1,300.
there is an unspoken beauty in numbers, especially a linear count of number...1, 2, 3, ...
it is like approaching infinity but you have to stop somehow and somewhere.
it is the perfect analogy of life - you count your days and you do not know when you have to stop counting.
Instead of fearing the inevitable end of our lives,
consider how it is like to live a life that is both linear and fragmentary.
It is like taking a picture at every moment - all the joy, sadness, excitement, horror, pain, tears, laughter - and pasting them all on a wall called life. It is to try to piece together a dream, a reality or just a figment of our imagination that consists of real events, real people and real emotions.
Then step back, in a moment of appreciation (not reflection) and admire the beauty of inevitability and unity (of fragments).
There is certainly a painter drawing my life with colours that I may or may not like. But we shouldn't oppose this painter because there is a omnipotent knowledge of our lives that demands our due reverence. It is to be firmly faithful to this painter and trust in His masterstrokes, such that even those strokes we do not understand form part of a grand master plan. (Am I conforming to a grand narrative?) No. It is to understand that even a micro narrative such as a wretched me can still interest this painter to make me His painting subject matter. It is like a Picasso painting that people did not understand until in retrospect, we realise the conventions he broke. It is not to paint the most beautiful painting a mortal would consider as, but to paint an immortal one, hanged in the heavens. It is realise it is not meant to be seen, but to be hung, and form part of a universe, where Hubble's telescope cannot even begin to fathom that vast infinite beauty.
Hence, even if I disappear from this world (this cruel happy world), I shall appear somewhere else busking in glory and reverence to the one who granted me this privilege.
even if I mean lesser and lesser, day by day, I shall still want to die knowing I left a footprint, that even if the waves sweep the sand smooth again, I was once there, forgotten in time to come, to take my place in the stars, fade and fall, burn and be self-absorbing, disappear eventually...but a new star is born again and again until all is over, all is over.
Therefore, sometimes, dare to resist a little and not be the person this world wants you to be. Resist a little and let it become an adventure; the willing canvas to be painted on.
What is imperfect to us may very likely be the perfect masterstroke. The used up oil can still be reused and painted over, releasing its hidden potential, which may just be a change of perspective. It is an art I do not possess so I shall leave it to the expert.
A crushing anvil on a stubborn and proud heart.
If we do not first tear and destroy ourselves,
will there still be a need to be healed? to be blessed? to be saved?
Beyond words.
it is that intangible perpetual consciousness of the future - what-is-to-come.
but let go of what is in between - the gap between the present instant and the future end.
for in our lifetime we will never know how the final painting looks like.
The crowning does not happen in this world.
even a surrealist empiricialism will not describe this other world for you.
the cruelty of life is that our subjectifications can never encompass everyone and everything.
therefore, leave the subjectifications to the Master painter.
such conclusions can only be made after I exhausted all ways to answer my questions.
when i feel i am hanging on to the ledge on the 13th floor.
when i feel so cold, it is hot and I am burning.
but all at the same time, I can feel this profound smirk on my lips, knowing all will be taken care of. I just don't know the details.
i am praying for you.
there is an unspoken beauty in numbers, especially a linear count of number...1, 2, 3, ...
it is like approaching infinity but you have to stop somehow and somewhere.
it is the perfect analogy of life - you count your days and you do not know when you have to stop counting.
Instead of fearing the inevitable end of our lives,
consider how it is like to live a life that is both linear and fragmentary.
It is like taking a picture at every moment - all the joy, sadness, excitement, horror, pain, tears, laughter - and pasting them all on a wall called life. It is to try to piece together a dream, a reality or just a figment of our imagination that consists of real events, real people and real emotions.
Then step back, in a moment of appreciation (not reflection) and admire the beauty of inevitability and unity (of fragments).
There is certainly a painter drawing my life with colours that I may or may not like. But we shouldn't oppose this painter because there is a omnipotent knowledge of our lives that demands our due reverence. It is to be firmly faithful to this painter and trust in His masterstrokes, such that even those strokes we do not understand form part of a grand master plan. (Am I conforming to a grand narrative?) No. It is to understand that even a micro narrative such as a wretched me can still interest this painter to make me His painting subject matter. It is like a Picasso painting that people did not understand until in retrospect, we realise the conventions he broke. It is not to paint the most beautiful painting a mortal would consider as, but to paint an immortal one, hanged in the heavens. It is realise it is not meant to be seen, but to be hung, and form part of a universe, where Hubble's telescope cannot even begin to fathom that vast infinite beauty.
Hence, even if I disappear from this world (this cruel happy world), I shall appear somewhere else busking in glory and reverence to the one who granted me this privilege.
even if I mean lesser and lesser, day by day, I shall still want to die knowing I left a footprint, that even if the waves sweep the sand smooth again, I was once there, forgotten in time to come, to take my place in the stars, fade and fall, burn and be self-absorbing, disappear eventually...but a new star is born again and again until all is over, all is over.
Therefore, sometimes, dare to resist a little and not be the person this world wants you to be. Resist a little and let it become an adventure; the willing canvas to be painted on.
What is imperfect to us may very likely be the perfect masterstroke. The used up oil can still be reused and painted over, releasing its hidden potential, which may just be a change of perspective. It is an art I do not possess so I shall leave it to the expert.
A crushing anvil on a stubborn and proud heart.
If we do not first tear and destroy ourselves,
will there still be a need to be healed? to be blessed? to be saved?
Beyond words.
it is that intangible perpetual consciousness of the future - what-is-to-come.
but let go of what is in between - the gap between the present instant and the future end.
for in our lifetime we will never know how the final painting looks like.
The crowning does not happen in this world.
even a surrealist empiricialism will not describe this other world for you.
the cruelty of life is that our subjectifications can never encompass everyone and everything.
therefore, leave the subjectifications to the Master painter.
such conclusions can only be made after I exhausted all ways to answer my questions.
when i feel i am hanging on to the ledge on the 13th floor.
when i feel so cold, it is hot and I am burning.
but all at the same time, I can feel this profound smirk on my lips, knowing all will be taken care of. I just don't know the details.
i am praying for you.
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