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