Thursday, December 01, 2011
Spilled and Dried Black Sugarless Tea
Saturday, September 03, 2011
I Will Write About You
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Dedication (From My Undergraduate Project Dissertation)
To my mother, and her undying love for her children.
It is written in her rough hands and her aching back.
It is the song of her calloused knees.
It is the whisper of her smile
And the sparkle in her eyes when we succeed.
It is her subtle boast to friends
It is her chiding us in private.
It is the very fabric of her being
And we are infinitely thankful
And eternally in debt.
It is why we are
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Caveat Lectorem
Is it because I never spoke them out back then that they return to haunt me know? Or is it that God was that dam that kept this flood in check? Because I suddenly find myself disenchanted with this moment. The present presents no allure for me. I yearn for my tender years. And the dreams of those tender years.
I understand what it is to be fortunate. I say fortunate because I’m not sure anymore whether what I’ve had these many years has been success. Success is hard-won. It’s sweat and blood. And I’ve never given that. All I have been is fortunate. Deity has beaten a path for me and bid me walk. But now Deity and I have parted ways, and I feel my fortunes waning.
I understand what it is to be fortunate. I have schooled in the finest institutions this republic has to offer. I have easily blazed a trail through every obstacle. There has not been an exam I did not leave dazed in my wake. Even math- my age old nemesis- has tasted the keen edge of this mind. The cut was not as deep, but my sword tasted blood nonetheless. And it was sweet. But that was then…
Perhaps it is because I am finally learning failure –or shall I say misfortune- that I find myself running back to those tender years when I could sit under the azure skies day-dreaming, and rise content, hours later. Achievement back then was as simple as building castles in the air. But now I find myself challenged to give blood and sweat in exchange for reward, and I fall short. And so I resort to reminiscing about that age of innocence. I attempt to make myself feel like I am still worth these opportunities accorded me; that I still possess that sterling intellect of yore. That perhaps it is not me but my lack of interest in it all that is turning me into this lacklustre carefree student that I have become. That perhaps I followed the wrong path. “I should have pursued my dreams,” I say every time I fail to turn up anything up to scratch. And thus I delude myself. Thus I keep myself shielded from bearing that responsibility that is all too clearly my burden: I have let myself, my family and those who granted me this particular honour down. I am no more than a has-been who still hopes to coast on the glory of his former years. And that cannot be.
The alternative view, again offered up by yours truly, is that I’m depressed, or bipolar, or some other bullshit fronted by the DSM IV to palliate our aching consciences when guilt gnaws at them too hard. For days on end I wallow in bed trying to convince myself that it’s all in my head, that it’s okay, that these are medical matters and that my dopamine levels are at fault. And then I think that I should get my house in order and stop clutching at these feeble straws… But how could I turn away from an excuse so convenient, so non-debatable? So I choose to lie in bed all day, letting my work fall behind. And I watch movies, and read books, and watch serialised comedies and dramas, and watch porn and hope it will all go away. But reality is at the ready to smack me at the end of my fantasy filled stupor. And this time he wears a face more grim than I have seen him don before.
For a moment I clench my balls and act the man. It is a brief and fleeting moment. Hardly have I assumed a fighting stance when he bears down at me with a ferocity hitherto unknown. He draws first blood. I flee, and learning failure once more- or is it misfortune, my flight leads me back to those tender years and the sweet dreams of that age long past. And the cycle of delusion continues, as does my fall. And how great shall be the noise of my landing!
2 A. M (Class at 7)
Night came and is now long worn
And still to wakefulness I cling
Perhaps afraid to shut these eyes
(These weary eyes!)
And wander to that vast beyond
Where among high hopes and lofty dreams
I walked bright eyed in days of yore
When the world was mine to rout and rule
When I could be one and I could be all
And I'd walk, and run, and take wing and soar...
But now those dreams...
Those dreams are gone
Reality has dimmed those eyes
That burnt back then with glorious flame
And dreamless is my slumber now
Bland, dull, and weary my starless night
And so to wakefulness I cling
There is no balm in Sleep's 'sweet' arms
Sunday, June 05, 2011
From Back When I Wanted To Be Napoleon...
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sweet as the Morning (or 5454)
Sweet as the morning…
That’s what you are
Radiant as the sunlight ooze of first light
Fiery yet warm
Glorious yet hiding
Some mystery of night
Sweet as morning’s music
That’s what your voice is
A chorus of a thousand
And another thousand song birds
Whose music bids soul rouse
From dark deathly slumber.
I would rise if for nothing
But to hear those birds sing
Fresh as morning’s crisp air
Such is your presence
Oh I feel reborn
If you’re standing beside me
I could weep were it not unmanly
At this newness you give me
My lass of dawn.
And yet…
Fleeting as morning
And her dews and her sweet scents
Is this fire we share
For soon mighty fires
Become glowing embers
Become smouldering ash
Become chilled cold hearths
And beside these bodies tremble
Desperately clinging
To each other for warmth
As to life’s failing breath
Perhaps it is good to linger in night
Hopeless
Than to find hope
Then lose it
But perhaps it is better to be
Consumed by the rapture of finding that hope
And to joy and make merry while it lasts
Than to never have sought it
At all
But perhaps only the gods know best…
That I were a god
How sweet my mornings would forever be.On Dreaming...
These may very well be the only things I live for; for whether I admit it or not, they give my life meaning. I remember when I was younger (not that I am old now) and every so often a fire raged so wildly within me that had the world been razed away, I would have scarce taken notice. That I could relive those dawning years! Or that I could vivify again that spirit of that era long past!
I have come to that point in life that no man need come. A point where to look ahead for foresight, or behind for hindsight, or within for insight, or even above for the visions of the Divine is vanity. I find myself crippled by a fear that dream as I may, I will never anchor any of those airy castles to the ground on which men. But is it because its reality is feasible that we conjure up visions of night and day? Do we dream because it can be done, or do we do it because it was once dreamt?
I argue for the latter. Dreams are the stuff by which the progress of the Homo sapien race has been fuelled. Not that those dreams were achieved. At least not all. But in dreaming was courage found to pursue the most inane, most ridiculous of causes. And in pursuing those were the most marvellous of humanity’s leaps and bounds made. Perhaps you will not find what you seek along that road you are determined to travel. But let it be considered that something greater may chance upon you. Let it be considered that in pursuit of our whims (yet our dreams are much more glorious, more powerful than even the most un-petty of whims) those things that have lingered in the infinitely unfathomable and vast sea of knowledge, achievement and progress will chance upon we lonely sailors, leading us on to that shore where the light of inquiry can be cast upon them, and they at last can fulfil that purpose they have had since time dawned- to make man a better race, yea the best.
There will forever be dissenting voices. That barbarous mob (yet how sophisticated their presentation is) that will shout down from the sidelines, and spit and slap us for dreaming. Their ways are cast in stone. The dynamism and radical thought that characterises the truly fulfilling search for truth or solution is lost on them. Yet that is where we must go. These ageing colossi will soon go the way of their fellow from Rhodes. And ours will be the music to make. Perhaps it is the strings who must make play the winds’ music. Whatever it is, let us boldly pursue it. And let it be that when that jester failure taunts our efforts, his mockery only works to fuel our drive. We shall achieve.
Dreams are the stuff the universe is made off. Forget matter, or the atom, or the proton, or gluon, or fermion or the undiscovered tiny-on or other-on. It is the dreams of the Maker that He put into form. Those form all time and space. And we are the very height of that Divine dreaming. He points out the way. Let us dream then. And dream big.