You Die Every Seven Years

On average, the cells in your body will see seven summers.

This means that somewhere, under all the facade and the bluster and the talk and the walls, a little piece of the real you is dying. And as you read this, dies. Died. Dead.

It means that you are never who you were yesterday. No one ever stays the same. Nothing is as it were. Everything changes.

On average, a human being is only ever the same for seven years. After that seven years, that part of him dies.

A little piece of you dies every day. And every day, we just let it. Unstoppable, irrevocable.





But then again, new cells replace those that go every day. The old ones are no good. And so our body recycles what is old, using them for growing new ones.

We, each and every one, inherently, biologically, we're hard wired for change. And to grow. And to discard what is bad and to grow what is good.

We are wired for change. We are built to create what is good.

Believe it.
as

The Flailing Chicken

I've been away for months now. And partly, it's because I am afraid to put my thoughts into words. Imagine that, a writer with a fear of his own written word. I do not read blogs, I do not open myself to inspiration, because I am afraid of the feeling of inadequacy; not just because they write well - they do it with excellence - but because I don't want myself mirrored in their words.

Mostly, it's because they are so..inspired to make that change. To be better. To do better. To want better.

And I just don't. I find it so hard to care, to give anything worth a damn about anything that is not directly related to myself and my circumstance. It's a shitty way to live. And the worst part is, I know this is no way to live. The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge the problem, but I barely think it's a problem anymore. And that's a problem.

No, nothing bad has happened in my life. My life is absurdly good; I have love, I have money, I have my little hobbies, I have a direction for the next couple of years. Sounds like I belong with octogenarians, but I'm not even 25 yet. No responsibilities worth mentioning, no hardships worth recalling.

You read this and you're thinking I'm blessed - yes I am, blessed thrice over. But I can't find it in me to want to be that change anymore. Where's that fire that was there 2, 3 years ago?

Really. The past couple of years - and I am not fishing for compliments or carrying myself in any kind of metaphorical straw basket - you tell me I've made a difference. That you look up to me and in my own way I've inspired and affected you. But I just don't see it. I don't see what I've done. Maybe a visionary can work without immediate, tangible fruits, but I am no visionary. I look back at my 23 years, and all I see are footprints on a shore. When the tide comes in, everything is washed away.

I went through a couple of episodes of One Tree Hill, and I remember who I was then: a little naive and wholly given over to music. I can barely find songs that speak to me these days. My soul is - without going into hyperboles - missing a rhythm. The tune it danced to has gone silent. No, more accurately, my soul has turned tone deaf and now dances like a chicken being chased by a farmer intent on making it supper.

Desperately flailing, trying to stay alive, but failing and then, dead.

Okay, so one hyperbole. I'll stop. Pinky swear.

My Dad told me that my generation (he could be just referring to me, but was being generous) is soft and too idealistic. I don't disagree. He said he became an engineer because he had to feed himself, and later, his family. He never gave a chickens arse (my words) about his calling, about fighting the good fight. He did what he had to and he did it honestly (really, I don't know a person more ethical). That's all. And after much hindsight, he loves it and he's good at it.

For some reason this struck me profoundly. Are we - or rather, am I - so idealistic that I can't just find a path and walk it righteously and be fulfilled? The answer is, no, no I can't, but then again, my calling came to me blindly as I read a book by Paulo Coelho, so who's to say?

But to my point. I guess, to put it bluntly, I can't find it in me to fight for my country anymore. I can't say for sure I'll stay here and forgo opportunities outside. Feels like the dreamer in me has been clobbered violently to death by the hyperbolic farmer.

as

For My Prettiest Friend

And so, I begin again.

A similar road, a different ending.

How does one mould two different parts of his being into one?

Because a part of me wants you to continue growing and learning and becoming the woman you can be.

And the other is selfish and obtuse and usually walks with his head in the clouds.

I wonder why here and why now. And I think to myself, that's not the right question. Why now is never the right question.

I don't have the right question. I don't have the answers to non-existing questions.

I just know that this is good. And right.

For the longest time, it seems that I had to remind people that life can be good, and life can be beautiful, and life can be more than what we think it could be.

And for the first time in my life, I am reminded of that. That life is beautiful and good and people can truly not have an agenda.

You remind me of purity, of hope and of second chances.

I don't know how the story will end, but you and I, we can find out together.

as

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

As you would know by now, we (the team and I) have been working and writing and designing a report that features the youths of Malaysia. The report is finally now in the press, and, I can't say I don't feel a sense of loss that a chapter of my life is closing again. The journey has been so much of everything - experiences, new people, deadlines, sleepless nights. The journey has even been about just goofing around with a few friends and having fun with them while doing something that we are all passionate about.. But, above all, the journey has been about change.

Without giving any of the report away here, my editor, mentor, and above all, friend, closed the report with these words:

Instead explore and be open, because opportunity often presents itself in the least expected places, and who knows – that might be the beginning of our legacy.

How many people can point to one moment in life and say "That moment. That moment was the one that changed everything. That moment made me. That moment was the beginning of my legacy."

How many are blessed with this awareness?

This, this moment, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, whoever you are with, is no coincidence. It is correct and right.

You are meant to be in this exact spot, in this exact time, with this exact person, in this exact circumstance. Don't ever doubt that.

This, here, now, be it alone or with a person you love. This could be the first day of the rest of your life.
as

A Peck & A Pat

I stalked an old couple around the mall today.

I know, I know, everyone sees an old couple tottering around together and their first reaction is awww, how cute. I think mine went mostly along the same lines, although there was another reason why they piqued my interest.

Imagine this. A guy, old enough to be a great grandfather, pushing a lady of similar stature around a mall in a wheel chair, walking slowly, her hand over her shoulder to hold on to his as he wheels her about.

Every time he leaves her to go into a shop (not often, but the chair can't fit sometimes), he gives her a small peck on her white, fluffy hair and she will pat his hand. He goes in and comes out and again it repeats. A peck and a pat.

It was one of the sweetest scenes I have ever seen. They never passed a word between them, but she will hand him a bottle of water now and again and he will give it a sip and pass it back to her.

He had a twinkle in his eye all the time. Imagine that old grumpy guy from Up. Yes, he was very much like him, except in every single way. It was not a chore to wheel her about, he really, actually seemed to be enjoying it. Occasionally he would bend down slowly to whisper something into her ear and she would pat his face lovingly.

I don't know why this couple just..struck me. He came up to me to ask for directions, and thanked me in a toothy grin as I pointed him the right way.

