Ascension...

It’s like emerging into the eye of a storm; a sudden calm after the deafening roar. I walk seemingly dazed, my eyes staring into the distance, focused on nothing in particular. People stream past me in a haze as my feet carry me forward without the need for direction.

I feel a high that cannot be described in terms of happiness or pleasure. It is an euphoric clarity of thought, a complete cleansing of desire. It is not a trance; I am fully conscious, rooted firmly to this world. I am no yogi; to me the cleansing of desire comes only after its fulfillment. An indulgence that invokes things in me that are incomparably purer than the superficial existence of normal life. Its aftertaste is bittersweet, but still as welcome as the sharp feeling of pain in fingers recovering from the numbness of cold.

I finally find myself in that state; ready to accept the truth that I've been avoiding; the nature of life. That this is it, this is all there is to it.

Will...

I stand hunched in a dark hall. The air is still, suffocating, denying the vastness of the enclosure; shrinking its dimensions down to those of a coffin. A dim light falls down on me. It shows me the writhing shapes surrounding me, extending into the darkness. They don’t reflect the light but neither do they absorb it. They are shadows the light can never reach, shaped like arms; clawing at me, grabbing, pulling.

They strip away my mind; taking my thoughts, my memories and tainting them; replacing the intimate with the banal. Making me doubt things I knew to be manifest in those precious moments when I beheld them. They tear my individuality to shreds; strand by strand, molding me to their design, bending my will to theirs.

I drag my feet along the floor, trying to forge a path; a straight one. But their hands divert my steps. They lead me away from my path; tempting, coercing, and threatening. But, somehow, I find myself under the source of the light.

In its purifying glow I relive that which is precious to me; those smoldering embers in my mind, never fully extinguished by the shadows. And so I leap into the light; arms outstretched, chest held out, seeking entry, imploring to be accepted. But the shadows reach out and grip my legs, fiercely, possessively. I hover suspended, knowing that if I break free they will never be able to touch me again. But if I am pulled back in, I may be lost forever.

Within...

I am a lake, many fathoms deep. My shores lie beyond what eyes can see.

I am a man on a boat; its bow marking the extent of my world. I remember nothing of before, yet it is too cruel to imagine that this is all my existence has ever been. I yearn to escape my wooden boundaries.

I am a lake, many fathoms deep. I lie placid, my surface untouched.

I peer down into the waters on which I float. I see a man inside! No; it is my perturbed mind toying with me; it is but my own reflection. I try to reach out and touch his hand; the man shatters into ripples. Was he just an illusion or was he truly me; a shallow reflection on the surface of something more profound.

I am a lake, many fathoms deep. A ripple runs through me.

The Garden of Lesser Delights...

I remember an instance from my childhood vividly. I was hunched over a mound of earth in the garden, observing an ant colony. I had been at it for a while, engrossed so completely that I didn’t realize there was someone at the gate; that was until I got chastised for not answering the doorbell.

I used to have such zest for life. I would quiz my father with endless questions about everything under the sun, and then the things beyond it. What I lacked in social skills I made up in the imagination, and so I spent every hour that I could playing alone. I would make paper cutouts and figures using origami and use them in stories that I played out over several days. Before there was cable TV, or video games, or the Internet, I could simply entertain myself with my fantasies. I would play them out using my toy soldiers, or draw them out in comic strips. My mother had to knock on the bathroom door to get me out of there in the morning, because I would be lost in some intergalactic battle sitting on the toilet seat.

I don’t remember being bored back then, unless I was being made to study or visit relatives. Even now I don’t find it hard to entertain myself. Yet my friends complain of being bored whenever they get time to themselves, free from the dreariness of work. And when they hear my response as to what I do with my spare time they aren’t satisfied. They might even scoff at hearing that I can be happy just sitting in my room most of the day. Sure there are things I would love to experience; life could be much more fulfilling. But its not, and I treasure each moment too much to sit around thinking about how bored I am.

Thinking; that’s the key. If I documented every fantasy or debate I had with myself I could write half a dozen lengthy blog posts everyday. So yes, apart from sitting in my room ‘just browsing’ the Internet I do other stuff; I think. Maybe people have forgotten that they can do that. But for me, with my memories and my almost limitless and perhaps still childish imagination, I can occupy my mind at whim. And when I am not thinking, I am feeling. It maybe some music that strikes a chord with me, some anime that many might find weird, or it might be my precious hour in the gym, but whatever the medium, through it I try to feel the thrill of existence; as much as is possible given the monotony of my being. Maybe it’s not as good as the elusive fun that everyone desires but I still treasure these lesser delights.

Mr. Right...

She wakes up alone. He didn’t return from the pub last night. “Happy fortieth birthday to me”, she mutters. She’s used to it now, though that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. She gets up and walks over to the mirror. Fresh wrinkles, or so she imagines. She sees only hints of the beauty she once possessed. The face in the mirror looks at her questioningly; where did it all go wrong?

Her current relationship isn’t exactly a happy one, but she doesn’t have the heart to end it. She reminisces over her past lovers; the bitter endings of all those relationships. Every decision she ever made in finding love turned out to be a bad one. She chose the wrong man every single time. Why else would things turn out as they had?

The smell of her coffee reminds her of a certain man she once knew. He wasn’t one of her lovers; she had shot down his affections. But now all she can think of are the good things about him; the ways he made her laugh, how he brought out the rusting intellect in her, the way he looked at her, all those little moments they shared. She had told him she only wanted him as a friend. Yet now she can't think of memories from even one relationship that she wouldn’t give up for another chance with him. But even though she mulls over it until her coffee goes cold, she can’t remember why she turned him down back then. Why did she?

The Bittersweet Emotion...

The heart hears the whispers. It listens to the unceasing persuasions; the alluring promises; day after day. It tries to resist for it knows the bitterness that comes from falling prey to the whispers, the sour aftertaste that follows, it remembers this all too well from its past. But it also knows its own powerlessness in the face of such temptation. Its resolve weakens day by day and soon it is convinced.

Then it begins to burn. The fever of the hearts desire bursts forth like an inferno and all is overwhelmed. Something has awoken that is beyond control; beyond that of the whisperer and that of the heart. Yet the two caused the affliction knowingly. For although the emotion is bitter, it is also the sweetest they have ever known.

A Dream to Remember...

I had a dream last night. Through the journey of extreme despair, passion, and rage, I never realized it to be a dream until the moment I woke up. I write it now as I remember, though I have forgotten some parts and found certain others impossible to describe …

I am running from something. The sky above me is dark, the buildings around me gothic, and the narrow alleys are eerily silent except for the sound of feet on stone. I feel great fear. It is not fear for my own self but for the woman beside me and the child in her arms. She is running with me, holding my hand. In my other hand I hold a weapon, a rifle of some sort with a glowing blue material inside its transparent magazine.

