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.
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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.
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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.

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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.
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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.
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Comfortable

"Hi."

Yeah, you too.

The air was clean, sharp. Lightning rumbled in the distance. In the distance a dog was barking. It was perpetually gloomy here, an ever-present cover of clouds that show no respect to the sun.

A whiff of liquid sanitizer. Shampoo. Make-up. Moisturizer. Bare skin. Exactly how I remembered her to be.

Comfortable.

Nonsensical conversation only I would understand.

Nonsensical laughter, because no one else understands.

Silences that say everything, silences that are as we were.

Comfortable.

The floor creaks, the bed is too small, the drift of white outside, the sound of a washing machine working overtime.

Peaceful breathing, eyes closed to darkness, lips singing silent symphonies.

Shivering against the cold, because there was no cover.

Still, it was comfortable.

A gentle touch, palm to palm in a holy palmer's kiss.

One last stolen glance, one last smile.

"Goodbye, Lionel."

and I woke up.
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My Story is Not About Me

So I really tried to leave this place and only write on Mondays, but maybe I need to rethink my plans. Can't seem to get away from here for too long. Like my coffee, I need my daily dose of written words, and my journal can't seem cut it.

This past month or so, I've been quietly self-absorbed in my own troubles, quite oblivious to the world outside and the troubles of those around me. I won't apologise for that; I think everyone is entitled to a little self-pity here and there. Hey, I'm only human. What made me slowly wake up was the people around me. The people who were there, not so much in body but in heart and soul. Strangers who tell me I'll be okay, just because I looked sad. Readers who i.m. me to ask me how I was. Friends who listen quietly. You have no idea how much it meant to me.

And all this made me think. I know you've probably heard this hundreds of times, but your story really isn't about you. My story isn't about who I was, who I am, or who I'll be; it's not about my search to be the best I can be. My story isn't about my mistakes and my triumphs, not about my tears nor fears, not about my brokenness nor my faithlessness.

My story is not about me.

My story is about people. My story is about the hearts I touch. My story is about the change I've wrought in the lives I've met. My story is the joy I see in the eyes of friends, the laughter we share and the times we challenge each other to be more.

My story is the people who go out of their way to make me smile, people who have touched my life indelibly. People who leave little fingerprints on my heart. People who cry with me, people who give more than a listening ear. People who've held my hand as I walked blindly.

Your story is about the smile you share with a random stranger on the train on the way back home from a long day's work. It is about taking a burden that is not yours to carry, and then sharing your load with them as well. It is about sharing your joys with people, because we could all use a little more sunshine. It is about finding that one person, and knowing intuitively that the search is actually over. It is about making music in the rain, about unadulterated fulfillment, about nonsensical ramblings at 3 in the morning, about smiling through the tears. It is about believing in something greater than yourself.

My story is written when I hold out my hand and help write another's. My story is written when I hold out my hand and you reach out to hold mine. My story is written when you reach out and write mine. My story is not about me.

My story is all about you.

courtesy of thegingerbrain

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The Greatest Romance of the 21st Century

Day 7
Location: Portland, Oregon

He said: How can you love someone you’ve never met?

Can you hold a heart if you’ve never held the hand it belongs to?

When you’ve never had the chance to catch a glance from across a crowded room?

Highway miles and desperate hearts keep you apart, but she still keeps you together.

Simple beginnings.

And perfections through silence.

A casual compliment.

A simple acknowledgement.

Knowing there was something different.

Something different about her.

About him.

A smile that wrecks the heart,

Breath you’ve never tasted.

Just minutes counting down to a new start.

She doesn’t have favorites,

He doesn’t have a home.

Open roads and payphones,

He wakes up in the car,

And she wakes up alone.

In a Godless world,

In a faithless society,

He grabs the keys and goes.

To find the very thing no one believes,

That no one sees.

Because he believes in her.

And she believes in him.

And this is the way their story begins…

from Make it Mad: The Greatest Romance of the 21st Century

Editor's Note

I've finally finished a book that I've started since September or August last year.

Sometimes, it is kind of crazy, how simple words can cut and make you bleed.

I'll write something here when my thoughts are more articulate.

Also, I am pinching an idea from a friend, kind of sort of but not quite making my blog a little more interactive with you, my dear readers. We'll see.

Till then, may the sun always shine on you and may your sails always catch the wind.
as

Collateral Damage

I have always been from the school of you-won't-get-all-the-answers. And actually, life is such that there will always be less answers than there will be questions. If ever I find I have too many answers, something must have gone wrong. But then again, the irony is that if I stop looking for answers, something must have gone wrong as well.

But this past month has been tough. There are so many unanswered questions, it makes me wonder if I did right by not wanting the answers. I find myself wondering about the whole point of the past year, and I am trying to find a silver-lining. A purpose - a path if you will, mapped by an everlasting hand.

But, assailed with bitter questions that can't be answered, a voice keeps telling me that to love is to be unselfish, that no matter what may have happened, to love is to want the utmost best for the other. It's easy, right? Give all you have; give everything. Give until you have none left, and then give some more. Sure, I can do that.

