Tag: brain dump

  • An overdue brain dump

    An overdue brain dump

    Haste is from Satan, and clemency is from Allah. These words have plagued my thoughts in recent months. The feeling of compulsion to take action because of the frustration of revisited and avoidable contentions becomes difficult to subdue when the desperation for peace and ease scratches inside my chest, threatening to suffocate the enthusiasm out of me.

    Words like cacophony and incessant ring in my ears as if desperately colluding to express the noise that rattles around my being. It’s a bundle of colourful and flowery expressions that offer no relief, but only more clutter. With every expression is a need for reception. If not received meaningfully, it negates any need for expressing it at all.

    Life continues to teach in ways that destroy any traditional norms of imparting wisdom. Those who seek but understand not what is required to acquire, are often dealt the most brutal blows that test their convictions in ways that threaten to unseat their character. This has been me for the longest time.

    The relief from corporate drudgery lasted for some few years before the weightiness returned when the themes showed up in my personal spaces once more. However, my capacity to navigate it was much improved and my opportunity for finding solace in my own quiet spaces is irreplaceable. The decision to leave corporate continues to resonate as a resounding moment of inspired wisdom. The path has not been easy, nor comfortable in any way, but the fruits of such labour have been enormously rewarding beyond even the scope of the entirety of my achievements in corporate.

    It’s hard to imagine how the peak of my 25+ year career doesn’t compare to the most mediocre of achievements in my new journey, when by comparison in material terms, there is none. In material terms, corporate wins every day of the week. But in terms of life, it fails dismally at every turn.

    The imposter in me has triumphed more often than it should, which has left me debilitated and doubting on matters that I have no basis of comparison against which to determine its feasibility or its futility. Perhaps that is what troubles me most about this new path. It is unfamiliar and lacks in substantial support from those around me. I am therefore my own sounding board, my own echo chamber, and my own critic. I’m usually brutal in all regards.

    Nonetheless, receding demands that I fight my nature. That is a fight that I have always lost, so I know better than to even try. Inevitably, I lose the fight and then blaze a path of inspired destruction of everything that I believe needs to be destroyed for me to rise above the drudgery of duty and servitude.

    Duty and servitude is only such when it is out of obligation rather than purpose. Purpose is lost when we focus on fulfilling responsibilities and obligations while claiming our rights. A right claimed is never enjoyed. The contamination of the motivation behind the one who fulfils it through obligation denies me the sweetness of its fulfilment. That, in a nutshell, in a cocoon of complexity, in a little ravage of reality, is the struggle of life itself.

    To be purposeful through mindful subscription is the greatest challenge that we face as humans. We are too easily distracted by what we need, and therefore lost faith and trust in the natural consequence of living purposefully, and with grace. But grace is lost when dignity is traded for social admiration. Thus, we trade our souls for the promise of peace, only to discover that we lost both in the transaction with our demons.

    I sometimes scroll back to old ramblings from more than a decade ago to determine if I have grown or changed, or perhaps lost my way since. Surprisingly, I keep discovering sentiments and observations contained in my writings that serve as a reminder of where I’m at, not knowing whether that is a reflection of the absence of growth, or the confirmation of the distillation of wisdom in those moments that offer a timeless insight into my state of being.

    The day when the merits of my contemplations will be determined is still a distant way off, at least from my current vantage point. But, if I have learnt anything these past five decades and a bit, it is that vantage points change more regularly than the seasons, and with it what seemed unattainable before is soon taken for granted, and what seemed obvious before suddenly appears deeply cryptic. It is therefore foolhardy and somewhat arrogant to assume that any single moment in time is a moment of absolute realisation, absolute connection, or absolute truth.

    As long as I breathe, I evolve. Not as a body, but as a being. And theories of evolution hold absolutely no answers in such evolution.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    Optimism is not always enough. It helps, but sometimes, I just want things to go easy for a bit. If I knew that a single moment of trusting someone could lead to a lifetime of struggle, I would not have been so trusting, or at least not so generous with my trust.

    But spilled milk and water under bridges offer no comfort. They only offer resolve. The resolve to move on rather than to stare pointlessly at the mishaps of my life. So I move on, each time with hope and optimism, each time having the wind knocked out of my sails, constantly reminded of how much easier it would be if only…if only they played their part..or they appreciated what they had…or they gave more and didn’t just take all the time…or…if only they honoured their trust, as much as I try to honour mine.