We approach a large doorway and I shout for it to be opened. Two men swing open the gates and we rush in. I turn around to catch a glimpse of our pursuers; they are horrifying beings resembling skinned men with deformed bodies. Then the gates are closed.

The rest of my dream was a flashback following up to this scene. I realized this during the dream itself.

I wake up on a beach. A beautiful woman and two men are looking down upon me. They tell me I have been in a plane crash. I get up and sure enough there is wreckage littered all over the shore. I can’t get my eyes off the woman, and the two men don’t seem to approve. They however offer to take me to their hut to tend to my injuries. I agree, even though I feel perfectly fine and even nonchalant about the crash.

In the hut, over food, the strangers tell me that they have some bad news for me. They tell me everyone I know is dead, and the earth is now inhabited by the aliens that killed everyone. And that they themselves are aliens. I accept all this immediately and am filled with despair. The grief of losing my family hits me very hard and I see images of my mother, my father and my sister. The shocking burst of emotion in contrast to the nonchalance I was experiencing a few moments ago leaves me totally disoriented.

When I finally gain some control I hear the woman screaming at the men to not do something. I suddenly see myself from outside my body as one of the men comes around behind me and clubs my head. I don’t lose consciousness and in fact the knock galvanizes me into action. All the grief turns into rage and I go wild. I beat up the two men till I realize that they are dead. I tie up the woman to a bed and go bury the bodies in the back yard.

Over the next few days I try to interrogate the woman but she remains impassive even when I threaten to hurt her. She looks so regal in her silence, without the slightest hint of hate or contempt on her face. I start to hate myself for what I’m doing to her and begin to treat her better. I start telling her about my life, about all I’ve lost and the people I loved. And I realize that I have fallen in love with her. So I untie the ropes.

As soon as she is free she jumps on top of me. She takes off the few rags that were covering her divine frame and smothers me with her passion. We make love. I only experience the little details; the lovely scent of her hair, the smooth silk of her back, her ragged breath on my neck, and then her moist lips on my own…

In the next scene we are in another house. I am surrounded by aliens who look like my relatives. I know they aren’t actually my kin because I do not feel the emotion one does when looking at a relative’s face. We live in this house for a long time. Over time I begin to feel like my every move is being observed. And then every time I try to talk to my lover someone intercepts me and prevents me from doing so. I see her looking ill and then they tell me she is bedridden with some disease. I begin to feel like a captive and try to plot my escape.

I try to get answers out of these aliens, to fathom why they murdered my entire race. But they are as silent as my lover had been.

I remember looking out of the house and seeing the most amazing sky I have ever set eyes on. It was a wonderful mix of hues; shades of violet and amber, turquoise and indigo. The land was a rich lush green. There were cottages spread out all over the rolling hills. The only indications of technology were these huge dark structures resembling satellite dishes, which dotted the landscape.

I remember seeing an infant in the house. It just appeared abruptly amongst all the other characters. I also saw a rifle which glowed with a bluish tint. I tried to get my hands on it but could not find it later. I remember my grandmother. She was unlike the other aliens and I felt real emotion for her. Maybe she had something to do with my escape. For, I don’t remember how, but I finally found myself free.

I see a king. He is plotting my death with his advisors. I am supposed to meet his messenger today they say, and that is when the assassin will strike. I see my expected murderer leaving the king’s abode through a huge doorway.

The messenger is waiting for me. I approach him knowing an assassin awaits somewhere near. I ask him whether the alien king has an answer for me and he replies in the affirmative. He tells me they killed my people because their race needed the energy from this planet. I feel furious, and again I begin to see myself from outside my body. I burst into flames but I don’t feel any sensation; just an uncontrollable rage. I look at myself as I suddenly fly into the skies. I touch the moon and it turns into a transparent globe. The material inside it implodes and turns into a dazzling liquid. I fly around and everywhere I see planets bursting into these celestial crystal balls filled with swirling lava.

The part of me that is on earth feels great grief, because some of the planets I have destroyed were inhabited by these aliens. The part of me in the sky however, is beyond my control. He turns towards earth and has the intention to bring the same fate to it as the other planets. But then I am merged with my body again. The image of my lover appears to me, and then of the child. I finally realize that the child is mine.

I fall down to earth. There is mayhem everywhere. Some alien tells me that the enormous release of energy in the surrounding planets has attracted another race of aliens. I see the ghoulish shapes I saw at the beginning of my dream attacking every living being in their sight. I begin to run towards the house that was my prison…

This is when I woke up.

The Caveman...

I peel the skin off the calluses on my hands. I can smell the rust that they’re covered with. The sharp smell tingles my heightened senses, taunting me to cut short my rest, enticing me to continue. I grip the barbell once more and pull. The weight comes off the floor smoothly, and with a fluid motion I set it to rest on my shoulders. I am smiling, but the mirror shows me grimacing. My mind is focused on balancing the weight; I don’t have control of my facial expressions. I push the weight and raise it over my head; I lower, and then push again. It gets exponentially harder; the adrenalin pumps through my blood, but my shoulders fatigue with each repetition. I feel the muscles tighten, starved of oxygen, I see the veins on my arms bulge out, then around my shoulders, I can feel them throbbing. And then I cannot lift anymore. The weight hangs in the air, halfway through the upward motion, threatening to fall and crush my skull, I still try to raise it but it’s over. I lower the barbell and bring it to my knees. Ten seconds before I try to complete two more repetitions…

The caveman inside me stirs. He is enjoying this. He feeds on the thrill, the stubborn resolve, the single-minded doggedness in the pursuit of a purely instinctual desire. What he wants is simple; a home, a hunting ground, and a woman to share his kill. He wants freedom in his life; vast open plains for him to roam. And he wants to live life the way his instincts tell him to; to experience the pleasures his senses can bring to him, to hone these senses, and to excel in the things his body has evolved for. He lives in the adrenalin, the feeling of being on the edge, when I am pushing my body beyond its limits.

I bend my knees and then spring up, thrusting my arms out and then pulling them back, bringing the weight to rest on my shoulders once more. And then I try to push again. I succeed once, but on the next attempt my mind falters in its fight against my body.

I hear the caveman's call so clearly in these moments. His call influences my life even when I am not conscious of it. The caveman hates things about the life I am headed for, and so he leads me to sabotage myself. He fears other things; people and their practices that I do not understand, and when faced with these he wants me to hide in my cave. And then there are things that he desires strongly and he pushes me to extreme lengths to attain. I hear his call and it is my own. He defines the very core of my instincts.

Contentment...

Walking down to the library to study; something that I haven’t done for years, carrying my backpack; heavier than it’s been in years, I realized I was smiling. The realization surprised me. Why were my lips curled up in this smug display of contentment when all I had to look forward to was more work and a more stressful schedule than I’ve had in…well…years?

