"If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.
When you're feeling in the dumps,
Don't be silly chumps.
Just purse your lips and whistle."
- Always Look on the Bright Side of Life



And, so she lied down, watched the rain and she cried tearlessly. And for what, she does not know. Could grief haunt you so long? Could anything haunt you so long, for that matter.

Ghosts of the past, send them back to their graves. IF is a terribly haunting word. Stop effing iffing.

Happens every time and to everyone.

So, chant: always look on the bright side of life.

[[ mood ]] sick

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"These days - the stars seem out of reach
These days - there ain't a ladder on these streets
These days - are fast, love don't last in this graceless age
There ain't anybody left but but us these days."
- Bon Jovi, These Days



You know the sort of day where you decide to stay in the shower five million hours, the day you would rather listen to your roommate's off key, off tune, off rtythm and off everything else singing just so you don't have to read another word, the day you'd read every online article there is on MSN lifestyle, Yahoo, Google News, BBC and Soccernet, the day you pray and beg will never, ever, EVER, ever come?

Yea?

That day is today.

So, run me over with a car.


Please.


Pleeeaaaassse.




Pretty pleeaase?

[[ mood ]] should be killed

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"But others pass, they never pause,
To feel that magic in your hand
To me you're like a wild rose
They never understand why
I cried for you"
- Katie Melua, I Cried For You


I had forgotten, perhaps. But, such is the weakness of the human heart. Easily hurt, easily numbed, and easily soothed. And, so you sigh another sigh and remember again. Or, someone comes around to remind you.

The world drowns you into oblivion. And, so easily and so willingly another lost child is born. Born to cry in the deafness of the world and born to crawl amid the charging stampedes. Easily. Willingly. And, repeatedly. How often is it that we tread this earth with no remembrance, no celebration of a purpose? How often are we reborn into oblivion?

So futile is the path ahead for a weary heart. Roses grown, roses trodden and the traveller's heart out worn and gone.

A sigh. A murmur. A giggle. And then a smile.

And, just like that, a cherub skipped pass and celebrated the forgotten.

The rain will come. And, then the sun and then the rainbow and then the roses trodden will be roses grown. The heart so worn would be gone.


That beauty need only be a whisper ...

[[ music ]] Katie Melua - I Cried For You
[[ mood ]] weary

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"Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?
Where are all those adoring daring boys?
Where's the knight pining so for me
he leaps to death in woe for me?
Oh where are a maiden's simple joys?"
- Alan Jay Lerner & Frederick Loewe, The Simple Joys of Maidenhood


Oh ... Guinevere, I don't know.

Chaucer once wrote:

A KNIGHT ther was, and that a worthy man,
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To riden out, he loved chivalrie,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.

Historically, we live in a patriarchal and male dominant society. There were kings and there were knights and there were men and there were more men. So when Chaucer wrote about chivalry, he refers to manly superior qualities of trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. Yet, having said that, we must acknowledge that the medieval system was one where each men understood well where he stands in the social hierarchy. The lords will be the lords. The knights will be the knights. And, the serfs will be the serfs.

Today, the structure is less defined. The pisang goreng sellers in an unknown village could be the Prime Minister. The serfs can and may be the knights and the lords. And, should the chivalric qualities not be inherited? Truth. Honour. Freedom. Courtesy. While a fued cannot begin for me or kith kill their kin for me, I thought maybe the occassional carrying of books and acceptable behaviour would not be too much to ask.

A couple of hundred years down the line, a young man wrote that there is 'no way in hell' that he will agree to help someone or side someone 'because they are female.' Chivalry, my dear friends, he equates with empowerment over men. And, had he wrote that with any less conviction, I would have been compelled to respectfully rephrase my sentence to say 'a young gentleman once wrote ...'

O, dear, dear ... How the times have changed. Oh, the humanity.

And, here I think he had just made us all attend the wake after the premature death of chivalry. In denial, perhaps, I refuse to resign to such a fate. Chivalry is not dead. It may have now arrived in another form but it is not dead and it has never died. Carrying of books, holding the door open and acceptable good mannerism may not be chivalric in the Lancelot sense, but it is as good a bargain as any we can get our hands on.

Yet, there's a refusal. Too much to ask from the too manly, too simply. And, herein lies the fine line between empowerment and gentlemanly behavior. No. Empowerment is not chivalry. Chivalry is not empowerment. And, between them is the red sea that Moses splitted.

Chivalry is a term related to the medieval institution of knighthood. It is the ideals of knightly virtues of honour, loyalty, freedom, courtesy and if may I add, courtly love. Such were the standards. Today, we are contented with gentlemanly qualities - refined manners, respect and thoughtfulness. Such are the standards today. No more of fighting beast and foe. ...