I asked him, how long have you been married.

His immediate reply was all my life.

I don't cry much, or even easily, but that just brought a tear to my eye.

In a way, this reminded me of something. You know how, as a kid, all you ever needed was what was essential in life. Food, clothes, a few toys, love, and you're good to go. As we grow up, we accumulate stuff, we get more complicated. We eat strange and interesting foods, we have bigger and more expensive toys. Even love becomes more complicated.

And then, at 80, it's as if we are coming home from all that. Food, toys, everything becomes as they were, simple, uncomplicated. Even love. Love becomes a quiet peck on the head, and an affectionate pat on the hand.

In essence, maybe that's all everyone will ever possibly need out of another person. A hand to hold and a head full of hair to kiss.

as

There Is Always a Third Option

One of my favourite poems starts off like this:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

Two roads. And that's the crux of it, isn't it? Always there is a choice, a decision to be made, with ripples that you'll probable still see 20 years down the road. A T-junction.

I was faced with one of them this year. A choice, between shoving my anger into someone's face, or shoving my face into my anger. Two choices.

You may not realise this, but there is always a third choice as well. You have a choice of just, letting it go. That's it. No shoving anything anywhere.

There is always a third option, and with time and some perspective, it usually is, by far, the best road to take yet.
as

The Bricklayer

There was a big pile of bricks on the floor.

She looked at it, and without a word, started to arrange them. Brick by brick, she slowly arranged them neatly on the ground.

The new pile began to take shape, and passer bys would ask her what she was doing. She gave them a strange look and said I'm putting bricks together.

They asked her what it was. She replied with a shrug and continued.

Sometimes she threw away bricks that were broken, sometimes she kept them and added them to the pile. Layer by layer, it began to take shape, and after two years, she deemed it worthy.

They asked her why she stopped, why it is now worthy.

She said her job is complete. She only wanted to build a foundation.

A foundation to what, they asked her.

Another shrug. A foundation to whatever, she said. It can be anything, everything. Whatever it wants to be. It is now time for it to build itself.

It can be anything is wants to be. I believe it can. All it needs now is to believe in itself.
as

I Miss

Writing God-awfully long letters and emails.

Standing outside in the rain.

Making music.

Driving for hours.

The sun.

The sea.

Being somewhere else.

Writing news stories.

That feeling when a book writes itself.

Winter.

Random people, all around the world.

Coffee (not the stuff I make)

Running, Swimming, Hiking

Going somewhere new

Connection

You

Clean and Free: BERSIH 2.0

People shouldn't be afraid of their government. Governments should be afraid of their people.

Alan Moore 

Firstly, let me just say that I love my country, and for all its flaws, the current government did see us through many tough times over the past 50 years. If you don't believe it, let me just ask you, how many of us were severely affected by the recent economic disaster that saw unemployment rates in the U.S. rise to 8.9% (Wiki)? For comparison, during the same time period, Malaysia's highest was 4.1% (TradingEconomics).

Still, there's so much that is not right, so much that could be right, and so much that should be. I am not advocating reformation, I am not advocating we march and disrupt peace in our capital. What I want, what I believe in, is, plain and simple, democracy.

Democracy, that's all. That's all we want.

I won't tell you about that day; you probably already know about it via unbiased media, but here are some pictures I took.

Home

My brother is leaving to the U.S in almost exactly a month. I can't help but think that we are so similar in so many ways. My other personality, the talkative one, the child-like one, the one who plays computer games, comes to the fore especially around him. I guess that's what little brothers are for.

He's leaving, and I just realised that I would be diminished somewhat by his absence. He's a part of the support structure in my life - the people who are ever present and always around, the ones you take for granted because they never go anywhere. My life is stable and I stay grounded, all thanks to people like him.

I wonder why it never occurred to me sooner.

I used to think I'm overly optimistic, and overly carefree; a boy who reads too much and dreams too big. I just realised that I am allowed to be who I am, because of all these people, the support structures that each and everyone of us have in our lives. They provide the stability that I need - and never understood - and in that stability, allowed me to want to go out and just live, with the knowledge that if ever I needed to come back, home will always be there.

And that, to me, is the truest sense of the word home.

Home is not just where your heart is. Home is wherever these people are, the people whose hearts are for you.

It's nice, having some place to always come back to.
as

Words, Hands, Hearts

Words. Hands. Hearts.

Three words that could very nearly sum up everything that has happened in my life the past year. Very nearly, because this is one of those times that they are not enough.

I don't like goodbyes. I like the opportunities that come with it, the excitement with knowing that life is moving on. I even like the part of missing someone, be it a friend or someone more, because then you know that they mean something in your life, and you fight to keep that bond ever more alive.

This year I've had to go through a list of goodbyes, friends leaving to dangerous places, and even more, saying goodbye to someone very close to my heart. It wasn't easy, it will never be, because if it is, then that person definitely didn't mean much. I won't say my heart broke, because most people don't give the heart the credit it deserves. And even if it does, and it will one day, in the words of a song:  a heart that's not worth breaking, isn't worth not much at all.

Really, your heart is stronger than you give it credit for, so take a chance. And if it ends, then, let go.

Let go. It's not an instant change. Letting go is not about throwing your now directionless love away. It's not about trying your damnedest to forget memories or putting them in the strongbox of your mind, locking it and throwing away the key, afraid of the contents and how they will make you feel. It's not about throwing yourself into the arms of the next waiting person, not about smothering that feeling of emptiness with sex or drugs, because to not do so will be to actually feel.

It is everything that is opposite. It is a journey that takes much time and effort. It is about not being afraid of how you feel. It is about knowing that you loved that person, and knowing that you can still do that without needing reciprocation, because that is what it was supposed to be. It is about growing when you're alone. Letting go is about cherishing the memories, but not being afraid of making new ones. 

It is about knowing that words, handwritten together on the tablets of both hearts will always, always be details in your fabric.

And in the end, that's it. Just words, hands and hearts.
as

23 Years = 8395 Days = 201480 Hours

This place has been kind of bleak, kind of like a place hopes and dreams go to be run over by a car and left to die...

All that is going to change, hopefully.

I have officially seen 23 years today. 8395 days. 201480 hours. That's a lot of hours. Even as I am writing now, another one goes by. As is tradition, I go back through the year and try to break it down into words, try to go back up memory lane to see what I've done, and what I would redo, and maybe even what I won't do - a kind of playbook to make the coming year better. This year, however, will be different.