    But that’s when I’m reminded of the poison of self-pity. That loathsome indulgence of focusing on how bad I have it, while growing bitter at those who consciously and unknowingly contribute towards my straitened state. Sometimes deliberately, but most times obliviously.

    The trials of life are visited on those who are most aware of the human struggle of those around them. It compels one to be more gracious, more understanding, and more forgiving towards the shortcomings of those who do not do their fair share in our lives. But principle dictates that we do not abandon our station because in so doing, we contribute towards that very condition of theirs that subsequently weighs us down. That’s how we become part of the problem, when we abandon the burden of being part of the solution.

    The relentless charge of life felt exciting in youth, but exhausting in my later years. There are days when I feel hopeful and passionate, with purpose and ambition. And there are days when I feel like remembering to hydrate is a life-sucking chore. The only thing that changes between the two is my indulgence in self-pity, or in my fixation on what is owed to me.

    At such times, I remind myself that this world was created for respite, not for justice. What we give, will rarely be received in equal measure. Therefore, we must find a joy other than the expression of gratitude, or reciprocation, if we hope to sustain the very essence that breathes life into our waking hours.

    It is the gratitude of who I am that I lose sight of, before the challenges begin to take their toll on me. I’m most weighed down when I look longingly at a significant other, waiting for a sign of sincere gratitude for, or at the least, understanding of what it takes for me to persevere beyond what has already transpired in my life. It is that pause for such validation that begins the slip into that soulless space of ingratitude, and of being left feeling wanting after exhausting my spirit in the service of those around me.

    I think death will approach when picking myself up from that space will feel like a trial too many, or an investment too daunting in hope that is forever fleeting. On the balance, I am human, and I am needy of that balance that is only found in being appreciated by another. Not by any other, but by one who sees me, and not the tokens of who I am. One who sees the scars and bruises that tear at my being, each time I rise to face another round of brutal conflict with my demons, and the demons of those around me. It is only the loving gaze of one who sees all this of me, and more, that will ever set the scales in balance for this life to feel like a trial worth overcoming.

    In the absence of such an embrace, it all feels dutifully empty. Without purpose beyond the belief that there is purpose in it. And the only motivation to persevere being the belief in the value of what I wish to create. Not even for the awaiting reward of what I’m doing. Because, if I believe the promise of my Lord to be true, to be rewarded for even an atom’s worth of good that I may do, then doing it with the reward in mind would be doubting the promise of my Lord.

    I therefore act with conviction when I’m grateful for my ability to create value in the lives of those I meet, knowing that the One who blessed me with this ability, is more generous than any reward that I may expect in return.

    Perhaps this is the reminder that I need to push on when I feel weighed down. It is the transactional life that steals our passion long before the trial itself. I must take more time to reflect on how transactional my life has become.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    Some find solace as the years progress. Some find love. Some find an emptiness where space was once held in hope for a significant other. My contemplations of which applies to me hold no sway any longer.

    Writing this post creates a delusion of its own. Although it could be interpreted as gratitude or reflection instead. Its true purpose and intent will always be hidden by the need of the moment. The need is seldom true to the act. Or is that the other way around?

    A brain dump is supposed to offload that which is clutter and of little value to hold on to. It’s supposed to create space for peace and calm, while ridding me of the noise of busyness and inconsequence. It does neither tonight.

    Tonight it serves as a search for truth. A search for discerning between illusions, delusions, and reality. It’s a tiresome search. To know sincerity from pretence, value from utility, acceptance from tolerance, or love from contempt. The guarded are always the most painful to navigate, and the most expensive to maintain.

    In contemplating all of this, I find the fight slowly leaving my soul. This time, seeking to know the difference between wisdom and surrender threatens to disembowel a fragile peace that has accompanied my soul through the storms, until now. But its fragility grows meek and is left wanting in the face of fresh onslaughts.

    The battle for sanity, or for space grows tedious. That it is a battle at all is telling in itself. What should be a natural state of calm, accentuated on occasion by disruption, is reversed. The calm only visits in isolation, and isolation leaves a disruption in my soul. Peace finding no place in either, isolation or association.

