Q: How Do You Fight The Loneliness?

A: It varies from person to person, really. Some people find refuge in books, some in movies. Others still seek solace in the darkness of clubs; the frenzy of dancing. Some throw themselves at their work, some at the harsh mercies of alcohol. Some claim that certain permutations of the above work exceptionally well, alcohol and clubbing, or books and movies, or any other you might care to choose.

I find the secret lies in crying. There is nothing more cathartic, nothing purer than tears. There is nothing like crying to reconcile ourselves with the fact that we are awfully frighteningly alone. That the solitude is very real. Once you know that, it doesn't affect you any longer, not really. Then you can move on.

The Day They Took Our Hearts Away.

When I was a child I used to fall asleep against my father’s chest, the regular, rhythmic beat of what I thought was his heart lulling me to sleep. I thought it the most comforting sound in the whole world, and I would sleep soundly, knowing that I was safe and snug and secure. Now I’m terrified by the memory of that sound. It makes me sick.

The ceremony was to be performed tomorrow, and I was one of the five who would be subjected to it. They say it is to celebrate our coming-of-age, but I know better. I know what goes on in the House. Every year the girls and boys who’d seen 18 summers would enter that House and emerge as men and women, finally being part of the System.

The System ran everything around here. It created an ideal world. The System knew everything about everyone in it, and what it did was match stuff together. The men and women who were the most compatible were allocated to each other, producing maximum happiness and minimum domestic violence. Jobs were assigned to the people who were best suited to them, resulting in great efficiency and productivity. Those who were neither compatible nor capable were sent to sleep.

This was the fate for those disabled in accidents, or pets who had grown too old. Or those who had fallen too gravely ill, be it persons or pets. These were solutions to the mistakes of the past. In school we listened in horror as our teachers told us stories of how infectious diseases wiped out thousands upon thousands of people. This was mind-boggling stuff; we couldn’t grasp the concept of thousands of people living in close enough proximity to die of each other’s sicknesses, let alone allowing those infected to walk freely amongst them.

Our teachers told us about the enormous drain on resources old and disabled people represented. They told us what to do when (assuming we were lucky enough to be spared by disease and disability) our fiftieth summer came: enter the door at the back of the House and sleep. They liked to say that you only entered the House twice: Once at your “birth” (into adulthood that was) and once at your death. They sounded both like deaths to me.

“Jean, we can’t do this. We have to run away from this place!” Jean was the best and only friend I had. We had grown up and somehow managed to stick together despite our different backgrounds. My parents were doctors while her family ran the store. The System generally frowns upon people from different classes mingling with each other, but since we were merely children we were allowed to get away with it.

“I don’t know Henry. Where would we go? What would we do? We can’t just leave everything and everyone behind like that...” One day we had been out in the fields when we decided to take a break, and just lay down on the grass. I was busy trying to make out the shapes in the clouds when she put her head on my chest. I was startled and my mouth had suddenly turned curiously dry and my heart started thumping much too loudly, I was sure. I decided to keep silent and perfectly still, just in case the slightest movement would dislodge her. I became very conscious of my breathing and prayed I wouldn’t hyperventilate. I didn’t want to give myself away.

“Well… I don’t know. Away. That’s all that matters. Who is this ‘everyone' you’re talking about anyway? Your family? What we have between us is… different, are you just gonna give it up like that?” After a few moments, she lifted her head with a quizzical look on her face. Oh damn it, I thought, I screwed up, I knew I would. Then she said “Your heartbeat, it’s different. It isn’t the same as my parents’.”

“What do you mean different? You always say that. I don’t know what you mean when you say that.” So I had to put my head on her chest, to determine if it was just me. It wasn’t. I cast my mind back to the memories of my father’s heartbeat. And then I knew. His had been too regular, its rhythm lacked humanity. It was mechanical.

“I… I don’t know.” When we were very young, we had this one day where we were to show our form teacher our appreciation for her. We were very excited about it and had made elaborate preparations for it. As the end of class approached, the cake was wheeled out and we leapt out of our seats and shouted “We love you Miss Fritz!” She recoiled as if struck a blow. She gaped for a bit and then decided anger was probably the best response. “Never say that word again. Never.” And there she stood, in her murderous rage while maintaining the stoniest of silences, until the bell rang.