This year, I am going to count my blessings. This year, I am going to remember everything that made me smile, everything that gave me fulfillment, and everything that made me grow.

My calling in life found me over the past year: to change lives through the written word. Opportunities have come my way, even when I didn't knock. People showed their love, and I made some more life-long friends. Life-long friends showed the reason they will always be in my life, though miles may come between us. My family remain my pillar of rock and, in their silent way, gave constant encouragement.

I've loved, and was loved, and for that I will always count myself as blessed amongst men. For some reason a local newspaper hired me and I saw first hand the broken landscape of our media. I've traveled to the beautiful land of England, a childhood dream, and I enjoyed every freezing second of it. Through this all, God has been good and I can sense a new season approaching, along with the closing of this current one.

People come and go, lessons are taught and learned, a way found, lost, and found to be eventually lost again. The past year has been quite a ride, and more living has been done in this one year than I ever did in the past 23. You say 'this is sad!' but I say at least I found this out at 23.

I remember saying something here, something about older but not wiser. That was true then, but I can safely say this time around that I am older, and I am, finally, a little wiser.

as

It's 5.30. It's quiet and peaceful, no sound but the drone of my fan. The room is dark; the light from my old laptop barely illuminating anything but my fingers on the keys. It's 5.30 and I can't sleep. Maybe that's a good thing. I review the work I've backlogged, thought about my attempt at writing a book, thought about inking my body, mentally went through what needs to be done the next day (actually today). I just cleaned my room of the things that I've accumulated over the past year - threw some away, kept some in cold storage. Sleep is a waste of time. But then again, maybe a few hours of blessed oblivion is a good thing. I've not been paying my debt. Or maybe, given my dreams lately, I may never sleep again. Scary things, those dreams. Twisted, but at the same time, it paints my subconscious in vivid technicolour. My subconscious and I are very well acquainted now. There's no music, rare, because I don't want to disturb the quiet, which is ironic, because in itself the silence is disturbing. I want to talk to someone, which is a very rare feeling for me. I am usually very at home with my own thoughts for company, but tonight, I guess I feel a little lonely. Can't remember the last time I felt this way. In fact, I don't remember much of the past few years. Which may be a good thing. In a few years, I'll forget about now. It's not a weakness, to admit to being lonely. Humans are social creatures after all. I remember thinking at one time, about all the places I wanted to go, how beautiful it'll finally be when I do eventually get there. And then, I opened my heart a little and realised that those moments will be hollow if there was no one to share them with. A picture won't reaffirm my existence, nor words. People will. So, no, it's not weak, admitting to being lonely. The darkness is a comfort. It hides much that I don't like to show.

as

Killing God

I drove along, lost in my thoughts and almost ran a cat over today. After some screeching - some by the car and some by the cat..and a little bit by me - my adrenaline soaked brain went into overdrive and increased the speed of my thought processes...

Anyways, to my point. The near accident - near, because I succeeded at saving one of the cat's nine lives but almost lost my only one - got me to thinking:

How does God feel when we reject Him?

We are all familiar with the whole basis of Christianity - Jesus died that you might live. And for many of us, it's enough to just believe and accept Him, and we're on our way to heaven. But it's lacking somehow.

This year, I learned that God is crazy about you, in a way that you're crazy about the person you love. He's eager to please you, to give you little gifts, He wants to spend time with you, quality time, not just a few mumbled prayers before sleep. He wants you to be the best person you can possibly be. He wants to be a priority in your life. Isn't that what everyone wants? To mean something to someone, to know that someone is thinking about you all the time, that someone can't get you out of their heads - and they're not even trying to.

That's exactly what He wants, a very human kind of love - an imperfect kind of love. I had trouble trying to understand that He was crazy about me in that way, and then, when eventually I figured out that He wants to be wanted in that very same way, it just blew my mind.

The sad thing, though, is that I don't. I don't yearn to spend time with Him the way He does with me. I reciprocate His intensity with ambivalence, with nonchalance and a blase attitude.

You and I know how it feels, to be not wanted. To hope, to feel, to yearn and to bleed, to want with all our being, and to have all of it, returned with nothing. We all know how it feels to be rejected, how deeply it affects and warps and hurts.

And that's exactly how He feels.
as

A Fragment

I remember I had this dream, last year. In it, I was walking on a beach, a very long stretch of beach, my footprints imprinted in the sand, echoing for miles behind me. A wave rolled in (or the tide, I'm not sure) and washed everything away.

I have nothing to follow home. And I remember I stood there a while, not knowing what to do. I woke up before I found out if I actually had the courage to continue walking forwards.

I'm sure I am not the only one, but I fancy myself on an endless pilgrimage, a journey of sorts. Why? I don't know. A journey will eventually lead a person somewhere, somewhere not here, and maybe sometimes, that's the problem.

What's wrong with here and now? Why always the yearning to be somewhere, anywhere but here? I'm always planning to go on journeys, a few which I've taken, a few which I dare not take, but all of which are physical, take-to-the-roads kind of journey. I don't know if I'll ever be satisfied with somewhere, or maybe eventually,  I'll find a here that will be better than any somewheres.

The point is, I am reminded of my dream. I am losing sight of who I was, and no matter what the media says, who a person was is very important. I don't know if I took new steps forwards. And if you asked me who am I now, I can't give you an answer.

Why go on pilgrimages? And when will it be enough? I just finished The Zahir by Paulo Coelho, and eventually, the protagonist - who was on a pilgrimage of sorts - does come to the end of his journey, but not in a way he expects, and definitely not in a way I expected. It's just, so frustrating - to me, the reader at least - to know that after the long walk, the product at the end is broken, unworthy of the long walk.

Or maybe it was always broken, and the pilgrimage only enlightened me as to its incomplete state.

as

The Room in Our Heads

courtesy of  thoosah

Sunlight, warm and bright, streamed through the open window, bathing the small room in gold. It was quiet, no birds sang, no leaves rustled, silence except for the relentless ticking of the bedside alarm clock - a device he both loathed and treasured.

He stood at the doorway of the room, leaning against the frame, hands folded, his eyes taking in - drinking, absorbing, breathing - the peaceful scene and drawing patterns in the air as they fell on random items scattered about the room: the dresser, the many items on the dresser, clothes on the floor, clothes on the bed frame,  clothes on his laptop, the infernal alarm clock, and books, books everywhere, books on the dresser, on the bed, on the table outside on the balcony, even on top of the air-conditioner (what the heck was it doing there?).