    At times, it feels like life has been a perpetual midlife crisis. That constant search for purpose, or to reconnect with moments past. The questioning of direction, and the conundrum of what action would be most beneficial towards the fluid goals that suggest an abatement in the storm. Drop the mid from midlife and suddenly the scene is much more accurately described.

    Are lighthouses ever decommissioned – wilfully decommissioned to allow it a period of graceful rest before its ultimate fall? Or is it expected to serve until it finally succumbs to the erosion of the lifelong yelping of the waves at its feet? No one tries to calm the waves, or to cause the shore to recede. But those who notice share a passing politeness as a token gesture of appreciation for the guiding beacon that is offered.

    In many ways, I’ve often felt like a road sign. That critical point at which informed decisions are made by those who encounter it, but whose decisions always lead them away from it. Beyond the lighthouse, I think this is a metaphor that most accurately resonates with the life crisis that I’ve endured. But like lighthouses, road signs are also never willingly decommissioned, except when they become redundant. Otherwise, they’re left to their own devices for as long as they serve a purpose until eventually being replaced with a more purposeful one.

    There’s a haunting irony in awakening the soul to the reality that surrounds. While it raises attention to the ephemeral nature of life and love, prompting one to appreciate with intensity its beauty before it passes, it also awakens one to the cold faces of the oblivious. The empty hugs, and empty stares. The vacuous efforts at validation and the consumerist indulgences of privilege. Leaving no human contact behind. Only human consumption.

    Some exhaust themselves in wishing for times passed. Others deplete their resources in trying to capture the present moment. But many, like me, are in search of the fast-forward button to bring this charade to a final and quiet end.

    No more chasing.

    No more hoping.

    No more wanting.

    No more needing.

    The end of expectation and the arrival of certainty.

    It seems I have yet to earn the acquisition of such mercy. To know with certainty that you are seen. That you are heard. That you are loved. Not because of what they can get from you, but because of who you are beyond social standing, or relative placement in their lives. Expecting this from the oblivious is nothing more than self-harm. But trying to subdue such expectations is nothing more than an effort at being inhuman.

    Perhaps in that lies the ultimate conundrum. Seeking to connect with your humanness so that once you do, you are left with the desolate scape of solitude as you realise that there are no humans looking to connect with your humanness. It’s like flipping the big switch that turns on every fascination of a world harbouring untold beauty, but being rooted to the spot perfectly positioned to only see but not touch such beauty.

    The fight is slowly leaving my soul. And with each passing moment, the reality that it doesn’t matter, not now, never before, nor ever, is destroying every romantic notion I’ve ever embraced. The tree that falls silently in the forest disrupts no lives.

  • Exhale

    Exhale

    Breathing becomes laboured when I’m not sure if I want to hold something in, or let it out. Expressing my disappointment at the events that appear to be in an incessant loop feels like an indulgence in futility. I’ve expressed such disappointment before, yet, here we are. Staring each other in the face again.

    The cloying saturation of feigned optimism on social media leaves me wretching from the fake sweetness of it all. I feel a need to speak without restraint, but even that appears futile. Some may assume that such expression will at least rid me of the madness that stirs within. If only it was that easy to contend with the madness.

    The inconsistent flow of inspiration abandoned and its abandonment then inspiring me to write, and then discard, and then to restart what once was to be writ creates the taunting tinny tone in my ears that time seems to intensify, rather than subdue. Time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes, it mocks and jibes and laughs as I wait expectantly for it to harbour some relief of the madness that it nurtured.

    Breathing is laborious when it holds no promises, but promises only lies. Deciphering the one leads to the other, and abandons me somewhere between the two, leaving me spent in the past, yearning in the present, and disillusioned about the future. I exhale, deeper than I inhale, feeling faint, but the toxins still firmly lodged within. They won’t leave anymore. The process of eviction and welcoming them back after each cycle seems to point to the pointlessness of them leaving at all.

    Exhale. It holds so much expectation. As if the release of what is spent will create spaces for what is new. But jadedness turns new into old, and old into oblivion before either sets foot in the soil of my soul. The ramblings of this madman persist in cryptic notes understood by few, appreciated by even less, and ignored by all.

    The blessing of anonymity is compounded for one who is anomalous. Between the two, fading into the distance blends naturally with the landscape of a life soon forgotten, and love that never was. But, we must exhale if we hope to create space for the end that awaits. Holding my breath only delays the inevitable, yet I continue to ignore the writing on the wall, instead focusing on the written notes discarded by the fears that lifetimes before me have spawned.

