojourners in each other's lives.</p> <p>If only he knows... all the prayers I’ve silently uttered for him, all the nights and days I’ve spent waiting for his calls, all the anxiety I go through whenever I hear he is down, and all the times I’ve felt like leaving the place that bears his presence,(because longing for him is such a painful dream).</p> <p>And all the feelings I’ve held back from expressing in abandon, and all that should be said but left unsaid.</p> <p>Maybe we should not have met, should not have communicated and should not carry on.I don’t want to pay the price for love or hatred that cuts deep into the soul anymore.</p> <p>I guess it’s time to leave for a place of peaceful solitude where there can be new wings for a new beginning.</p> <p>P.S. C, you probably won't read this but don't call me by my name anymore. I long to be alone now. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/the_sojourner_in_my_life/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>loveleaving-the-pastinspired-by-paulo-coelhohttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/the_sojourner_in_my_life/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/it_would_be_good_a_poem_no_one_would_rea/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-10:/2005/08/10/it_would_be_good_a_poem_no_one_would_rea/Wed, 10 Aug 2005 13:24:34 +0200 <p>It would be good<br> If pain could be thrown away<br> Like the used wrapper of a chewing gum.<br> We would not have to carry sorrow in our pockets. </p> <p>It would be good<br> If war could be shot down<br> Like in the virtual space we enter into when reality is too much to bear.<br> Destruction could be hidden away in another channel, or another game.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If words alone could bring healing<br> According to Freud’s ‘Talking Cure’ Theory that died with him.<br> Time would not have to work so hard. </p> <p>It would be good<br> If insincerity could be turned off like a tap<br> And we understand that the human heart is fragile.<br> There would be fewer nights spent in sudden wakeful fits of anguish.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If God really died<br> That we might have everlasting life.<br> We would not have to face death tomorrow.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If positive thinking could turn lead into gold<br> And nothing is impossible to him who believes or not.<br> But even impossibility is a possibility.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If progress could be measured by the height of skyscrapers.<br> The higher ones are good targets for decimation.<br> Civilisation takes steps upwards, only to be nearer to entrophy.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If we all existed in a vacuum, within our little bubbles of comfort;<br> As if contact could contaminate.<br> Personal touches need not be frowned upon like a disease.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If a loved one who had passed on could be revived<br> Every time an old photograph is being looked upon.<br> Contemplations of what had not been could be cremated. </p> <p>It would be good<br> If true love could be drawn on the wall,<br> Bringing joy to all who behold.<br> We do not have to look for love in others’ stories.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If happiness could be worn like a mask,<br> Since no one needs to know of our sadness or sickness.<br> The ugly ducking turns into a beautiful swan in its wilderness. </p> <p>It would be good<br> If forgetting is as easy as cleaning away the wrong word on the board,<br> Like what a good teacher would do.<br> Some memories cannot be erased, no matter how good a teacher is.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If we could stop life at its climax<br> Like what we do to a movie at the touch of a button.<br> But sometimes death comes to those whose flight is interrupted.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If we do not have to speak to be understood<br> The language shared by flowers is but a careless whisper in the wind.<br> We continue to miscommunicate and misunderstand.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If we could know the turning points and the finishing point of life<br> Like when we read a book review.<br> There is always a choice to not open the book at all. </p> <p>It would be good<br> If we could restart every time the beginning is appalling,<br> Like we do a car engine.<br> Some wrongs cannot be undone, no matter how many (re)starting points we have.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If success could be instant with a predetermined winner,<br> Like in a wrestling match.<br> We would not have to struggle only to lose in the end.</p> <p>It would be good<br> If we could store our tears in jewellery boxes<br> And pour them out when no one else would.<br> Not crying has been regarded as a display of strength, and of madness too. </p> <p>It would be good<br> If I need not have to write this poem<br> Like one running out of space for one more verse.<br> No one will read it anyway.</p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/it_would_be_good_a_poem_no_one_would_rea/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>poemhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/it_would_be_good_a_poem_no_one_would_rea/#commentshttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/just_the_beginning_or_the_end/tag:wintersolitude.blog.co.uk,2005-08-09:/2005/08/09/just_the_beginning_or_the_end/Tue, 09 Aug 2005 19:08:16 +0200 <p>I kinda promised myself I would not do a blog. Heaven knows why I am here. Why should personal thoughts, emotions and feelings, melancholic, painful or otherwise, be made available to the masses? For ridicule or admiration? For catharsis or more limbo? I have no idea. </p> <p>No one knows who wintersolitude is, or what it stands for in the seasons of life. (It is by no coincidence that I have chosen to start my blog in a foreign domain.) It might be good for us to fade into oblivion sometimes, in a world that is ever eager to scrutinise one's past and swallow up one's future. But even this might be self- delusional. You might still know who wintersolitude is, just like someone who found out who nightdance was on a personals website. (Actually, I still cannot reconcile myself with that.) </p> <p>Maybe some things are better left unsaid. Maybe some things cannot be left unsaid. Well, yet who knows? This maiden piece might just be my last. What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning.</p> <p>The end is where we start from. </p> <p> <small> <a href="http://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/just_the_beginning_or_the_end/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>beginningreflectionhttp://wintersolitude.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/just_the_beginning_or_the_end/#comments