Since there isn’t much else going in my life other than work the answer was pretty obvious; I am deriving some kind of satisfaction from my current life style. It isn’t from the work itself, because I am by no means a workaholic. The contentment comes from the people that I’m working with. I realize I look forward to meeting them, while the idea of being alone in my room is becoming ever more distasteful. The extrovert in me is finally emerging from the cocoon of my insecurities, after being trapped in it for ages.

The Nape of Her Neck...

I chose a table to wait for my order. Not completely by coincidence, in front of me sat a beautiful woman. But, in fact, I had not seen her face as she had her back to me. Yet I have good reason to call her beautiful; I could see the nape of her neck.

Oh, that flawless skin I would consider condescending to compare with silk, the fairness for which I can find no comparable color, the delicate taper so sensual as can only be some curve of the feminine form. Yes, she was beautiful.

I felt this animal desire to walk up to her and simply embrace her; to smell her hair and whisper promises of my undying devotion in her ear. It is a pity that the heart of a woman cannot be won as easily as that of a man can be lost.

After The Rain...

I love it when it rains. The raindrops free falling, merging with each other as the clouds purge them with gusto, regaining identity as they splatter against the window, yet only to lose it again as they form rivulets and flow down the glass. I love it when it rains without thunder and without the ominous darkness in the sky. But what I love most comes after the rain stops and the clouds break; it is the breeze that carries the scent of the rain. I close my eyes and fill my lungs with her and then I hold my breath. I feel the caress of her cool skin, the kiss of her moist lips, and I let visions come to my mind. I don't know when I formed this mental connection; whether such a breeze was blowing when someone first described paradise to me, or whether this breeze really does awaken something mostly lost to me, but somehow it brings to me the purest visions of harmony. I go to a world with lush hills and blue skies, and of course with this mellifluous breeze at its merriest. And in this state comes to me the most precious feeling of peace. I forget everything of this world and become a being devoid of all but the sensations of this trance. It is indeed a moment of the utmost serenity. Alas, it lasts for only an instant!

The Depraved Depths Of Self Pity...

There is so much misery in this world that when one realizes even an ounce of it laughter feels like a sin. But, fortunately perhaps, such realization is rarely achieved and always fleeting. However, feelings of one’s own misery are only too evident and intransient. While going through a bad patch in my life I have been facing these bitter feelings with such perpetuity that I have begun to loathe them. The constant companionship of such depression itself has become a source of misery. Almost too late, I realized I have been plummeting fast towards the depraved depths of self pity...

Tragedy...

The following is a fictitious depiction of a victim in the recent tragedy at Virginia Tech University. If you think your sensibilities might be offended by this write up please do not read it. For me this is a means to express my compassion.

He stifles a yawn, trying not to think about lunch as he muses over his lecture notes. His gaze shifts towards the clock as he counts down the minutes to the end of the class. A sudden shriek breaks him out of his reverie. There are gun shots in the corridor. He hears a cry cruelly cut short. The class becomes deadly silent as the shock hits everyone. The student nearest the door runs to close it but she is too late. The villain burst in with and a deadly shot rings out.

He tries to snap out of the steel grip of fear; he curses his inaction, but the suddenness of the crime, the barbarity of this man’s act leaves him stunned. The villain, however, seems completely unfazed or unaware of the utter depravity of his actions. Tears fill the student’s eyes as he sees his class mates trying to seek cover that cannot be found. He sees a boy shielding a girl with his body, he sees the wounded crying in pain, and finally, through the strength of his emotions, his body comes back under his control. The sorrow, the anger, the adrenaline; he dashes towards the crazed assailant, and others follow him in a valiant attempt to end the tragedy. But bullets have no respect for bravery.

His eyes meet those of the villain, and the hate and the rage in them almost deal him a physical blow. His dad’s words reel in his memory; “Never look a mad dog in the eye”. But that advice cannot help him here. He feels the wind get knocked out of his chest as he falls to the ground. “This is the end”, he knows. He wants to cry at the injustice; at the incomprehensible evil of the act. What is wrong with this world? He wants to live! His love, his hopes, his ambitions; why must they fade away? If only the force of his will could change his fate.

He feels someone drop beside him. He turns to his side to see. She looks like an angel through the veils of his fading consciousness. She reaches out her hand and he takes it. And together they cry at this tragedy, as they become part of it.

Corporate Culture...

“Ok fresh intakes! Raise your left hand and read aloud your oath.”

“I reject God,
I reject Satan,
My soul is governed solely by the holy board of directors.

My body is not my own;
It is for the firm to use as it desires.
I will subject it to sleep deprivation,
To cramped chairs and claustrophobic cubicles,
And I will submit my eyes to the constant glare of the computer screen;
For productivity is important and sleep is for the dead,
Physical discomfort prevents laxness,
And it is an honor to set my eyes upon sacred company text.

I will dump my girl friend,
I will practice abstinence,
For the company needs all my energy,
And with my current pay I cannot afford any progeny.

I will follow the CEO’s directive for toilet breaks;
‘Once every six hours’, that is.
If I find that impossible to obey,
I will wear diapers to work everyday.

I will work on weekends,
I will not fall ill,
I will not socialize,
And for family members I will not compromise.

I will receive my pay humbly,
I will not spend it on my person needlessly,
I will save it for the firm's future dictate,
When I will be asked to retire and procreate.

My children will be named according to company guidelines,
They will be raised to meet the firm’s vision,
And if they are found worthy upon initiation,
They will be welcomed into the brotherhood of the corporation.”

“Congratulations, bitches.”

A Beautiful Death...

A lofted spear catches him on the thigh. It is only on this battlefield that the agony can be ignored; in fact it has to ignored, for to falter for even a moment would mean death. But there is a momentary lull in the fight around him. As he looks down at his wound he realizes the irony; his fate has already been sealed. For this battle cannot be won, and with this wound there is no possibility of retreat.

There is no despair or panic, but instead there is a feeling of headiness. For a man who was trained for war since he learnt to stand, for a man with iron resolve for the cause he fights for, for a man who knew this moment would come, there is no fear of death. What matters to him is the honor in it. He drops his shield and casts aside his helm. He takes a deep breath and readies his stance.

They sound their horn; legions of evil steel and brawn mocking this small group of men who have the audacity to take a stand against the armies of an empire. The horn bellows again and another wave of violence is unleashed upon the beleaguered men.

