6 feet under

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What do you say
When you’re being buried alive,
and that first bit of dirt is hitting your face?

As you’re suffocating under the weight
of the earth
As you’re counting your breaths
one
two
three…
Not knowing when you’ll stop counting

What will your last words be
When you know your audience
Are your murderers
And your open coffin is your last bedroom

It doesn’t matter if you’re 1 foot under
or six
All that matters is the struggle
for that next breath

Soon, you breathe in the same air
you breathed out
Soon, the darkness isn’t outside anymore
It permeates inside
It takes hold of your eyes first
But then soon after, enters your lungs

Your heart screams
but your throat makes no sound
There’s a part of you that knows
that this is the end.
And yet there’s a part of you
that foolishly fights a lost battle

Your lungs heave
And it’s even more intense than before
Your fingers lash about
Until the space under your fingernails
are filled with dirt
Your eyes bulge out of their sockets
this is the end
A single teardrop flows down your cheeks
Almost as if to say
That you didn’t deserve this.

But you know you did.
You truly did.
This was the only way
they could trap you
And still the demons within.

I’m a Gardener

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A smoky haze fills the air
It drizzled a bit today,
And the aroma of wet earth mingled
with that of fresh-cut grass
Soothes my senses.
The night is calm, yet tense.

I hear a shuffling of feet nearby
And I look to see a lone silhouette amidst the frame,
His demeanor cutting through the surroundings
Walking among the trees that I long ago planted.

In solitude he kneels over a boulder,
Hands clasped tightly in front of him.
His body radiates desperation
His face is mangled with pain
His voice is but a trail of agonizing whispers.

The words depart from his lips
In the same manner
that a nearby brook flows –
gentle, yet turbulent.
The night is bitterly cold
but the moonlight betrays beads of sweat on his brow.
As a stream of sweat trickles down his face,
it’s turned miry crimson.
Slowly but steadily
the drops of sweat mixed with blood
plummet to the ground below.
“My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass me by.”

I watch from a distance,
transfixed by this story that’s unfolding.
For sixty minutes he prays, pleads and cries out!
It’s obvious that He is despised and alone.
He has no friends,
and it looks like He’s about
to lose the only thing he’s ever had.
From time to time, he shudders;
His knuckles turn white
as he clasps his hands ever tighter.
The corners of his eyes crinkle
under the stress of closed eyelids.
Here is a man carrying the entire weight
of the world on his shoulders.

And then, suddenly He stops.
The stream of prayer pauses
For a brief moment of deafening silence.
And then I hear Him speak once more:

“My Father, if it is not possible
for this cup to be taken away
unless I drink it,
may your will be done.”

At long last, I see him slowly open his eyes.
His hands relax, and he gently begins to stand.
His body devoid of much strength,
He finally rises from his place.
This is the third time
he’s come to pray here tonight.

I hear marching in the distance –
A squadron of Roman soldiers, perhaps.
I see bright burning torches
and faintly hear an angry commotion approaching.

He’s making his way towards that mob.
His steps are steady
His movement, confident.
He sees them from a distance, pauses, and continues on.
I see not fear in His eyes, but love.

He walks with purpose.

I’ve been working late at the Garden tonight.
Maybe it’s time for me to go.
Something tells me he isn’t going to come here a fourth time.

Blur

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It’s just not fair…
These things that are happening to me.
It’s a force I cannot control
And although I knew what was going to happen,
I wasn’t prepared to face it when it actually did.

I watch
As all the effort that I poured into this dream
All the hundreds of hours of work
All the time spent
All the memories created
All the dreams I hoped for
vanish in a single stroke.
Like vapours of steam
They floated away
Never to be seen again.

Every once in a while,
I put on my reading glasses
And riffle through my book of nostalgia.
There I see those vapours once again –
condensing on the cool, lifeless lens over my eyes
As the lens get foggy, my vision blurs
It’s like reading through teary eyes,
and all I see is mist.
I quietly take them off and clean them
with the fabric of despair.