Empowerment is the process of communities equipping themselves with knowledge, skills and resources they need in order to change and improve the quality of their own lives and their ccommunity. While across borders, women fight for equality of treatment and opportunities to improve the quality of their lives, it is no way a fight for empowerment over men. We think much less of them than they think of themselves.

To be able to empower over the opposite sex, the appearance of parity must first mature into reality. Marital rape. Sexual harassment. Bride burning. Honour killing. Women traficking. These are evidence of a sex with empowerment not yet bestowed upon them. Many of the voices who fight for equality is heard. But, consider the cries of all those drowned by the silence of the streotypical majority. Too many stories are left untold and too many refuse to listen.

While I may have overstated my case with a touch of personal defensiveness, I acknowledge that the social issues which plague women, are the very issues which plague men. And, I know for a fact that there are good men out there. Few. I'm seeing one. My father. Other people's fathers, husbands and sons. And, I love men. Shakespeare. Keats. Byron. Yeats.

We are not asking for special treatment. We are asking for equal treatment - not as an ideal or theory, but as a fact and result. And somewhere along those lines, a well-mannered boy who understands and respects such a cause thrown in - not because we need one, simply because we will all be grateful to have one.

Shall I not be on a pedestal,
Worshipped and competed for?
Not be carried off, or better st'll,
Cause a little war?
Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?

Oh Guinevere, I don't know. I think the carrying of books, the occasional footing of a bill, the greeting in the morning and the good behavior while is not mandatory is endearing. And, sometimes, you do all that not because we are women, but because you are a man.

But for what Helen did to Troy, Cleopatra to Antony, Delila to Samson and most significantly, for what Venus did to Mars and for the rest of womankind, let us toast.

That, may be closer to empowerment.

[[ music ]] Julie Andrews - You May Take Me to the Fair
[[ mood ]] working

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"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. "
- Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken



There once was a shepherd boy who was bored as he sat on the hillside watching the village sheep. To amuse himself he took a great breath and sang out, "Wolf! Wolf! The Wolf is chasing the sheep!"

And like the boy who cried 'wolf', it is too little too late. Or, had I cried too much too early? Aesop has thoughtlessly inflicted upon us the nature of such a boy. And since, a cursed part of us was kept separate and vacant for the occupation of such a boy. Why else is the boy unnamed?

We live in the beginning, as the tale begins, with the enthusiasm of encountering something unexpectedly dangerous and new. So, we look forward, proclaim and then exclaim the cursed words, 'Wolf! Wolf! The Wolf is chasing the sheeps!'.

Later, when something unexpectedly dangerous did happen, you proclaim and exclaim the same cursed words. But, you're always met with a response far less enthusiastic. Don't cry wolf!, they say. What should I cry then? Monkeys! Monkeys! The Monkeys are chasing the sheeps.

And, why hadn't you come, I would ask? Then, they'll pat you on the back and tell you because you cried 'Wolf' too little, too late, too much, too early. The very villagers who have promised not only their presence, but their support with pitchforks and witch brooms have now left you to wonder if it was your enthusiam that has caused the loss of your sheeps. Or was it your trusting nature as a sheepboy that has led you to write your own end?

Then they tell you that they will help you look for the sheeps in the morning. These are not their sheeps. If they were, they'd run up the hill, across the rivers and jump into the field and praise the Lord that there is no wolf. You don't stop running out of a building after a million false fire alarms. But, they are the shepherd's sheeps. And, what is a shepherd without his sheeps?

A little too little, too late.

Why do I feel like the fable has been written as a satire for children? Or adults for that matter.

Frost says with a sigh that he took the one less traveled by. I did not. Just when you think that you're good at herding sheeps or good at crying 'Wolf!', you lose your sheeps - more easily and more readily than you believe yourself would. Perhaps, there is nothing more than just illusive comfort in the trodden path.

It is true that nobody believes a liar even when he is telling the truth. That sheepboy now knows that he is not to take any of the villagers' promises any more seriously than they should take his 'Wolf! Wolf!' cries. Just another circle of lies.

That is why the boy is not named in the fable. We are the villagers. And, we are the boy. To think of the amount of times this story as been told and will be told ...

After all, what is a shepherd without his sheeps?

[[ mood ]] tired

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"It is a mistake to imagine that man can exhaust his destiny, or can reach the bottom of anything whatever. Alas! what are all these destinies thus driven pell-mell? whither go they? why are they so? He who knows that, sees all the shadow. He is alone. His name is God."
-Victor Hugo, Les Misérables



It is in the sort of morbid confinement that no one really hears the veiled cries. You don’t want anyone to hear it either. Even you could choose to convince yourself to let it fade into weak whispering echoes. Because, having not heard means having not the need to see to it. Simply, I let them weaken, fade and hide. Cruel is the knowledge that the only hands which has formed and is forming you are yours and yours alone. If there’s a third, you have someone else to blame. But, you stand and fall by the choices you make.