“You don’t know? Hah. I don’t know what I was expecting of you, but it was definitely better than that. For all your grand notions you’re surprisingly empty. You’re just another scared kid.” We didn’t talk about it afterwards. We never did. All of us were so deeply shamed by the episode that it had become as much of a taboo as the word itself. It had scared us and scarred us and we would never forget the lesson we learnt that day. And no matter how inadequate the words remaining in our vocabularies seemed we never could bring ourselves to say it again. It is funny how one forbidden word can create such a gaping hole in our ability to describe what we feel.

“Don’t do this, please. I’m scared, you’re scared. We’re all scared. But at least we have each other. We can face our fears together, everything will be alright. You have to trust me. I’ll see you by the fields at four in the morning. Don’t worry, okay?” She didn’t answer. I made my way home. The reality of my leaving this place forever didn’t set in until I started packing. It is weird to consider which of your possessions are necessary for survival. Necessary means one thing when you’re at home and your only worries are either about school or girls. It takes on a whole new meaning when you’re wondering how to survive the next few days, and more, out on your own where the things we hold dear, like money or fancy clothes, are worth nothing.

I was wracked with doubts all night. Would we be able to last more than a few days? Could we have a life outside of the place we had called home all our lives? Would we be happier than if we stayed? Would she be there?

I struggled to stay awake. It’s always the times when you desperately want not to sleep that it sneaks up on you and takes hold of you just like that. You’re asleep without even knowing it. So I paced around in the dark, making sure I was deadly quiet while doing so. I double and triple checked the contents of my bag. I looked around me to ensure I wouldn’t leave anything essential behind. In the throes of a restless night like this, it is a comfort to know that the relentless march of time never stops, no matter how slow it might seem to be creeping along. It’s still ticking away, draw strength from that.

And then it was time to leave. The night air seemed to have a sharp taste in my mouth. The glow of the streetlamps seemed to have an otherworldly tinge to it. There was a sort of desperate clarity to everything, as if my brain were highlighting what I was leaving behind in a last-ditch attempt to stop me.

“Henry.” My heart soared, the last flight it would ever take, though I didn’t know it yet. “I can’t do it. I can’t forsake everything I’ve got here to go on this wild adventure with you. This is ridiculous, it’s madness.” I think I had always known what her answer would be, although her appearance here, now, had given me something that was almost hope.

“Hah. And you called me scared? Look at you. Terrified of the unknown. Clinging on to the familiar just because that’s all you’ve ever known. You’re gonna let them rip your heart out just because you’re afraid. You... you’re just like the rest of them. You make me sick.” I turned away from her and stared into the field and tried to hold back my tears. I didn’t know how to be angry and cry at the same time.

“Let them rip my heart out? No, Henry, that’s what you just did.” And she walked away. I still didn’t turn around. I wanted very badly not to care, but I did. I wanted to turn around and chase after her and tell her not to go and that I wish we could be back on that field and feel her head resting against me again. I wanted to shout “I love you” at her departing figure but even then, even right at the end, I couldn’t.

I stood there, shaking in my futile anger. Anger at myself, at Jean, at the whole damned System. It felt like there was a lump at the back of my throat and it was like there was something with clammy hands holding my heart in its grip.

I swallowed to clear the constriction in my throat. I took a step forward. I stopped. I couldn’t do it. Not alone. I turned around and I started walking. To the House.

Except For Matters That Do;

Funny how it is that we can talk about all sorts of matters, except for those that actually do matter. Funny how we can say anything except for that which we truly want to say. It's the most important things which we are the most afraid of, and so our lips are forever sealed.

The Break Down Of Fortified Hearts.

You of heart fortified
I have
Hammer and ladder
And battering ram
I have
Determination and desperation
And stamina proportionate
You have
No chance!

Connexions.

It's incredible how people manage to sometimes connect so instantly, so randomly. All of a sudden you're talking to someone whom you've never spoken to before, whom you've never particularly cared for. Just like that. You barely remember the origins of your friendships do you? You wonder, why did we ever start talking in the first place? But that's how it is. It's a mystery.