There are too few to hold the charge, so they too rush into battle. The warrior leaps to his bloody task, caution forgotten and reason discarded. He knows no fear for he has nothing to lose, and so he gives in completely to the emotions that have been stirring in him. Blood lust encompasses his mind; the thirst to dispatch as many of the hated enemy to Hades as he can. His sword carves sadistically through the enemy, following his will like any other part of his body. He runs amok through the army. They are too slow for him, too inexperienced to match his skill, too afraid to lose their lives. And so they fall by the dozens, gutted, decapitated, left writhing in the warrior’s wake.

The enemy captain looks at the carnage, stunned. The handful of men who should have turned tail and fled upon seeing the armies of his empire have slaughtered entire battalions. And they still fight. One figure stands out; a tall sinewy shadow wielding a blade of fire, flowing through his men like a crimson streak. It takes the captain a moment to realize that this is indeed a man. He wears no armor, but his entire body is covered in blood; that of his foes. He carries only a sword, using it with devastating effect, dancing to the tune of some unmerciful god of war. The captain’s voice quavers as he orders his archers to shoot this fiend, lest his whole attack turn into a rout as his men see the ferocity of this spectacle. They miss; dozens of their men die from the arrows, but the warrior is like a juggernaut. They fire again, and again, till all around him are dead and he stands alone, finally spent, mortally wounded.

He stands upright, statuesque body, covered in the red of blood, blond hair flowing with the wind. The setting sun seems to pay homage to this daunting figure, as majestic as a god, as fearsome as a demon. He slowly falls to his knees. He has no thoughts like the ones normal men do when near death; he has no regrets, no remorse over responsibilities unfulfilled, no thoughts of gods or life after death. He kisses the land he has fought for. He remembers his home, his wife, and his son; not with nostalgia but with love. He breathes his last, leaving behind only his legacy. And so the warrior dies a beautiful death.

My Nirvana...

Consider that when you die, you do not cease to exist. Instead your mental abilities and your sensory perceptions mutate. They transform in such a way that every memory, every moment of your life, becomes clearer to you than when you were alive, or even when you were actually living those moments.

Is it hard to imagine your memories becoming more lucid than the actual experiences you have had while being alive? Generally memories tend to be less complete or detailed than the actual experiences, but there have been cases in which epileptic patients have claimed that in seizures they have relived past experiences with profound clarity, accurate to the minutest detail. So if the hyper activation of a few cells in the brain can cause such an effect, it shouldn’t be too hard to imagine one reliving his entire life through the memories possessed upon his death.

In this supposed spiritual existence the lucidity of memory would be followed by a heightening of sentiments. We would experience joy, sadness, fear, nostalgia, and the entirety of human emotions triggered by our memories at a level never experienced during our normal lives. Among these emotions most significant would be remorse.

Imagine an awakening of the conscience. Not an arbitrary sense of right and wrong but something much more objective. A nun who might have been self-recriminating in her life would not be inundated by remorse, and neither would a hardened criminal be exempt from regret. It would be a coming to consciousness of a part of our mind that has been making judgments on us all our lives. The one critic of our personality that we cannot ignore or claim to be biased is our own self.

In this afterlife the punishment would be remorse itself; the full realization of the actions we chose to take and the effects they had. This would cause a mental struggle to accept our selves in spite of all the mistakes we made, the pain we caused, and the responsibilities we eschewed.

Forgiveness in this case would have to come from within ourselves and not from the subjects of our wrong doings. Often such forgiveness is the hardest to find, and in a state of heightened conscience it would necessarily be so. The larger the burden of our past crimes the harder would be the path to complete spiritual awakening.

Overcoming this flood of memories, facing our true nature and accepting it, understanding our faults and repenting would mean Nirvana. For after mastering the emotional dimensions to our minds, we would have attained serenity conducive to the full realization of the potential of the human mind. The true extent of the power of reasoning, creativity, imagination, and abilities which lie mostly inactive in our subconscious during our lives would all be at our disposal.

I look at dreams as a demonstration of the power of the human mind. I can dream of complex personalities, alien worlds, and mythical creatures, and not realize that I am asleep till when I wake up. In the model of afterlife that I have just built up, we would be able to reach a state where we become completely aware and in control of our mental abilities. This would mean that at our whim we could create more lucid and more complex ‘dreams’ than the ones that come in our sleep.

If we consider that our perceptions are dependent on our sensations brought about by a physical body, heaven must necessarily be a state in which these sensations are manipulated. In other words it must be an illusion built up in our minds through forced input to our sensory apparatus. An illusion is not a delusion if it is manufactured intentionally while knowing its true nature. Hence a heaven without any deception would be a heaven created by one’s own self.

To make this model of afterlife complete we should allow communication between minds. So let us imagine that at the level of mental prowess reached it could be possible for minds to interact without requiring any physical medium. I could enter your ‘dreams’ if you allowed me to, and you could enter mine, or we could build new ones together. And the people who have progressed to such a level could try to show the way to others who are lost in the emotional turmoil of their private ‘nightmares’.

My acrimony towards religion began with a questioning of the concept of hell, rather than the questioning of the proof of god (which I believed I already understood at that time). Are heaven and hell really a model that provide a most just solution and allow an idea of a most merciful god? I don’t think so. But since I don’t actually deny the possibility of an afterlife, and as fantasy never ceases to interest me, I like to let my imagination dream up ideas of what it could be like to continue to live after death, and what a model of the afterlife better than heaven and hell would be like.

Worlds don’t revolve around stars…

Each individual of our species understands one concept unlike no other; the concept of their ‘self’. We can perceive our experiences only in relation to this self. And most of us don’t try to look past the petty, self centered little world that our perceptions build up.

In my case it is not narrow perceptions that make my world self centered; my world literally does revolve around me. I wake up alone, I eat alone. I spend days without saying more than a few words, sitting in a room with a door no one knocks on in months.

I don’t like it this way. In fact it gnaws on my nerves so that when someone I find interesting does happen to walk into my world, the refreshing scent that they bring into it collapses my senses into a singular desire that threatens to degenerate into obsession.

Perhaps what I want from a relationship is a bit too much to ask unless fate and time themselves are agreeable in fulfilling it. But desire never does listen to reason or prudence. When the inanities and gaucheness spawned by my solitary confinement are coupled with the perceptions of the subject of my attentions, according to their self centric world, we get a formula for mishap.

There have been several such mishaps, some stemming form flaws in my character, some from the other’s, and some simply from egoistic perceptions. Each time I’ve learnt and been affected by the mistakes. This time I realized I should stop looking for moons to orbit my world. I should seek the star that my world will revolve around.

It’s a daunting task to find that star in the emptiness of space where my world exists. For now I’ll leave it to time and fate. I bought a new friend today anyway; a now half empty bottle of wine.

Friends with Strangers…

I meet someone new. I know this person does not know of anything or anyone from my past. I look at the person and find her interesting; sufficiently pleasant to overcome the prejudices that dictate my behavior. I admit; for me the first impression of a person is solely their looks.

