the end of the year is not the end of the year.

there is nothing new under the sun, not even the last day of the year. we welcome the new year;
in anticipation, with excitement, with nonchalance, with indifference, with detestation, a little lethargy? or with hopefulness? or a little reflective of that gone year. or even a little childish, refusing to let go of the year. And yet.
there is nothing new in these responses. have we attached too much significance to a date?
we hope for a great new year. but there is nothing new in the year. A change in a numerical digit. another year will come. we return to somewhat familiar places. we indulge in old pleasures. we devise old schemes. we abandon old games. and then we return. old ones pretending to be new.

there are seasons of change. seasons that are always familiar, only re-experienced in various variations. in sundry times and in diverse ways, we experience different things similarly, or similar things differently. yesterday's seeding is tomorrow's harvest.
and so we remember today, because we forget about yesterday. and today's memories are never as they were. every moment remembered is a moment imagined. so i live to forget, as i remember. i am to be forgotten, just as i am to be remembered. there is nothing left, and nothing beyond that.

and still, we have a stubborn faith. a faith we cannot strip away, lurking at some inward pit that drags us across sandpits. a faith that cannot manifest itself and cannot perform. it traps you in this warm and frizzy halo and budges us through tracks we would have refused and completely ignored.
and still, we travel through obscure roads and climb unknown mountains. there is nothing new under the sun. but with this strange faith, our eyes are blind, our minds are mad and our limbs are bruised. and still we walk the unknown and experience always a new day, and a new year. because there is no moment past that we can declare that it has been experienced before. it frightens us as much as it excites us. and so we move with snail speed, not with relentless will, but with a will that alienates us as much as it comforts us. i cannot name this faith. i do not know how. but with every journey, every true and new one, means a new season that changes us and delivers us from somewhat old ones, teaching us new perspectives to old narratives and skills to climb old walls. And yet, we have this faith.

so let go. and fall. because to fall means to be lifted.

Paulo Grey
----

i disappear, only to appear.

the end of the year will not bring answers
but discernment to dispel the fleeting visions of to-be-expired blissfulness

when you reach your hand to hold them, they pop.

木穆霖的心声 in fragments.

我:你。。。
她：我回来了。。。
我：为什么？
她：为什么？
我：为什么。
她：。。。

我：没话说吗？
她：。。。
我：那。。。我走了。

我离开。但是我并没有离远。她却走了。
--
someday I show you all my mind, if you stay behind.
just let me cry for you tonight, if i might
for each time I give up, only to be pulled back
once again

on my bed once again.
a quiet night again. no one to lay by my side
so long till you'll be back. will you?
then i won't have to wait.

木穆霖


雨过了是否是天晴?
天晴了是否是梦醒?
梦里雨滴嗒嗒不停,
天晴是为了等下个雨天。

我会梦醒。我一定会。

for every moment of reminiscence, there is also a moment of imagination

damien bau.

und er fängt am.
sie zu vergessen.

searching the wrong places. perpetually. relentless. deluded. and still searching,

Paulo Grey.

by the seaside, aside looking over the side of a lonely sight
by the seaside, beside me casting aside my periodic fright
i miss the seaside,
my presence is not there.
my absence is occupied by you.
but my side is not your side.
we see the same night, but on separate sides, to each our own plights.

as i decide to make less sense
a gentle wind blows my words to a generic pretense
a pretense inherent in all words in the endeavour to make sense
but the only sense I get from this, is that my words are always in past tense.

I missed the seaside.
my presence was not there.
my absence was vacated by you.
and remained an absence.

when the waves will beat against the jaded beach walls,
when will they rebuild the old breakwaters?
break my resolve, and break my flow, broke my resolve and broke my flow, will break my resolve and will break my flow, break and broke and will break.

the walls will always be there. old or new. past or future, as a platform for us to scream aloud our plights, as ones with a temporary loss of sight, astonished at our breaking might, to break the silence of the night, and welcome the morning light, by the lonely seaside, where we (will) occupy our own side.

an endless flow of time and concatenated links. words in the mind have no end. because they repeat.
by the seaside, aside looking over the side of a lonely sight
by the seaside, beside me casting aside my periodic fright
i miss the seaside. without you by my side.
repetition is not mimicry.


by A.