It's incredible also how people manage to disconnect as well. You look back and you think: Wow, we were so close just a few months ago, what happened to us? How do we cut ourselves off from the people around us so easily? It's so easy it's scary. How is it that we manage to lose our connections just like that? Maybe it's not enough that we look back on these things and say "Oh, well." with a sigh and a little sadness, and then do absolutely nothing, carry on with moving on. It's so very senseless.

Night Mares.

Night falls. The last remnants of twilight creep across the sky, slowly, silently, a retreat from its losing battle against the night. One more day in the eternal struggle between the forces of light and darkness. I feel my dread rising, almost as if it were threatening to suffocate me. I almost wish it would succeed. I pray, but I know not to whom, not anymore. I lay in the comfort and dubious safety of my bed, whose sheets have long since been soaked through with my sweat. And tears.

It is no secret that there are hours in seconds and years in minutes, on both extremes of expectation. I must have aged millenia caught in the in-between. Maybe tonight it will finally be over. Maybe it will never end. Then I heard the sound, carried on the wind, mingled with the smell of the sea. I could never look upon the sea again, and not feel the taint.

White, red, black and pale, they rode up to me. Some people say that after dread, anything that finally happens is actually relief, because nothing can be worse than the bad thoughts in your head. They are wrong. I screamed as they picked me up and carried me away, until I could scream no longer, and still I tried.

I imagine we must have travelled vast distances, for with every blink I would open my eyes to different landscapes of different worlds, both wondrous and terrifying. There was once I gleamed a world where there were little lights turned on around me in all directions, and yet there was too an endless darkness stretching into infinity. Those little pinpricks of lights were pleasantly reassuring, but the overwhelming darkness made me feel so small anyway.

Whoa! We came to a stop. I had come now to the edge of my dreamscape. This was where my dreams took shape and my nightmares came to life. Living a dream life, everything else forgotten, I might be a doctor one day, or an astronaut another, and be living in a house by the river, or in the mountains, never by the sea, with the woman of my dreams, whose face I could never remember. That's how it always begins, with me perfectly happy. Then the spectres appear, dark apparitions I can only see from the corner of my eyes.

Then the monsters. In any guise, in any size. The hounds with their otherwordly cries, on the Last Hunt. A beautiful child who'd have been perfect if not for the stitching around her neck and her shoulders and her waist, and who had buttons for eyes. An abomination who could only have been from a child's nightmare, but who'd always been lurking around the back of my head, all twenty metres of it, with elongated fangs and sharp claws, and horns and scales and blood soaked wings.

Everynight we performed the same ritual, like a grand dance in the ballroom of my mind, whose dancers wearily execute the same steps over and over again. My dream world gradually gets overrun, my house by the river, or in the mountains, would be razed. The woman of my dreams would be torn from my arms and I would not be able to bear looking at her fate, and I would clamp my eyes shut in horror, the final betrayal of the woman whom I would have loved beyond words. And they would close in on me, and I'd be able to feel their hot breath on my cheek, and the gnashing of their teeth, then I'd wake up with the sun shining on my face and my alarm ringing.

And then it'd be night again. An endless cycle of bliss and loss. Then one day I entered the dream, and I knew how it would all end, right from the start. I gazed upon all that I had around me, and I saw with frightening clarity how everything would get swept up by the fury of my nightmares. And I saw too the woman of my dreams, and this time I told myself, no, I cannot forget her face this time, so I focused on each and every one of her features, from her ears, to her lips, her nose, all of it, and lastly the eyes. Eyes so beautiful they could not be of this world.

Go. Go away, I said. She half turned around in surprise, her lips half open as she could not find the words to respond. No. No I won't, she said. The words, the way she said it, broke my heart and almost too my resolve. I took a deep breath, and continued. You have to go. You can't stay here. I don't want you by my side. It destroyed me to say those words, but I had to. I wanted to hold her close and cry into her hair but I couldn't. I stood where I was.

Okay. She nodded. I'm sorry. And she left.

It took all I had, and I was left staring blankly at the walls of a once-perfect house. Awaiting what I knew was inevitably coming. I took solace from the fact that she wouldn't be caught up in it this time. She didn't deserve to have to face my nightmares. That was my job. So I waited. For what had to happen eventually. Except that it didn't.