We are both in a place with unfamiliar people and so I initiate the process that aims to form friends from strangers. I find my interest reciprocated; the reason however is unknown to me. I seek her companionship; partially from interest in the person she is, and partly to satisfy the desire to engrave an expression of my self upon her. I hope the reasons for her amicable response also include, at least some part, of the former of my reasons; an interest in knowing me.

Actions speak better than words, but our situation only gives us the device of words. And so through words we set out to understand each other; whether through the desire to do so, or through the unconscious process of our minds that paints upon itself the portrait of each person we come to hold memories of.

I take joy in the fact that her portrait of me starts upon a blank canvas. I try to pose for her without pretense. I sit in the most revealing light while she sketches; I look at her with my eyes unguarded to the secrets of my soul while she mixes the dyes on her palette.

But maybe she does not trust my openness. Maybe it is my fault that I pose in too rigid a posture; that my eyes do not catch the right light when she paints. Maybe I exhibit some peculiarities that need not be seen, and hide details that are essential. Or maybe she realizes that I too am painting my portrait of her and our consciousness of the other artist’s work distracts us. Perhaps the strokes of her brush are only a half hearted attempt at capturing what she sees. Nonetheless the portraits are painted.

In retrospect I am certain of one thing; I, because of the emptiness in my life, was overzealous in this endeavor. I am ashamed not of my desire, because such solitude as is my own would beget the same for all but the exceedingly introvert, but that I gave in so completely to my vanity.

Normally, for so it is with such portraits, the subject of the portrait only catches glimpses of themselves as the artist has captured them, through means of words or behavior of the artist. But through some whim of fate I, in this case, chanced to glance upon her portrait of me in fine detail; written in words more naked than most words are.

And it was as when Dorian Gray set eyes on his portrait which he had not seen for years; it was hideous. Although my self demands me to deny what she has painted of me outright, I cannot decide which is riddled with more falsities; my portrait of myself or her portrait of me. Hers contains misunderstandings because of my fallibility in expressing what I have wanted to shown her. It contains judgments based on things that are still not completely visible to her. It contains certain presumptions of her own and misses out certain qualities that were there to see.

But it also contains truth. The portrait is of me, maybe reflected in some cruel light, but it is me. And so I accept it, and redo my own portrait of myself by looking upon this image of me. I paint wrinkles that I must have know were there but never painted them, I sketch blemishes on my skin where I imagined it was clean. The finished portrait is what I now think of my self; but it is not what I want myself to be. Nor is her portrait of me what I want her to see of me.

And so now I rededicate myself to change. To change so that she understands the need to redo her portrait without me having to ask her to do so; to change so that I can be justified in painting my portrait of me as I want it to be.

I have a portrait of her. It is unfinished; there are parts I have not seen, some that I do not understand, and there are parts I do not like. I feel as if it is the portrait of a stranger. But the subject of this portrait interests me immensely, and I hold a degree of affection for it. If she caught a glimpse of what I have painted she would know by the way my brush has flown across the canvas. This stranger is a friend to me.

Pausing at Heaven's Door…

Why were you so polite to the fast food waitress who gave you that sour smile? Why did you give way to the well dressed man in a hurry, who wasn’t going anywhere? Why did you offer your seat on the bus to the lady who wasn’t that old?

We are polite to our public image, we give way to our personal space, and we give our seats to our conscience.

The more I see, the more I become convinced that I can never find what I so yearn for; I can never find that one person that submits to me, unquestioningly, completely, and accepts the submission of my being to them; pure, without judgment. We, as persons, are too selfish. Where is the selfless leader that does not care for power? Where is the lover who does not love for the way love makes him feel? Where is the saint that prays to God without ever begging for personal salvation?

The universe is just about one person; your self. I am convinced that if a hell exists, no one will be able to overcome their fear for their own well being, and protest for the banishment of another. No one will be able to resist the allure of heaven, to pause for a moment at its gates, and shed a tear for those that still burn.

Second Chances…

I was walking along an overpass when the bus I should have caught came by. As I debated the chances of catching it if I started running, against the knock my ego would take if I failed, and the weakness of my lungs from the recent asthma attack, the chance to catch it was gone. But then instead of the usual curses against god and everything holy came something else. Some dam was breached within my mind and bitter recriminations began to flow forth...

The asthma attack that I should have seen coming and prevented…taking up this job when I should have gone back home…the isolation that my taciturn nature has brought…flashes of memories of the countless moments that could have been so much more…

I bellowed at the sky but a voice taunted that I wouldn’t even do that if there were people around. Then the bus came. I was on time; it was the last bus that had been late. A second chance. It had been a long time since I smiled as spontaneously as I did then. The breach was closed, the dam stronger than before. I’m going to get my second chances, and I’m going to take them.

God’s Playground…

If we have an image of God it’s usually that of a wise old bearded man. But I imagine God as a child. A child that yearns for attention, for praise…who takes special care of the toys who please him; promises them a place on his top shelve. And for those that dare to displease him, or think some other nonexistent entity superior to him, there is not the simple fate of being discarded. There is pain and torture like only a child wreaks on toys that have fallen from his grace.

God demands things and leaves it to us to think of a reason. The trials and sacrifices, the praise and remembrance, to me, resemble the sadism and the egoism that spoilt boys exhibit. Maybe he exists, maybe he is all powerful, but is he most just, is he most merciful? Is he what he says he is?

Even if we have a prophet who could not have lied of what he saw, even if we have a book that could not have been produced by a man, how can we know if the source is what it claims to be? We can imagine countless scenarios; all we need is a supernatural being and an agenda. It doesn’t have to be God.

Maybe the true God sits on His throne; perfect, intransient, wanting of nothing. Maybe He has made us and let us be; never having contacted us. Maybe He will grant us afterlife and show us the truth. But can any religion claim to be the exclusive truth? Can their followers promise hell to others? Do they have any right to declare obligations and impose rules on us?

Slipping down those six feet…

I feel the life draining out of me. The spiral of the dying swan as it falls. But my cry is nothing like the swan song. It’s pathetic. I am just sitting, watching as these leeches suck away my life. Into that mindless 9 to 6 routine…day after day…to earn paper that buys things we don’t have time to enjoy…things that are over priced anyway…things I’m not even sure I want. Soon I will be one of the undead that rule this world.

I want to walk another path.

(I’m interning during my vacations; I can see the future my 'life' holds ever so clearly)

Inspired...

The wind fresh from the rain…the silence of the late hours…the numbness of my mind from the hours of strain…I feel the tempting caress of sleep…

Yet in all these days, when nothing has been able to inspire me to write, in this moment I find the words so easy to find. Then it wasn’t my mind that was failing me…

I want a moment alone…in this world but away from it…just a moment where I don’t have to deal with it. About anything. This feeling right now is so close to that. These veils of sleep that flutter before my eyes…bring to me rapture in the loss of sensations…and inspiration in the fading of consciousness…

Avert not thine Eyes...

