Living & Dying

Whilst many people may come to fear the idea or even the reality of their mortality. Yes, many people fear death. And for those that don't fear death, they fear for the things and the loved ones they leave behind, that it may fall into the torment of decay without them being around. But I tell you, I do not fear death, and I do not fear for the things I leave behind...But I fear for the things I leave unsaid, for the dreams that I never lived, and for the nothingness I leave behind... No, I don't fear death. What I fear happens everyday, sometimes many times a day...What I fear is dying.

I fear the little deaths each day, and the slowly dying and decay. The parts of me I've had to bury, and the sacrifices for each day. I mourn the loss of the innocence in child-like fun, and for the six-foot trenches that memory had made. The wilting of compassion that once blossomed for each spring of appreciation, and the nonchalant lending of a hand.

I dread the gravestones that stood in my way, reminding me of cherished passions.  The stone-cold stark remarks of their bitter and unwelcome engravings, echoing the miseries of my lives long ago laid down to rest.

I curse the miscarriages of my dreams, my passionate achievements which could have soared to greatness. Like tumours, already dead parts of me, forced to be extracted and cut from my life.

But most of all, much worse than the long-drawn tragedy of dying, I fear the four walls of a glorified cage, like a tomb built for the living who are placed there slowly to die. For no matter how big or how small, what manner of material make up it misshapen bars, or the luxury of it's habitat...A cage is still a cage, and just another word for a coffin. No, I do not fear death, I fear the pieces and stages of my life...slowly...dying.

The Anti-hero

Is it truly possible that something with such profound meaning, such poetic sense and such heroism in its history, can be reduced to nothing more than just empty words echoing through the overwhelming silence of loneliness, but motivated by what appears to be more duty rather than sincerity? How is it then possible that such heroism is turned to nothing more than a pedestrian thought? The answer is simple...The answer is clear. But the answer is not always the truth that we're willing to face, because it's reality is too far from the fantasy we naively created all by ourselves.

In Shakespeare, we learn that bringing down the face of a hero, is as simple as pointing out its flaws. This does not make him an antagonist...no, it makes him less than what we thought before. It simply makes them an anti-hero, the kind of hero with no heroic qualities of note, but still, a hero nonetheless. But it's not the anti-hero who falls so far from grace that should concern us, as much as the hero, who in his own believable pretence, built a pillar of virtues that never really were his to begin with.

Yes, the way you bring down the greatness, the poetry and the heroic luster of something as profound as Love, is by pulling back the curtain and exposing it for all its impurities. And it is then that you learn that Love not only breeds Love and Happiness...no...Love too often decides to also breed Contempt.

Stains - Part 1

Anyone who really knows me usually knows my wardrobe - it's littered with white. And as obsessed as I am with whites and light greys (in my 30s), unfortunately, I'm a total klutz. My husband usually knows it's me by following a spill trail of food, or drink, on my clothing. Yes, I'm prone to stains. But it doesn't stop me from wearing my whites.

Over the last few months I've been going through a lot, physically, mentally and emotionally. Weird things have been creeping into my mind - foreign things, feelings I'm not familiar with, thoughts that keep spinning over and over in my head when the room goes empty or late at night. Things like loyalty, trust, friendship, dependence, freedom, responsibility, commitment, security... I'm one of the most confident people I know - ask anyone who knows me. But consolidating all these thoughts have only made me realise that every one of these recipes have the same ingredient... DOUBT.

I'm a complete workaholic, overachiever, who goes the extra mile for everyone, and a brilliant juggler. But never in my life have I wrestled with doubt, especially in my friendships, in my family, and worse of all, myself. But now, all the hats I've enjoyed wearing all my life have this horrible stain on them called doubt. Naturally, when I spill something and I can't get the stain out, I rarely throw it away. I often keep it in my closet hoping that one day I'll get the stain out so that I can confidently wear it again. But how do you pack away a relationship, a responsibility, a commitment, a feeling? You can't. It's ruined. You'd probably have to just... throw it out.

It's been a while since I've written. Since I've had to have a little one on one with me. And I realised I've just been too busy to get through a little love and a load of laundry. I don't have the answer. Not now. And call it what you want... Doubt, stains, depression, whatever. I simply have to figure out what the hell I plan to do with it. Because until I do, I don't really have whites anymore... all I have left are stains.

