We are as I am

السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته

We are bound. To the earth. To our ways of thinking.
We are bound to our faults and our weaknesses.
To fall. To hurt and be hurt.
To bleed and burn.

We are bound. To be lost.
And experience loss.
To not be fine.
To break as we walk this crooked line.

We are bounded by obligations.
By needs and wants.
By expectations, unmet.
By visions unreal, grand.

We are bound. To anger and hate.
Some call it human.
To others: that is fate.

We are bound.
We are.
We are.
I am.

Not as people see.
Not as people know and think.
More of a wreck. The first to be there.
When deceiving, the last to blink.

The foremost in cutting ties. 
Ever so eager to say goodbye.
The one bound to his way of thinking.
Never open to suggestions. Always reckless.

I am. The one bound.
The one who knows. But refuses to acknowledge.
The one who'll break. As he walks this crooked line.
The one who bleeds and burns.
The one who is bound to his faults and his weaknesses.
I am bound. To this earth. To my ways of thinking.

No Name, First Piece

اَلسَّلَامُ عَلَيْكُمْ وَرَحْمَةُ اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

I started. Then I stopped. That which I should have continued on with. I started. Then I stopped again. Only to start, not once, not twice but too many times. Thinking - lying, in fact - to myself, "Just once more"

It is never just "once more"... There are always more. Much more.

If I were to paint the state it is in (whatever 'it' is), I'd paint it black. Black as night - a starless, moonless night. And if I were to imagine how it all started, I'd start to blame others. Play the victim. Act the martyr. When in truth, we all know that is not true. It never was, never will be.

Acting. I'd say I'm a pretty darn good actor. There's this mask I like to wear. But this mask is not like any other. No, unlike other masks, this one requires a hefty sacrifice; I must rip my face off. Sorry if this sounds gory. I apologise if this makes anyone worry. That is not my intention. It never was.

But this... this mask. I can't tell if what I'm wearing is the mask or my face. They seem too alike nowadays. Before, I could differentiate the two. Now, it is not as easy. But I know some people who can still tell the difference. And sometimes, I need them to tell me which is which. So, will you tell me?

No answer is needed. That was a rhetoric. As is a large part of my life. A theatre. One actor. Two masks. Full of unanswered questions.

Perhaps... perhaps there is light somewhere in the audience. Yes, I see it :)

Revelator Eyes

اَلسَّلَامُ عَلَيْكُمْ وَرَحْمَةُ اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

I've found something very interesting a few days ago. It's not educational, it's not informative. Just interesting. Okay, I'll tell you what it is: it's a music video for the latest Paper Kites album. Usually, I'd embed a video of it here but Blogger likes to take it down as I'm too lazy to declare that I do not own the content. So here's a link instead. Or just search Revelator Eyes, whichever works. Enjoy :)

Do you know me? I don't think so...

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

I would write it down if I could.

But I cannot. For no words can capture what I mean to say.

And for that...

Those words remain on the verge of my lips.

And as long as doubt strangles me,

I stay on this path

of silence.

I would tell it if I could.

But I cannot. For no words can capture what I mean to say.

And for that...

These words get pushed further down.

And as long as fear has a hold on me,

I stay rooted

in space.

I would show if I could.

But I will not. For no actions can undo what I've done.

And for that...

You get half-a-broken-man.

And as long as I continue sinking,

I stay my hand

from swimming to the surface.

And let the depths wash over me,

so no one can see the tears,

as I fall back

to the bottom.

-16 Nov 2014-

Eulogy

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

For some reason, one of my dusty pieces of writing was deleted when I clicked 'publish'. It was a good piece too. How unfortunate. Oh well, that is what you get when you don't use a pen. But then again, my paper copies are rarely preserved too. It seems the stuff I write either dies sad and forgotten or deleted by accident. I cannot tell which is worse.

In memory of "That Piece of Writing"

19 February 2014 - 1 May 2015

Miracles Are In The Eyes

Remembered for being an honest and blunt one

RIP

The Path to the Forbidden Gate

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

The night was cold but not unpleasant. A glance to his bare wrist revealed that he had no way of knowing the time. But he knew it was getting late - tomorrow was going to be a big day. And what better time for a detour? So when he was nearly at his door, the boy went straight instead and followed the road until a bend took him left. 

A few paces later, uncertainty crept into his mind. "Should I be doing this?" The roundabout was deathly quiet. In his moments of reflection, two cars sped by from his left: one took a twelve and went on, while the other took the path straight from him - the path he so wanted to go into but dared not. The rear light of the vehicle soon vanished from sight and with it his fears. And so, he crossed the road and let the unlit road swallow him in its darkness.

Of course, it took a while to see afterwards but he kept on walking. The road ahead should be a straight one if memory serves. With one of his senses muted, he was walking blind. But the sounds never left him. Sounds of rubber on gravel constantly reminding him that he was still walking and needed to keep moving. Sounds of keys clinking against one another - his fears had returned now that light has deserted him, spurring his hands to fidget in his pockets. And loudest of all: the music of the night! Winds whistling scary tunes, branches swaying and dancing eerily, leaves rustling and rustling all to the beat of his heart. In all the madness, all he could think of was "There's no turning back". So he pressed on.

***

The field. The lack of stars. The birth of stars. Music ceased. Calmness ensued. Only thing missing: moon. To be replaced by a memory

"Are all your family members Muslim?"

"No, unfortunately it's just me"

Silence.

