Thursday, April 10, 2014

Linking with Ink

It happened slowly, gradually, over time. Without even being aware of it, unwittingly; knowing and yet unable, unwilling to take steps to rectify the situation.

The above description could fit a myriad of possibilities. In this instance, I write about the little piece of me that lives in every punctuation and verb and noun. Every pause and breath, every hurried phrase and pitched nuance. Prolific as I am, restless as I have been, waiting as I always will be, writing is not a mere account of my life to be advertised with good luck horse shoes or deep wisdom. Writing is invitation for neither ridicule nor praise, nor scorn, applause, appreciation nor judgment yet if they offer nothing and remove nothing, by the same token they are condemned as useless.

I took time out of writing to live in the "real world" instead of the wonderland of my imagination. In the "real world" I found the repetitiveness of the everyday both comforting and tiresome. I found that the anticipation to "do" was tampered by the arrogance of "can." I found that years can pass without communication and months can fly without taking stock. Without a creative outlet to channel my frustrations, to vent my hurt and reflect sense into a beautiful, tortured world, anxiousness took over, OCD spiked, possessiveness and control became paramount, nothing else mattered but self-preservation and self-reliance. I was riding the wave that God had created, surfing on a board of impossible grace, not wanting the momentum to stop, not wanting the wind to die down as fiercely as they howled, not wanting to catch the whisper to obey.

I could keep these thoughts all to myself. I could spend hours with stained fingers and bruised sheets, penning thoughts to paper, moving limbo towards a fixed course, all in the privacy of my own world.

No solidarity do I seek,
Nor understanding or comment,
Not even a squeak.

No kind word or harsh reply,
No long time friend,
No passer-by.

No talk of hope or encouragement,
Don't speak of worth or accomplishments.

Each to his own,
Each to his strife,
Each has his woe,
Each has his life.

Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Creating or Finding

Two trains move
Are they side-by-side
Or is there too great a divide?

One starts with I
One ends with me
But is it fate or destiny?

Is therefore right?
Or is it because?
Maybe it's down to a coin tossed?

Mutually exclusive
Do we have to choose?
Must it be only win and lose?

Perhaps the answer as always, lies somewhere in between for the more I live out my little creations, the more I find little impressions of my soul in the expression of my doing.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Learning to follow

I like twirling to the beat of my own drum. Unfortunately, when it comes to dancing, twirling to my own rhythm does not sit well with my dance partner who has the business of leading. I am quite sure my over-enthusiasm to twirl myself drives my long-suffering partner to despair that I might be an untrainable buffoon, hell-bent on remaining incorrigibly stubborn and unleadworthy :(

Must learn to control rise, fall, heel, toe, don't bounce, maintain tension and stop twirling myself. So many things to remember.

Saturday, March 29, 2014


I suddenly feel
like things are

What a strange feeling.

What does it mean?

What is coming?

Thank you God...
but what's next?

Sunday, January 12, 2014

If at first you fall...

If at first you fall, then try and try again. Apparently these words of wisdom are a call to persevere against the odds, to look forward to a future achievement, to prove that practice makes perfect.

I like cycling. I don't love it but it's fairly enjoyable and makes for some epic story telling. However, bicycles don't seem to like me very much (yes I personify inanimate objects including attributing them with malicious or mischievous intent) and I have the lacerations to prove it.

Prior to this evening, my last major accident was captured here which resulted in my face getting smashed in like this. But not to worry, thanks to divine TLC and papaya, I've since gone back to looking like any other nondescript Chinese.

After a not-quite-marathon laksa session with Ryl, I had been determined to complete 100 laps of cycling in my lorong. 3 laps in, I thought to throw in road hand signals and before I knew it, I had skinned my left knee and elbow. Oh well.

Will wait for the wounds to dry up then what is there to do but try and try again.

Monday, January 06, 2014

Round and round we go

Like a screw
I turn
Repeat on my head

On my head!
On my head!
The results
Come crashing

Crashing down
What happened again?

And again
I repeat
And the screw
Keeps turning

Friday, January 03, 2014


In 2012, February signaled a new chapter. A chance to break away, to discover, to grow. Much has happened in 2 short years. Knowledge has been granted but trust broken. Truth revealed and lies told. Friendships forged but others released. In all of this, I have been and still am, constantly engaged in a balancing act between being open and being shrewd. Between being trusting and being taken advantage of. Between bonds and superficiality.

This year, February will once again bring about a shift. Another chance to break away, to discover and to grow. Another chance to strike out on my own, to never fit into any one box, to defy gravity.

To be an irreplaceable misfit.

Thursday, January 02, 2014

Being resolute

After a significant hiatus of laying low (being the approximate gestation period of a human or a cow or a premature bear elephant (edited)), I have decided to reopen my musings to public scrutiny.

Although I have always enjoyed writing, I have recently been reminded anew that writing is as cathartic to me as playing or listening to music is to others. It stokes my endorphins the way running energises others. It calms my frazzled nerves and helps me make sense of a broken world, fluctuating emotions and the need for more. I guess one could say that writing is my drug. Zoloft* is my other drug.

I amuse myself sometimes when I reflect on past writings. I wonder where the wisdom has gone or how the wonder evaporated. Much has happened in the last 2 years and many lessons learnt will now only ever be remembered in memory because they were not written.

