When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him; and you are torn by the thought of the unhappiness and night you cast, by the mere fact of living, in the hearts you encounter.
- Albert Camus
Albert Camus was born to a French Algerian (pied noir) settler family in 1913. He was an activist, among many things, and like many writers during World War II, reflected his fervent opinions through war-time journalism. Camus remains one of the largest influences in my life. I encountered the absurdist fiction L'Etranger during my undergrad days, and my worldview has not been the same since. Absurdity has to do with the paradox of life as inherently meaningful while the end of which renders much activity pointless. In the novel, Meursault was found guilty of gunning down an Arab. It was irreconcilable why he shot 5 times when he was right on aim at the first try. Yet he didn't appear repentant, at least not in the eyes of the public. Rather, he accepted the consequences with a calm indifference that aggitated every notion of justice. For me, it was an explicit affirmation that it was alright to move on after what's done has been done. The crisp obstinate act of sealing up the past seems to confer infinite courage to the bearer of its message. After all, why choose to live in a shadow?
So, what I'm trying to get at is, that despite Camus' dark stories with their seemingly fatalist undertones, he's an optimist at heart (am I trying too hard or was it totally evident...)! I guess he simply focused the lens the other way. It is perhaps man's instinctive tendency to gather meaning on hindsight. And the moment one considers the imminence of death, all that meaning, as if constructed on a column of air, collapses into the gaping abyss of nothingness. But if only we would realize that in the same way as life was pointless, dwelling on history was only a redundant gesture that is symbolic at best. Instead, look ahead and trudge on. Like the song that goes, "don't stop, never give up".
I think that's why I'm no longer embarrassed when I buy lunch only to have it all crash onto the floor :p I would have to admit that it doesn't help that the stall owners are ever so obliging to refill my plate at no extra charge. But also how very liberating, and I declare my life a happy one with no qualms *blinks proudly* In the end, Camus asserts, that's what life is supposed to be. Your happiness derived from making that possible of others :)
Which brings to mind, I don't think the grudge-bearing (that's what you do when you dwell on the past, isn't it?) accomodates very well within this scheme. I guess I should grow up already.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Mr Egghead
Mr Egghead is a bobbing head with a perfectly arched smile, two thick dots as eyes and rosy cheeks, encapsulated in an easter egg. He holds the answers to all your burning questions.
Me: Isn't he a jerk?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Isn't he such a pretty boy, though?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Don't you just love him?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Do you ever say no?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Well, can you do so next time?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Do you like me then?
E.H: *maintains the jolly big smile with a casual shake of his head*
Me: Isn't he a jerk?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Isn't he such a pretty boy, though?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Don't you just love him?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Do you ever say no?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Well, can you do so next time?
E.H: *nods*
Me: Do you like me then?
E.H: *maintains the jolly big smile with a casual shake of his head*
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A Good Night's Sleep
When the shroud is finally lifted from your eyes, doesn't it just feel like you woke up from a good night's sleep? :) The obsession suddenly doesn't seem so compelling anymore. Your mind is a clear track, making you a free man. And once an inlet has forged its way, that's when all the reality seeps in. Things somehow begin to appear as they are, not as I want them to be. And then you realize how wrong all those perceptions were. I'm fazed. But the best part, I can't seem to recall the clouded emotions now that I've 'seen the light'. Sure feels good after spending such a long time struggling, so much so it's become a way of life.
So, I've woken up. And made a good friend in the process. It may not be the outcome I wanted, but it's a very agreeable one, nonetheless. I cherish this friendship; shall always do so.
All in a good night's rest.
So, I've woken up. And made a good friend in the process. It may not be the outcome I wanted, but it's a very agreeable one, nonetheless. I cherish this friendship; shall always do so.
All in a good night's rest.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Littlest Things
My new craze that is Lily Allen's 'Littlest Things'. The music simply entrances me into abandoning whatever it is I was doing and devoting my total attention. This fascination comes after Death Cab by Cutie's 'Follow You into the Dark'. Lyrics and vocals; pretty much sums up my soft spots.