the philosophy of
Alfonso don Juan's crab-eating

Juan likes his crab to taste tender. He has also a common habit of dipping fried 'pao' into the chilli gravy. You see, back in his native hometown, crabs are served differently. The exquisite pleasure of savouring the gravy is not practised back home. It is an acquired taste. To each its own flavour. However, the chilli sauce was the reason for him to abandon his home and he decided then, to move to Singapore to experience the particular way of eating crabs. And he only had his friend to thank for introducing him to this divine Singaporean dish, during his first visit to Asia.

while it may seem absurd to some to abandon his family and loved ones for some oriental crabs, the frequent visits to the various famous crab stalls are always instant remedy to his home-sickness. Crabs remind him of his Mediterranean roots but they also restore his faith in his choice to move closer to these crabs. You see, it is not everywhere that crabs are cooked in this exotic way. Besides, if he decides to have his crabs differently, he can choose from a variety of cooking styles. It is such freedom of will that persuaded him to migrate.

To overcome his cultural disability, i.e. his chilli threshold level, he went through a long and zealous training that consists of a diet made up of green and red chillis. That was indeed a living hell but it was all worth the tenacious effort. Every bite thereafter is worth effort sweat and tears he shed.

With all due respect to this particular global citizen, it is worthy to remind us that the crabs are not at all local, especially those with the most tender and largest portion of meat. So perhaps, he is misinformed to believe that these crabs are particular to the tiny island. However, surely it is not the crab that matters but how it is cooked right? Besides, the origins of crabs are hard to determine. They may have ancient ancestry, some choose to travel from place to place (e.g. Indonesian waters to Singaporean waters), and some find themselves swept from the open sea into canals and drains, but wherever crabs come from, it is the gravy that obscures the true lineage of the crab. The true essence of crabs is not in their origin, but the eventual taste. He has no need to have knowledge of the crab's identity. At least, that is what he thinks. And you have every right to disagree.

Crab-eating requires hard teeth or a hard metal pincher. As you break the shell, what welcomes you is the tender meat. Do not hesitate to dip it back into the gravy. As you suck out the meat, you throw the shell (or spit) away. But such behaviour is subjective. We all have particular ways to eat our crabs. And the satisfaction we gain from crab-eating is also subjective. It can be routine but that does not steal the satisfaction away. He bites the legs of the crab, sucks out the meat and proceeds to the next body. He, however, ignores the eggs, which is really a waste. But egg-eating is also an acquired taste.

While he licks his fingers clean of the delicious gravy, I am sure he is already looking forward to his next crab meal. He burps and pats his stomach from his routine satisfaction. Another meal eaten. Another to anticipate.

He leaves his seat and the next customer quickly takes his seat. As he foots his bill, the cashier completes her umpteen transaction. Another good service. Another job done. Another bill paid. Life is good. And as he leaves the place, watches the moon and does not doubt that the same moon is shining in his hometown, watching over his family, separated only because of his obsession with the divine crab.

His life can be summarised by his love relationship with the crab. He reaches home. His stomach calls. And he goes to the toilet.

End.

----

happy birthday dad.

darn. i can't control myself. i need a change of perspective. >.<

and then there was a gentle breeze to push me forward
there was a straight path to my destination
there was a paradise that awaited me
there was only me
and then there is a still atmosphere to retain me
there is a long wooden bench for me to rest on
there is a cross-junction for me to decide
there is only me
and then there will be a twister to blow me up
there will be a hollow core opaque to us
there will be a path of destruction
and there will be Us

no arrows, no signs, no visions to guide me there
no dreams, no words, no imaginations to lead me there
treat each day like an end
an end that repeats
an end that begins
treat each day like a beginning
a beginning that saves
a beginning that ends
no miracles, no tricks, no wishes to hoax me somewhere
just believing.
just faith.
just You.

by
Paulo Grey

----

we mustn't need gifts or miracles, to remind us of the hope
they only remind us of our depravity
we mustn't need reminders basically, to remind us of the promise,
they only remind us that we doubt

x'mas does not remind me of the birth
it reminds me of the death
it is always a paradox
always a a reminder of what we choose to privilege over something more gory and unpleasant

so as you admire the x'mas lights decorating the shopping walkways,
remind yourself of the energy wasted to give you that commercial ambience
remind yourself of the thorns that decorated your Saviour
remind yourself of the depravity that abundance has sacrificed or should i say, obscured.


Alas. the year is coming to an end.
Alas, we will all move on.
But some things don't change.