Every item with an inadvertent story attached to it: here was a top she had loved, the pile of mixtapes on the computer table (which was violently colonised by other foreign objects like cups, books, an old wallet, with no computer in sight) with significant songs, the book she had thrown at him in a fit (that's why it was on the air-cond!), the overflowing trashcan filled with crumpled paper from his writings.

The walls were filled with photographs: one panel with pictures of random places and scenery, another panel filled with pictures of people and food and art. In a nutshell, that was the difference in the way they both viewed the world - he as a place to explore with breathtaking beauty while she found breathtaking beauty in art, culture and most importantly, people.

The shadows were lengthening, the golden glow in the room was leaving. He stood there still, wondering if he should take anything with him, wondering at all if he should leave anything behind. Wondering if the room in his head held a deeper meaning or if there ever was a meaning. Wondering if there was more room in his head, or if this was it, this was all there is.

He took only an envelope, everything else he left there; there was nothing he could take, and even then, he had taken them with him as best he could. 

So he turned, shutting the door just as the last rays of the sun touched the room and disappeared, plunging him in darkness. He locked the door, dropped the key into the envelope, then slid the envelope back under the door.

And left.

as

The Zahir

According to Jorge Luis Borges, the idea of Zahir comes from Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either a state of holiness or madness.

Paulo Coelho -  The Zahir 

I am rereading The Zahir (even though I never finished it) again by Paulo Coelho, and it just speaks to me.

The idea that there is someone that fills his senses, that no matter what he does, he can't escape it.

The fact she was so much of an inspiration to him.

The fact that he wrote a book, or rather, a long letter, to her. Maybe she will read it, maybe she won't, but he was at peace with himself, he is at peace with himself, and he found a strength from it that he never even realised.

I think this time around, I will finish the book.
as

Coffee, Cake, and Plain Water

Last week I had coffee, cake and plain water with a couple of friends - I was cake, opposite me sat coffee and next to me was plain water. I think even then I should have realised our conversation would be different, after all, I didn't have coffee...

In a nutshell, coffee said the church of today doesn't work anymore. I am having my own personal crisis with the church, and I was curious why she said that. It's not that she had a problem with the concept of church - the concept if fine, great, even. But it is lacking somehow. People are leaving, but more and more money is being poured into bringing people in - concerts, shows, performances, things-that-go-bang. Why? Why not use that money and change a life? Why not give it away, so someone will be blessed?

I don't have a problem with things-that-go-bang - actually, I rather enjoy it - but I saw her point. The church has, over the last thousand of years, been slowly conforming to society. Think about it. Max (Make it Mad) asked "If we removed the lights and sounds, the performances, the videos, the special presentations, would you still go to church?"

I know I won't. I would want to go to a church with good musicians, with a good surround sound system. My friend, Coffee, was actually very disturbed by this. Where is God, in all this? Where is He in the blinding flashing lights, the ear-splitting music? Where do we draw the line between 'bringing people in' and bringing God in? Or can they be the same? Is God not enough to draw the crowds in anymore on Sunday morning?

I have two answers for that - head and heart. Heart says, sure He is! Head says, no, be pragmatic.

And this basically sums up my entire..wrestle? with the concept of the church of today. I can find God in my own devotions - and if I needed a fresher perspective, I can talk to someone wiser about it. I can meet with other believers over the week, which incidentally, I think church makes unnecessary, since I'll see them anyway.

So what is the church of today? Is it relevant, because we make it relevant to society? Or is it relevant because we do not - light in the darkness and all that.

If you want to have a friendly conversation with me on the matter - emphasis on friendly - I'll be more than happy to, although, this time around, I'll be having coffee. Black, no sugar.

as

And It Will Always Be Enough

Journal entry, dated 4th June 2011.


Everywhere you turn, every book you read, you are receiving the same message: don't close your heart again. Keep hoping, keep searching. Keep loving.

Love without expectations. Love unconditionally. Love. Period.

It's the same few words, over and over again. And so, for this season, if nothing else, this is the lesson.

The problem is, unconditionally is nigh inhuman. You want, no, need reciprocation, because you need the validation, and until you come to terms with this, you are heading for a brick wall.

Think. Why do you - or anyone - want reciprocation so badly? Because it validates. Will it ever be enough? Is it not enough that you can give and expect nothing? It is. It is enough. And if it is not, you have no reason offering tainted strength to anyone.

But if giving freely is enough, then in it's own act, you are validated. You can give freely. And like it, it may be freely returned, but it is a gift, not owed and not loaned. A gift, both given freely and begotten freely.

And at the end of the day, it will be enough to have given. Just, given.
as

*random thoughts*

I am unsatisfied.

And I have no idea why.

It's just a quiet restlessness I feel. This path that I am walking on, suddenly feels empty and unfulfilling. I feel as if there is a great need to right a wrong but I have no idea what the heck is wrong, or maybe on a subconscious level my mind refuses to look at what it is.

I have no job, but that's okay, because I hope I'll never let what I do define me. I am not studying, but that's okay too. I have no one in my life, but that's okay, because I've learned to embrace being alone, and being alone doesn't mean being lonely. It's quiet, and that's okay too, because I listen in the silence.

So, what the heck is wrong? I write everyday - still working on a book. A couple, in fact. I have my side projects to keep me occupied. I have friends who care, experiences to find and roads to explore.

What I don't have is a goal. I don't have an identifiable goal, nothing worth working towards. Life feels slightly..empty. It feels like I need to be constantly working towards something to prove my worth; it feels as if I am slacking off now. While I enjoy the silence, I am disquieted by it. It's such a difficult emotion - or thought process - to explain. Bloody ineffable, in fact.

I feel the need to be constantly doing stuff, whatever it is. Drive, hike, talk, run, swim. And I've come to understand that all of this is me trying to escape from thinking about it. But the problem is, what am I escaping from? What am I running from?

Because, if there needs be to run, I always want to run to, not from. Which is hard, considering I have no idea where to is.

I really thought I've left this angsty, teenagery frustration behind me.

as

Eleanor

Let me tell you about my first love.

Her name was Eleanor.

I've known her for years, but we never really 'clicked'. We had an blase relationship; I knew she existed since I was maybe ten or twelve, but that was that.

I was on the cusp of manhood - the strange, confusing and often, gray, area when a boy is no more a boy, but, not quite a man - when I first saw her in a different light. Even then, for me, it was never fireworks and sparks. What I felt for her developed overtime, a sort of understanding and mutual affection that we would be a big part of each other's lives.