I sit at the edge of my seat. Everyone just walks by, careful to look past me, trying to deny my existence in their world. Maybe they notice me but they just want to get off the bus first. A girl’s eyes meet mine. I get that feeling I always get when someone looks me in the eye. The search for something in my eyes…the questioning for something I don’t understand…and I find myself asking the same of her eyes even though I don’t know what it is. Her eyes affirm my existence, mine hers; our individual universes collapse into one…I feel her 'self'…I feel more aware of my 'self'. She stops for me. I smile my gratitude. She smiles back. I feel like I haven’t connected with a person more intensely the entire day. Our universes separate and I mumble thanks as I join the queue, my voice low to prevent me form encroaching upon the worlds of those that are trying to disregard my existence.

What do we see when we look into someone’s eyes? Why do we feel more aware of ourselves…of the person looking at us…why do our souls feel tangible?

I am starting a presentation. My heart isn’t beating as hard as it did the last time I did this. But then I see their eyes. I feel like I can read their souls. Their feelings are so obvious to me even though they are straining to seem like the perfect audience (it is after all a communication skills courses and they know they will be standing where I am). We all seem intimately connected. The sudden emergence of this sixth sense overwhelms my mind and I am blank. I blabber on what I etched onto my memory, but I cannot think. I can only feel. This heightened awareness…I feel closer to knowing the extent of what the self is…I feel closer to corroborating my own soul.

Letting go...

Hold your hand out…look at the lines in your palm. Look at the one on the left; they say those show the destiny you are born with. Look at the ones on the right; those are the ones that change with your life. Notice the differences…

Ball up your fist. Take a deep breath and concentrate…bring up all the resentment, all the negative feelings…concentrate and tighten your grip. Imagine the darkness at the centre of your palm and clench harder, till your nails dig into your skin and the knuckles are ready to burst through.

Steady your fist and let go…use only the power in your arm and strike the wall as hard as you can. Do not let your fear of pain inhibit you…concentrate on the impurities in your soul and make them flow through this punch.

As you strike do not let your mind recoil at the impact, don’t let pain be the only thing you feel. When the pain races through to your brain accept it and feel it, and then feel what follows. Feel the centre of your fist loosen, feel the pain recede and spread through your knuckles, feel the strength in your arm and the tension in the muscles of your shoulders. It is no longer the weakening tension caused by those things you just erased. Feel the wall as it absorbs your weight from you. Imagine it darkening…and your heart lightening.

Look at your knuckles. Watch in childish awe as the middle one turns blue and swells. Close your eyes and try to feel tranquility within you…if any shadows encroach, squeeze on your knuckles and concentrate on the sensations. Take deep breaths…till you have completely let go…

Heaven vs. Paradise...

Synonyms? I don’t think so. Heaven comes with an opposite; hell. Heaven comes with a price; the torture of the less pious amongst us. Heaven comes with some religion; some kind of dogma that must be followed to attain it. But paradise; that is a destination I lust for. And there is no shame in lusting for it either; no regret of ‘sins’, no betrayal of my less pious companions, just an idea that can make me smile, even though it is too utopian to firmly believe in, too ethereal to leave proof of its existence in this world.

But why would I deserve it, the pro-heaven proponents might ask. I don’t know really, but each one of us has an idea of our paradise. Each one of us has the urge to search for it, even though we do not really understand it, or even have complete faith in it. We see it as the place we could truly call home. And that might be enough to justify, that at the end of our journey, we all get there.

Shampoo...

I have wondered about this quite a few times whilst taking a shower; do we really need shampoo. Did more men go bald when there wasn’t any such thing as shampoo? Did none of the girls have the silky beautiful hair they show in shampoo ads? I don’t think so. It’s just another self imposed ‘necessity’ that reveals its true nature when you see people using shampoo on their dogs.

All that the Homo sapiens needed to live was made abundant in this earth. But of all the creatures that inhabit this planet, we were the only ones to want more. We chose to build a world in which we had to rely on things that were once not necessary, in which we had to impose limits that should not exist. Does that make humans the most intelligent of the living things on this planet? Did we lose something in this mindless pursuit of cutting ourselves further and further from the true nature of this world?

And now this alien world that we have built presents a bitter dilemma to us all. None of us is needed in it. We strive to repress this nagging thought that stands rooted in our subconscious…we work endless hours at dreary jobs…we try to gain chattels that will let us feel less empty…we try desperately to find someone who can affirm our individuality…and we waste our lives trying to seek pleasures that never truly satisfy. But none of us find the purpose, the meaning of our existence…the true nature of our individuality…something that seems so clear to every wolf in a pack…to every ant in a colony.

Change and Existence...

Growing up things were always changing. I remember so much that was different in me back then, I remember so many ways in which I changed and then changed again. But there were some changes that brought sorrow. There was breaking of bonds, brutal imposition of new feelings, a sudden loss of people I felt so near to me. Those things that were so new and precious, as a child I did not know they could be reformed, maybe made stronger, that there could be others. There were more changes, and there were more scars. In the end I started to hate change in itself; even if it meant something better, brought me closer to what I wanted. I resent change now, even though I grow more depressed and more frustrated with my current state each day. I want change, yet I detest it. Maybe that is why I find it so hard to place my first step in the direction I want. Maybe that is why I can’t even sense the direction I want.

I watched something that touched on existentialism. My world is my own; it is inseparable from my being. It is my interpretations and what I do is entirely my doing. And as the philosophy says, with my awareness of my self I do feel an inseparable sense of anxiety, of dread; of the responsibility I face, of a feeling that I am utterly alone and there can never truly be someone else in ‘my’ world. Maybe the depression I feel myself sinking into ever so frequently now is just a facet of my existence. My world is what I want it to be, and if I am unhappy it is my doing. It is my fault that I can’t imagine my own paradise and change the world I see to fit that image. It is just because I do not know what I want that I cannot be happy, it is not the fault of God, or Satan or any other being…a dejecting thought…I do not want to believe it…for it would mean terrible change…

Elfen Lied…

I saw it yesterday. A true exploration of the depths of depravity humanity can reach…and the apotheosis of innocence that it can be. The name taken from the German song “Elfenlied” (Elf Song), the opening song using Biblical verses and the artwork based on symbolical paintings are enough to allude to the real purpose that may be hidden behind the violence and the gore.