I've invested too much time doing nothing.
i shall attempt to remove my disguises. And be who I always felt I should be.
cold. sober. and with a lack of childish passion. contemplative. but forgiving. forgettable.
safe and happy.
and all manipulation will thus cease.
cheers to myself.

- damien bau

小芸：如果你有多一张机票，你会带我走吗？

小芸：如果我离你而去，你会伤心吗？

小芸：如果我们不曾相识，你会想见到我吗？

我：不会。

如果一个人不再为自己美丽，那她失去了被爱的资格。

perhaps, if one should stop loving her/himself, then he or she loses the right to be loved.
perhaps, we only know a fragment of who we are.

i wasted another year.

it is not him who is sitting there.
it is not him who is going to write here.

It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.

-Thomas Mann

paulo grey -

something quite definite i have to say.

......I have something in my conscience i have to say as a writer. the sort of writer's inspiration/desperation that creeps into his blanket as he contemplates the methods of sleeping (soundly). A writer cannot sleep well. his insomniac ways arise from the complications of a restless mind. Have I, in all my dreams, found a way to curb my restlessness and fall into a deep slumber within minutes of thoughtless effort? No. I haven't and I will not...deprive myself of a source for my writing.

I write for the sake of mimicry - to mimic my mind that recollects a past, an experience, a memory and a forgotten source. and today I remember this particular film - Les enfants du paradis.

And now, I present 5 propositions of love.

love is jealousy. The kind of love that caresses your pride. That demands the undivided attention and ownership of the loved. And so the duel of poor rivals, locked in battle as the lover flees from that responsibility because the lover loves them not. She likes them. But it is not the love they want. This love breeds jealousy. The present, past and future belongs only to one. And so the lover dies. Her soul dies. And she frets and sighs daily, under the overcast violet sky, the sombre night that gives her no rest.

love is lust. The kind of love that feeds one's own desires. A window to the flesh and never the heart. What secrets desires one could have? What imaginations one could conjure? What lies one weaves with the poison tongue to gain a body? Alas, the flesh is tainted, and the mind remains to be devoured by the flesh. A bite. A tear. A cut. A drop of blood to stain that hopeless white gown.

love is adventure. The undiscovered terrain that the explorer ventures. The explorer has no clue what he will find. But he has stored countless treasures and conquered grueling trials. He mounts the steepest summits and braves the harshest winters. And still, he cannot conquer a woman's heart. Therefore, he makes that final movement and adventure. And sinks into a pit of perpetual discovery. Only to discover nothing.

love is carnivalesque. The foreskin that you parade before the crowd. The pearls and diamonds that litter around the necks and faces of those once beauteous children. The adornment that is bought with a price. Where did the priceless smiles go? Now they sashay down the aisle and demand our undivided attention and flashlights. love appears for them. and love disappears too. love reveals only what the mirror reflects. the lover. the loved is the lover.

love is fate. the kind of love that confidently leaves the relationship all to destiny. the lazy will that demands fate to be responsible. and time gives you monuments to chain the other up. perhaps a ring. maybe a child. perhaps a property. or even an anniversary every year to celebrate. but most of all, a paper to mark and fortify love into a castle of cold responsibilities.

Paradis is a tragic, pitiful but so typically real story. I feel like Baptiste - the hopeless romantic that falls in love with the notion of love and demands the statue to love him as he love her. Alas! his poor soul should hear an alternative so simple but so insulting to his love:

love is simple.

Indeed, love is simple. as simple as the the night itself, with moonlight so bright, you are reminded of the day it reflects and the impending daylight. I wake, from this wantonness. I wake from this oppressive existence. I disappear into the crowd, unwanted and undesirable. I do not yearn for love. I let love be simple. with just a kiss, a very last kiss to send the free soul away with a heartfelt smile. you love without the oppressive breath of sin. you love with the selfless heartbeats that push life not for oneself, but for the living whom you have released.

Love is not jealousy, lust, adventure, carnivalesque and fate.
It is the very thought of love that directs both the sure and lost; that gives us time to pause; that moves us earnestly unto eternity. Death cannot separate the lovers because they never love. they believe.

yours truly,
damien bau
(for A.)

----

A. replies...

all is already well in the course of contemplation. we sleep because our bodies tell us to. we do not sleep because our minds tell us not to. every step is a contemplation. therein lies the details of our incessant battles.

It is better that you hide your enthusiasm if that same rush of blood should announce you as a hypocrite.

It is better that you die, if you live dead, when to die actually allows you to live.