The sun was up but it felt different. I couldn't seem to recall anything of last night, except the knowledge of what exactly didn't happen.

And then once again night was fast approaching. I didn't know what to expect. Here, now, seasalt in the wind. But there was nothing else but silence. No rumble of approaching hooves. So I stepped out and this is what I saw.

White, red, black and pale they were. And three of four were dead. Sitting astride the pale horse was a woman. She turned to look at me. Her eyes. Your nightmares will haunt you no longer, nor your dreams. I nodded mutely, but I couldn't take my eyes off hers. And then I knew. It must have shown on my face for she then said, Weren't you happy? Everynight, you got to live your dream life. Everynight, you got to love.

Yes, I was. But I was also afraid.

Okay. She nodded. And she left.

You Could Be Teflon.

Maybe you just let it all slide. Insults, compliments, the world. You could be so impervious to it all. But please don't let yourself be Teflon. Then nothing sticks. People get tired of trying so hard, only to slip away, again. Let people hold on to you, sometimes. We're not all bad. Stop fighting so hard to be free, cause absolute freedom is to be found only in absolute loneliness, and we weren't made for that.

The History of Sadness (or Loss.)

There are three main arcs to the History. The starting points of each of these arcs are:

The Discovery of Love.
The Discovery of Better. (Good was not good enough.)
The First Act of Violence. (Perhaps also the Discovery of Difference.)

By no means are these arcs exclusive to each other. If anything they are impossibly entwined. And with them the fortunes of the human race as well.

There is no man alive who can chronicle the History in its entirety. Nor anything which could contain it. Not man with his mighty pen. Nor computers and their proud terrabytes. They are not enough. But littered throughout the History are many events which bear looking into. They include -


First encounter between man and woman. (Some reports indicate Neanderthals. Others purport their names were Adam and Eve.)

First illness and subsequent death.

War. Of particular note: The Great War (1914-1918) and the Second World War (1939-1945)

Departures at an airport. (Unique entry. Ongoing.)

557 Steps.

557 steps. That is the number of steps he takes to reach the train station. 23 minutes. That is the time the 7:20 train takes to reach his workplace. Monday to Friday, everyday without fail, that is what he does. That is what he has done for the past 20 years. Like clockwork, 557 steps, 23 minutes, the 7:20 train, 8-5 daily. Nothing changes.

He does not take sick very often, and when he does he informs his boss promptly. He never causes a fuss. His boss likes him, and so do his colleagues. Nobody ever says that it might be due to his lack of ambition. He is perfectly content where he is, and they are perfectly content to let him stay where he is.

He has a wife waiting for him when he reaches home at 5:43pm everyday. She welcomes him with a "You're back" and dinner. After dinner he settles down to watch the television, while she clears the dishes. Sometimes when she is done, she joins him on the couch. Some days he reads the papers instead. She does not join him when he does that.

She and he are without child. He says he does not blame her, and she says likewise. But sometimes, secretly, each holds the other to account.

If you were to ask him if he loved her, he would say yes. But there would be a slight pause before he says so. And if you were to ask him the same next year, the pause would be a little longer. That pause gets longer every year. But always the answer remains, like those 557 steps, the same.

Perhaps he does not lie. But his is a love dead. A love left dry.

Many years ago he did not merely love her, he was in love with her. He loved her with all his being. He longed to hold her in his arms. He lived and he breathed for her. They were in love, and they were happy.

But time, and life, has its way of dulling the keenest emotions. Happiness made way for contentedness. Love, for affection. A marriage built on love has now become something mechanical, and it goes like clockwork, devoid of heart and soul. And this is how it is going to end, 557 steps at a time.

I Could Be The Perfect Prologue.

Doesn't it strike you sometimes how you seem to be the perfect prologue? You set the stage. Introduce the main characters (of whose company, unfortunately, you do not belong to.) And then you are gone, you never come back. You might even be forgotten.

Or sometimes, you seem to be playing the bit part. An irrelevant part of someone else's story (more fool you, who thought you were the leading man!) who will appear in the credits only as "Boy #1" or perhaps "Man in blue shirt"

Do you ever smile a wry greeting to a former lover? When you see or hear or think of something that reminds you, and you cannot help but smile to yourself, and maybe rue anew all the what-ifs and could-haves (and should-haves too)?