Beware of Sailing

The seas are wide, wild and unforgiving. And if you're gonna sail it's rough waters, be mindful of the wind. It'll raise your sails and keep you moving forward, but just as quickly it can change direction. And there's nothing worse than capsizing in open waters.

But the real trick about sailing with the wind is learning how to control your rudder, knowing when to hoist your sale and when to bring it about. And if you don't keep a firm grip of your rudder, you'll end up losing control and the sea will take you, claim you and break you. Because the truth is, unlike the sea with its tides and it's beaches, it knows where to end and which way to flow. The wind, however,  it has no rules, and can't be told what to do and where to go.

And just like life, in its rough and unforgiving climates, be mindful of the breeze that keeps you steady, it'll change direction quickly till all you're left with is the gail. So learn quickly, the rules about sailing, because you never know which way the wind will blow.

Pain & Pleasure

As a good saying goes - "One man's junk, is another man's treasure". But it's very rare that one hears the saying "One man's pain, is another man's pleasure"...

Similarly so, I find it interesting how one thing can bring good memories flooding back to an individual, whilst they sometimes only remind us of much darker days. And ironically, the same memories of those darker days in our lives, are sometimes shared with the same subjects that now finds only solace in the blurred memory of its happiness. Who mistake the undeniable wrongs for vague rights.

And like scars remind us of wounds, it's always the painful memories that you remember quite vividly, and the good memories that become only shades of shadows in the blurred silhouette of memory. And that's not to say that those wounds haven't healed, but rather that scars are so easily torn open once again.

But it is in time and in love that we must slowly learn to place our trust. After all, it is time that heals all wounds, but it is up to love to dress it it, tend to it and protect it. It is in love that we look to for guidance when we make those same mistakes and show us the line that divides pain from pleasure, and how feint that fine line becomes.

Autopsy

Living the type of life I've lived, having grown up and matured as quickly as I did has taught me many things about life, love and most of all...compromise.

I've never regarded the glass being half empty or half full as any matter of concern, I have always only seen the glass and its condition and probability for being either a positive or negative force. That's about as black and white as I've ever been able to deduce particular facts in and around my life. And with all the wisdom I've gained, I've never considered myself in these regards, but rather that at least the majority of the affected be affected in the best possible way, whether that included me or not. And even if after dissecting my perspectives, my understanding is undermined by the deterrent of my compassion, then my wisdom will not forgive the scars that my compassion leaves behind.

So yes, I may reason and rationalize things in a manner consistent to that of running an autopsy...But the fact remains that the last thing I should be called is inconsiderate. The tears that filled the wells of my life have all been rich in the nourishment they got from all my considerations, and those wells have turned to dams which no strength in a wall can further contain. Yes, life is full of compromise, and once again I find myself at the end of one. And as is true to my nature, I have the choice of choosing to understand and decide based on what lies at the end of the microscope, or follow what my compassion drives me to believe but cannot quite clearly see through a blurred spyglass.

Seasons

As the last of the warmer seasons leave us, we suddenly feel the cold reality of life, moving swiftly by like a sudden rushing wind. And as the memories of our liveliness, so suddenly, fade to pale browns and greys, the bite of winter's breath reminds us that the old season is gone, and that its time to let go and face the even greater, frosty horizon. So too in my life I feel the sudden plunge that turns to a fast free-fall, as if my soft, leafy landing had vanished and all that remains is the deep and long abyss of simply living.

And there are times it seems that the elements of winter, such as deep chill of a quiet hush, and the crackling of frost as it envelopes us, all too quickly takes over the place that we once felt the warmth of the season we grew too used to being in. And like a thief in the night, the bite of winter has silently changed our surroundings, stolen what was left of our beautiful summer, and left us with the cold, unending night. But stepping into a new season is never easy, especially when the evergreen are all too fond of reminding us that we're simply out of place. Nothing more than bits of twine and twigs, without the lush of the green we once were clothed with, and completely fruitless in a season we suddenly realise we do not belong in.

But the truth that rings out is that with winter comes the rain, and the deep silence required to mourn the passing of a good season. A chance to rebuild and to regrow for the harvest yet to come. For there is no room for new beginnings, without letting go of the past. And there cannot be growth after a harrowing winter, if we're weighing ourselves down with the memories of a summer's past. So I'm appreciating the warmth I'm blessed with through the frost, to endure me beyond the winter till spring comes at last.