Who am I

Who am I?
I am the steady hands steering my ship to where I know I need to go,
Yet, I am a million wandering souls.

Mitch Albom was one of the best sports journalists around and working more than twelve hour shifts when he received news that Morrie Schwartz, the dearest professor he met in university years ago, was dying. The verse above describe what he felt- aware of his ambitions, yet unsure of his real purpose in life when he received the news.

In his best-seller, Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch recounts the time spent with Morrie, and how he embarks on a journey of self-discovery. He re-discovers his role as a student, patiently listening to Morrie’s lessons on life. He finds the courage to re-assume the role of a brother to an estranged sibling. He re-learns how to be a child again, with the child-like capacity to love freely.

And yet, at the end of the book, when Morrie passes away, we sense that Mitch has not really discovered who he is. However, he has regained a sense of direction that he did not possess before Morrie’s illness.

I was reminded of Mitch Albom’s story during the mid-term retreat, especially because as an SMU student, I find myself in similar circumstances. Like Mitch, we work more than half our days away. Some of us know where we want to go, and some of us are unsure of ourselves. Or maybe we think we know what we should do, without knowing that we are still confused. And this happens to us all, especially when we forget God’s place in our lives.

During the retreat, it would be a stretch to say I found myself and God. The sessions, such as the Enneagram, helped me learn more about myself and God. When Jarvis, an external speaker, touched on the topic “Who is God?”, I reflected on my relationship with God. Who do I see Him as? What are the spiritual anchors that God has given me to tide me through trying times? Jarvis himself had wonderful experiences with God, which made me search myself for the times God had been there, but I had been too careless to notice.

As a young Catholic, my identity with the faith can get pretty shaky, especially when I realised that I did not have spiritual anchors like my friends. I was lost, unsure and questioning my identity as a Christian.

This brings me back to my analogy of Mitch’s story. Mitch found a saving grace in his life-Morrie. Morrie was someone that Mitch relied on for help and advice. Unlike him, I did not have a Morrie, someone who would teach me how to live my life.

But this isn’t true, because I do have a Morrie; in fact Morrie exists for every one of us. He is God. He can teach us who we are, and he comes into our lives at the right times and places. I was not a Christian once, but now I am, because, I guess, He simply knows when to come.

In the quiet time that I spent with Jesus during the retreat, I can’t say that I managed to find myself. Perhaps we see ourselves acting as different roles; a friend, a daughter, or a student. But now I do go around with this awareness of self-discovery, and for the search of His calling.

a place to rest my head

In the kingdom of Heaven, we need not want. But here on earth, royalty is currency because we want it all.

and look at her go, that silly senseless girl, trying very hard to smile and pick herself up and dust herself off after falling. and you're her fall, didn't you know? the reason why she is harsh enough not to cry, even in isolation, yet she is so pathetically weak that all she can think about is you.

and please save the apologies, because she honestly, really, doesn't blame you. this is her, tough and neurotic and sarcastic, safe in her shell till she can open her doors again. and she'll be fine, falling again and again, but still, rising up again.

till then, she'll keep herself sane with your smile, your hands and your words. and she crosses dangerous roads alone over and over again, till she can find a place to rest her head.

fair

i could use some of that long island tea he tried to force on me that day. welcome to life, babe, even though i am tired, and angry, and betrayed, and trying very hard to be magnanimous. the nights sitting in front of the flickering screen, trying to find the right words to say for you. the visions and breathless dreaming, the captivating sound of applause.

and all that fails me now. the amibitions i had, the smiles of an expectant child.

because.

now all i know are the tears on my pillow, that hesitant phone call, the fake smile that i will begin to use on a regular basis from today. the forced laughter for the ears and eyes of uncaring personnel.

and i hope my unshed tears burn into your soul, for the regret that i will always have. and until i learn how to smile like a real person again, please put up with me.

this mannequin, who has learnt how to lie and act and pretend, and who will need some time to unlearn it all.

in the meantime, just put me in the audience, away from the centrestage i yearn to belong. for the winners need their applause, don't they?

i, you, her

hi,

i'm a car crash heart
i'm good at putting new addresses on the same old loneliness
i'll wire myslef up to my headphones
though i still hear you clearly over the muffled music
i think pete wentz is modern poetry
the new melancholy of the 21st century
of cutting edge emotion your parents will disapprove
i could write songs all about you my dear
ha, and you wouldn't even know
i'm the reason why smiles look ugly
and smirks become a permanent feature
i could make my skin hard enough to carve your name on
cause' hey
engravings are so much cooler than tattoos

but till then

i'll make do with a tattoo

hands

she walks beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around the laptop that she clutches to her chest, more to keep herself secure than to hold onto the device. in silence, they walk together, and it's supposed to be comfortable.

