To each his own

Y'know what.

Behold the belittled lily, purple heather and burgundy rose.

For they give us hope to find contentment in our own novelty.

Little Wing

Fly, little wing

Into the swirling gust of hope

High above the pouring sky

Far beyond the rainbow's end

Where souls hear the faintest cry

Fly, little wing

With the pride of a wallflower

Blooming amongst the busy street

Unafraid of the cold oblivion

For their lives chant a toneless beat

Fly, little wing

Ride the waves of abiding faith

Across the old slumbering shore

With voiceless emotions of the setting sun

Till the heart finds a familiar cure

Fly, little wing

Share the calm spell of your mystery

And sweet dews of the early night

Ushering shadows of gentle moonbeams

And astral dreams towards the starry light.

Fly, little wing
The unhurried mind in aphotic plains
The sole guardian of solitude's heat
The old embracer of the icy gale
The lost wanderer whom I would greet

Fly, little wing
Catch the glimpse of the morning star
Shining down on your glistening road
To a place of uncharted trails
Where stories turn into an arcane code

Fly, little wing
O' dull feathers of the azure sky
And fellow miner for the heart of gold
Hum softly of your mortal price
For what's buried will be timely told

Fly, little wing
Breathe the cool air of credence
And sing your own saccharine song
For who are they, to rightfully say
What is different, and what is wrong?

Fly, little wing
Stand proud by the fallen twigs
And see the past through autumn's hues
The silent splendour of waning years
Amid the essence of vermilion views

Fly, little wing
Into the endless horizon

Painting portraits, of your final crime
Gliding past, collapsing stars
Ever dodging the hands of time

Fly on, little wing.

Allure us with your distant smile.

A beautiful chapter

At the end of the day, it's simply being who I am at the moment. My status, recognitions and materialistic rewards didn't mean a thing, for I'm contented waking up every morning understanding the true meaning of gratitude.

I'm still ordinary.

Oh simple things

Try embarking into the depths of the sea. There'll be no natural shimmers or glitters, but with the sight of an oyster bed, it summons what humans instinctively crave for - hope and wonder. At certain moments, optimism turns into felicity as a pearl gets uncovered from the dull shells - a physical trophy. The real beauty lies in the remoteness of the diver's admiration, gratefulness, and quiet expression which may involve a simple nod to acknowledge his discovery. Perhaps the soundproof and darkened water has moulded him to understand what others don't.

I'm always allured to this essence of mystery. A mixture of knowledge, self-awareness and a beautiful form of introversion. Unspoken words will be heard and hidden actions will be seen, innocently making everything real and grounded.

Some argue that our true colours shine during crucial times or when we're at our limits. The opportunity to think in a stable state is decreased, opening a window for us to revert back to our instincts. It is natural to grasp the fundamental elements, hidden deep in our core in times of need. The substance composing this core is unclear to me, but I know that its purity can be unknowingly tainted. "Just be yourself" - a textbook solution prone to misconception, and an advice best heeded only when we're prepared for it.

I do believe this form of purity exists, even today. It is the nature of man to appreciate this beauty of inner perfection. He'll dedicate a personal trust in his judgement on what he sees, but what if he discovers a flaw in it? The way he responds, tilts on the equilibrium of his emotions. If he feels that his trust was betrayed, he'll question his judgement and becomes blind to everything else. While if he chooses to only be disappointed on the illusory perfection, he'll see the major goodness which still remains. If permitted to, I'll choose the latter.

Ah, yes a new calendar. I've not been a fan of a motivational start, thus I'll pay a visit down memory lane. Remember your kindergarten art assignments? I recall submitting repeated drawings of the same old thing.  A house, with two curtained windows, perched on a hill, in the hour of a sunset. Most time will be spent doing the foreground, which is a set of textured wooden fence accompanied by the slight overgrowth of flora. It seems to have a story of its own. One day, I wish to framelessly pin it on the side of a secret pine trail, while placing hope in discovering a similar painting in an untouched meadow.

I've flipped my canvas into an empty page. Last year, I learnt that perfection can never be shown, only discovered. And only discovery itself, defines perfection in this world.

Tolerate me

When things are carefully chosen to not be revealed, delusions may occur.

But keep it that way.

I'll disappear.

The Art of Being

"How many lives have been ruined by this need to explain, which usually implies that the explanation be understood - approved. Let your deeds be judged, and from your deeds, your real intentions, but know that a free person owes an explanation only to himself - to his reason and his conscience"

Perfect actions. Ideal decisions.
They don't exist in our daily spectrum.

Pride blinds the ability to see the truth in us. This realization and admittance can never be forced; only independence grants us freedom to our true needs.

Have patience.

Truth and Relevance

A couple of days back, I received the letter I wrote to myself a year ago in Sabah. It was a letter that took me the whole of Solo Night to complete, separated from my peers by the jungle. A letter that was written with the essence and strength of the ever so neglected solitude.