So much about the world, I learned with her. She opened new doors for me, and we explored many a place together. Those were sweet, halcyon days.

I wouldn't say she was pretty, but she had a nice figure and was curvy in all the right places, just enough to be pleasing to the eye. Of course, no one is perfect. She was a little on the heavy side, but like I said, curvy. And looking back now, she was what society would deem as high maintainance. Mostly I remember our good days, though I would say that she had an unpredictable disposition. Everything would be fine, and then suddenly, she would leave you stranded on the side of the road.

We said goodbye after two years together. It was a sad, sad day. The heavens wept for me, and till today, I still remember her with much fondness.

Nothing dramatic happened, just that fate stepped in. That, and my parents decided to sell her off.

There will always be a space in a boy's heart that will be occupied by his first car.

as

*random thoughts*

Have you ever been on a boat? I have. I don't like it. It was a small boat and I was out at sea. The waves were rocking it here and there, back and forth. Constant, perpetual motion.

I remember thinking please stop moving! I'd like to walk in a straight line and not into people! It didn't listen. Figures; boats can be so hoity-toity.

Eventually, I made it to dry land, and I've come to realise that I may be many things, but I am out of my element when it comes to large bodies of water. Heck, I am out of my element in my shower at home.

My life at the moment feels like that. No, not like I'm in the shower, like I am on a boat, out at sea. There's no solidity, no constancy. It's perpetual motion, constantly rocking and I am walking into people. And hard objects. I'd like to return to dry land again.

I just resigned from a job as a stringer aka freelance journalist (still don't know why the industry uses the word stringer). A year ago, I really wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to make a difference via the media. I still do, but now, not as a journalist (but there are so many kind of journalists, we'll see). I've been pursuing the goal for a while now, and now, I am..bereft of goal. It's not a pleasant feeling.

I tell myself, that only when lost can I find my direction again.

And then, if you have been reading, I recently parted ways with an amazing girl. It's not complicated and we are just friends now. We were in a long-distance relationship, and it just didn't work. She will be back in a little under two weeks. For the past few weeks, I've been trying to figure out if it is still worth repairing what we had. Then, a minor epiphany. I remembered why I decided to start in the first place, knowing full well she would leave for 8 months.

I remember thinking that this girl was definitely worth it, that even if we were to go our separate ways, whatever time I did have, I would have counted as blessed. And I do. The reason hasn't changed. She's still worth it.

Then, there's God. All my life, I've had this aloof, distant and, to be frank, blase relationship with God; a you-do-your-thing-and-I'll-do-mine deal. I've always looked to him as a Father, a strict disciplinarian who will whip - literally - me into heaven. Yes, it's wrong. No, I don't know where I got that notion from. Recently, I've been reading a few books, and they all blow that mindset out of the sea. I always knew He loves me, but to find out that He is in love with me? That one is going to take awhile to sink in.

It's not that He is not constant and strong enough to stop the motion of the boat, but I feel a little lost, a little like I have to relearn everything I thought I knew about Him, because I've been looking at it so wrongly. It's like I didn't know Him at all...

Oh well..maybe, like I said before, I should just savour the unpredictability. Maybe I'll finally learn to swim properly.

as

OMG HE'S GAY RUN AWAY FAST

I don't know about you, but I sometimes I think it's difficult to be a man in our society today.

We are expected to know all the answers all the time. We are expected to never cry, never show fear (although inside we just peed our souls), never say you don't know what to do (although you really have no idea how to fly an airplane and both pilot and copilot just passed out), never show weakness, in fact, it'll be altogether easier if we just don't show any emotions whatsoever.

Basically, what we are asked to do is to put up a facade. It doesn't matter if you are afraid, pretend you're not. It doesn't matter if you are lonely, pretend you're not. It doesn't matter if you don't know what to do, pretend you're awesome and go fly that plane.

In short, we are expected to be fakers and liars.

Good job, society.

What's your first thought, when a girl is nice and caring to another girl? Oh wow she's awesome and friendly and smart and she smells nice and her hair is nice and her make up is nice and she's so nice.

So. What's your first thought, when a guy is nice, and friendly, to another guy? OMG HE'S GAY RUN AWAY FAST.

So much for social paradigm.

Like I said, we are expected to be cool, calm and emotionally stable, all the time. We must show that we care but at the same time, pretend we don't give a rat's ass.

So if a friend's pet dog - or mum - dies, you must not give him a hug. You may say you're sorry - and maybe pat him on the shoulder, but only if you're in close proximity i.e in elevator - and immediately change the topic to cars or hot girls, or better yet, cars with hot girls in them.

I don't know about you, but it's tiring, pretending to not care while all the while, you do very much give a rat's ass.

But hugs and cars and dead dogs aside, the one thing that a really cool guy must never do is text or write smileys.

Smileys? For a cool guy?

as

Travelling Through One Young World

A little over half a year ago, an esteemed friend approached me and said, "Hey, Lionel, I want your help with this project."

He went on to elaborate lightly on what needed to be done, and then said, "Why don't we meet up and talk further about this?"

And that was how I was introduced to One Young World. I didn't know heads or tails of it, and if you don't either, here's the site.

My esteemed friend and mentor, Jon, wanted me to help - in my ability as a writer - with a report called One Young World Impact Report, which is a compiled report about the activities of the youth leaders in Malaysia.

I will be honest with you, when first I heard of this, I only saw how I could gain from this - it would look great in my CV, I would make so many contacts etc andsoonandsoforth. I was a new writer, trying to find my voice in a world saturated with sound, and this was one of the ways that I thought I could get my very own breakthrough.

Here comes the part where I tell you something sappy about how this project changed me, about how much I've grown. I did. I interviewed people - something I've never done before - and gained a new confidence. I was given the opportunity to work with an awesome team - Michael Teoh, Jonathan Chu, Bernie Quah and Mushamir Mustafa. This is the first big project that I've ever worked on, and it is unbelievably fulfilling to put time and effort into completing it.

I met some really great people. Youths - like you and I - who are passionate about making that bit of difference. Youths, who go out there and in their capacity, change their communities, nevermind that word of their work will never reach the public's ear. Youths, who believe that a single life changed is more important than all the publicity in the world.

And, along the way, these inspiring people changed me too. I've come to see that we are not compiling a report, soulless and cold, just so I get a nice line in my CV. We are telling the stories of these great people, these great youths. We are telling the stories of their hard work, their struggles, their failures, and ultimately, we are telling stories about their triumphs.