Throughout my life many people have told me in various ways to simply "grow up." That somehow wonderment and appreciation of the beauty of possibility was futile and foolish. I believed them and ceased writing simply because I thought that I needed to stop living in fantasy and rhetoric and start living in the grown up world of "reality." I am not one to regret even though the lesson learnt is bitter to the taste and raw to the touch.

Dreams can be stripped away but the result is not betterment forged in tough love. Far from it, the searing pain and dull ache that echoed of lost hope and forced self-denial concluded in mistrust, distrust, frustration and even hatred. I do not want to hate. It is a tiresome, burdensome thing to wield disdain as a Silverback does. It is emotionally draining to rise to manic incoherence and after to be numbed by stupor, unable, unwilling, to continue the fight.

Though I may be a cracked shell, I am reminded that it is no longer I that really lives but Christ that lives in me. After the shouting matches and night terrors are through, Christ is still there. Not the naysayers who belittle joy or the well-intentioned who fail to act, but Christ. Who else hears the hollow screams that pierce an already frail spirit? At the end of the day, when time fades and I read these words as though narrated by a different person, I know that Christ lives and because He lives, I will ink paper with my soul and not be afraid.

* Zoloft is my dog.

Sunday, March 17, 2013


Thinking about partitions and compartments and whether things work in boxes, as chapters, in a progressive swirl or as indefinite possibilities. Where dreams have been made, foundations need to be built. That is the difference between a dream and a goal but is it possible that some dreams may never be realised as there may never be foundations strong enough to support them? Foundations are what you put into them. A drop of cement may be a far cry from what is needed but drop by drop, ounce by ounce, perseverance will create the building blocks to hold up dreams once thought impossible. 

Saturday, February 02, 2013

Two years after my last Myers Briggs test, I am now an ENFP. Clearly having personality crisis if I can't maintain one at a constant.

Friday, February 01, 2013

Poetry wells
When the heart be too frail
And the soul is too weak
And the body is tried
And the spirit has died.

Words overflow
When the mind is a mess
The big joke's on the rest
And the end is too far
And the goal a dead star.

Temporary still
After the storm has rolled by
When the waves lower lie
The anchor's fast to the rope
Through despair there is hope. 


Monday, July 30, 2012


Ever since Calvin hit me with predestination and tulips, the best part of a decade has gone by in a blur. I may be slow on the uptake but 10 years is simply ridiculous and yet I would not have it any other way. During this painfully slow process (still processing), it would be alarming to conceive that my years of raging, sulking, whining and tantrum throwing may even be considered "communing" with God but I suppose some mammals were simply born stubborn. Two in particular were of special interest to me and broke down the concept of predestination in my head in a foolish enough way to render me thick.

It is no easy task to feed on the Living Word. It may be balmy words of wisdom to some, but to others it pierces the void with nothing but the stark realization of naked emptiness. From the time I even dared imagine that God's sovereignty meant more than merely an assent to my choice, my soul has been slowly shredded inside out and what was once self-righteous tapestry now more closely resembles tattered jellyfish without the dignity of any sting. This is the battle I wake to these days and the dreams I live through each night. That as I chase to stuff my life more of Word, it eludes me like a secret ingredient that refuses to be named.

I thought that once I answered the question of whether I was a sheep or a goat, that all other questions would fall into place but in seeking to know the answer, everything that once held joy has fallen out of place. In seeking to find and maybe even create myself, I have lost the reason that prompted my seeking; in seeking to know, I now understand even less. Tonight despite a ringing migraine and an urge to kiss the loo bowl, it crept up on me that the answer lies not in whether I am a sheep or a goat. For my being a sheep will not justify my inaction and my being a goat will not excuse my action. Indeed, if I am a goat, and this I may struggle with for the rest of my days, then may I burst my innards for those who may be sheep.

I rest tonight in green pastures, turning my woolly-brained head to the hills, waiting for my shepherd to come.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Isn't the restlessness suppose to stop?
That's what the books seem to say
When you become a child of God
The fight and flight will turn astray.

So what then when the fight grows fierce?
And when flight spins out of atmosphere?
What then when my deepest fear
Is not being free to wander clear?

What then when the fury brews
Until the vessel breaks apart
The content irretrievable
Yet I would rather be the broken lark.

Thought of fight to flee I find
Weighs heavily on a troubled mind
I am not where I should be
Yet verily where none say to me.

Is it bad unwholesome yearn
To not want to turn or return
Until my insides tear and crack
No holding down not looking back

I have yet to know the dreams
That people say the future brings
That everyone but me agrees
Is written down as destiny.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

No words left

This fucked up world is mine alone
I won't stand for your sticks and stones
You don't know how things turn or steer
You wanted to get out of here.

I laid it all down before
Yet you all shoved me through that door
Now don't you dare turn round and glare
Point that finger another way.

What's done is done and no regrets
But you never thought of consequence
You never cared that I was fine
You thought my friends were a waste of time

Why should I listen to what you say
When you don't know my night from day
When all you want is what you see
And all that means nothing to me. 

Maybe I should just stay clear
Move out, leave and disappear
Cut all ties, don't call, don't try
Just stop the truth, just stop the lies.

I just don't give a damn no more
Whatever, just shove me through that door
I know the blame will come again
Forgetting is alas in vain.