Nothing is worth anything anymore
Not even pain can numb my senses.
Only 3 things remain. Only 3 things.
They say that your base desires
are the ones that can help you
deal with pain in the most effective manner.
3 things – food, drink and sex.
Binge on any one of these and you
can temporarily obfuscate the pain.
Do I turn to these things as a last resort?
Chances are I already have and don’t even know about it.

But no, I deny myself!
I deny these base animal instincts.
I will not turn to them.
In fact,
I turn away and run as far as I can.
No food. No drink. No sex.

I starve myself of these things.
I do not deserve these any more
than the pain that I’ve been dealt.
Everything has been taken away from me
So here I part with a few more.

I do not need them any more than I need this pain.
Why?
Why is this happening to me?
Tears are too cheap.
Blood is the only fit price I can pay.

And when I do…
When I do finally let go and bleed,
It better be made right.
It better be okay.
Because I can only go so far and no further
This is the highest price that I can pay.
And I hope that it’s enough.

Good Goodbye

A big part of my teenage years
Was knowing that I could get angry.
I realised that I had a right
To express my emotions
And stand up for what I believe in

Often, I didn’t have many avenues
to do that
But music was always an open door.
In fact, it was a whole hallway
Lined with doors that I could choose
to enter
One door I frequented when I
Was depressed
Another when I was bored
Yet another when I needed to tap my feet
And another when I wanted to
Listen to Linkin Park!

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You see,
Linkin Park wasn’t just one emotion
It was a whole host of them
The complete package.
Each song represented a story
A struggle
A triumph

And if it wasn’t for you, Chester,
My taste is music would forever be different
Listening to you shaped and sculpted
my passion for music
For expression
For courage

The lyrics combined with all that
angst and grunge
Mixed in with angelic highs
And infernal screams
Was nothing short of sheer brilliance

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And as you led the band to
uncharted territories,
we followed you.
Many left along the way
But many stayed,
And continued the journey
With you –
In hopeful anticipation
Of what you’d discover next!

I hoped to see you live in concert
And I believed that maybe one day I would!

But maybe I won’t.
Maybe I won’t get to see
How amazing you are
Live
Giving it your 110%
Screaming your lungs out
The atmosphere tense with passion
And suddenly transitioning into
whispering softly
Words floating gently away
Into that same wind,
girding the intensity that preceded it.

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But now that the curtain has closed
Now that the concert is over
As you drop that mic
And walk away
One last time,
Rest assured
That we will stay.
And we will listen.
Through the rain and the sun
We will keep vigil.

And though you’ve passed,
Know that you’re alive
Through your music
That your memory is etched
Into our souls forever.

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Rip.

Chester Bennington (1976-2017)

You’re a Coward, Harry

So we talk a lot about cowardice. About cowards, maybe not so much. Well you see, cowards don't warrant any conversation at all. They are those who were too afraid to make the choice to be a difference. They're the ones who sit on the fence while brave men and women fight on either side for what they believe in. In fact, cowards lack the self esteem to even hold on to convictions of any substance at all.

Sure, we've all seen and known a few cowards.
Some put on a fake persona to show that they're brave; their courage failing at the first sign of danger.

Then there are those who give excuses for not doing certain things.

"Oh, we're going bungee jumping? Sorry, I got this thing happening that Saturday. Won't be able to make it."
"Hey, you're going for that public demonstration to protest for human rights? Sorry, my friend stubbed her toe and I really need to be with her right now."
"So you're inviting me to speak at that event where 10 people are gonna listen to me? You know, I'd really prefer a larger audience"

But you know they're only avoiding the commitment because they're too afraid.

Then there are those who refuse the most smallest of tasks for the most irrational of fears. They're the ones who'd flat out say no to anything you'd bring up.
Unsurprisingly, they're also the ones who'd look both ways before crossing a one way street.
Yup, they're the self-professed "realists" aka the pessimists of our generation.