True Love.

There was a girl. Her real name is of no import, so we shall call her Jane.

Jane was an extraordinarily ordinary girl. This wouldn't have been a problem if the word "ordinary" hadn't taken on an extraordinary meaning. The word now stood for all that a person shouldn't be, in this day and age of extraordinariness. Everyone was a star in his or her own way, everyone the owner of a little badge with the words "You are unique!" printed on it, commonly accompanied by a picture of a star. Everyone believed in their own uniqueness.

Except for Jane. For no one could so openly lie, and tell her she was special, so unspecial was she. The only thing remarkable about her was her plainness, and of course nobody had the heart to tell her this.

Jane fell in love a number of times, primarily in her youth. Falling in love got increasingly harder as she got older. When she was young there was plenty to love. The soft scent of flowers. The majesty of a mountain. Gentle rain on a sleepy afternoon. The rainbow after the rain.

But her grown-up mind dissects all these. Merely a somewhat pretty effect caused by the diffraction of light through water. The result of plate tectonics. Life had ground her down, her love and her enthusiasm for life.

There were times when Jane felt acutely lonely. Even more than usual. The onset of which could have been caused by any number of things, say, a good movie. A love song. A book. Sunset. In this heightened state of loneliness, a certain despair would begin to gnaw at her. She felt that something had to be done.

Cue the boys. Lonely boys, to be sure. These never quite worked out though, despite all her earnest efforts. But none of them ever truly loved her. And if she were to be perfectly honest, she would admit that the converse was true too.

But sometimes it felt so real. Like there was so much more to be had. With some of them, she felt as if she could almost be happy. Always, she thought: I am in love! only to find out that no, she wasn't, after all.

And she discovered a truth: An illusion of love is created when two lonely people, each desperate to fall in love, meet.

On Happiness.

Do I believe in the promise of happiness? I do. Do you too? I hope you do.

But there is something flawed with the whole concept of happiness, insofar as we'll never be able to answer the most pertinent question of all. Am I truly happy?

How do we know we can't be happier? How do we know that what we've got is as good as it gets? That we should (if ever) stop in our pursuit of happiness? And to finally look at ourselves and sigh contentedly, saying, "This then, is true happiness."

The problem is that happiness is an entirely arbitrary emotion. There is no tipping point (or at least not that I've experienced) where you suddenly realize, I am Happy. Maybe you're always cheating yourself when you think that, for surely you can be happier, somehow, no?

How do you know you've not made that one fatal mistake, one bad decision, previously, that has turned your life all awry? And that true 100% happiness is now forevermore barred to you. If you'd gone to a different school.. Not said that one word to that one person.. Not decided to cross the road at that moment.. Decided to tarry for another 5 minutes.. Who knows? The smallest things could have made the world of difference to you. Maybe you were 5 minutes away from meeting your 100% lover, but you decided on a change of shoes at the last moment. (I could be entirely wrong in equating true love to happiness, but I certainly do believe in that ideal. I digress)

But we can choose to be content. I believe contentment is more of an attitude you can choose to adopt. Happiness, though, is a different animal altogether. I believe happiness to be a live thing. Wild and tempestuous, it comes in waves, and sweeps you off your feet on tides of joy. Other times, it is calm, soothing, and envelops you and you are allowed to drift off and away into your dream of dreams. Happiness is a gift. The most excruciating gift you can ever hope to receive. And thus the most precious.

But there are those who have spent their lives searching for happiness. By spent, I mean just that. Some of them might have found it, but not realized it. And so they carry on with their searching, never knowing that they'd left happiness behind, inexorably traveling further and further away into that land called Morose. And some of them never ever find it, for any of a myriad reasons. Destiny/Fate (whatever the Vagaries decide to call themselves right now) or sheer luck, an entire life of misfortune and missteps. Where maybe that ha'step to the right could have brought him face to face with true happiness, a Happily Ever After waiting to happen.

Hmm. I like that. That out there somewhere, a Happily Ever After patiently awaits our discovery, whenceupon we can make up our Once Upon a Times.