    Fear. The ultimate destroyer of hope, and the aborter of dreams. It creates more heartache than loss ever did.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    My inclination to write within the context of a universal experience feels insincere and superficial at times. To want to write at all feels like a self indulgent rant or feathering of my own cap. I’ve abandoned more manuscripts and drafts of old manuscripts these past few weeks than I have all my life.

    The need to recede grows stronger still. My flowery language weighs down in my efforts to express myself lightly. A fresh perspective is elusive in the midst of an old scene. Every effort results only in a new sense of the same old, but no new insights into old demons.

    To be is not as simple as it seems. It demands so much within and without that it commands being, long before it allows me to just be. The shards of madness accumulate as I contemplate the value of it all. Seeing beyond the facade is a painful truth that most would rather disguise. It’s that internalised scene of old demons that prevent new perspectives from shaping. It is the same vantage point that denies affection from those who see our demons as trophies of our humanness.

    The opinions of others have no bearing when we’re convinced that they don’t see what we see. But, even this assumes that our vision is perfect, and our perspectives perfectly informed. Therefore, it must be shame that shades our eyes from the brightness of beauty when the darkness is the only familiarity that we know. Especially when those opinions offer hope when we hope to hold on to the darkness instead.

    The need to expel the clutter from my head is increasing in frequency. Sometimes it’s a healthy release. Sometimes, it creates a shape and form for that which I would rather not have visible. But escapism has never served me well, so brain dumps serve to recalibrate my focus when focus itself appears to be elusive. It’s the counter-intuitive act of being dishevelled in my thoughts in the hope of finding a groomed sanity.

    The four seasons experienced this morning, coupled with tonight’s full moon, resonate with the fluidity of my existence today. Perhaps the tides will bring with it some newfound signs of peace, or serenity. I’m beginning to find a distinct difference between the two.

    One thought that won’t leave me is based on something I wrote in the darkness of late. In contemplating the nature of pain, I stumbled upon the realisation that pain is nothing. It’s nothing where we once had something. It’s the absence of a joy we once had, but has since departed. It, in itself, is not a thing. It is only present in the absence of that which offers us peace…if not serenity. It’s not possible to make sense of nothing. Hence the pain of having nothing after once having had so much.

    Such ramblings continue to tumble out of my mindlessness as I reevaluate everything I once evaluated to be true. There is much that others take for granted but of which I have yet to taste. Giving up on what I need or want has been a constant in my life. But giving up on duty is a luxury that I don’t have. Fixating on what was given up versus what cannot be abandoned has never led to any enlightened spaces. Only self-pity or a toxic sense of entitlement.

    To feel entitled isn’t as vapid as it may appear. Beneath such entitlement still roams the misguided notion that there is a self-worth that must be honoured by others. Whether true or not, social contracts of the like are only as valid as the willing subscription of those party to it. Such subscription has grown to define the value of many, both in its presence by building pedestals for the meek, and in its absence by destroying pedestals of the bold.

    Sanity roams freely in a neighbouring state.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    I need to return to my self. When the feeling of being adrift and the mental fog merge, the road ahead appears as a romantic setting filled with intrigue and adventure, but little answers. In seeking such answers, I may find new paths and new passions, but such a journey cannot be undertaken when chained to the present.

    The yokes must first be dismantled before the anchors lifted. The past is of no consequence except for its gifts that continue to colour the present moment. Wishing it away has never resulted in anything more than regret or escapism. Embracing it, despite most often being a cold and uncomfortable embrace, has always offered the opportunity to warm up to it, before moving beyond it.

    There appears to be wisdom in learning to love the challenges I face, rather than spurning their roots. I lost myself many times in the distractions that result from a fixation on its roots, often questioning the value of my contribution towards countering the anticipated outcomes that now weigh on my shoulders as yokes of past decisions. Those contributions, when focused on with regret, grew larger than my strength to prevail beyond it, turning it into a living monument that slowly defined my sense of self. Thus I lost myself to moments long gone, and in investments long since diminished in value.

    In returning to my self, I must embrace the beauty of my being that afforded me the conviction to contribute towards that which held no promise beyond that moment, but whose hope carried me to see dreams beyond the impossible that I faced. Despite not having achieved those dreams, its descendents have spawned new paths that otherwise would have remained concealed, but importantly, have eliminated any reason to question myself later had I held back in my contribution towards what I hoped to achieve.