It is better that you don't pray, if you do not know who you are praying to except yourself.

It is even better that you pray, if you all that is left to save yourself is to pray. One finds more in honest desperation.

It is better that you rebuke your self-pity, if it is actually a bruised ego you are nursing. An ego is a maiden that refuses to believe that she is anorexic. No, really. It has no substance but it convinces itself enough to be full of itself, and discovers in self-pity that it has nothing.

It is better that you know what it means to love yourself. Then love your neighbours. If you do not know what is love, how do you extend your love to others?

It is better that you keep quiet, especially to a person who only hears her/himself.

It is easier for a picture to suggest a story than a person who mumbles to him/herself.

love is not simple.

if it robs you of your sleep. if it is a concept; an idea; a reason.
love is not simple to be simple.
and altogether, the mind and the body wage battle to define love.
they all have their great moments of triumphs (and defeats).
one day to face a victory; the same day to face a loss.

if these mixed feelings should fuse together to form an impregnable fortress, I will be damned.
therefore I tell myself, solemnly, the words to encourage an indifference that rocks the mortal self into immortality - "I sleep, therefore I live".

to sleep, is the ultimate weapon against all consciousness. The true undiscovered reality that intrudes you and drains you from all human will and power. The force of sleep burrows deep into you, and you are left naked, empty, dark and lonely. When I sleep, I am alive. The split second before I wake. And it is with this knowledge, I know I shall wake to find myself facing a new day. Always renewed. Always repetitive. It is such weird confidence that pushes me to the state of aporia, of impasse that grips me with the reality of my existence. I am powerless against sleep. I have to. It reminds me of my mortality. And it also hints on my immortality - the ability to transcend time and travel through time and space.

love is simple in dreams. You are not responsible for your dreams. You are responsible for your body and mind to sleep. But whatever should come out of the sleep, you witness them. They shock you. They torture you. They comfort you. They remind you. They thrill you. But most of the time, you witness. Therefore, I can love whoever I want in my dreams. She can come back anytime. She can go as she pleases. And dreams end prematurely, leaving little or no trace of them. They leave the next morning or the moment you wake. You feel a sense of it. but most of all, you feel the absence of your dreams. Emotions felt can residue. But you hardly remember everything.

So sleep. please. where you will learn that to love, is to love like in a dream. you wake up. and another day awaits you. before you draw closer to the last physical sleep.

it is such moments when the sun wakes after my sleepless night, that I am reminded, how precious sleep is.

A.
-----

木穆霖

我走了。我睡了。我倦了。我梦了。
爱，没有。如果，爱。不想，爱。梦见，爱。
我，走了。我，睡了。我，倦了。我，梦了。
我醒了。我听了。我写了。我谢了。

-----------------------------------------

i give up. besides, i always do so when the year ends.
I also remember the faithful night 3 years ago.
life has its weird ways to remind me how i survive life.
mostly by repetition.
i must admit, A., paulo grey, damien bau talked alot today. but i've been desperate lately, to find a collective voice that would just spit out all the unhappiness and verbal constipation. damn. being discreet is difficult. especially when people consider it a weakness to be emotional and sensitive. humans. nothing pleases us. and so most of us bottle our feelings all up, desperate to believe that everything will be fine, when 'everything' haunts us every now and then. it can be a simple walk home and then it just occurs that you meet your ex-lover and a week later, you meet your ex-lover's ex-lover. (No one gained anything in the end.) These connections amuse me. Future connections amuse me even more.
why do people come back? why do people think they move on only to find themselves on a carousel? it is fast becoming my "passion" to witness these happenings. I am beginning to develop a fierce passion for mockery, absurdity and discovering life's irony. but most of all, it is all to build a defense against unsuspecting victims who have already victimised themselves. I can't help them. It's too...loaded, so to speak. Haha. I could yelp my head off. How could I help them when I couldn't help myself?
I could a sad tale untold, but sad tales are not what I am taught to dwell on. (the strength within me is fast depleting. I only meant my human strength.) I thank God for that strange energy to persist being sane and to resist that final fall.
It has been a long time since Lim Eng Hui is writing as himself (most of him). and there is a certain sense of liberation. when I think solely for myself, I see the depravity that came from relying on too many exteriorities. How many can I block out without seeing a part of me die?
But, love is stronger than death.
I thank the Lord for the love that is stronger than death. (For You have conquered death for me) For surely, I would die without this love. as each day is a torment, a temptation, a sin, a dread, an anxiety, a sickness and a great, heinous war.

