"Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter;
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Therefore thou sleep’st so sound."
- Wiliam Shakespeare, Julius Cæsar. ACT II Scene 1.



Another petal falls. And, the withering rose stood - alone, trembling in its might on an empty white stage. Flat. Pale. Hollow. Drowned. Haunted - by the piercing echoes of thoughts which imprison the soul. I watch quietly, intently and hearing the echoes of the lines spoken to the glory of the mighty playwright and the weak landing of the fallen petal.

Today, I watched from a distance. I felt I could run a hundred million miles. And, then I would fall. But, I would realise that falling is quite simply part of the running. Really, somewhere deep down inside, I do not want to run. And, I know quite simply, I have no will to fall.

Today, I felt I could cry. And if I could and did, it would have been a sort of personal comfort to know that there are things I could still reach out to and long for enough to connect. Really, somewhere deep down inside, I don't want to. And, so I wouldn't.

In the midst of all this searching, there is only more searching. Nothing less than what I want and nothing more I could ask for. Wanted. No, needed. No. There is so much more I want but so little I could truly ask for. Wanted. But, unsatisfied. And, all the scrambling and and irregular bouts of desperation become a strange, distant familiarity - a sort of companion. Then they become isolated occurences of a somewhat distant past. The yearning, the grappling and all the imaginary climbing and falling. So strange.

Acquaintances become friends. And then, friends become acquaintances. All the strange distant familiarity. Just like the falling of the red rose petal.

Time kills everything. And, the slaughtered always stood in silence with the expectation of another slash, another wound. All slit quietly, unknowingly, beautifully. And so, another petal falls.

Today, I watched from a distance as I have always watched and quietly fear I will always watch.

Today, I watched. But, I wouldn't cry.

I simply would not.

[[ music ]] Celine Dion - Amazing Grace
[[ mood ]] scared

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"How many things by season season’d are
To their right praise and true perfection!"
- William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Scene 1.



For one brief moment perhaps, you had the world in your hands. Or, you would have allowed an illusion of such a world . But, illusions collapse as they always do. And, so does the world.

Perfection is a burden. Then the anticipation. The expectations. The disappointment. Cruelty comes in many words. Then, there is the knowledge that you stand alone in the midst of all the imperfection. Because, you have no one else to accuse or to pass on the burden. Because, you foolishly made the choice to carry and then to be consumed.

Sometimes, you are left to wonder to yourself alongside your furniture and the walls which surround you if you had been wronged by circumstances or by people you overlook. But, you would never truly forgive yourself for your own imperfections because you alone are the cause of it. You cause it simply by seeing it, by acknowledging it.

If I had had for that one brief moment the world in my hands, I let it slip and then I let it collapse. If I had had the illusion of such a world, I alone let it slip and I alone let it fade. And, I would never truly forgive myself for that. Because, beneath all those layers of wonderings with the furniture is the understanding that mediocrity is not what I want.

It is foolish. But, foolishness emerges only in hindsight.

So, if I cannot rebuild the world, I will rebuild the illusion. Alone.

[[ music ]] Coldplay - Fix you
[[ mood ]] frustrated

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"Each life unfulfilled, you see;
It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:
We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
Starved, feasted, despaired,--been happy."
- Robert Browning, Youth and Art



Follow your heart and chase your dreams.

Glorious words. I stacked everything up - the papers, the articles, journals, modules, the notes I stayed up nights and nights to labour and complete. And, like part of a ritual, I put them outside and tomorrow it will be another stack of the past - something isolated, something distant something forgotten. If Shaksepeare was right to say that all the world's a stage, then Life even with all its infinite variety would be an overstaged play.

Adulthood touches us in so many strange ways that it allows us the misleading liberty to stray away from the lessons we learn as a child. It allows us to look for excuses. It gives us the license to create a large gray area where we mingle the waters of our confusions, our doubts, our excuses and our flaws into a stream so that we can be absolved of all blame for having all that attached to our souls. After that, we are at peace again with ourselves.

After all, having to see means having to acknowledge and having to claim and embrace them as one's own. And, that would only create a sort of grave familiarity which one strives so hard to stray away from and be independent of. To run away is to be brave enough to find security.There is nothing particularly courageous in suffering in silent misery from a battle fought to be lost. But, what do we know of the word 'suffer'?

So many search in the depths of their hearts to find the beat which resonates to the rhythm of their souls. To learn, to know, to understand. So many more search in vain. Sometimes, you look up at the vastness of the skies on those unusually quiet nights and wonder at the vastness of the world and where your place is in it. You may be just another isolated, distant, forgotten soul.

But, is contentment to be found in ordinariness? Or in the under the cloak of non-existence or the behind the curtains of oblivion? Or in the inability to sigh as deep and laugh as free or to be constrained within a strict confinement drawn by our own hands and closes in at every attempt to escape? Is happiness to be found in its fullness with the absence of despair and suffering?

Perhaps, we have always been looking for something that we never knew was never to be found. Or, perhaps, we have not discovered what it was we are looking for and so it was never for us to find. But, how long would the reserves last before you realise you're another one of those odd souls whose efforts are futile.

Have you heard of the story of the fat Panda who defied all odds and became the Dragon Warrior who went on to save the entire valley from Tai Lung?

Things that are past are done with me. Destiny is a terrible story to tell. But, even in our own quiet, unassuming ways,there are matters we passionately pursuit. And, there will be things we valiantly battle for. Among many other things, we fight for ourselves, our conscience and our sanity so our lives are lived. To do otherwise, I deeply feel, is cowardice. Cowardice, my friend, is terribly human. But, so is courage. Perhaps, we can fight off our dreams. I don't believe we can truly fight off ourselves or comfort ourselves with an attempt at it.

And nobody calls you a dunce,
And people suppose me clever:
This could but have happened once,
And we missed it, lost it for ever.


Life is an overstaged play. But, I am not the playwright. And, tomorrow, some other past will unfold.

[[ music ]] Josh Rouse - Sparrows Over Birmingham
[[ book ]] Elizabeth Gaskell - The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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