    Speaking cryptically is a game that tests my resolve between unbridled rage at the world, and quiet contemplation of my right to rage. Rage is only needed when I refuse to embrace the naivety and convictions that encouraged my contribution towards that which I knew carried the promise of betrayal as much as it carried the hope of joy. Denying my contribution to justify my rage would therefore be as hypocritical as the ones who betrayed my efforts because they saw their vulnerability as a weakness to be condemned, and therefore preemptively judged me to be what they expected of me, rather than what I offered in truth.

    There’s a harshness that creeps in when we see our tenderness as weakness, rather than seeing it as a proclamation of our ability to remain human in a calloused world. It’s that same harshness that defines the tone with which we receive the tenderness in others. When we assume their tenderness to be a drain on our strength, we lose the benefit of seeing in them the gentleness that we must harbour in us to avoid inviting the harshness of the world into the cavities of our souls. Those cavities, when seen as failings or as evidence of inadequacy, become sources of shame, rather than opportunities to create the joy and the beauty that they await.

    Joy and beauty would have remained elusive to my dysfunctional being had I restrained myself when common sense dictated such restraint. It was through abandoning common sense that I departed from the trajectory that honoured the emotionless heritage that had defined my world up to that point. It has always been my ability to dream of being more than I ever had a right to claim that I found myself among beauty and fulfilment that would otherwise have remained foreign to my experience of this world.

    It is in my rejection of what others believed to be true about me that I found myself. It was in that rejection that I revealed their rejection of themselves in favour of their need to belong to their soured legacies. It is in that rejection that I found the most beautiful of souls with whom to share sacred moments and even bigger dreams. Without that rejection, I would have been as dejected as many of the vapid ones who spend their lives courting the validation of those who invalidated them to begin with. Seeing the hollowness in their eyes, it was my rejection of such a hollow existence for myself that I created space for kindred souls to create in me what the legacy of my lineage would never have been able to endow.

    Thus, it was rejection that guided me to me. It was choosing what I did not want for myself, without waiting for the arrival of common sense, that allowed me to create space for what I hoped to experience, and who I hoped to embrace. And the embrace that I found through such rejection outweighs the accumulated benefit of all the validations that I could have courted instead.

    Life has a way of meandering towards that which we desire most, but through paths that often defy logic while priming us for the state we must achieve if we hope to have the capacity to embrace what it is that we want. By respecting the fears that define the efforts of those around us, we limit ourselves to achieving only a shadow of their achievements, because we would never discover the potential that we hold within. Sometimes it’s more important to focus on what we need to reject, than applying ourselves towards that which we hope to achieve. It demands a trust in the harmony of life that exceeds any balance that we may be able to consciously extract from such a flow. Fighting the rapids is often the least effective way to navigate through tough times. Perhaps in that is the wisdom that I need to secure my way beyond this torrential period of my life.

    Regardless of which way it goes, I am clear about the path that I choose to pursue through the foggy road that lies ahead. And the companion to accompany me on that journey will reveal themselves when the space I create meets the path that they’re on. Until then, the journey holds the promise of many beautiful revelations, akin to the revelations that revealed the possibility of being more than I ever thought possible for a man whose heritage denied anything beyond mediocrity or common sense.

    Legacies are only to be honoured if they honour the truth of who we are. Discovering that truth is therefore only possible when we see in ourselves the possibility of the future, rather than remaining loyal to the inheritance of the past.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    The irony of a brain dump lies in the fact that it is my search for my brain that leads me to want to dump what distracts me from its use. Distraction creeps up, sometimes slowly with warning, but sometimes with devilish bravado unseating my senses and leaving me gasping for reality.

    Reality has never been a friend of mine. Each time I thought we were getting along, it slapped me in my face with a boulder. Not even a rock. As if a need to prove to me that living life in full measures means that life can only ever respond in kind. Kind. Now there’s a quaint notion that I hope to experience at some point.

    I find myself caught at the curious juncture of being invisible while simultaneously lacking the benefit of anonymity. It means that I can do nothing worth noting without my efforts being dismissed, while having a keen focus on everything I do that may be judged to be lacking. It echoes in terse tones my relationship with society for almost half a century.