But what if what is best for her is to remove yourself from the equation altogether? What if she is happier without you? What if she is happier with someone else? Can you do that?

Every single one of my questions is hedged by that little voice. Can I? No, I can't. I am human. But I will try. I am human, and like me, my love is imperfect. But I will try, otherwise every word I've said would have been a lie.

And at the end of the day, I still can't see the silver-lining. You know, sometimes, it is just the way it is. You become a side note in another person's happy ending; a paragraph or two in a book that you thought was yours. All you are is collateral damage; just someone in the way of two people in love. No one meant for it to be this way. No one meant for it to hurt, no one wanted to write your coda. There's no blame to be put anywhere. It is just the way it is.

Who knows, maybe there is no silver-lining; it is just an ephemeral lifeline that I am holding, trying to make sense of the situation. Maybe there is no purpose to this story; there was only then, and there is only now.

And now, there is only me.
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BRB

I am trying to minimise my online footprint.

In an effort to do that, I will try to only post here once a week - hopefully I will have something that is worth your time.

And since Mondays are usually when I have not much to do, I will try to post on then.

So, I'll see you later, then.
aa

You

I feel Your gentle touch in the silky drops of rain

I see Your beauty in burnished sunsets

I hear Your voice in the quiet sighing of the wind

I revel in Your passion as You blaze through stormy skies

I marvel at Your incomprehensible vastness in the starlit night

I smell Your perfume in the sweetness of honey, the scent of flowers

I see Your face in every sunrise

I feel Your hand leading mine as I walk through darkness

I taste Your joy as I taste bits of life

I feel Your lips as You tell me that You love me

I believe because You first believed in me

I live because You choose not to

I see in colour because You painted on my canvas

I see You

You

Lock It Up and Throw Away the Key

courtesy of relentlesschaos

Over the past couple of years, people have whispered many an advice in my ear. Of course I don't remember them all; I'd have to have what they call a photographic memory - actually it's called an eidetic memory, 'photographic' is a misnomer.

The one advice that I actually remember, because probably four or five people have said it to me (I think I wrote about it somewhere), was to guard my heart. To lock it up, and keep the key safe. Or throw it away altogether.

Guard my heart. The context (all of them) was about falling in love. I'll get to this later, but looking it now, I think it encompasses more. There's so many things out there that can capture a young man's heart. Money, a cause, fame, girls (not love, girls), andsoonandsoforth.

I wish I could say with absolute conviction that I don't want money nor fame for putting my gifts to good use. It's not the main product, but it is a by-product. John Eldrege said that every man needs a cause to fight. The man needs it; it builds the warrior within.

Apropos, what I don't understand is what they expected I would do when they said guard my heart. That I should pray? No offense to the good people out there, but I think sometimes, we over spiritualise things. We ask God about everything. About life decisions, about money and whether we should have milk with our coffee or order an extra large at McDs.

I believe God gave us our acumens for a reason. Use it, not sit and ask, all the time. So when they say to guard my heart, I won't sit on it. If I meet someone, I'd dive right into the deep end, give it my all. Did they expect me to put a toe and test the waters?

You might say that's one of the surest ways to be hurt. Hell, yes it is.

But then again, it is also the surest way to live.

How can a person, go about life poking tentatively here and there? If I find a cause worth fighting for, I'll bleed myself dry for it. If I want something, I'd go for it. And if I tell you I love you, I won't tell you how much, because to add superlatives is to cheapen my words.

Don't get me wrong, I am not saying there is no place for rational thinking. Read the above statement : God gave us good senses and wisdom. Use it.

What I am saying is that to be afraid of being hurt, betrayed or a story with an unforeseen ending is no reason to stop going for it and living.
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Coincidence is Just a Word

For the past half a year, I've been looking for a new project to help. And I mean, hands-on work. Not sit-at-the-keyboard types (but to everyone their own).

I asked God this afternoon how I could help. He didn't reply. I told Him I don't want to go through the Internet, I don't know how trustworthy some are, or if they really need help at all. He didn't answer. So I let it be.

And then, ten minutes ago, a friend reminded me of something she sent me awhile ago, and instantly, a light switch flipped in my head.

I wonder if this is God saying here you go you stubborn boy.
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Perpendicular Lines

Who would have thought that we would be like perpendicular lines?

Today

Today, I stopped counting the days

but if you want to know, there's 53 more.

Today, I woke up and you weren't the first thing on my mind

but you still pop up occasionally.

Today, I read your blog for the first time in a month

and you're still you.

Today, I didn't need the answers anymore

but I'd like to ask you something else.

Today, I found a broken fragment that fits

now I'll look for another.

Today, I looked back at our two disparate seasons

and finally, thanked God you and I happened, if only for a moment.

Today, I am finally happy

more so because I am happy for you.

Today, I can see the reason why

and maybe, that was the whole point.
Today, I removed the band-aids

and I actually see healing scabs.