Words do a lot to me, you know? The most insightful remark to have ever blurted out of my mouth was: "Memory is a very good thing. It allows you to obsess over unsettled business over and over and over again. Until you finally get down to resolving them." Actually, the moment I said it, I was taken aback. I never knew I was capable of stringing words in arbitrary combinations, only to ponder over their lucidity after. But on thought, they make good sense. Because conversations replay in my mind a long time after they have in deed ended. And that's how I guage your standing in my heart; the amount of time my brain spends wandering aimlessly in the myriad of my memories of you, not as if I have control over the mechanism :s I would recall detail after detail, incorporating each into my existing consciousness of your endearing comments, refining my impression of you with every addition. Sometimes it occurs to me to figure out the significance of certain statements, in order to make decisions about the kind of person you really are, the stuff with which you are made of, your attitude towards me and how much sincerity is being involved. These processes don't usually happen explicitly (unless, of course, you mean too much to me :p), nevertheless I am not spared the side effects.
Several times I have to exert effort so as to stop myself in the tracks of taking you too seriously. Because I don't merely hold you to the big things you promise; I remember even the minute portions. The problem being I hurt myself like that. The worst is knowing that it's not your fault, but an ultrasensitivity not reflected in the average human condition.
Words do a lot to me, you know? The most insightful remark to have ever blurted out of my mouth was: "Memory is a very good thing. It allows you to obsess over unsettled business over and over and over again. Until you finally get down to resolving them." Actually, the moment I said it, I was taken aback. I never knew I was capable of stringing words in arbitrary combinations, only to ponder over their lucidity after. But on thought, they make good sense. Because conversations replay in my mind a long time after they have in deed ended. And that's how I guage your standing in my heart; the amount of time my brain spends wandering aimlessly in the myriad of my memories of you, not as if I have control over the mechanism :s I would recall detail after detail, incorporating each into my existing consciousness of your endearing comments, refining my impression of you with every addition. Sometimes it occurs to me to figure out the significance of certain statements, in order to make decisions about the kind of person you really are, the stuff with which you are made of, your attitude towards me and how much sincerity is being involved. These processes don't usually happen explicitly (unless, of course, you mean too much to me :p), nevertheless I am not spared the side effects.
Several times I have to exert effort so as to stop myself in the tracks of taking you too seriously. Because I don't merely hold you to the big things you promise; I remember even the minute portions. The problem being I hurt myself like that. The worst is knowing that it's not your fault, but an ultrasensitivity not reflected in the average human condition.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Boys to Men
What it takes to date younger men. Men who, in my eyes, are yet boys.
I realize it entails a respectable amount of courage. Courage to accept what it means for the kind of person that you are, the impression you would make on others, the way of life you eventually settle down to. The conversations that shape your experiences, and the experiences that shape your attitudes; they become you. Either that, or you lose yourself.
What is it about love? Do I need an intellectual connection? Or perhaps merely companionship. What form of companionship, then? Pets can be great company too. How important is physical comfort and emotional support? If he doesn't understand you, can he really soothe the pain? But if you think being together is all about being happy, is there such a thing as objective fun?
Along with the many unknowns are promises of great risk. Risks of failed expectations. Expectations which are properly self-imposed. In the end, I know there's no need for a reason to fall in love. In fact, one doesn't have to be in love to embark on a relationship. But if only it weren't such damaging vice.
I realize it entails a respectable amount of courage. Courage to accept what it means for the kind of person that you are, the impression you would make on others, the way of life you eventually settle down to. The conversations that shape your experiences, and the experiences that shape your attitudes; they become you. Either that, or you lose yourself.
What is it about love? Do I need an intellectual connection? Or perhaps merely companionship. What form of companionship, then? Pets can be great company too. How important is physical comfort and emotional support? If he doesn't understand you, can he really soothe the pain? But if you think being together is all about being happy, is there such a thing as objective fun?
Along with the many unknowns are promises of great risk. Risks of failed expectations. Expectations which are properly self-imposed. In the end, I know there's no need for a reason to fall in love. In fact, one doesn't have to be in love to embark on a relationship. But if only it weren't such damaging vice.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
The Coming Winter
She was fresh out of school. Life had always been smooth-sailing for her, even now. She started to work shortly after graduating; idling unsettled her. And in all boldness she embarked on a new phase called post-adolescence. Within 6 months, her colleague approached her. Nothing had changed except her curiosity toward the other gender. So she plunged headlong into the alliance, bursting with pride and ignorance.