"It's nearly a year now I reverted to Islam. I started reading a few books, met a Muslim friend and then I came here..."

A second pause, this time longer.

"You know, you're lucky. See, I was born into Islam. I never knew what it entails or what Islam meant. I was showed what to do and I've been doing it since without knowing why. You are lucky. You knew Islam before embracing it. In a way, brother, I too am new. On paper I was always a Muslim. But in reality, you and I are not that different..."

***

What is there to be scared of? We create our own demons. Making peace with the world and the Creator, he left - calmer than before. Still surrounded by darkness but a different kind. One that beckons to be discovered. Guided by two rabbits, trusting the animals' eyes more than his own to avoid hidden hazards. Past dark windows of abandoned halls. into the light of the world of the living. Grateful to be back. Even more to finally be friends with the night. The very night in the items of horror movies. The very night humankind tries to keep at bay. The exact same night chained by forbidden gates. Gates that we put in place to protect ourselves and our children when in truth the ones that needed to be chained most are within us.

-written approximately a year ago-

The shadow of everyday life

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

I am a living embodiment of contradictions. 

I treasure books but I don't read. 

I know time's precious but I often waste it.

I love flowers and greenery but I don't do my part to save it.

I expect trust but I do not give it freely.

I value freedom but I shove myself into a prison.

I hear but I do not listen.

I hear but I do not heed.

I see but I do not believe.

I believe but I lack faith.

I smile but only rarely.

I laugh but only on the outside.

Inside, I cry and weep.

I give with the notion of taking.

I build so that I can one day break.

I say but I rarely do.

I talk but I rarely speak.

I wonder but I do not think.

I yearn for the sun but stay in the shade.

I care but only for myself.

I am man.

And that is (some of) my shadow sides.

-16/4/14-

Source.

Stars 2.0

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

It has been nearly a year. Yes, one year. Just yesterday, we were newcomers in this land. Strangers then. Strangers still. But familiar strangers now. Is that a good thing? I'm not so sure it is...

So how's it been since that first landing, first face, first place? One thing's for sure, we are not who we used to be. I am not me. For I have learnt much from this alien land. "At least, I hope so." One can only wonder what travelling does to one's mind, one's outlook and one's self. As always, I wish I can document the changes that occur within and around me from day to day, sun to sun (not that we get much sun here) and moon to moon (God, I miss my night walks).

Speaking of those walks, I sort of wish there were more stars in the sky. For one reason or another, the stars have been disappearing bit by bit every night. Whether purely by chance or not, I can't be certain. But it does point out a major weakness of the human race: no matter how much progress we make, we still can't alter the grand designs of the world we live in. If He chose to put out all the stars in the heavens above, who can stop Him?

And if He chose to put out the dim lights on the Earth that represent our lives, who can intervene? 

(written: a few weeks ago)

Shelves

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

Before we begin, may I ask you a question? Make that two. How do you imagine yourself to be?

Do you think of yourself as an outstandingly average person? Are you a writer? A musician? An amazingly good friend? A cruel person? A heartless? An introvert? Just another person to be forgotten by time's flow? A leader? A follower? A student? A gamer? A man? A woman? A nerd?

Sorry, but that looks to be more than two questions, I know... But seriously, "How do you see yourself?"

Often we define other people (sometimes effortlessly) as we go about our daily lives. "You know that Asian boy from D-block?" or "...that lazy guy in our Management Accounting lecture..." or even "the very quiet Malaysian who eats a lot" (Yes, all of that refer to myself).

It doesn't really matter what you call it: descriptions, prejudice, presumptions, labels. They all point to a single thing which is an image of a person/object/event. They all mould and shape our understanding of that person/object/event. For now, let us keep the object of our discussion limited to people, shall we?

Yes, it is too easy for us to describe others. But when it comes to defining and describing ourselves, we often place a very distorted picture of ourselves and present that instead of the truth. I can only wonder why... Is it because we say things that we wish for ourselves? Are we dangerously biased whenever we start to examine ourselves under a microscope? What explanations can there be to this baffling phenomenon?

These and many other questions visited me tonight. At first it seems easy to come up with an answer. After all, who would know me better than myself, right? Surprisingly, I can't even begin to answer the first and most fundamental question of "Who am I?"

I have a fairly vague idea of what I look like, how I carry myself. I know my preferences in certain matters. I have twenty years of experience living with myself (no breaks, no holidays!) to help me create a self-image that would closely resemble my entire being. I have laughed and cried, gone through highs and lows with myself. So naturally it should be a cakewalk.

Ironically, it is the very intimacy with myself that prevents me from having a solid grasp on my own image. It is those very information that I've gleaned to add clarity that clouds my vision of myself. I think I'm a good enough guy but then I've done certain bad things in life. So am I good or bad? I help people quite a lot. Then I remember the many times I saw a person in need and walked away blind, knowing that it was within my ability to help. And this process repeated itself for EVERY single aspect of my life.

Frustrated? You bet! :/ This then begs another question: if everyone knows what I know of myself, how would that change the way they think of me? Not so highly I would assume.

(Written: last year)

A promise I plan to keep

اَلسَّلَام عَلَيْكُم وَرَحْمَة اللهِ وَبَرَكَا تُهُ

I have a confession to make: I have been writing many things but I have not shared them with anyone. Some lie on forgotten pages. Some locked in the web, unpublished. Even more dead before they got life.

All written. More honest than the last. Too honest to be liked. Too frank to be read.

So here's a deal:

I plan to let go. One at a time. Soon.

I promise.