No one is a coward for being afraid of something truly dangerous. Some fears are rational and necessary. They protect us from harm and sometimes even save our lives. A fear of fire, for example, is necessary to prevent possible burn injuries. A fear of a dental check-up is just plain stupidity.

So yes, we've all seen our share of cowards and consequently, different forms of cowardice. There are many kinds – ranging from tolerable to pathetic. But there is one kind which outclasses them all, and to some extent all of us are guilty of the worst kind of cowardice. You're offended? Good, read further.

Cowardice. The word reserved only for those whose lack of bravery is obviously noticeable. They are those who stand at the precipice of success, but are too afraid to take a leap of faith. Yes, that's cowardice. But it's far from being the worst kind.

The worst form of cowardice is hypocrisy. If you don't think so, it's because it's also the most subtle kind.

Hypocritical people have two or more sides to them – and they have to wear masks to hide those sides of them which they deem are inconsistent with what other people think of them. They are afraid of their true nature being exposed.

So they hide it.

And this hiddenness permeates to all aspects of their life. They will go to great lengths to hide who they are, where they are, and what they do.

In some ways, we are all hypocrites. What's worse, we tend to surround ourselves with people who are equally hypocritical. And consequently, each one of us is guilty of the worst form of cowardice!

But it doesn't have to be this way. All we have to do to shed our hypocrisy is to be more open. Yes, it takes courage. It will take a lot of courage. And courage obfuscates cowardice. Courage makes you stand strong, on top of the world, as a light for all to see!

We don't have to reach that summit with leaps and bounds. All it takes is steady little steps each day to reach the top. But most people are too afraid to take those small steps.
That said, the smallest of these steps might sometimes require the highest amount of courage.

Don't believe me? Take a look at how many of your contacts hide their 'last seen' on WhatsApp.

Alone By the Cradle of a Newborn

A couple I know were blessed with a beautiful baby boy today. I've heard it said that the birth of a child is one of the most beautiful miracles one can witness, and although I couldn't be there to experience what it's like, I can absolutely confirm that it is one of the most beautiful things a person can experience.

Here is something I'd like to say to the precious little bundle of joy.

***

Hey there little one. I know you can't understand me. But on the other hand, no one can understand you either. Not for a few years atleast. And by then you'll have no memory of this. And rightly so, because this moment is just between you and me.

Now that I have your undivided attention, let's have a chat shall we? If at any moment you need anything, just cry.

It's only been a while since you came into this world, which you will call your home for the next 70 years or so at the most. You must have a better memory of heaven than anyone else. After all, you were there before you came here right? If you could speak right now, I'm almost certain you'd speak about heaven. I've forgotten all about what it's like up there. But here you are, carrying a little fragment of paradise here to earth. How I'd wish to hear of what heaven is like. But you will suffice for now.
I'll just rest in the fact that heaven is infinitely more pure and more lovely than one million newborns. Thats not to take away anything from your loveliness, but only to add to heaven's!

So yeah… It's just fascinating to see you here. I mean you are an actual human being. Your body is one of the best engineered systems we know. And you're living, breathing, seeing, hearing, feeling all because of your wonderful body. You don't even know how you're doing what you're doing. And I'm not sure I fully understand either.

More fascinating than that is the hopeful expectation to know how the world will shape you to be who you're going to be. Your personality is a blank slate right now. You have no memories, no emotions, no inclinations.
There's so much the world can offer you. There's so much that you can offer the world. I hope you make the world a better place so that years from now, newborns like yourself will be born into a better world.

Just look at you… so innocent, so trusting, so pure…
It saddens me so deeply that one day you'll commit your first sin. And then another one. And then some more. Oh how I wish you'd stay this way. But even now, even in all your apparent purity, you still have within you the seed of sin. You can't help it. It's inherited from your parents. Those very parents who gave you life also gave you the seed that will lead to death.