Yes so it’s violent…dismembered limbs, even of children, nudity, extreme psychological trauma. It might seem despicable, but that’s partly the point. Like I said it’s an exploration of the darkest, most saddening kind. The blatant bloodshed served to induce emotions stronger than I remember feeling in a long time. If you let go of your prejudices the nakedness serves a purpose too; it portrays the vulnerability and the innocence of the characters in a way more tangible than anything else ever could. It seems like emotional torture at times, seeing the characters reeling from the impact of childhood tragedies…teetering on the extremity of the sane and the psychotic. But going through those emotions, and seeing the ultimate innocence behind even the most evil actions, made me feel like I understood just a little bit more about humanity.

Now that I’ve seen it, I shouldn’t recommend it to anyone, because I cannot tell if anyone else would look at in the way I have. But I think the creators really did have something in mind besides the obvious.

Piety…

A breeze blows through the forest. A leaf, already dried of its life force, gives way to the wind’s onslaught. Two men watch it float down, as they walk towards each other on the meandering path. Their eyes meet…

The old man’s eyes, though almost blind with age, shine with some surreal tranquility. He carries a string of beads and he prays as he counts with them. He smiles at the other man; the smile of a man who has understood the truth.

The young man’s step falters. He looks down at his hands; coarse and brittle as if from the deeds he has done. His sword shifts against his hip and a pang of guilt hits him again. He feels the old man’s blind eyes searing into his soul.

“I see you have taken lives. Was it for God?”
“I do not understand God and I do not fight for Him!”
“But I see you repent, even though your eyes testify to your soul’s innocence.”
“I have not killed heedlessly, but I have done so without hesitation, and I have not granted my foes the chance of redemption.”

The old man’s eyes seem to clear. He sees the warrior’s spirit, he sees the strength coming from the desire to protect those he loves, and he sees the purity of the blade the warrior wields. He smiles again.

“Young man, your deeds with your sword may hold greater value to God than all the righteous deeds I have done in my life. Believe in Him as you believe in the innocence of humanity.”

The young man walks on. He pulls out his sword; it feels lighter. It seems to shine from the love of all those he has protected with it. The dead leaves do not seem sad anymore. They lie on the path slowly losing their old form, till they become one with the earth again; and return from whence they came.

Fate...

One of my teachers once told me “Life isn’t about controlling the events in it; it’s about how we react to these events, and how we change.”

Last night the sky was an eerie red, the clouds glowered in this crimson hue, and the wind had an icy feeling to it. The tragedies in the news, the misery of humanity, the emptiness in this life, or maybe just something else, instilled in me this sudden illogical impulse. The lightening along the ominous horizon seemed so catastrophic, the end of this life felt so near.

It felt like fate had finally brought the test I had been wishing for; the test I have wanted to be the climax of my life…and its end. But I wasn’t ready. Maybe it knew this, and so the moment passed uneventfully. Fate is wise…wise beyond my understanding. But I hope it does not choose for my life to continue in this monotony till the end. I hope it lays the bricks along my path to lead me to that chance someday; the ultimate test that will show me where I will stand when He judges me.

Envy the clouds...

They are so pure, so delightfully capricious, never alone, and whenever they get dark they just pour out all their emotions without any inhibitions, till they are content again...

The Sheath …

The scabbard rattles; a few rays of light enter the sheath. They dance so joyously on the flawless blade. Will no one ever see their dance? The sword remains sheathed; unused. The blade wrought from metal forged in the core of the earth. Its edge fashioned as sharp as the hawk’s shriek, its balance made as perfect as the petals of a full bloom. And then left in the darkness of the sheath; to wither with neglect, to grow blunt, to rust…

“O Creator why did you forge me with such precision? Why did you give me this strength? Draw me once! Give me a purpose and I will unleash the power you created me from. Let me fight. Test my edge.”

The scabbard hears the cry. It envies the luster of the blade that it hides from the world. It cuts out the light from reaching the blade. It tries to suppress the lust of the blade for battle. The scabbard fears the test that the blade invokes. For if the sword breaks in its battle, the purpose of the sheath will be lost. It will become just an empty shell.

The scabbard has forgotten the words of his Creator. Its purpose was not in serving itself. Its purpose was to nurture the sword till its time came to be drawn. But it wrongs itself. It kills the luster of the blade…it dulls its edge…and the time will come when the sword breaks with rust. And the scabbard will have been its own undoing.

The person that is me…

I look into my past; I see images, I remember words…but do I remember feelings? These memories are my own, yet the person I see in them is it me? I live in the present, I lived in the past, yet the person who lived in the past is just a memory. A high tech multimedia file stored in my brain. The feelings that these memories bring; the hurt, the joy, the love are they in that file or do I reproduce a faux copy of them in the present?

The person who lived in the past is dead…it’s just me; this being in this instant of time, that is all.

Do I know myself then? I am just an instance of an entity; an instance that changes into a new one, one that expires. Can anyone ever know me?

They judge what they say is me. On actions ‘I’ took in the past, words ‘I’ said, things I regret now. Do they judge right? If it was I in that instant when ‘I’ did that which I regret, would I do it? Maybe I always would do it wrong, because you can take a thousand instances but they will still not represent the entity in its true self.

All the things my material self seeks are finite pleasures to feed my present instance. Ah, but most of all, that which I seek is eternity; an end to time. Be it glory in battle or afterlife in Heaven; it’s an instance of me that is timeless; it’s me as it will live on forever, it’s me!

How can I know myself then? How can I know anyone? How can anyone know me? Maybe there is no such thing as me. But I must believe there is; to live, to breathe my next breath. Maybe the self is so complex that only a being as supreme as God has the ability to know it; the right to judge it.

I must suspend my judgments. I must disregard theirs. I must strive so that the next instance of my self is a closer portrayal of the entity that is me…

The Ambush…

They gather around me.
I stand alone; my comrades all slain in the ambush.
They are many, but my sword just sees them as one; the prey.
Perfect silence…
The rustle of a kimono…
My blade howls through the wind; its dance begins…
No time to parry; I must cut with every move…
The adrenaline gushes to my arms with every blow…
My sword emanates bloodlust…
My world becomes red…time itself slows for me to savor the flow of my blade...
I move through them cleaving my path…
They fall before me like leaves in the bitter autumn wind…
My pain lost in the mist of this lust…
The strikes against their bodies excite my blade…
She translates my wrath into their pain…
Until they are all smitten down.
A misjudgment…
The shriek of a sword falling upon me from behind…
A desperate turn…
I parry; his stance is broken…
I push; he withdraws unbalanced…
A fluid swing…the kiss of my sword against his neck…
“Speak your last words.”
“Tell me the name of our bane.”
“Vice Captain of the 6^th squad of the Shinigami, Abarai Renji.”
The coup de grace.
The air is heavy with sorrow, the wind smells of pain…
I cleanse my sword against the grass…I sheath her…
“We prevail, Zabimaru.”