I started this project wanting to find my voice, but now, they - my team and the people I've been privileged enough to meet - have shown me that we all have a voice; the difference is only in what we say and what we do with that voice.

Mahatma Gandhi once said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."

I am, finally, beginning to understand what he really meant.

~

p.s. If you have an interesting project you want to share with the world, please, contact me

here

or you can share it 

here

p.p.s If you have the time, please 'like' my profile on One Young World.

It'll only take a few seconds. Much, much love and thanks in advance!

Individualism

I love social media, the way people can say anything and everything on their minds with absolute transparency, the way it perforates every life and every level of that said life. To think, something that didn't exist not twenty years ago could be something the average student today can't live without.

I won't deny that I am an addict, but this is not the point of the post. What's doing the backstroke in my gray brain goo today is the whole concept of individualism, something I see and read especially, nay, only in social media.

The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.

Friedrich Nietzsche

I get it. I get that people want to belong to themselves. I get that in our world today, more and more people are turning to themselves to find the answer, because no one else will help you find it. Worse, no one else cares enough to actually find it with you.

And you know, the irony is that the more connected we are, the lonelier we get.

Of course, I don't believe in being overwhelmed by any tribe. I don't subscribe to any thought or religion or philosophy that I have not first let swim the backstroke in my gray matter, regardless of what the tribe says. My conclusion may follow the tribe, or they can decide to cast me out. But I have to say, the tribe usually has very good points and perspectives.

I am sure that people need people. Not just to get ahead in life, or to benefit in any way. In our very essence, homo sapiens are social creatures. You want to argue that? Even at home, when we are alone, we create digital highways that allows us to connect with one another. If that is not an internal yearning to be connected, I don't know what is.

I see all these posts and whatnots saying how 'be yourself and fuck everyone else' or 'the only one you need to listen to is you' or whathaveyous. Something in me rebels and feels sickened at these blatant 'I am the master of my own universe' sayings. You shouting it out on a social media platform, to me seems like a cry to be noticed, Nietzsche notwithstanding.

I am sure a middle ground can be found between individualism and a people-centric life. I believe that, at the end of the day, people - and all connections thereof -  are the most important. Your story is never about you, it is always about the people you meet, the people that changed your life.

Feel free to disagree, but this is just my own thoughts (which I hope is worth more than two cents) on the matter. I may be the captain of my ship, but I am definitely not the master of my fate.
as

Sometimes It's a Choice

I can say that I've lived a pretty good life.

I'm going to be 23 (cue Jimmy Eat World) soon, and as I look back at my journey, I can honestly say that, while I have not lived to the fullest everyday, I have lived.

I've done some bad things, and I've done some good things. I've hurt, and been hurt; I've forgiven as surely as I've been forgiven.

What puzzles me is that when I look back, I can see only mostly good things. I don't have a dark past to divulge to you; I don't have deep regrets that torment my soul deep into the night. Of course, to say I have no regrets would be a lie, but the ones I can remember are superficial; I should have used my time for this, I should not have said what to who. You get the picture.

I have no deep regrets. My life has been good. God has seen to it that I wanted for nothing.

I can hear your thoughts at this point. You are thinking that I've not truly lived.

And that's the crux of the matter. Why is it, that we don't see people who have had a good life, people with not regrets, no dark secrets, no sordid pasts, why is it that we see this people as having never lived?

I sometimes wonder, what would have happened if I actually did walk a darker road. What stories I could tell, what words I could write here. She is such an enticing lady, is darkness. What a muse she makes.

Why do I think that way? I don't know. Why do you, for that matter?

Of course, pain and hardships build character. It's like that quote: you never know how strong you are until strong is the only choice you have. Refining fire and all that.

I don't mean to be callous about your pain and hurts. Some hardships are inevitable. But some are a choice. I don't mean to sound superior, or condescending, far from it. If you've read anything I've written before, you will know that I am not that person.

I just want you to know, that even though some of us may not have had to - or chose to - walk a path that is similar to the hell you've had to face, it by no means mean that we have lived less. We just live differently, that's all.

But, if you ask me what I do regret, my answer would that I've never had to face what some of you have faced. It's not so much a regret as it is intriguing. I've never seen that side of the coin, and often I wonder what it would be like.

Oh, the stories I could tell you.
as

More Roads in Yellow Woods

This place started out as a place where I can pen down thoughts for myself, and whoever it was that wanted to read them. Strange, that while it remains mostly the same, it has also evolved into something quite different.

When I first started writing here, I was pretty sure I was on that road to be an engineer. Somewhere along the way, plans changed, and I decided that I wanted to write.

So, now I am a part-time journalist with a local paper.

There's so much I've learned from my way more experienced colleagues about writing news. I've never had any formal training; I just took a shot in the dark and for some reason they hired me. And no, the newsroom (here at least) is a very quiet and civil place.

But..there's this disquiet, a degree of dissatisfaction that I've been dealing with for a while now. I can't quite put a finger on it, but I know that I don't like writing hard news. It's so...regimented.

So, where does this little crisis of faith leading me? I don't know. Maybe it's because I feel like I am telling stories no one wants to hear, or answering questions no one actually asked.

Who knew, that the road in the yellow wood would branch out again into smaller, more obscure lanes.
as

Turn It Off

In the past few days, media the world over has been a-twitter over the death of a particular terrorist. If you've been hiding under a rock, here's what happened.

My first reaction to the news was a joy of some sort. His actions ten years ago rippled throughout the world, not just in the first world nations. Malaysia may not have been in the forefront of these ripples, but we felt it nonetheless.

And then I went online, and I see all these people spouting 'love not hate' quotes, saying that we should forgive him, pray for him, etc. I called bullshit.

I thought to myself, yeah, sure, you say that now, online, hiding behind a computer, why don't you say it to the families affected by 9/11 or to the families of soldiers who will never come back from the Middle East?

My response to his illogical hate, was to hate illogically.

So I went about my days, singing a shallow tune and believing that all was right again in the world. It took me a few days to understand that, even without realising it, I've switched sides.

Illogical hate can never be countered with more hate. It solves nothing, but in the end, destroys everything.

We Christians are in the ministry of reconciliation. Love and forgiveness will, in the end, prove to be the better, and I am not saying it like some hippy, peace-loving-vegan of the '70s.

