Tag: love

  • 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.

  • The ultimate rebellion

    The ultimate rebellion

    Living romantically, despite the horrors of life, is the ultimate protest

    It’s the obstinate rebellion against those who wish to rage, because they have no peace to give

    It is the cry of the lover for his beloved

    The anguished heart searching for peace

    The lonely soul searching for home

    To see beauty when surrounded by pain

    Or to be gentle when born of torture

    To love despite being surrounded by hate

    And to claim dignity when shame is the only language spoken

    That is the ultimate protest

    Because we must strive for what we wish to create

    Rather than rage against what we wish to destroy.

    The world is full of rage

    Perhaps it needs some romance again.

    Join me, beloved

    Join the conquest of this madman.

  • True love is never lost

    True love is never lost

    Fate has a way of giving us what we ask for when we don’t realise we’re asking for it.

    It is the yearnings of the soul that calls out to the heavens, while our mouths utter pleas that are born of the distractions of needs.

    Needs are ephemeral. They pass through us like the passing of fluids through the loins of beasts.

    Denial of such needs leads to anger, and anger betrays the soul.

    The yearnings of the soul prevail beyond such fickle expression.

    It is in the infinity of true love that the soul finds peace.

    Whatever ends, is therefore not true to love or to the soul. It is not what physical bond we may maintain that defines such love.

    Such a love is defined by the pulse of the soul that continues to beat, eternally rhythmically, for the same soul that set it alight and inspired its beautiful rhythm.

  • Pursuit of servitude

    Pursuit of servitude

    I once asked myself a simple question when I left corporate to follow a new path. What do you do when you’re done with the world, but the world is not done with you? The two and a bit years that followed answered this question many times over, each time with an intensity greater than the last.

    The answer appears to be very different from what I was expecting. Initially, I assumed that perhaps the world I thought I was done with was not my world at all. And so I set out to create the world, my world, that I thought was truer to my purpose in life.

    Yet, here I am, contemplating again if this is really the world that I wanted to create for myself. When faced with the evidence of the sum total of my efforts, there are two ways in which I could respond. I could be generous and assume that I am still learning and therefore falling short of my goals is an inevitable part of that journey. Or, I could be brutally honest and recognise that perhaps my assumption of being able to claim a world for myself was born in arrogance.

    The question that therefore needs to answered is not what to do with the world that may be done with me, but rather, what will it take to recognise my place in this world that is larger than I’ll ever be?

    To know my place has always been the greatest mystery. There’s a combination of understanding who I am and what purpose I serve to others that continues to escape me. On both counts. My understanding of myself remains a well kept secret, and as for my purpose, I’ve always pursued roles of servitude. Therefore, any consideration beyond that continues to be a mystery.

    My world must therefore be defined by that which demands my contribution. The moment I claim a recompense, I outstay my welcome and violate my purpose. The end result will therefore be inevitably unpleasant. Perhaps the question that I’ve been asking is the wrong question.

    But, the answer lies in asking the right question. And if peace is associated with that answer, then it stands to reason that peace, along with my understanding of my place in that world, will continue to be an answer whose question I have yet to grasp.

    Cryptic thoughts for a cryptic life. And peace has no part in it.

  • A walk…and a bit

    A walk…and a bit

    I stepped on the treadmill today. It’s not my favourite pastime, but I did it anyway. At first, I recalled the time, many years ago, when I first attempted it and found myself winded in less than 3 minutes. I was still working in corporate. Life was lifeless, and purpose was found in servitude.

    I travelled a lot since then. Mostly business travel. Staring down at the footplate of the treadmill, I found myself walking those streets again. The back roads of Nice, a short throw from the plush touristy area, the plaster was flaking off the walls of the apartment buildings, and the empty plots were unkempt and overgrown with weeds.

    Then the cramped sidewalks of London, with its scarcity of smiles and less warmth to offer than its weather. I walked quietly through the neighbourhoods, distant from the bustling centre of wealth, and saw hints of warm homes and affectionately adorned window sills. The cold mist reminded me of my estranged nature in such scenes.

    The quiet, unnatural streets of Jubail crept into view next, with fallen, premature dates melted and smeared into the sidewalk, and the mocking smiles from the police officers revealing their revolting oral hygiene. The thick air, laden with humidity and a scorching breeze choking me up as the treadmill continued its whine as I journeyed my way to the next city.

    Tunis, with a touch of warmth, an uncanny sense of safety, and humility in large doses, prompted a hint of a smile as I recalled strange encounters with strange people. The trip on the metro passing Mandela’s stop, and the beautiful voices of the children singing their songs in Arabic each morning as I waited for the train to arrive. Probably the only wistful recollection of my time there.

    The walk to China Town in Singapore, or to the Indian quarters, clinically clean and oddly cold. Buddhist temples and expensive shopping malls crowding all the open spaces, and cliques of old folks line dancing in the parks without a hint of interest in the rhythm to which they danced. Everything so detached and robotic, as if celebrating the privilege but disconnected from the experience.