Words.

What are words? Words are cheap and tears flow freely. They come easy. Words are however you want them to be (except when, under the most beautiful circumstance, words do not suffice) and you can paint any picture you want with them. Any portrayal whatsoever you wished. Artificial. What then, the value of words? A sophisticated branch in the development of communication and language (which includes body language and the like.) Words have the ability to mean nothing at all.

Yeah. And I realize that all I am, is full of words. I build myself up on words and most of the things I do are centered around words. But What Are Words indeed? Maybe all I'm doing is absolutely meaningless. I've built myself on a house of cards. A precipitous edifice. And one day it will all come tumbling down. That's how I feel sometimes.

Of A Mediocre Dreamer; Dreams

Skyglow. The dreams of a million people illuminating the nightsky.
Skyglow. The dreams of a million people exposed; caught like deer in headlights.

Maybe if we keep very still and remain perfectly silent, we will be able to hear the plaintive cries of our dead and dying dreams, all about us. Cut down by someone else, or afflicted of the poison that is reality, or left to slowly die by the wayside of our minds. An ode to the dreams we have left behind/outgrown/been forced to abandon/forgotten.

Wake Up.

Arcade Fire - Wake Up

Something filled up
My heart with nothing
Someone told me not to cry

But now that I'm older
My heart's colder
And I can see that it's a lie

This part was so awesome in how it doesn't seem to make sense, at least not on the surface. He's older and his heart's colder (so well-put, really) but he realizes it's a lie - to not cry, that is. He realizes that there are things worth crying over, that it's a lie when people tell you to harden your heart and to bury things (which slowly eat you up, fact.) and to repress your emotions, and you slowly and inexorably become cold and unfeeling and emotionless. Don't believe them. Never never never never believe what they say. Never.

Children, wake up
Hold your mistake up
Before they turn the summer into dust

I think this is about how we shouldn't be afraid to make mistakes. To never let our fears govern us.

If the children don't grow up
Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up
We're just a million little gods causing rainstorms
Turning every good thing to rust.

This part was just simply brilliant. The use of the simplest words here to paint pictures so breathtaking. What an amazing way to describe growing up - Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up - and I choose to think of the second part as a picture of people all over the world crying. Goosebumps.

I guess we'll just have to adjust

I thought this was such a sad statement to describe the world as it is, that sooner or later all of us are going to have to adjust, to this grown-up world of indifference and hurt. And because I think that this song is essentially about growing up and lost innocence, that adjusting is such a sad way to describe growing up. Ohwell.

With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going to be
When the reaper, he reaches and touches my hand

With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going
With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going

You better look out below!

I loved this part because of how childlike it is, what with the music and the lightning bolts. And the part about the reaper is such a poetic way to describe death isn't it. Somehow the lyrics harken back to the days of our childhood where we were allowed to dream of having superpowers like flying (on wings, or on winged shoes, or on thunderclouds, or on magic carpets, or) and being able to hurl lightning bolts and fire and ice etc etc.

So maybe it's a way of saying, be a child again, and "you can see where you are going" i.e. enlightenment or something along those lines.

My Body Is A Cage.

I know that one day I'll regret my lack of dancing bones and that one day I'll long to dance with the girl I love (with all my heart, both the longing and the loving) but that I'll be unable to cause I'm just so inadequate. And that my body will never be able to convey in its truest form, the expression of love I have so painstakingly conjured up in my mind. And that one day I will be so heartbroken cause I'll never be able to fully describe to the girl I love how much I love her, because of the limitations that our bodies, that words, language, impose upon us. And I think of how beautiful it would be if our minds could one day dance with each others', I think of our thoughts taking flight and interweaving in the most beautiful manner possible.

The Purple Turtle.

There was this turtle
He was purple
So he was, a purple turtle!

Purple turtle's name was Myrtle
At super slow speeds he could hurtle
But he was, no wartortle.

:(

_____

There is magic in the midnight sun
When the stars decline to glow

There is wonder in the parched ocean
Where the water never flows

There is beauty in the flightless bird
Whose wings refuse to grow

There is anguish in us mice and men
For love we do not know.