I hope that one day, not too many years from now, you'd come to realize how sinful you are; how desperate in need of a savior you are. And I hope you find the road to Salvation. It's a narrow road, little one. And it's fraught with difficulties. But I hope you'll be given the grace, strength and courage to persevere. And I hope you'll make that choice to persevere. I hope you will choose the truth. I hope you will stay on the way. And I hope you'll find life in Jesus.

Created To Be Creative

Hey everyone,

To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t have any ideas for today’s blog post. In fact, I don’t even know what I’m gonna write. But I guess that’s the point of writing anyway – you just start somewhere and let the words flow. I’ve been having a mild case of the writer’s block of late, and I guess this is a way for me to break free from those shackles.

Anyway, writing helps me vent and I suppose it kinda completes me. I feel most creative when I write. Creative. Create-ive? Hmm… seems interesting…

I’m creative because I create? Yeah, I am aren’t I? But so are you!

I believe we’re all creators somehow. Artists more so than others, probably… But we’re all creators nonetheless. Scientists, teachers, engineers, tailors, painters, poets, writers – you name it – we all create. And I believe that by doing so, we fulfill an insatiable need to be creators.

You know, more often than not, what we create might most likely outlive us. Just take a look around you. Those famous monuments in your city, the poster of that famous painting that hangs over your mantelpiece, that poem that serves as your desktop wallpaper, the jewelry that’s now a prized family heirloom – they were all probably designed, built, painted, written, crafted, created by someone who lived decades if not centuries ago. You don’t know them, but their legacy lives on. A part of them is still alive through their creation.

And the thing about creation is that it inspires someone else to aspire to create something of equal or higher worth. Like 90% of the Renaissance was all about that. Like one dude paints or sculpts something totally awesome and then his student/admirer thinks he can top that and tries to make something better. Come to think of it, it was a curious case of ‘iron sharpens iron’. In any case, we definitely got some great art out of that time – paintings, sculptures, plays and poems – and all these and more remain timeless; they inspire us to this day.

[On a totally unrelated side-note, I think that this ‘inspiration’ devolved somewhere along the way, and we’re now stuck in a world where art galleries are filled with this abomination that is modern art.]

Anyway, I came across a sculpture today that absolutely blew my mind. It’s called the Veiled Virgin crafted by artist Giovanni Strazza from a single block of marble in the early 1850s. Although I bet it looks much more magnificent in person, this is what a picture of it looks like:

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Just look at it and observe for like a minute. That entire sculpture was made from marble. How skilled do you have to be to make marble look transparent? And it’s not just the technical aspect of the art that makes it amazing. Through that veil, we not only see her face but we see the full extent of her emotion in it. So much perfection in one sculpture!

If we were to ask Mr. Giovanni what inspired him to create this awe-inspiring sculpture, he might probably say that he viewed art as something that needs to be freed from nature and that he merely ‘freed’ the sculpture from that block of stone. Every strike of the chisel and every soft touch of his palms brought the sculpture closer to freedom. Well, most artists of his time thought this way, and it was admirably modest. But if we were to press him further, he would tell us that he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his role-model, Mr. Whoever-Giovanni-thought-was-better-than-him. Well, he might even admit that he succeeded. In fact, he might even say that he’s better than his role model. However, one thing that he won’t admit is that his art was perfect.

We might see the Veiled Virgin as the epitome of perfection. Maybe art historians have studied it in detail. Perhaps art teachers and students around the world use it as a gold standard… But Giovanni would never admit – not in over 167 years (remember, early 1850s) – that his sculpture is perfect. Maybe that’s true. I mean for one, it’s only a head. He could’ve finished the rest of the body too.

But it’s not just Giovanni. Ask any artist and they will always tell you that their art, their creation, could be better. And it’s true. It’s always true.