Poetry of the sword...

Bleach episode 39:
Zangetsu...The personification of Ichigo's Soul Slayer...the sword that is the embodiment of his spirit...
Zangetsu speaks from within Ichigo's heart...

"Ichigo...I hate the rain.
Rain falls in this world, too.
When your heart is in chaos, the sky becomes clouded.
When you are sad, rain falls so terribly easily.
Can you understand the horror of being pelted by rain in this solitary world?
If only to stop that rain, I shall lend you my strength.
If you trust in me, I will let no rain fall in this world.
Ichigo, trust me! You are not fighting alone."

Darkness...

Today...I do not understand this feeling today. Just a few days ago I was feeling so euphoric for no obvious reason. And now...today it seems I have burnt myself out. I looked at the clock an hour ago; I was at the same page of this course book that I am trying to read. The exam won’t go well, but I cannot even concentrate enough to feel guilt over that. I just feel hollow.

Maybe I've been dreaming too much; visualizing life for all it could be. Heaven; that thing men crave for, it seems so dull compared to the possibilities of this universe. Eternity just depresses me; I don’t feel I want to live forever. The ending...that is the most beautiful part of a story.

I am young, yet I feel like it’s already too late. I feel like I've missed out. I will just go on along this path...along this slipstream of all the hollow souls that have passed through this world...worthless. Is it all my fault? But all that I fantasize about; it was almost impossible for me to achieve…this era, these people, this body, this...fate. The die is cast now.

I do not seek knowledge, I do not just seek pleasure...I do not understand exactly what I seek; but it is some kind of wholeness...before I die; so the afterlife won’t matter one way or the other. But I feel so empty…so far away from anything I want to be...my memories so far from being those that could make a man content in death...

Anime...

Cannot believe I wasn't into Japanese anime until yesterday. Well I just hadn't found anything to my taste in the little that I had watched in the past I suppose, but yesterday just by chance I double clicked an episode of Tenjou Tenge. Ended up watching all 14 episodes in 2 days.

It can be totally absurd and ridiculous, but the way it plays on your fantasies and perversions and thirst for blood and gore is just too addicting. Maybe something you wouldn't want to be caught watching by others, but something you cannot hold back from in private. Even the Japanese language seems just perfect for the atmosphere (which is weird because I don't like the sound of Chinese and thought the two languages would feel the same); it sounds very strong and imposing, like Arabic, for the male characters and sweet and melodious for the female ones.

Well I'm off on the hunt for some new series now cause I cannot find any more episodes of Tenjou Tenge...think I'll try Bleach.

Edit: Well that was a first amateur impression based on an average series. I now find anime to be a lot more complex than my first encounter with it led me to believe; much deeper and more purposeful, such as in Elfen Lied or Kenshin.

Empathy...

Watched ‘War of the Worlds’ today. I would give it an 8.5/10. Well most people wouldn't rate it that high I suppose, but I have a predilection for the kind of fantasy that this movie allowed me to experience. I just lost myself in it, and came close to experiencing an ounce of the emotions that were reverberating from the characters.

I do not understand how people can criticize the end, and yet almost everyone does. They see the pain and the drama, the desperation of humanity and yet do not care that the end gives us salvation, that the story tries to reaffirm that our suffering is not in vain, shows that there is divine mercy for us. This attitude reminds me of the nick of a person in my contact list; “OMG LOL…woman’s head found in Orchard park”… the ‘LOL’ removed much later after realization of its social inaptness…

Did our kind possess the power of empathy? It now seems lost to most. The world becomes more impersonal everyday and we forget to feel for others the way we used to. I see it in the way we have changed from wanting to fall in love with someone to wanting someone to fall in love with us, in the way we endlessly whine about our lives without feeling guilt, in the way theists offhandedly accept Hell for disbelievers, in the way the guilt hits me only after I turn away the needy. I hate the way we look at everything from our selfish little peephole; a person interviewed at the Orchard crime scene said "The fact that there is a dead body on Orchard Road really freaks me out because I pass here every day to go to the cinema or go to eat." I hope you can see what I find wrong with this person.

Something I made in flash...when I should have been studying...

The flows of chi are whimsical today...

Numerology tells me that I am an ‘old soul’; I have gone through several phases of rebirth. And so, I fantasize…

Maybe, once I stood upon the hills of a sinking world…as I saw Noah’s ark sail away…
Maybe, once I invaded the homes of my people and slayed their first born child…on the command of my Pharaoh…
Maybe I fought for my lady Helen…and fell like countless others under Achilles’ sword…
Maybe I failed my daimyo...and committed seppuku before he heard of my dishonor…

Maybe I lived through countless lives of evil and despair…maybe I brought good to the world…maybe I paid for the sins of my past as I passed through the chakras of rebirth…

And maybe now my soul has almost reached the Balance. There is not much for fate to show me, or punish me for, and so my life flows on in the most banal of rhythms…

And upon my death I will finally be given all my memories of ages past, and be set free; to roam the worlds, to whisper into the hearts of the souls who have yet to complete their journey…

Until they all end their sagas…and God reveals to us our true purpose…

An ode to eurobattle, my favorite Battlenet server about to shut down due to costs. They're asking for donations but the response has been mainly advertisements by other smaller servers. Well thanks to MadMax for hosting the server for free all those years :

The age of the elves is ending…

A group of knights stand alone amongst rotting corpses making their last stand. The tides of the undead are unrelenting and the brave warriors fall one by one. Their will is strong but their hearts are filled with sorrow upon the betrayal of their allies, the promised reinforcements that never arrived.

“The elves will not abandon us!” shouts their King. But he sees into the eyes of his men and knows they already believe that their fate is sealed. There is still hope he says to himself, but he hears the cries of his fallen men from amongst the tide of darkness that keeps pushing them back. Lesser men promise a new kingdom to replace the one whose crumbling foundations these men stand to protect. They have gained the allegiance of the naive peasants and the ranks of the good have grown weak. Hope is almost gone.

King MadMax stands on the hill, his presence alone keeping the undead at bay. Only his most trusted lieutenants still stand beside him. The undead scavenge the remains of the fallen, as the knights pray to the gods.

“Why don’t the elves aid us my king?”

“They have grown weary of the betrayals of lesser men. They are leaving our world…the age of the elves is ending…and so is the age of our kingdom…”

“But we have always honored our pledge to them! We are not like those men with enchanting words and weak hearts!”

“Maybe there is still hope; the council of the high elves still stands. But there is little time left. Take heart my knights, our legacy will always live on…”

Should have gone to sleep an hour ago. Duh. Wanted to play a game of DotA before I went to bed...ended up playing three. Not my fault; its just that the (virtual) world is full of sore losers who leave the game the second they start to get pummeled. Ah well gotta go.