You want examples? Martin Luther King Jr. Mahatma Gandhi. They, and their followers, believed - rightly so - that peace is the way. No matter that people spit at you, hit you, hurt you. They retaliated with peace. Both were assassinated. That's a heavy price, but at the end of the day, you and I reap the fruits of what they sowed all those years ago.

Nelson Mandela, released from prison after 27 years, and was elected president of South Africa, asked his jailer to join him on the platform during his inauguration. Throughout his career, his sought to diffuse the cycle of vengeance. He insisted that the country needed healing more than it needed justice.

It was during these times, that a woman listened as a policeman - and his friends - describe how they shot her son and burned his body, turning it over a fire like a piece of meat on a barbeque. Eight years later, they burned her husband alive while forcing her to watch.

When the court gave the now elderly woman a chance to respond, all she asked was that the policeman bring her to the place where her husband died, so she give him a decent burial. The man nodded in shame. She then added a further request.

"Mr van de Broek took all my family from me, and I still have a lot of love to give. Twice a month, I would like for him to come to the ghetto and spend a day with me so I can be a mother to him. And I would like Mr van de Broek to know that he is forgiven by God, and that I forgive him too. I would like to embrace him now so he can know my forgiveness is real."

Love and forgiveness will be the power that will change the world. I am not saying that this particular terrorist didn't deserve his fate, or that the US should not have pursued him so. My opinion is that they did right, but then I am making myself a judge and jury, and I don't want that.

Maybe, it's really time to find forgiveness in our hearts. Cliches aside, if we hate as Mr bin Laden did, the only difference between us would be that he turned his hatred into action. And without being a religious nutcase, he was a child of God too.

You choose your sides, but I've chosen mine, and I am rightfully, returning to it. I am choosing to turn it off.

courtesy of onelove

as

courtesy of Film Grain

I'd take the pain and passion of answers over numb, unfeeling silence any day.
as

You Won't Hear It Till You Hear It

It is 1 AM and I've been awake for almost 20 hours. My body is so tired, but my mind refuses to go to sleep. I just came back from a concert by Switchfoot, and I gotta say, they are probably the best act I've seen live. The lights on my ceiling are turned off, but those in my mind aren't.

I was just reminded of the strange way - strange to you and I, but not to those who believe - God works. Lately, I've been reading what many people will derisively call self-help books. I don't think any book will fall under that category - books are books. Regardless, why sneer at a fine piece of written work if it actually changes lives? But, I digress.

I recently finished - not two weeks ago - a book given to me by a friend back in '08. I left it to gather dust on the shelf for three years, and when I finally read it this year, it changed my life. I know now that I would not have understood it 3 years ago. It was God, telling me exactly what I needed to hear at the exact moment when I needed it the most. Exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it.

You may think of it as a mere coincidence, but here's another one, also about a book, borrowed to me by someone dear to my heart. I didn't touch it for half a year, but when I finally started reading it, it was as if a light switch was flipped and I saw so much with clarity. It answered so many questions and raised even more. Exactly what I needed to hear, exactly when I needed it.

I am reminded of the many times that I complain about His absence in my life and the times when I don't hear Him, but I've got it all wrong; I never listened in the first place. I placed Him in a box and told Him to talk to me in this particular way, at this particular time. I placed limitations on the infinite. No wonder I never heard squat.

A friend passed me a video titled Nooma 001: Rain by Rob Bell (embedded at the end of the post) at the beginning of this year. I never got around to watching it. At this particular moment in my life, I am still reeling from a recent hurt, and if I am perfectly honest, the loss affected me in a very significant way though I pretend that it didn't, that I am perfectly whole and fine. There comes a time when that dam will reach a breaking point. All the lies you tell yourself, all the walls you put up to keep the hurt out - when in fact you keep it in - will crumble. And I was left with the realisation that this was the bottom already. I can go no further, and I can't crawl up the well by myself.

All of this, the crumbling walls, manning up to my lies and half-truths, all of it happened as I watched the video. All that I had left was my tears, and my God. There was nothing else. And I think that's when I really began to heal.

It was exactly what I needed to hear, when I needed it the most.

May you, when you're soaking wet, lost, hurting and confused, may you cry out, and may the Creator of the universe take you out of your pack, and may He hold you tight up against His chest. May He wrap His eternal, loving arms around you and may you hear Him whisper 'I love you, buddy. We're gonna make it. Dad knows the way home. We're gonna make it. I love you.'

Only Me

I am only a one
A one in all the sea
In the dark, all alone
Amongst faces, just me

I am only a sigh
As the wind will whisper
As the autumn leaves will die
As all fires will flicker

I am only a door
A door without a key
A room without a floor
Eyes that will never see

I am only darkness
A lamp without a fire
A mask, and a mess
An unseeing liar

I am only a mask
Happy, yet, unsmiling
A question no one asked
Bleeding, yet, not dying

I am only a song
One I will never sing
My melody isn't long
Gone, my coda won't ring

I am only one, see
Unequivocally
Lost irrevocably
Lastly, only, just me
as

Unfinished Men

This post has been long in coming, one that I wanted to write ever since I finished Wild At Heart by John Eldredge. I first started writing it sometime last year, around October, but never got around to finishing it, not because I don't have much to say, but because I feel unqualified, and I write now, not because I am qualified, far from it. I just know that some out there will be having the same thoughts and doubts that I do, and I hope in some small way, this helps.

But, to the point, what right do I have to talk about being a man if I am barely one? I am mostly still a boy and parts of me are still stuck in Neverland. In so many ways, manhood is a blessing, a gift that is bestowed by another man, or a fellowship of men. I've not been blessed with the gift yet.

I used to think of myself as a self-made man, that I figure things out on my own and that I need none or minimal guidance. I needed no one, and I was proud of it. In hindsight, it was probably the most heart-wrenching statement a man can make. To have to grope about blindly looking for masculinity and try to understand what it means to be man with no mentor is a painful and ultimately, crippling way to grow.

What you need to understand now, as men or boys, is that masculinity is bestowed by another man, or a group of men. When we as boys grow without guidance in this area, chances are great that we grow wrongly. We are unfinished men. Think about it. When was the last time you had absolute confidence in making a decision?  I don't remember a single instance. Granted, life will be full of doubts, but there is a difference between standing stock-still in uncertainty and choosing to fight even with doubts, knowing that you have what it takes.