    Someone guessed my age recently. They assumed me to be 30, instead of 50. Perhaps I did experience a kindness after all. But, they weren’t significant to the outcome of my life, so their generous gesture was lost against the rumbling of the thunder that was beckoning the next storm that threatened to roll over me.

    Crescendos of joy quickly obliterate the years of struggle. And the years of struggle return in anguished chants, mocking my half-smiles when that joy is unceremoniously ripped away. The vagueness of expression, at least, appears to offer me the comforts of an old friend. Pathetically, my oldest friend is a writing tool and not a being.

    Self-deprecation is such a luxury. I marvel at the possibility of being able to abandon life while indulging my self-loathing, oblivious to the unfulfilled duties and privileges that others have claimed. My fixation on fulfilling the same has left little room for claiming what I need. Even when I do, my attempts are so feeble that it lacks any convincing.

    The lock down has tested my philosophies and my resolve. Both have passed, despite neither serving me. It only ever serves others whom I cherish, but never me. I suspect I need to rethink my belief that the purpose of life is to serve others, and in such servitude we shall find joy. I think I missed something important in that. Of course, it’s difficult to convince myself of this being an erroneous philosophy because the joy I’ve experienced in serving that elusive significant other has rewarded me with a joy so divinely sublime, its fleeting moments serve to torment me for the rest of my life. Each expired second since it flitted by has in itself been a lifetime of torture.

    Love is for fools who have hope, live with hope, and believe in hope. Guilty on all counts. Only, when you live as precariously as I do, interpreting a love such as this becomes a mystery of its own. It’s the kind that cherishes deeply, loves intensely, holds endearingly, but releases gently. It’s the release that I need to work on. Perhaps if I didn’t make it so comfortable I may have more than a fleeting moment of divinely sublime joy.

    Divinely sublime. The divinity and the sublimation both beyond the view of the one who offers it. It’s a twisted tale of contorted cynicism that life has heaved at me in buckets, or more likely troughs. It is my grasp on the subtlety of beauty, or the hints of romance that breathe between her pauses and between her aches that horror has imposed. My subject of beauty focused on the horror, while I, in my romantic notions, caress with care the breaths and the pauses, seeing in her the divine where she only sees the pain.

    It’s a dance with destiny, with two left feet. Me being ill-footed while destiny laughs mockingly at my attempts to courts its lustrous beauty. I recede, full of angst, full of despair, but filled with joy in a conflicting sway of emotional upheaval that celebrates my ability to connect with the beauty that is so well hidden, while succumbing to the demands of the one who hides it.

    A brain dump, or a heart dump. The two are so intricately woven into the being of me that attempting to discern between them is as foolhardy as my hope of fully embracing the beauty that I see. Just there. Within my grasp, but out of reach. Like a mirage, it demands that I revisit moments past, not retracting my hand, fear driving my reach, while hope connecting my sight. Until it is in hand, it remains elusive. A mirage. But so real that letting go is impossible, while holding on is prohibited.

    As I slide further down this slope that extends from the recesses of my being, my efforts to dump that which clutters my thoughts only reveals the beautiful prose of life that it harbours. My contempt for it yet again misplaced, as I realise that I grew loathsome towards it for distracting me from my purposeful endeavours, while denying the reality that such endeavours were the distractions I needed to cope with the absence of what I buried so deeply.

    Once allowed into that haloed space, it can never be released. Only peered at quietly and solemnly in secret. It will only ever again be revealed to the one who reached its alcove without even knowing. Such is the miracle of two, cut from one. So natural is their embrace that the ease with which it satiates the thirst of the souls leaves no scarring, or evidence of its visit. Only the quiet confidence it instils in empowering the hesitant decisions that have long since lost relevance. But relevance is defined by what is yet to be reconciled. It is in such reconciliation of the hurts of the past that the present in discarded, and the future laid to waste.

    But hope. If not for hope harboured by the jaded fool who courts its pleasures far beyond its graveyards of happiness, the discarded gifts would forever leave the future wasted, and the past honoured. It is the jaded fool that disregards such constructs of nature. It is the jaded fool that seeks the divinely sublime, despite the backdrop of horror that threatens to disembowel any attempts to be glorious beyond the measures of the past. It is the jaded fool that resurrects the romance that love courts, or the love that romance beckons. If not for this fool, much will be spent in futility.