    And of course, traipsing the steps and the hills and tunnels of Monaco. Walking the length and course of the grand prix circuit, delighting myself like a little child as I recognised the bends and the straights from my hours on the PlayStation. But just as soon, the delight would fade to a subdued smile, and then nothing. Just a sigh.

    You’re never lonely if you like the one you’re alone with, or so they say. So they say. An hour later, still barely exhausted from the spirited walk through my daydreams, duty interrupted my moments in foreign cities, each echoing the solitary nature of my life, and the isolation of my spirit. The photos and stories shared with others later on never compensated for the absence of one to share it with.

    But, peace comes slowly and silently when we learn to embrace the inevitability of our lives, rather than yearning for what never was despite our best efforts. The sweat pouring down my face stung my eyes a little more than the subdued tears, as I realised the futility of tears that are left to dry on their own.

    It was a long walk on that treadmill today. But there are still many streets to explore in stillness and isolation. Wanderlust has departed, and in its place it left a quiet composure of knowing that nothing more should be expected of what lies ahead. The weariness is finding its home in the same alcoves that were just recently filled with more. But it is an alcove and not a treasure chest. What visited briefly never intended to stay.

    Thus, expectations are recalibrated, and life…life remains a stranger that prefers the company of others. Exhale.

  • Fleeting Thoughts X

    Fleeting Thoughts X

    If I were to write without restraint, would you see my soul or judge my sanity?

    Sanity is elusive when it competes with the heart.

    The heart is not satiated by the intellect, and the intellect cannot reason with the heart. They both swim in their own orbits.

    Like the sun and the moon, each orbit complements the other and are never truly isolated in their purpose.

    Purpose is recognised when we look beyond the fear and connect with the value that we hold within.

    The value we hold within is only considered valuable if it is allowed to create something larger than the sum of our lives.

    The sum of our lives must serve more than us, or else it feels inconsequential.

    To be of consequence is the heart of fulfilment.

    To share what we have is the root of fulfilment.

    Gratitude is the fulfilment of fulfilment.

    Fulfilment is denied when gratitude is withheld in the face of expectation.

    Expectation threatens our composure when we doubt our significance.

    Our composure is dependent on our perception of our flaws.

    We focus on our flaws and ignore the one who appreciates those flaws to be the very reason why we’re enough because we doubt our significance.

    Self-loathing is spawned by our belief that we’re flawed, rather than the reality that we’re human.

    To see our humanness requires us to gaze upon ourselves with empathy.

    Empathy is subdued through a life of dutiful servitude.

    Servitude denies our right to need or to expect, but cherishes our responsibility to fulfil the needs and rights of others.

    Rights and needs are most often claimed but seldom respected.

    When we forsake our rights and subdue our needs, we lose the sweetness of life and focus validation from others instead.

    Validation from others distills into bitterness as we grow aware of the conditional nature of such validation.

    Bitterness is the fruit of shame, and shame is born from judgement.

    Judgement demands that we view ourselves through the eyes of others, while wearing the lens of our own self-loathing.

    It is through this contaminated frame of reference that we shape our contribution to the world, and then judge the world harshly for not recognising our effort.

    Our contribution is first done selflessly, then selfishly. Trust is lost between the two motives.

    When trust is lost, love is abandoned and hope departs.

    When love and hope are absent, life’s passion is dulled, and servitude beckons.

    Servitude is the true opium of the masses because servitude deflects attention away from our worth, and directs attention to our utility.

    Utility is the saving grace of a life unfulfilled.

  • Poetry of old

    Poetry of old

    “Poetry often belies the age of the poet,

    but always reveals the struggles of the soul.

    What we write of youth, applies to old.

    But most would rather resist it,

    Than bear the truth be told.

    I’m in love with life.

    But I hate the world.”

    It’s possible to live life romantically, you know. Despite the horrors and pain that appear to be so pervasive in this world, perhaps romance is the ultimate rebellion against the cruelty of life.

    Perhaps.

    This is something that I wrote a few years ago, it still accurately describes my conflicted relationship with this world.

    What you take from this, be it pessimistic, optimistic, or simply cynical, is a reflection of who you are and what your current relationship is with your world.

    Yet, most will read into this what they believe to be true about me, not realising that what we see in others is a reflection of what we are hopeful, grateful, or bitter about in that moment.

    How connected are you with your relationship with the world around you?

  • Blessed are the few…

    Blessed are the few…

    Blessed be the gentle ones who love too fiercely,

    Accept too easily

    And hope endlessly.

    The ones torn between duty and love

    Or responsibility and passion

    The ones who sacrifice quietly

    But celebrate others loudly

    The ones who when sad

    Find joy in making others smile

    Who serve willingly

    But expect none in return

    Blessed be they,

    For they are the whispers of the heavenly breeze

    Amidst the howling dogs.