___________________________

His smile was torn
His soul was worn
All the pain that he had borne.
But what, truly, do we mourn
That on his sleeve was still adorn
His heart.

To The Laughing City.

Follow me now, to the laughing city! It is brilliant there! A brilliant facade. It is mesmerizing. We all look terribly happy there, we do! We really do.

We laugh for those who've lost their laughter. We laugh for those whom we've lost. We laugh for the dying, the sick, the poor (in spirit or otherwise), we laugh for those who laugh no longer.

For this is the laughing city.

There is a splendid painting we have there. Resplendent! It is of a woman bent over the body of her slain husband. Her face is a picture of anguish. We gaze upon it and we laugh! Ha ha ha!

There is more than a touch of madness in our proceedings. There is madness, and tears, in our laughing eyes. We shall speak of it no more.

Follow me now, to the laughing city! Ha ha ha.

The Invincibility Of Children.

How carefree life used to be. Reminiscing on the times back then, looking at secondary school kids just hanging around the park, a primary schoolkid walking to school. I remember back then, you didn't have to bother about anything other than yourself.

I don't mean being entirely selfish or self-centred or anything. It's how.. nothing seemed to affect you. The world of adults was extremely distant, possibly alien, to us back then. Money, work, stress, love even, never infringed upon our happy little worlds. I couldn't have given two hoots to the people I saw, JC kids, NSmen, working adults, whoever. My self-contained bubble was more than enough for me.

Those were the days you could walk home in the rain. You could jump into puddles and feel nothing but elation. You could lie down on a grass patch and even roll around. You could spend hours at a playground. You could get all grimy and slimy and seriously quite gross. You didn't have to worry.

You didn't worry about your clothesgetting wet, or dirty, or wtv nonsense little kids get up to. (Which is alot of nonsense, and of course, we didn't think we were little kids back then.) You didn't think you'd get all itchy and get rashes or sth when you took a rough and tumble on the grass or mud or sth.

Which is quite amazing actually. Somehow I never got a single grass rash or sth until I was much older. I think it's cause of that belief in your own invincibility you had when you were a kid. You never believed anything bad or harmful could every happen to you. I've always believed in belief, that it creates some sort of aura around you or sth.

Those were the days when all you had to do when you liked a girl was to, naturally, annoy the hell out of her as best as you can. And I was good. I shot rubber bands, shot paper pellets using rubber bands, and was generally a world class pest. She did like me back eventually. :)

Then you got older and became more aware of how you affect the people around you, and of how you've been affected by the world. And you lose that belief in your invincibility. And everything else goes tumbling after.

The Diving Bell & The Butterfly.

The women we were unable to love, the chances we failed to seize, the moments of happiness we allowed to drift away.

The keenest regret we feel comes about from the smallest things. The smallest of near-misses. That your life could have been so different (better? perhaps not) if you had done, or not done, something. And your destiny seems to hinge on the smallest of decisions, does it not?

And so the onus is on us to do right by ourselves. To explore every possible avenue of happiness that life avails us. To catch, like butterflies, every fleeting passing moment of happiness and hold on to it (and keep them alive, unlike those poor exquisite pressed butterflies.) To leave no stone unturned in our grand quest for that quasi-mythical thing they call happiness.

But yeah, I wouldn't want a life of regrets. So maybe every time I'm in a conundrum I should go, Why not? and just go for it, the better choice rather than the safer one. I wouldn't want to be the kind of person who looks back at his/her life and go, sigh, what if.

Since we're somewhere on the subject. I think it's time to start living life to the fullest. A life like that though, I have decided, does not promise happiness. It is perfectly possible that someone who lives his life fully is not has happy as someone who doesn't, as it is vice versa. Nonetheless. When given a choice, I'll take the scenic route. Eat the foods I've never eaten before. Choose the unfamiliar.

The King Of Me.

The king of Me
Lonely.
His kingdom built
On jealousy.
He was bitter, and angry
Ugly.
Until he met somebody
Needless to say, she was a she.
She very almost changed his life
He wanted her, as his wife!
"I'll gamble away my throne
For a chance, the slightest chance
To call you my own."
She declined gently.
She stole away;
His breath away.
So there was he,
The king of Me.
Lonely.