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.

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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.

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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.
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*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