Forgive my every transgressions. as You forgive those You love.

Lim Eng Hui

there is a secret garden i wish to bring you to.
there is a secret paradise i wish to visit with you.
there is a secret realm i wish to explore with you.
there is a secret abyss i wish to fall into with you.
there is a secret heaven i wish to soar up to with you.

the mere thought of impossibility, the snare of certainty that comes without sympathy
hassles me to a refuting patience; i cannot wait and withstand this tasteless silence.
the mere thought of you, the mere imagination of you, i cannot cast away.
are you with me when we speak
are you with me when we meet
who do you think of instead...
anxiety creeps up to me from every possible crevice

answer my prayer of silence. determine my will and let me heave the air of relief
but these shackles of grave temptations, cast by the iron of uncertainty, continue to drag me to the cells of yesterday. i am aware of the paradox of time. awareness gravitates me to an endless search. resolute, inconceivable, pure, boiling emotions.

i think of you; at every twilight; at every ray of light that shines through clouds; at every star-filled night; at every drizzling early morning; in every dream.
will you be in the secret garden with me or will you only be in my dreams?
i thought of you; when you were gone. i think of you; when you're back. i will be thinking of you; when you're gone again.

a rich aroma of lavender fills the imagined evening air; i sat quietly and listened to nothing. there you were, back again...and i understood then, how much i miss(ed) you.
nothing has changed.

---
by Damien Bau.

Music by Secret Garden - Adagio

你的香味还残留在回忆里。
缠魂的气息仿佛停在耳里。
我是否还那么在意？
也许。
你曾是我生之欲。

感情之墓，回首尽无。
在心深处，自我残酷。
入梦回顾，向魔屈服。
唯有天助，黯然放逐。

你不再存在。
-

木穆霖

scheiße gelaufen.
ich weiss wirklich nicht,
was los ist.

repetition.
singapore is small isn't it?
good thing the world is not as small. but you never know.
repetition haunts you.
but to all of them, I love to sing this song to them...


Goodbye, no use leading with our chins

This is where our story ends

Never lovers, ever friends

Goodbye, let our hearts call it a day

But before you walk away

I sincerely want to say

I wish you bluebirds in the spring

To give your heart a song to sing

And then a kiss, but more than this

I wish you love

And in july a lemonade

To cool you in some leafy glade

I wish you health

But more than wealth

I wish you love

My breaking heart and I agree

That you and I could never be

So with my best

My very best

I set you free

I wish you shelter from the storm

A cozy fire to keep you warm

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love

I wish you love

I wish you love, love, love, love, love

I wish you love

-

thread carefully.
real careful.
you won't want to fall again.

welcome back.

if every man has a right, let his or her right be to die in peace.

i hate to guess.
but i hate to wait too.
and to know.

He's alive!

The Demise of Asok the (Indian) Company Intern

In Loving Memory of


Asok
(pronounced "a-shook")
from Dilbert comic strip
graduate from the Indian Institute of Technology

as introduced to satisfy the hordes of interns who wrote to request their own character.
Asok is brilliant, but as an intern
he is immensely naive about the cruelties and politics of the business world.
His name is a common one in India (but usually spelled Ashok).

Events leading up to his death:

R.I.P.
I will always remember you
till you come back as a clone or candy

to be is the desire?

whenever i think of performances and constructs. i think of the inward self that motivates that outward appearances. but to search deeper, i always find a stumbling block. to know any deeper is to only reduce the chaotic truth to some controlled system.
beyond being is perhaps more appropriate for discussion at this juncture.
to be more precise, beyond being is the projection of a being unto some future hope and desire of to be. with the passivity of the self (against the certainty of death) comes an active agency (from the inward self?) that transcends from (or desire to transcend from) facticity to infinity.

perhaps this premise allows me to continue the discussion of performances and the inward struggle. (which i left off some time ago) Perhaps it is not a struggle after all. Perhaps, it is a struggle for peace and stability. The outward appearances strive for a certain consistency, for example, for passivity to be stronger: by which I mean that the rejection of the possibility of sudden death is precisely the passivity against this violence to life. Life is assumed to last (at least for a certain period, enough to be have lived a life). Fecundity or Egocentricity is, perhaps, the first duty a person can have to oneself. After all, do we not care for ourselves first before we come to learn love? The human's desire is to survive first, feel later. Cry for food first, ask for attention next, and love the mother back later.