Masculinity, the original one designed by the Creator, is powerful. It is a wild, untamed thing. The version we see in the media is skewed somehow. Think about it for a moment. What does the media portray masculinity to be? It's no better in the church. Men are taught from young to be overly gentle, to speak in hushed tones and always compromise and be peaceable. There are times for all that, I don't disagree, but have you ever wondered why is it that we were never taught to use our strength and our passion? It is sadly emasculating.

There's so much to say on the matter, but there's one aspect of masculinity that I want to touch on. In Wild At Heart, John Eldredge wrote that femininity arouses masculinity, but it can never bestow it. Based on my own experience, I can vouch that most men I know look to femininity for their masculinity. It doesn't just stop at the superficial oh-look-my-girlfriend-is-so-hot; it goes deeper than that. A man cannot make a girl his whole universe; she can't be the only battle he fights. Both will be painfully bored, and a man ought to fight for more than just a girl. His is an adventure that she would gladly go for, but there will never be an adventure if she was the bottom line. In his book, John Eldredge said as much, and again, this proved to be painfully true.

I am reading Rumours of Another World by Philip Yancey now, and he said so as well, though in different terms. He wrote that the problem is that we think of a gift, as just that, a gift, but we never see beyond that, that the gift is about the love of the giver. In this case, the gift is someone God has placed in your life, but all you see is the gift. She is the bottom-line.

I don't have any answers to this, and I am still just trying to be a man, and trying to bend my strengths to proper use in this world, trying to do my best. I'll probably never be a fully finished man, not in every sense of the word.

But then again, a man who can claim to be wholly complete can only be either one of two things.
as

Easy As Pie

Someone told me recently, and I quote, "You writers (flattered that I am considered to be one, though I think all of us are writers, just that most haven't found their story) have it so easy. All you do is move a few fingers and you get a check in the mail."

Ouch, not entirely devoid of truth, but still, I disagree.

Edison said "Genius is 99 per cent perspiration and 1 per cent inspiration."

I think, writing, like genius and every other thing in life, is a truckload of hard work and a brief flash of a inspiration. God know's how much paper and ink I've wasted, not to mention the massive amount of electricty consumed to write with a keyboard.

Hemingway said "There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit at the typewriter and bleed." It's nice, you know, to bleed. Not hard at all. Like tofu.

But sometimes, I think that, for all the bleeding, you get a nice story and at the end of the day, you get (maybe) a check in the mail. Yay.

Because, if there is a certainty, it is that I write better when I am emotionally involved in a situation, and to reproduce that feeling into words I will have to relive a particular memory. Or a particular emotion.

At times, it means reopening wounds, but at other times, it could mean the healing of another and in some cases, to reset a broken bone would require re-breaking it. That pretty much sums up the darker side of what I do, but that's only a side of the coin. Writing is also hopeful, and it brings joy. Writing is inspired, and in turn, inspires.

Regardless, I do know one thing, though, that anything that is worth anything is never easy. It is only when you have to bleed for it that it becomes something.

Your bleeding will dictate its worth. And no one ever said it'll be easy, just that it will be worth it.
as

The Road Trip

If our arms aren't strong enough, we'll rip the roof off with our hearts. If the road is dark, our dreams will light the way. If there isn't space in the back, we'll make space in our hopes. Pack a bag with everything you want to keep and leave the rest behind. Because I'm coming to pick you up.

I Wrote This For You: The Road Trip 

Stuff I Need To Do in A Month and A Half

1. Work regularly.

2. Learn shorthand.

3. Learn German Latin

4. Finish my book.

5. Learn to flip and roll properly (parkour).

6. Pack a proper six.

7. Master the art of being a percussionist.

8. Project One Picture a Day.

9. Meet a random stranger everyday.

10. Compliment someone everyday.

11. Live.

as

I'mJustAboutButNotQuiteMaybeSoon

There is nothing quite as therapeutic to a man than to leave everything, even if it is just for a day, and go on the road. I've learned that sometimes, it is nicer to drive yourself, dictate where you want to go, and actually, sometimes it is nicer just to be driven. It is with the latter that you can really let your mind go.

So I did just that yesterday, I sat in a four hour car-ride (to and fro) and had some time to myself, just thinking. Not even writing, because then I'd be focused on shaping words.

And a few posts back, I wrote about trying to be more than who I am. About removing myself from an equation, about deleting myself. I honestly thought I couldn't do it.

I tried so hard to believe that everything, all of it was a lie. Because to believe that would have made it hurt less. It's easier to believe that love was not real than to try and understand that it just changed. But I can't.  So where does that leave me?

In that car ride, I realised that, yes, yes I can delete myself. I can just want her to be happy and to be fulfilled. I just want her to have a reason to have that goofy grin on her face, even if it wasn't me who put it there. Yes, I want all of that for her. I can, and I do want that. It was quite... liberating.

And from somewhere, a voice told me, it's time. It is finally time to heal.

So here I am, writing about it. Because that's part of healing for me.

Three years ago, the way I dealt with all this was self-destructive. I smoked. I disappeared. I drove like a mad man (I won't tell you what speeds I did). I turned to pornography. In short, I went quite berserk and I lost myself for a little while.

Pain is part of growing-up and it'll most probably always be hard, because the choice will be between what is easy, and what is right. I'm not saying that I don't have the urge to just go out and go crazy again. It's there. It's a battle to not want to suck on the end of a burning stick, or to stare at a screen where people copulate like animals. It is difficult.

In a way, I think it was a cry for attention, but that was what passed as 'healing' for me, back in the day.

It's just the way it is, and life, like it or not, will go on, and now it's time to go make new mistakes and learn new ways to deal with pain.

It is finally time.
as

God Loveth Adverbs

courtesy of bits and pieces

Lately I have been struggling to find a reason for writing. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but sometimes, loving it seems inadequate and small a reason.

And then I read this:

This God liked elegant sentences and was offended by dangling modifiers. Once you believe this, where can you stop? If the Maker of the Universe admired words well put together, think of how he must love sound thought well put together, and if he loved sound thinking, how he must love a Bach concerto, and if he loved a Bach concerto think of how he prized any human effort to bring a foretaste, be it ever so small, of his Kingdom of Justice and peace and happiness to the victimized people of the world. In short, I met the Maker of the Universe who loved the world he made and was dedicated to its redemption. I found the joy of the Lord, not at a prayer meeting, but in English Composition 101.

Philip Yancey, Rumours of Another World.

God loves what I do. He loves that I try to make a difference through written words, and He loves that I try to string words together to form legible sentences.

It brings tears to my eyes, knowing that what I do matters to Him, and knowing that He loves it is all the reason I will need.
as