She began to see shades of gloom bleaker than darkness. She was defeated. Her world was one bloody, teary mess. But it did not collapse.
Before she had time to think she was engulfed in another suffocating affiliation. What lovely poetry, "I built you a home in my heart. With rotten wood; it decayed from the start."
*****Chapter2*****
The sweet taste of coffee. She wondered why it never struck her until now. The tastiest morsel wasn't half as tempting. So this she substituted for food; her reduction lost focus.
She saw the world through the eyes of others. She learnt of her languishing state. But life was because she was living, and in this manner she carried on. She was proud of her new job though. She did not see meaning in her hectic lifestyle or the racing pace of life, but she enjoyed working to the point of exhaustion. It was a sense of achievement she never felt before.
The boys didn't stop falling in love with her candid ways. Except she wasn't being candid. She was confused. She confused them. Then she met him. He was all of the right things. But he didn't love her.
*****Chapter3*****
She recalled her impression as she surveyed the room for the first time. Her attached status conferred a certain conceited attitude of a self-confessed right to choose. This coupled with her reckless tendencies. Her eyes lingered upon him. It wasn't always easy to specify the rationale of a whimsical fancy.
There was nothing outstanding about his appearance. He wasn't tall, not stylish, rather domineering in any exchange. It was his obstinacy that left its mark on her mind. He also knew to retort her impudent remarks. It was a kind of refreshing that began to seep into her heart. Without her consent. Then it refused to budge.
The weather was turning cold. She could finally make use of the second blanket too. Perhaps the chill stiffened her bones, but at the same time, it conveyed acute sentience. Humour was in everything she came across. She was laughing enough to offset a lifetime of sorrow. It was strange that amusing incidents followed her wherever she went. Once, it occured to her that she was the risible material.
*****Chapter4*****
They became friends. It was true he only approached her whenever he needed help, but it usually ended up in casual chatter. She would pamper him in her small ways; he stopped saying thanks. They uttered otiose statements for the sake of the other. Was a time he taunted every advance of hers. Gradually, they turned evasive on the topic. It were as if outings were events they'd always engaged in, it was absurd to reason out established practice. Friends roused with curiosity. A few inquired. They remained in silent agreement.
Not acquaintances, not lovers either. It was up to her to ask him out. He indulged her largely. His demeanour reeked of ambiguity. Her moods oscillated between euphony and grief.
She blamed her studies for the deteriorating eyesight. It caused her world to lose vibrance. Everything hovered around a shade of grey. The colour of his car. Her favourite sweater he once complimented. The nights they spent out together. His nocturnal environment that she adopted.
*****Chapter5*****
She saw well and clear what he wanted. She let herself sink deeper into the hurt anyway.
Time pressed on relentlessly. It shrouded her senses, as if the world were always a single pallid entity. What was left but to preserve the shards of a lavish dream. As she buried this memory, she relinquished her very self. It was an effort that entrapped the soul even as it liberated her being. But it lent a certain lightness to her steps, and for a while, she was happy. This happiness, like a teardrop, shimmered in the white that was all around her.
*****TheEnd*****
She began to see shades of gloom bleaker than darkness. She was defeated. Her world was one bloody, teary mess. But it did not collapse.
Before she had time to think she was engulfed in another suffocating affiliation. What lovely poetry, "I built you a home in my heart. With rotten wood; it decayed from the start."
*****Chapter2*****
The sweet taste of coffee. She wondered why it never struck her until now. The tastiest morsel wasn't half as tempting. So this she substituted for food; her reduction lost focus.
She saw the world through the eyes of others. She learnt of her languishing state. But life was because she was living, and in this manner she carried on. She was proud of her new job though. She did not see meaning in her hectic lifestyle or the racing pace of life, but she enjoyed working to the point of exhaustion. It was a sense of achievement she never felt before.
The boys didn't stop falling in love with her candid ways. Except she wasn't being candid. She was confused. She confused them. Then she met him. He was all of the right things. But he didn't love her.
*****Chapter3*****
She recalled her impression as she surveyed the room for the first time. Her attached status conferred a certain conceited attitude of a self-confessed right to choose. This coupled with her reckless tendencies. Her eyes lingered upon him. It wasn't always easy to specify the rationale of a whimsical fancy.