so beyond performances and constructs is to point to some innately selfish trait within us? but while the desire to live can be strong for most of us, the desire to die can be equally strong for others. After all, the earthquakes one can experience in life are too numerous for us to list down in full. one cannot, however, move away from that relation to death. The moment of being, i.e. to be born is to anticipate the moment of death. As we fill in the gap that comes in between life and death, it is almost inevitable that we perform, simply to stage our lives, as they progress in between life and death. we live in limbo. How insecure one can feel at this thought. Hence, future projections are ever so earnestly and diligently sought after, for better or worst. No matter how one can argue, rebuke or defend, beyond death remains unknown. And no living consciousness can prove to you what beyond life and death is.

It is, always, a faith.

-- paulo grey

-----------------------------

as she leaves for the long awaited vacation,
leaving me a vacant gap to fill
another circle of that foolish wait in motion,
weaving in me a web of restless will

where did she run off to?
i can't get to her.
please tell her to look at me for once.
and not sing those songs she only hears.

will she face me one day.
will i face her one day.
get back soon. get back soon.
but i will be gone. I will return.

not me. him. you. thinking. of. him. Him. not me.
y
z
a

I. i. forget. miss. her.

- damien bau
------------

A-Z discourses...a lifetime work in progress? A.

by A.

my heart flutters
to hear her again
to see her again
but it is resolved
this is not a love song
my heart flutters
to meet her again
to speak to her again
but it is resolved
this is not a love song

i'm from the other side
a side no one truly belongs
because it is my side.

someone like this.













it's not very good to be so jaded at 25.
but it's a very uplifting sensation whenever I stare at the ground.
I see more when I look down.

the perfect song for now is...

I wish you blue bird...
in the spring
to give your heart, a song to sing
and then a kiss but more than this...
I wish you love~
I wish you bluebirds in the spring
And in july a lemonade
To cool you in some leafy glade
I wish you health
But more than wealth
I wish you love
My breaking heart and I agree
That you and I could never be

in the occasion of meetings,
it's weird how one comes and goes
how it repeats continuously or ends permanently
how do I feel as the unchanging person (I am still L. E. H. Alvin)
but each day I grow older
and my heart grows colder
but these externalities come back to surround you
so the unchanging me has to face them, and give some semblance of change
believe me, i come to conclude that innately, I am who I was, a year old or 25 years old. and I will be who I will be. the only changing person is the responsible or social creature that I am. A responsible, responsive person having to deal with alterity. (even non-response is a response, and probably a rude gesture!)

*song fades*

the unchanging person is neither happy nor sad. it just needs attention (self or external)
Da-da or a loud wail.
a soft smile or a giggle, amused by the clown face of an adult.
yes. life is completely captured by the first audible/recognisable aural sign: DADA.

it's amazing how far (and weird) I can go with my self-psychoanalysis.
after all, now it is a period of anxious interludes (maybe too many) but absolutely necessary.

remember the carousel you used to admire from a distance?
and finally when you got your dollar from your parents, you rode on those stationary horses, you pretended that you were moving (or flying), as if to some fantastical land, riding these perpetually smiling horses.
then as you grow up, at some point you realise (not very consciously thought out though) these brilliant creatures have not only been domesticated, they have been plasticised, and firmly stuck to the rotating wheel, when you move in circles, merry and going round and round. you get the idea.
and in case you didn't know, they were first used to train horsed combatants.
how apt.

life has its mischievous moments to remind you how we both like to domesticate and destroy nature and its inhabitants, but also in turn how we domesticate and destroy ourselves by going in circles on mindless machines and repetitions.
i usually laugh whenever I think of this.

but of course, the old school carousel has already been effectually phased out by modern games: e.g. F1.

they have a time and a price for us to pay for that moment of thrill and joy. but soon, they leave...leaving just memories...sometimes we remember them fondly, sometimes grudgingly...but we always response to them some way or another.

i am grumpy because i love to be.
it's a stable state to be: not happy, not sad...and a grumpiness that has no reason.
just skeptical and opinionated over...opinions. evaluation of evaluations.

what does it mean to like someone?
to acknowledge an ideal love and continuously strive for that ideal?
lack of commitment to love?

no...it's:















they come and go because to like does not require an absolute eternal duty.
a responsibility, even ethical, to that someone but mostly to the emotional (maybe even rational!) self who likes first without return (or return). and it's always a chase. chasing those falling pearls from a string. and you don't quite remember how many pearls were there in the first place. in this case, they are wooden horses, dismantled from the moving mechanism, leaving to some other town for a fun fair meant for a different group of folks. THEY MOVE ON, without a choice. And you can't catch up. so you move on too. to like is such a fleeting sensation. a movement and not a rest, unlike to love.

