If

If Sun could ever so briefly trespass the borders of twilight, and unveil his celestial counterpart for an instant, would the cold be overbearing, would melancholy puncture his virile predilections? If day could caress night, as night longs for the day, would darkness repent from itself and be purged by the healing rays of the latter? If kindness begets evil, as evil foreshadows kindness, would a lucid confession become a mere prelude to ten thousand lies, as soothing melodies pave the way for an orchestral tempest? If I suffer your innermost vociferations, as you mirror the subtlest nuances of my psyche, could we unlearn each other's burdens, savour the champagne of predestination and dissolve our karma with every tragic embrace? You, drink cross-armed from the poisoned chalice of my soul; stride past the insurmountable obstacle, and we'll be forever whole.

The Night

The night I deigned myself to fall
I felt at peace with all
No murmurs from the prison's keep
Nor echoes from the wall

Though I recall the balls and chains
Which succour me the same
No gain shall gallop behind this pain
A fall it was in vain

Hari New Candlemas

It is comforting to appreciate the quasi-miracle that people around the world have always observed the same natural phenomena, the same seasonal changes, and woven parallel strands of mythology and folklore to commemorate what the heavens have splashed across our canvasses of cultures. Especially in a time when humanity appears to be ailing, ruminating about our commonness instead of difference can be therapeutic. That is why as we approach Chinese New Year, a season of cleansing, celebration and renewal, I also think of Imbolg, Candlemas, Hari Raya, and so forth. I imagine an era centuries ago, when those inspired and guided by the spirit of nature would light up a marvellous array of candles and dance to the rhythm of rolling wheels and ancient flutes. I imagine the prophet Muhammed strident atop a mountain, proclaiming the edicts of celebration to his people. And I certainly imagine the Chinese, my very own ancestors, frolicking in their monster costumes and smashing their drums in a primitively admirable attempt to vanquish imagined demons. As we prepare to dust away the cobwebs of yesteryear and consign them to our archives of memory, may we also ponder about the magic of how our cultural specificity could actually be a blessed piece of the overall jigsaw puzzle of humanity, and utter a soft prayer for the human spirit to grow, to persevere, and to move to new levels of love, wisdom and compassion.

Drift

From wistful thoughts, her phantom drifts
Upon an endless sea
Yet fairer than she, the fairest woes
Still plague me endlessly

I cast my lines, the twilight creeps
Thus knotting close my heart
Like ebb and tide, like springs and neaps
I drift back to the start

Execution

Last night I witnessed an act that, even by my standards, was utterly reprehensible. Several people at my workplace have complained about being harassed by stray dogs recently, and the reaction was admirably swift but needlessly cruel. I had my share of a moment of poignance when I fed the adorable stray puppy, partaking in whatever small amount of joy it had as it nibbled on a bone. Little did both of us realise that it could be his final delicacy, as a horde of men-scavengers equipped with a whole variety of vile equipment arrived shortly after, ostensibly sent by the authorities. It will be difficult for me to forget how the puppy was prodded and forced out of his refuge of bushes, how he made a final desperate sprint for his budding life, how the sadistic cheers resonated in my ears when they successfully swung a noose over the puppy's neck and pulled and dragged and twired him around like some world championship trophy. It compounded my depression to realise that I might never see him again.

Does the puppy remind us of our own lives? Compelled by circumstances to abandon our zones of nourishment and security, forced out into the open by hawking and prancing eyes ready to swipe us for the kill. Yet can any of us be as innocuous, as blameless, as undeserving of suffering as the puppy? When retribution, pain, sympathy and justice weave each other into a precarious fabric of right and wrong, is there someone out there wise enough to come to terms with it all?

Meal ticket to Spain

I have been given another opportunity to present a paper of mine, this time at a conference in Spain (2nd International Workshop on Metaphor and Discourse). Elation would be the customary emotion to feel, but had it not been for the timely succour of financial aid from my mum and sis, I would be facing yet another disappointment instead. Even as I prepare to pack my bags for another long trip (nearer than Brazil though), at the back of my head is the insidious fear that the ocean of gratitude and debt will drown me entirely, sooner rather than later. Will the journey be worth their uninhibited investment? Will the lonesome promenade down some alley in Barcelona be as spiritually nourishing as the morning stroll through Rio De Janiero? Emptied of all excesses, how could I dig deep and empty my lot any further? But the pursuit of knowledge, the salvaging of lost esteem, the bitter-sweet burden of expectation on my tired shoulders, the temporary intoxication that drowns my deepest sorrows, albeit for a mere couple of days...I abruptly realise that I must go.

Jingle

Lonesome raconteur, why do you cry?
To whom do you testify, for whom do you lie
While the salty waters still nourish your face
You crucify your love in a long forgotten place

In unforgettable ways
And you cackle her name all the rest of your days.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow officially marks a new beginning, when I will once again don the seafaring rig and discard papers and keyboards and pens into a whirlpool of cloudy memories. A hearty chicken cutlet, a final meal bestowed by my superior, sends me off with contented bloatedness. Nonetheless whatever I do shall still be paraded beneath the vain banner of futility. And freedom...yes, the magic of that word shall dissipate away from me, now that I have come to cherish the distinguished prize that blood has been spilt over, tears have been endlessly shed for. No longer can I take possession of every evening and saunter down the alleys of melancholy, my shadow as companion. Perhaps my anticipation should now be directed towards every ripple of the evening, every crash of the waves against the pier, from which I will hopefully pick up an inspirational gem or two.

You, dear ones with new beginnings as well, remember to look for your own gems in your crowded places.