Life bites but for today … I win.

Sometimes you believe that to be true. Sometimes, you believe that if you say that enough; you will believe it is true eventually. The comfort of being in a state of unknowing denial far exceeds the knowledge of the actual denial. Like a crime or a sin, ignorance is bliss. Most other times, no matter how many times you say it or how hard you try to believe in it, you know that deep down somewhere that it is not true, that today I did not win. And, that today I am compelled to utter ‘I did not win.’

No one comes even remotely close to being able to clean those scars. Because, you stand and fall alone by the decisions you make. The decisions you make, make you. It is not pride. It’s about cleaning up after your own mess. It is the knowledge that there are just some battles which you cannot allow others to fight for you and some paths because chosen alone must be wandered in solitude. And, like everything else, it will be over.

When? There’s just too much you don’t know – where to start, when to stop and why to go on. Yet, you go on and for what I wonder. Why do you keep walking and walking without asking for one moment where you’re going? And, if there was a moment where you did ask why, how is it that you can go on without an answer? Perhaps, we are all made not to ask or made to fit in the grand design in such a way that we march on simply because we can. The great philosophers never did find the answers. I don’t suppose I will either. And, how tiring it is to ask.

But, it will be over. It is a gut feeling. Sooner better than later. That’s all I am left with. Gut feelings – like the stars and the sun. And, hopefully, once I’ve emerged once again from the relics and remains of a meaningless battle, I can see the world in a different light – all over again. Maybe, then I can say I have won – to have died, buried and live all over again. But, we are not Christ are we? Therefore, we must not die and be buried or we will not rise again. We must only rest. Can you then rest so long that it matters no more if you live or die?

Can passion really keep you alive?

Today, I did not win.

But, maybe tomorrow, I will.

[[ music ]] Jamie Cullum - In the Small Wee Hours of the Day
[[ mood ]] worn

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"Oh! Do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch."
- Jane Austen, Mansfield Park



And, so, we walk our separate paths. We have not done before and what a walk it has been thus far. I wonder, sometimes, if what we have had in all those years are now just like sand castles. Castles in all their pomp and grandeur. Sand in all their vulnerability and irregularity. And, while the joy of the building surpasses any other sense of excitement, each knew the that it was destined not to last - that time was to conquer our efforts. So careless were we to build and even more so watch it wash away. And, nature always washes it away.

Had we, in our quietness, wanted and valiantly attempted to deny the forces of Nature? I suppose, in between all those unspoken words were whispers of promises that neither will let go - that we can grow separately but not grow apart. So foolish, sometimes, these promises may appear. And, who were we trying to convince? The trouble with self-regulation, is, you don't know how willing you are to punish yourself when you have failed.

Perhaps, it is resignation. Perhaps, it is acceptance of the notion that what is lost cannot always be regained and trust is one of those odd creatures. After all, I trust you not to look on me any differently than I have on you. Time parts the hearts of men. And the hearts of men are as easily parted as they were formed. From dust you came and to dust you will return. That is our greatest strength and our greatest flaw. I had not fought so hard as I ought to. But, forgive me. I fear I couldn't.

But, I ask you now as I have asked myself many times in the dark, am I so changed that you will not see beyond what I wear and what I have or own to know that I carry with me the same heart? Has Time so altered me that you recognise not that beneath these layers lies the same soul who kept our secrets and conspire against the tyrants with you? Is there not one moment where you can draw a precedent as support of my character?

Perhaps, even in those questions, I ask only to deceive myself. You saw it all along that I am not the same as before. And, today, for a brief moment, it struck me as to how far I have come and how unwilling I am to look back. And, worst, how futile it is to look back and to think I could be who I once was. Sometimes, you just lose track of who you've become. For so long, I have rejected the murmurs and the discontent and thought it didn't matter. Now, it doesn't.

My friends, I cannot trust myself to stay as I am. But, I ask of you not to look on me differently. If what we had were sand castles, can we not build a Trojan wall? Or a plastic barrier? Or rebuild the castles again where the tides will not reach?

Perchance, when and if you do stumble across these words, you will see that I had always intended to ask questions that I never did. Because, between you and myself, I thought you a friend. And, questions are almost always meaningless between friends.

Time will always with its unkind hands touch me in ways even I cannot value and I would always be that Muse. That is a flaw and I am not faultless. But, please and do know that if we finally do decide to strip off the guises of our own pretense and be truthful once again ... I am that child. Altered but intact.

[[ music ]] Anna Nalick - Wreck of the Day
[[ mood ]] tired

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