Han

Tag: Thoughts

Time and time again

I awake on weekends inhaling absolutely purged air and a sweet tasting of the morning sun. Everything seems to have changed — days are quieter, people are more morose and the shade of green on trees are darker. Rain now falls softly.

I find myself sleeping differently, my head now turns to the ceiling. I don’t read as much as I do before, regrettably. My heart is increasingly hardened by the blinding contrasts I witness in my military stint and perhaps this is why I find myself tougher to write longer; everything is truncated, emotions are evaporated dry almost immediately and while there is still a mess in the heart, there is no time to grab a pen and write it down.

Everything is faster, more sombre and less emotional.

Words sink me

Sometimes, to not associate the plummeting rain with melancholy and the rustling leaves as soft whisper – but to be blissfully ignorant – lightens the intensity of life tenfolds.

Why do we associate metaphors with everything we see; why do we write about the minute things that are meant to be left overlooked; why are we giving permanence to fleeting moments; why are we cruelly drawing ourselves this noxious vortex during midnight, only to sink.

People are being careful with words and maybe I should too.

Everything has an expiration date

Time has never been more abhorrent than at present. I use the expiration dates on loaves of bread to gauge time; I use the 12 hour time interval to constantly remind myself that the night is near. I’m seated in the train cabin and everything feels peculiarly unsettling, as though every brick and wood is gravely vulnerable — the tracks that the train is on could give way very easily, the people here might perish faster than it takes to blink.

Time has never been more abhorrent than at present. It has reminded me of how transient interactions were and will always be. The brutality of brief conversations and swift contact. Salutations are frivolous, smiles are perfunctory. Time erodes the very relationship a butterfly has with a marigold.

Time commits swift murders, lawlessly and perennially.

Unprecedented longing

in the pouring rain, I listened closely to the song you said was nice
(yes it is)
I noticed,
at a very young age
that you had a proclivity towards
songs that exuded melancholia;
lyrics held a certain gravity in you,
melodies came in second

you too have always been a wordsmith —
a linguist at heart, a poet by nature
alas, you were not given the opportunity to hone your exceptional linguistic ability
but when you had a son
you balanced between practicality and supporting his dream

he was the young reflection of your literary self
perhaps all he was was a blank canvas
yet as he grew
under your personality and esoteric philosophies
the canvas was tainted, marred, embellished…

he was your young reflection —
brimming with poetry and prose
sharing an inclination towards the human condition, held similar views on grief,
the afterlife, religion, love…

in the end, you encouraged him to pursue what he loved most intimately, with confidence

Dear Mom,
the separation between us is literally beyond roads and seas
every night as I look at the pregnant moon and dead stars
I wonder if you too are looking at those identical ones —
thinking about Grandpa or simply relaxing

there is so much more gratitude in farewells
and intensified joy in rendezvouses

I am always looking forward to the next get-together.
Always

Amongst the fall

It has been 2 days into camp and at every 1930 hours, I get brutally reminded of the magnificently pleasing dinner I had with Dad and Mom yesterday evening. We had Japanese glutinous rice — all was well except for the anxiety catalysed by the imminent book in. I am writing this, seated on moist mud, hands raped by sandflies as they leave their crimson mark of bestiality, surrounded by somewhat awfully annoying chirps and squawks of unidentifiable birds, the sneaky rustling of leaves caused by the scurrying of anonymous creatures.

Beside my shellscrape-to-be, there is an abominable ant-nest. Shafts of sunlight blind the nest, as if sadistically glorifying its abhorrent presence. All I implore is to have peaceful nights and uninterrupted rest. 

The sunlight would soon away and a canvas of black would soon replace the light; trees in the night would begin to act like haunting phantoms donned in stygian shawls silently screaming terror.

(written on 07052016)

Playing with mortality

I was down with a mortal affliction that was insanely close to taking my life away. Two days ago, I had my second book out and went to Han’s for supper with Dad. All was good (prematurely) — he enjoyed his Curry Chicken while I was greatly satisfied with Beef Hor Fun and Spaghetti with Chicken. Perhaps mine were portions too huge and undesirable for a weary stomach. My intestines gave way like broken water-pipes, releasing an ordeal of pain and palpable versions of death that were killing me from within.

The day after I was scrunching like a millipede, wringing my tummy in throes. The acute abdominal pain was distressing. 

I then saw the world as dead 4 days ago when I fell hard in the cold enfeebling arms of death — all living things having coalesced into a lifeless and dreadful matter, where everything breathing and moving seemed unreal. Stars in the witching hour merely looked like tiny holes with penetrating light. 

The First

I was expecting this day with fervency. The foreign yet homely sight of traffic lights was unusually warm. Civilisation and people donned in range of colours acted as a remedy to the otherwise rather uniformed lifestyle. Echoes and repeated militarised cheers of “First book-out!” exploded like mines in the ferry, with smiles indicating a sort of indescribable gratification. We’re green pixelised individuals settled comfortably in the ferry – like parakeets awaiting the release of gates announcing liberty.

The past few days were indisputably enervating – the sweltering sun coupled with sparse clouds and the rigorous trainings had us at our weakest. We only regenerate with nutritious meals and refreshing swimming lessons. Mornings fissure with a sort of dreadful disposition and days end without vitality. I have become tanner, and my hair is once again back to the symbolic length implying my military stint.

The morning today was however remarkably magnificent — the sleek streaks of sunlight were utterly complementary to the clouds that were in perfect symmetry. They were spaced like soldiers in fine files, stationary and dutiful. Every morning, the trees are washed with dew and the ground exhales in heated breaths.

In the slightest of revelations, this seemingly dehumanising environment is for growth. And so to embrace and maximise we shall, always be thankful and pursue betterment — for the more we perspire in trainings, the less we bleed in battle.

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