    Some believe this to be the words of a writer. One who is perhaps endowed with the ability to express what others struggle to contemplate. However, it is more truthful to note that these words are of the one who pains to express clearly the lyrics of his soul, in the hope that its mate will pause for long enough to see the truth of what can be.

    [If you’ve read all the way to this point, I am duly impressed and saddened. For anyone to connect with these words, you must first connect with my pain. Blessed be the gentle ones who love too fiercely, accept too easily, and hope with futility.]

  • A Brain Dump

    A Brain Dump

    The short posts don’t allow for a meaningful purge of what rumbles inside my head. And there’s a lot of rumbling this morning. Having finally published my novel, the reactions I’ve noted along with the assumptions that people make about my reasons for doing so, are entertaining. I’ve always taken a morbid pleasure from watching people sum me up incorrectly, or assume to know what drives me. I barely know myself, so it’s highly improbable that anyone else will know either.

    Despite my efforts at explaining myself, sharing my passion, living out loud, and scribbling my thoughts in digital ink for any passerby to read, I still remain a well-kept secret. A colourful life such as mine is intimidating for many to grasp. It’s much easier for them to find random points of entertainment instead. Of that, there is an unlimited supply.

    However, it only serves to be morbidly entertaining if the ones who are peering in have no significance in my life. What then when one held dear takes a closer look and feels afraid? Those are the moments when the introspection shifts from morbid curiosity to flirting with regret. Being trusting has earned me more struggles than deliberate betrayals ever did.

    When philosophy teases us, we play with words that talk of the strength of character of those most burdened by the trials of life, but when reality demands that we embrace them, we recede from fear of contamination. Sometimes, we recede from fear of feeling burdened by them. But from afar, from a safe distance, we admire and celebrate their resilience, as long as they keep their resilience to themselves.

    The irony of society is that it will be more inclined to offer itself to one who appears untarnished so that it may experience the process of being tarnished by the experiences of life with them, rather than to revel in the joy of one who has already been polished by what once tarnished them. It’s the equivalent of wanting to marry a virgin, but hoping to have the sexual experience of a seasoned whore, and then realising that the whore may be more pleasurable, but looking for one who is still virginal in demeanour. We really are an entertaining bunch, aren’t we?

    Sometimes it seems like we’re hypocritical in our approach to establishing or respecting respectable standards, but that hypocrisy is easily defended when such standards become our own to defend. Fear of the future has tainted many well-meaning men, and suspicion has destroyed many loves before they were allowed to bloom.

    Words have been elusive, except in unpredictable bursts of late. The topics have been revealing, teasing my soul and flirting with my audience, but largely unfulfilled either way. Fulfilment continues to be a slithery one. Testing everything that I assumed to be true, and teasing it with new experiences and emotions that have long been dismissed as taunts of fairy tales.

    Poetry has been a bipolar friend. Sometimes testing my skill at articulating the melody of my mindlessness, and at other times distorting my words to reflect the angst that defines my madness. Between mindlessness and madness, love is cradled in a delicate hammock, ready to tip over at the slightest sway, but even in its tipping over, offering laughter and joy in unexpected waves of delight that distract me from the sand in my face.

    The ambivalence of life digs ever deeper. Joys grow more intense with each ravaging of happiness that passes, only to be followed by yet another crescendo of joy. Each time, the crescendo exceeds the previous pitch, creating an ever-deepening cavern into which to plunge when the joy is tainted. From depths of despair to wings of angels, peace is elusive. But peace fades from want in the presence of such joy. If only the joy would stay, perhaps then it will inspire a peaceful serenade of a life waiting to be indulged in hues yet to be seen.

    An interesting life leaves a kaleidoscope of scars that form beautiful patterns in the stars, as we imagine constellations of soulful connections in spaces that remain empty and lifeless, if not for the gaze of the beloved into that realm. My vocabulary fails me much. Yet another double-edged dagger, fulfilling my need to articulate more closely what my heart yearns for, yet denying me attachment due to my increasingly complex expression in my efforts to be understood. Finding the most articulate words to describe in the smallest phrases has birthed the epitome of sophistication through minimalism. Only such sophistication serves no good end in the absence of one who seeks to understand, or heaven forbid, to embrace.

    A dump indeed, this has been…but not of the brain, and more of the heart. A strange encounter.