I can't help but notice the surtitles: (Engine starts).
any movement, arrivals or departures have a locomotive force. something or someone who drives it.

my engine starts. my mediations are edifying, for as long as they last. so to depart or to arrive, it is an interpretation. I enjoy being emotional now because they motivate writings. and they do well to build up my future discourses and narratives. There is a difference now. I am mastering it for a cause.

K.(s) ! I'm coming after you.

---
by A.

i always give great significance to the last month of the year, as a transitory period from a year to the next. As all transitions naturally entail, besides a temporal change, transitions are conscious acts I mark as both physical and emotional changes: as both points of departures and arrivals.

I depart from a year to another, I age and I arrive at another year (closer to my death).

In short, Decembers have this intangible force to render you depressed or filled with anticipation: A memory and a hope/movement. Of course, not all memories are depressing, but because they no longer hold a tangible existence, a sadness ensues from some sense of loss. I can't help it. we often lose, by virtue of the fact that things come and go. From being to the passing beyond existence. I lose touch of many things as I grow old. So Decembers are for nostalgia. Perhaps, my remembrance of things gone will conjure up some specters of whoever I miss?

History is more than often haunting me from behind, and I often hesitate to turn back. I peep now and then, but the face-to-face is often what frightens me. But not daring to face history does not mean I am not in relation to her, instead she has that particular dual force (like transitory Decembers), to entice and to haunt. Haunting is definitely a stronger word than depressing, but allow us to use them interchangeably.

Perhaps, the question now is what in particular do I remember THIS December and what haunts me still? I believe at this stage, it is not wise to disclose such private a matter but I consider it more macroscopic in my concern to consider this stage as another transitory period, which has more to do with the haunting of Hauntings, the depression of Depressions or the Hope of Hopefulness that perpetually linger in my consciousness.

Alright, in short, it simply means that aside from the particular post-event reactions, the actual reaction I have now is one that deal with the conceptual reality of how we deal with the past. In other words, I am not so much interested in particular events (though they are informative and shed lots of insight) compared to the more general concept that governs my responses.

To begin with, I presupposes that this endeavour is impossible. And it is this impossibility that informs me that subjectivity alone is just so narrow a concept. (Objectivity is worse) Subjectivity itself is a presupposition, which suggests that my consciousness and unconsciousness can tell me the truths. Instead, I find myself, more often, floating in a sea of subjectivities, relating to so many bi-, tri- relations or more. It is never easy to be alone. But I am still alone, alone when I confess, alone when I die, alone when I sleep...

So again, I return to the unresolvable stage, which is one that includes both the general concept as well as my fecundity and individual experience. Empiricalism is equally so narrow-minded a concept.

So what can I conclude now? There is really nothing to conclude, except what we already know. As an existence that have to deal with both space and time, I think Decembers are best to contemplate and to pretend that I am in a period of impasse. What is New Year in Singapore is hours before New Year in West. Nevertheless, even this impasse, this period of reluctance and (welcomed?) anticipation is a moment we have to be in relation to, thus a responsibility to.
December come and go and a year passes once it goes.

And so it is my responsibility to react to December. To bring this year to a close, whether I like it or not. With or without the mourning of people/things gone. If somewhere, it aches, for you too, my reader; if there is some place inside you that aches, there is always more places and more opportunities to be hurt deeper and broader. Aching is never isolated to just the heart. Pain comes and hits you in places, and in numerous ways and frequency. So instead of that perpetual lamentation, which can be irritating to you and everyone around you, think then of that this memory/depression/haunting is also a state of anticipation: of more pain, of release, of hope, of future and that indescribable fate of choice, that awaits you in another transitions and another. You ache because there are more aching to be experienced. But you ache because there might be a cure. Even if there isn't, there exists still that responsibility to the unknown. After all, the undeniable truth for me, without or without some theoretical model, is still my relation to time and space.

and as a conscious being in relation to God, my first responsibility is to God.
and the holiness of Holy.

--
by
paulo grey