supposed to be, she reminds herself, supposed to be like this because we're great friends, and we're used to how this is.

because even if he holds my hands, or touches me lightly on the back, the butterflies i get are all the wrong reactions. when we talk, it's how best friends behave, with the casual but concerned stance, when all i want to do is to reach out and hug him.

because this is how i am, and how he is. it can't be anything more.and i hate it when he tests my waters, seeing how far he can push me.

hate how i have promised myself to be always there for him. even when he doesn't know.

hate how many other boys have flown by, because of him.

hate how many times i've stood on the sidewalk as i smile at each girlfriend he has, knowing from the lips of others that hey,didn't you know, he's got someone new.

suddenly, his hands reach out to her shoulders, and he jokes how tense she seems to be. she smiles and relaxes, returning the friendly gesture. she appreciates this company in the midst of a hectic schedule. especially his company.

she knows this will last her for the whole week.

she also knows that this means nothing, but it will keep her. even though she knows... she knows.

vortex

and she walks silently next to him, arms wrapped tightly around her laptop, more to comfort herself than to hold onto the device.

cash flow jungle

the erratic downfalls and surges of your world. your blind vision. your insane figures with values that i cannot count. the way the heeled soles of your black leather shoes click against the ugly sound of concrete.

and you think you've got it all, but you don't. i despise you. you and your half-empty champagne glasses, and the cell phone that rings constantly with your broker in the line. hey, why not give him a special ringtone? you're on the line more often with him than your wife.

the blood oozes out of your medium-rare steak, the same way you draw blood from strangers who play your games on the losing end. they're the reason why you drive a flaming red ferrari convertible while they struggle with their mortgage payments. your fingertips tap impatiently against your wine glass stem, you're looking for more... more... more...

and like i say, i, a useless teenager who feeds on the wealth of the previous generation. i, too, am guilty of my own excesses. my drink, my perpetually plugged in headphones, my buzzing laptop.

maybe, we, the weak useless generation of parasites, are no better than you. and yet, we are far better than you can ever be.

we dream of what we can be. you dream of what you should be, with your heavy lidded eyes of dollar signs.

arsonists at the doorstep

i live with arsonists at my doorstep, with kidnappers prowling for their next victim. I stare out of my window, peeking through the curtains, as i wonder who might be staring at me, watching each other, with scary eagle eyes.

he who conducts a symphonic anarchy, and clenches us within his fist. he who orchestrates fear and sacks the city. i am tired. i look at it all through heavy lidded eyes, i too am falling under this spell.

us all, who are apathetic, and worry over mindless matters. the next paychecque, the best restaurant, the last bottle of wine. and we forget that the ground still shakes and the world moves for reasons we cannot define.

and we live fearfully and fearlessly simultaneously, all for the wrong things, crying over the wrong bottles of spilt milk. barking up the wrong trees, over and over again.

i don't believe crystal balls exist. the next car crash, earthquake or death stat, we cannot predict. we are not all powerful. and here we are, burning each other alive... burying each other alive...

tomorrow will be better. i have His in my faith. it is all i/we have.

Scent/Alcohol

He was harsh that night, my father, when he came home bad-tempered and eager to lash out at any poor, unsuspecting soul. Of course, I wasn’t unsuspecting, but you get the idea.

The smell of alcohol was so strong it became repugnant. As impossible as it sounds, all my senses were repulsed by him, the ugly stench of vodka-drenched breath mixed together with his expensive cigarettes, decorated with the scent of a stranger’s perfume. The sight of him corroded my eyes and I shivered at the sight of something that was to me, utterly inhumane.

When he staggered around in his drunken manner around our expansive living room, I shied away, incensed yet fascinated by the mannerisms of a man who used to sing me fairytales and Cinderella stories. The same man who promised to find me my Prince Charming and be my guarantor for eternal happiness.

He slapped my mother for the first time that night.

My tender mother, in her unconditional faithfulness and loyalty, had attempted to haul him up to their room upon her scant frame. I suspected that she had failed terribly in her attempt to love him, but she was still faithful.

He slapped her, calling her inadequate in many things. Being thirteen at that time, I knew that he was referring to her underperformance in bed, and I watched her shrivel away under his accusing stare and contemptuous voice. And an appalling heavy hand that struck her mercilessly across her left cheek.

I swore never to be like my mother: meek, weak and domesticated.

There are unsigned divorce papers lying on my desk right now. What can I say? I am a proactive person. All it took was one slap from Edward for me to call a lawyer’s office immediately the next morning, and so two weeks later, the official documents have been sent to me.

My charismatic, handsome and loving husband of two years, Edward, undeniably has many charming traits. Blatant alcoholism is not one of them.

Why did it take me three years then, since I swore never to be like my mother?

