Somebody once wrote

Blessed are the hearts that can mend
They shall never be broken.

But I wonder, if there is no breaking,
Then there is no healing.
And if there is no healing,
Then there is no learning.
If there is no learning,
Then there is no struggle.

But to struggle is a part of life.

So must all hearts be broken.

Rhythm of the falling rain

For the last week, I have not been able to tell exactly what day it was. The days have seemed to lose their ability to mechanically change from one to another, and I see them come and go with nothing to differentiate them at all, not even the passing night.

I have been accustomed to routine, a life where each day differed little from the one before. I remember little of the routine that carried me throughout the day, but I do recall myself waking up and making fruit juice and watching TV and coming online and playing the piano and going out seeing people.

And then there were times when I carried the laundry downstairs for washing before collecting and ironing the clean ones from the balcony. For a while, I enjoyed being domesticated, however now, I am longing for the days when I can be occupied again with assignments and examinations, although this very soon means being away from home for a period of time.

As I sit here writing this; it is pouring heavily outside. I strain to hear if the neighbor’s baby is crying, but the strong rhythm of the falling rain drowned out all noise for the moment. Somehow I am grateful for it. The repetitive rush of the water is something that is capable of lulling me gently to sleep.

It is a comforting thing, the rain. At least to me it is.

Sometimes by staring blankly at it, I realize the hunger that roars inside of me, the satisfaction, the self assuredness - of individuality, of spirit, of aloneness. Somehow the rain gives me time to think and double think, slowing me down at many occasions. This is not necessarily a bad thing, because the world is moving so fast, that when we are slowed down, we often cannot remember who we actually are.

The thing with slowing down is, we might already be gone soon before long like many of the wildflowers on the plain earth.

Then again guess we will still have many things to write about until then.

Just to see if what we write will become the spark of something significant.

Just to see if what we write will make a difference in changing something for the better.

Just to see if what we write; matters.

Not in the mood

Ever since I quit working, every other weekend is spent like a vacation for me. I suppose one thing good about that is I get more time to be at home than any of the employees I know.

However, when weekends aren’t a bed full of roses, I simply can’t think of anyone whom I could find to really make my bad hair day go away. I don’t really seem to have friends who wake up before noon; hence I don’t normally have my breakfast buddy. Then again, this is not a big matter; a friend once told me that men never really look good in the morning anyways. Equally the same, I don’t think I know how to dress for breakfast anymore. It has been that long.

So when I woke up at six today, I staggered my way down the stairs and retrieved the almost finished Chardonnay in the fridge with a glass. Then I walked up the same way back to my room half awake and thumped the bottle on the table. I poured a decent amount and took a sip. I decided it was time to be grateful and celebrate all that I have now.

Then I sat on the floor with one hand on my tilted head and the other holding the glass and raising it to the ceiling. And I toasted my clever self, and drank.

To those who stick by me. To those who love me when I’m ugly. To those who forget my birthday but remember to put out my bedroom light. To those who never call in the middle of work but never fail to make sure I get chauffeured wherever I go. To those who don’t mind spending twelve straight hours with me. To those who hardly say ‘I love you’ but cannot imagine life without me.

To those who remember me thousands of kilometers away and to those who toasted with me at that moment, my beloved books and loyal clock, my humble bed and mighty wardrobe.

I inhaled deeply before gulping the whole glass in.

It certainly tasted just as bitter as it smelled.

Cheers.

Life is now a blank sheet of paper

So c'mon, write me something, someone.

Some famous last words perhaps ;-)

Another brick on the wall

I squinted at the bright evening sun at the far end of the horizon before turning to walk along the beach. I hardly saw the buildings standing against the light but knew that the sun will set in less than an hour’s time. It was windy as I hear the sea turning in splits and splashes on the shore while the glare of the sun was just the right temperature for a stroll. I was light headed.

I narrowed my eyes to close down my field of vision. A few baby crabs crawling lightly around here and there, but I made no attempts to catch them. They often moved in a balletic path, almost spiraling at times and whirled back up. Funny creatures; but I left them alone.

I thought briefly about the meeting not long ago. It has barely been a week since the day we last met, but fewer meetings than any of us would have liked, is the way it should be, I guess. We had exchanged many of our thoughts, mainly about the shared past we have had about work, our daily lives, hopes and sometimes vaguely, the future.

I often feel liberated when speaking to her. Any kind of self revelation is so rare for me that the mere fact of spending several hours with one human being who focused mainly about what interests me, has given me an unfamiliar sense of release. What will happen in a month time, when the long winter will be spent around the blistering cold with no familiar life?