There was nothing outstanding about his appearance. He wasn't tall, not stylish, rather domineering in any exchange. It was his obstinacy that left its mark on her mind. He also knew to retort her impudent remarks. It was a kind of refreshing that began to seep into her heart. Without her consent. Then it refused to budge.
The weather was turning cold. She could finally make use of the second blanket too. Perhaps the chill stiffened her bones, but at the same time, it conveyed acute sentience. Humour was in everything she came across. She was laughing enough to offset a lifetime of sorrow. It was strange that amusing incidents followed her wherever she went. Once, it occured to her that she was the risible material.
*****Chapter4*****
They became friends. It was true he only approached her whenever he needed help, but it usually ended up in casual chatter. She would pamper him in her small ways; he stopped saying thanks. They uttered otiose statements for the sake of the other. Was a time he taunted every advance of hers. Gradually, they turned evasive on the topic. It were as if outings were events they'd always engaged in, it was absurd to reason out established practice. Friends roused with curiosity. A few inquired. They remained in silent agreement.
Not acquaintances, not lovers either. It was up to her to ask him out. He indulged her largely. His demeanour reeked of ambiguity. Her moods oscillated between euphony and grief.
She blamed her studies for the deteriorating eyesight. It caused her world to lose vibrance. Everything hovered around a shade of grey. The colour of his car. Her favourite sweater he once complimented. The nights they spent out together. His nocturnal environment that she adopted.
*****Chapter5*****
She saw well and clear what he wanted. She let herself sink deeper into the hurt anyway.
Time pressed on relentlessly. It shrouded her senses, as if the world were always a single pallid entity. What was left but to preserve the shards of a lavish dream. As she buried this memory, she relinquished her very self. It was an effort that entrapped the soul even as it liberated her being. But it lent a certain lightness to her steps, and for a while, she was happy. This happiness, like a teardrop, shimmered in the white that was all around her.
*****TheEnd*****
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Intensity
You know, I've been writing compulsively over the last two months since my life came to a standstill. I log multiple entries in my online diary every day without fail. I continue to write articles for my friend despite being overloaded with reports at work. And those demand lots of technical writing. I haven't had time to consider homework yet.
One of the first (and most impressionable) modules from my undergrad days was this called 'Writing Home'. It blew my mind away with the promise of agency in constructing even safety. I could feel secure in my own world, one which I was responsible for conjuring, engineered exactly to my taste, and wouldn't fall apart unless I fancied. The imagery, then, always appeared as I wished; it was more steadfast than my tangible environment.
The wonders of writing. I am reminded of the Italian author, Italo Calvino, who wrote in 'The Nonexistent Knight' that the effects of writing were therapeutic, at the same time as it shred your world to pieces with the falsity it upheld. So one cannot have her cake and eat it. Time is an investment that cannot be split between two accounts. The more serious my focus inwards, the less adapted my physical context. You know you've crossed a certain threshold, the day people begin to call you weird.
One of the first (and most impressionable) modules from my undergrad days was this called 'Writing Home'. It blew my mind away with the promise of agency in constructing even safety. I could feel secure in my own world, one which I was responsible for conjuring, engineered exactly to my taste, and wouldn't fall apart unless I fancied. The imagery, then, always appeared as I wished; it was more steadfast than my tangible environment.
The wonders of writing. I am reminded of the Italian author, Italo Calvino, who wrote in 'The Nonexistent Knight' that the effects of writing were therapeutic, at the same time as it shred your world to pieces with the falsity it upheld. So one cannot have her cake and eat it. Time is an investment that cannot be split between two accounts. The more serious my focus inwards, the less adapted my physical context. You know you've crossed a certain threshold, the day people begin to call you weird.
The Beginnings
Maunder \MON-duhr\, intransitive verb:
1. To talk incoherently; to speak in a rambling manner.
2. To wander aimlessly or confusedly.
(source: dictionary.com)
My exact intentions.
It's a tough world inside. With no one to listen, much less understand. If no tangible target at which to explode, at least the make-believe of someone. I'm not sure why it works this way; but the promise of someone out there, who will see this and connect, motivates me.
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