We create something every day. And our creation is never perfect. But it’s always perfectly imperfect. And that means room for improvement! As the days roll by and we create more and more, we slowly become skilled creators. Giovanni’s work wasn’t the result of a day’s work. Not even a month or a year’s. It was the result of a lifetime’s worth of creation – his own skill was sculpted each day as he practiced and became better. Each day was a chisel strike on his personality as his true artisanship was slowly freed from within himself to be the creator of the Veiled Virgin.

And so it is with us. We create and we in turn are created. Creation then is not a one-time event but a continuous process that perfects the creator. But there’s a different word for that – Rediscovery.

So let’s create something today. Let’s get to our drawing boards, our workplaces, our bedrooms, our backyards, anywhere really – and let’s create! Let’s get started on creating paintings, poems, babies, spreadsheets, clothes, music, gardens. Let’s create new experiences and cross some things off our bucket-list. Let’s create love and steal a bit of time. Let’s just start somewhere (anywhere!) and let the words flow – the art will follow. And at the end of it all, we would’ve created something.

It could be something small, something big, something significant, something mundane. But let’s create! And in that, let’s rediscover ourselves.

Peace!

Splinterwood

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We’re not so different
from trees, really…
and as branches of a tree
are broken off
by woodcutters
So are traits
of our personality
cut down by those
who see us
challenging the norm

Society pores over us
beats us down
stifles our individuality
constrains our freedom
chops off branches of us
that it deems “unnecessary”
And only when it’s reduced us
from a flourishing tree
to a withering stump,
It lets go.
Because finally,
it has planted conformity
in place of individuality

But every once in a while
there appears a tree
that refuses
To be cut down
Every time it faces the axe,
it grows back –
bigger and stronger than before
As long as there is life
in its roots,
and the sun shines
from above
It will grow
defiantly

This person does not care
for society’s rules
nor fears the axe that
brings him down
Branches cut off
will grow once more
Wounds inflicted
will heal
And when everyone else
Has given up,
he will break through
Those brick walls that confine

And as he soars
to new heights,
and bears fruit
in due season,
He will inspire
an entire generation
to stand in defiance
against conformity
to stand against those
who rob us of freedom
of individuality
of purpose.
And in their stead,
He will be
A symbol
A paradigm
A harbinger of hope!

Strawberries

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They say strawberries
are symbols of vulnerability.
They wear their seeds on the outside
and trust that the world
will not harm them
They trust
that they will be handled
with love and care
even after they’ve been plucked
from the shrub
and kept on display
for the world to admire
They trust
and show their
truest, reddest colour
blushing, unabashed
as you gently caress them in the palm of your hand.
And as you place them on a wooden board
and reach for the sharpest knife that you can find
They trust
that you are fulfilling their destiny
in the gentlest way possible.
After all,
sharp knives hurt less than blunt ones

My New Best Friend – Epilogue

My New Best Friend

This poem was written in a time of deep loneliness and despair. It was also a time of many sleepless nights as I pondered over the circumstances of my life. And that’s when I discovered who my true friends were and more importantly, who I really was.

As I penned these words, I surprised myself with what horrors my mind could spew. I never thought I’d think or do any of this. But I guess it just goes to show how anyone can do anything when they feel the need to know that they’re alive.

To be honest, I’m vaguely thankful for this time in my life. I know what it feels like now, and I know that it was necessary to help me realize certain things. As I considered my actions, I was powerfully reminded of one thought which kept ringing in my ears, “I bore these scars for you, so that you don’t have to”. This brought me to my knees as I realized what I was doing – as I realized how I was harming myself. I am not my own. I was bought at a price. And that was too steep a price for me to take lightly.

That said, I believe that this was a bridge I needed to cross on the road to self-discovery. And maybe now I can help someone else cross theirs, while making sure they don’t harm themselves. For there is someone who can raise us up on eagles’s wings to soar high above the clouds. In the depths of despair, call unto Jesus and He will answer! He is the one true harbinger of hope.

I don’t cut myself anymore. I have no more reason to. I know that I am loved!

 

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