I took time to draft the 7 pages of content here, but I've decided it's not appropriate for it to be seen. Sharing a personal perspective is already challenging. Sharing a letter of guidance crafted for oneself adds a whole different level of complexity. Purpose will grow diluted. Sincerity will be betrayed.

I'm growing.

Oddly enough, the longer someone knows me, the more I have to prove. Our human brain is designed to draw quick conclusions. Glancing at the combination of texture, shape and colour of a tree tells us that it is indeed a tree. Spotting dark clouds over our heads alerts us of the impending rain. It is our nature to conclude - and judge. A judgement may be ignored at the end, but its initial existence will always be created in someone's mind before being controlled. I fear being judged. But as wild as it may seem, I feel this fear is my fundamental companion.

With that being said, I wish to share a tiny, probably insignificant, portion of the letter that is rather cryptical and intriguing.

"My dear friend, I look up to you as how my past friends have looked up to me. I am your special friend who has given his all and gains nothing from it. But the beauty of this friendship is that you don't have to thank me for what you've achieved. This friendship is one-of-a-kind in this world. A genuine friendship that will not be seen and judged by many. I hope you can be the same friend to others when time calls for it. I, am your past, positively wondering about your present, and placing full faith in you to write a better future."

I still hope that this letter will one day be understood by others, without having them to read or hear about it.

Sail into the distance

Perfection in a team can never exist. As long as we physically share a different set of heart, body and brain, perfection itself becomes an ideal. To strive towards it as a team, a group, and even as a family - I learn that patience, wisdom, trust and commitment are truly needed.

Sometimes, I wish I can inform my parents of what I'm currently facing - Even friends and relatives as well. 

Leading is like giving a paper boat a push, with hope that it reaches a specific destination at the other side of the lake. The slightest bit of action defines the present, and it determines the future.

I want the best for my rota.

O Almighty, I believe in Your Guidance.

Beauty

Y'know, I'll open up a little.

When a dream-like essence manifests into a subject of reality, we'd actively quest to validate its truth. The touch of it, can turn an illiterate into a poet.

Ah, this mystery. This challenge.

It's within reach.

Ramadhan

That tiny bit of moment,
when silent sacrifices are being appreciated,
when truly arduous challenges are being overcome.

It roots deeply into our sentimental memory.

Through my windows, the scenery looks suitably perfect.
Even the best set of lenses is unworthy to capture it.

Eid Mubarak, friends (:

Yet to come

It holds no promises.

Today, an inconvenience. Tomorrow, a possible struggle.

Instincts stimulate unmentioned ways to get us through today and tomorrow. A personal poetry of equations made for various encounters, trying challenges and bitter revelations. Those inescapable fears that greet us for the very first time. Problems that stand back and giggle at our naive ways. We write our own poetry and its reasons. Some, write it to equate everyone else but themselves.

Display your anger, disappointment and frustration today. If tomorrow's worse, a museum will be made. Speak of your achievements and possessions. When mountains are presented in your hands, you'll be on your knees to be on the papers. Seek for sympathy under the dark clouds, and when the storm comes you'll sail the seas to hunt for more.

It is a flaw of mine - evident with just a scroll below. I'm sorry.

Those afternoons

It was deja vu to me.

It's as though I've expressed parts of it here once, unknowingly.

Absolutely enjoyed Couch Theatre's Melancholy Play by Sarah Ruhl. Singapore needs to be exposed to this form of art, honestly. The elements of abstract art must never be underestimated. May these passionate bunch of aspiring individuals prosper, and entertain us with more of these hidden classics.

It's like experiencing a long, rainy, Sunday afternoon.

Allure our senses.

Strawberry Fields Forever

Really not a fan of forced responsibility and expectation. It's just a big bait, hooking our soul and freedom of will out of sight. I'm waiting to reach towards a time of safety, and a place where no confusions and concerns apply. How I wish I can turn back time and have flawless control over the things around me.

Ah yes, an open declaration of regret and silent pandemonium.

I need a time machine.

Just one.

Seek

An unravelling discovery.
Slow. Unhurried. Patient.

Elegant, in fact.

Admiring without a physical guide.
Not missing a single step.

Like a beautiful, prolonged surprise.
With its very essence recaptured.

For the twilight

Everything has its limit.

My bed's not made up every morning. My room's in a mess. Board the wrong bus. Phone's usually not charged when I'm heading out. Stood in front of a cashier counter without any cash. I don't even bother if I'm wearing an inside-out sock anymore.

Responsibilities. Burdens. Concerns. Doubts. Empathies. Fatigue.

Is this the peak of my potential? Or is this where I'm at my lowest and weakest?

I don't think a leader would seek for sympathy.

Instead he should search for himself in times of adversity.

I'm lost. But I'm actually glad I feel like a wanderer at this present moment.

Pardon my naive honesty.