Today, I went to sleep
and I didn't dream of you.
Today, I can say that it's okay

because it really is.
Today, I am looking forward to tomorrow.
but all this doesn't mean i don't miss you like hell

Letters From the Sky

Hey dude.

It's been three years now, and I'm still here. You know, I really dislike this time of the year. Partly because you're not here. Partly because you remind me of my mortality. You remind me that time runs, and that sometimes, it's all I can do to try and catch up with it.

Sometimes I wonder, where you'd be and what you'd be doing now. I don't like visiting, and I am sure you don't mind, because, well, it is a sad place for me. But I'll be there in the next few days, probably with flowers in hand. Yeah, I know, you don't like flowers, and I know you probably miss maggi goreng from Lotus, but it's weird if I bring that along. So flowers it is.

I have another friend up there as well, and I can't describe her to you, seeing as how age and visual characteristics gets messed up up there. I can tell you her name, though. Tell her I said hi, and that I am sorry I've never been to pay my respects. I can't seem to find where they hid her.

So..anyways, I'll see you in a little bit, and if you want to know, I am doing fine. Life goes on as usual down here, Manchester United seems to be on the cusp of winning another EPL title. The only difference is that natural disasters are happening more often. It's kinda scary.

I'd ask you to take care, but that seems a little..pointless. Heh. Anyways, I'll be seeing you real soon. Till then...
as

A Tribute to Two Awesome People

My parents and I, we have a very comfortable relationship. It's a very simple policy: don't ask, don't tell. They don't pry into my life, and I don't volunteer much information. Like I said, comfortable.

This may give you the wrong impression, that they don't care. I guess, I'd be surprised to know how much they do, actually. Or maybe I shouldn't, they are my parents, after all. If I had to generalise, I would say 80 percent of Asian households are like this.

The great thing about my parents, is that they let me fall. Repeatedly. They won't force me to do anything that may go against my principles, and they allow me to live my life. I am sure there are times they suspect something has gone very wrong, but they never say a word. My mum usually cooks a nice meal to help, while my dad provides perspective because we view everything so differently. Like it or not, who they are shaped who I am.

I guess, if I were to volunteer information, the truth will shock them. I could tell them I've played hooky tons of times before. Actually, these are the times that define my teenage years. I could tell them that I've smoked before or even that I've had countless near-death experiences whilst driving. Or about my relationships.

I spent much of my teenage years, wishing that we had a different sort of relationship, but looking at it now, I think that this way is the best. I guess, this is as close as I'll ever get to telling them that I am thankful and very contented to be in this family. And that if I could change anything about them, or us, I wouldn't, not a one.

You may think that the Asian parent-son relationship has a lot of flaws, and yes, I agree. But there are many things that works as well; family is important, discipline, how to talk (respectfully) to a parent, that disobedience will bring consequences. And they put family first. My parents have always put family first.

Thanks, mum and dad. For the sacrifices, and the unconditional love. And in many ways, thanks for caring in actions, not words.
as

Retrace

i walked through the sand, my footprints echoing silently behind me, past guardians following me for miles, curving away until it was lost from the eye.

the tide came in then, and washed away all the prints, everything of where i came from, who i was and leaving nothing for me to retrace.

and i stood there, frozen in time. there is nothing left back there. 

nothing left to guide me home.

there is only now, and there is only the sand in front of me.

~

i wrote this post a while back, from last year.

Shards of Home

He had woken up in a white room. White sheets, white walls, white lights. Even the toilet seats were white. And it was spinning, the room was spinning.

"You're a very lucky young man," the nurse had said as she fussed about. "Does it hurt, love?"

At that time, all he remembered was the sound of screeching tyres. Later, he was told that a car had careened into the wall inches from where he was standing. A piece of the wall had hit him in the head.

"Oh, and the paramedics found this in your hand," the nurse had chirped as she left the room.

It was a piece of glass. What had happened was that a glint had caught his eye, and he had stopped to pick it up. If not, he would have been in the way of the car making an acquaintance with the wall.

He had kept that piece of glass, and scratched a date on the surface.

~

He remembered the day now with a sort of detachment, much like remembering a line from a book or a story from a movie, that it didn't happen to him.

The sun kissing her skin, the wind playfully twirling her hair, the smell of sun-lotion and her strawberry shampoo filling his nostrils. She was reading Paulo Coelho's The Zahir as she laid on his lap. He had kissed her then; she tasted like the oranges she had just eaten.

She had stepped on a piece of glass as they walked back to his car, breaking it in two and cutting her foot.

"You keep this one, and I'll keep this one."

Why? It's a piece of glass.

"What? I bled to obtain it! Keep it, okay? I'll keep mine as well. Always. Promise?"

I promise.

He went home and scratched an inscription on the surface: Always. Promise.

A month later, she was gone, but that little shard remained. He wanted to throw it away, but his promise remained as well.

Always. Promise.

~

this is part 2 of a story. part 1 is here.

Goodbye

and thanks for the memories.