Drunkard as he is, Edward never pushed my limits. He would wake up the next day with an excrutiating hangover, yet still be a lovely husband, flawed, but never imperfect.

Unfortunately, that night, when he came home drunk and struck me across the left cheek with the force of a stranger who could not have loved me, I decided to leave him. I realized twenty years ago that Prince Charmings do not exist.

He smelt exactly like my father, alcohol, cigarettes and the smell of sluts clinging onto him. I could no longer live with him, I am not as noble as my mother, who tolerated an abusive husband’s waywardness with the force of a general.

And I remembered my father’s ugliness, the way Edward’s alcohol-stained breath and words smelt so much like him. The slap across a cheek with a hand that had forgotten to love.

So now, I too must forget to love, and it will be easy, since all I remember about my husband is his alcohol and heavy hand.

There are always chasms in life, the way my mother accepted her fate while I chose mine. Love has not been kind to us.

disease

i cry without tears, sing with no voice, live without a melody, learn to walk all over again on my own, dream but there's no ambition, write for you to read in between the lines, look for hands that brush past me for warmth.

loneliness is an extremely affecting disease.

Gloss

You could be glossing over it all, and I wonder what you think underneath the lashes. And how your eyes dart and move when you think nobody's looking.

What stirs inside you, when you appear simple-minded under it all. The sweet-smiling one, while I, sourface, bears the brunt.

killing me softly

and i heard the lovely sounds of his saxophone.
and then the clarinets melded softly into the background,
before her skilled fingers massaged notes out of the
old trumpet.

and wood struck the snare softly
with the strongest precision an amateur could muster,
racing with the speed of the conductor's baton.

the flutes fly up to take their place
piercing through the gently throbbing
sounds of the tuba.

she who coaxes a singing voice of her french horn
and she who glides the words that speak
even as they struggle out of the trombone.

i watch as the baton falls,
and my eyes
falling softly too
killing me softly too....

The Divorcee

Her frazzled nerves were just about collapsing upon her, as she turned the key in the knob and slammed the door behind her.

The day had been destructive, and all she wanted to do was drown in some damaging alcohol, preferably vodka.

But she was currently drowning in something else, the paperwork and paraphernalia of divorce. The endless callss from the lawyer, griming over alimony settlements, the stacks of boxes swimming around her house and over her head as he prepared to move out and away from her. She could still hear the ringing of the keyboard in her solicitor's office as he typed out documents, talking but never speaking to her. Perhaps the austerity of the whole affair had been a little too startling, and foreign; she had assumed it would all be over pretty soon.

The married state had been pure unadulterated hell, but the single state wasn't much better. Thank God they didn't have kids; the custody fights, the single parenthood, the financial fights... Everything would be piling up on them, crushing her till she couldn't breathe.

But still, she was not breathing very well now anyway.

"If you think you can just walk out of this, literally or not, and leave all the mess and the shit for me to clean up after you, then you're going to be really sorry."

She squared her shoulders.

"I didn't live till now just so I could get walked all over by assholes like you. And put up with your lies and smirks and stupid ways. Or come home to a jerk with foreign perfume and lipstick all over his shirt for me to breathe in."

Perhaps she hadn't mean to sound so harsh, but the years of frustration pinched every word that fell from her lips.

"So I'm saying that if you want to move on, then we make this quick and fast, bear with the crap for maybe a couple of months and it'lll be all over. You don't walk away as and when you like, you don't not answer calls and avoid me and think that everything will pick up all by itself. A messed up marriage still needs cleaningup after."

And that was how she had initiated the divorce, and it had been so sudden, like she had delivered the blow with a sledgehammer, even as the "institution" as they liked to call it, had fallen apart over the five years that they were tied together by a bloody certificate.

But she was glad that she hadn't gone all histrionic and emotional on him, liked the way she stated her decision the way a very tired doctor told a patient's family that that there was absolutely no more hope at the end of an exceedingly gruelling operation.

And contrary to popular opinion, the sky didn't fall and the world didn't end. She perfected the manner in which she delivered the divorce news to er friends and colleagues. She learnt how to craft her voice into a lilt of mild disappointment, sadness and melancholy, and displayed a little bit of frailty on her features. This usually meant pauses of uncomfortable silence at the lunch table, but someone else would always be able to cleverly orchestrate a change in subject matter and the lively mindless chatter would gain momentum again, everyone forgetting, or perhaps pretending that the awkward subject of her divorce had never been broached in the very first place.

Until today.

It felt like the air was completely knocked out of her; left her winded, to see him, with another woman, hand-in-hand. Oh look at us all, the lovely couples of the romantic world.

And she couldn't help but laugh bitterly at herself.

She had it all; a nice apartment, a great job she loved, friends who would pub with her till late and confidants who could see through her and comfort her. At the end of it all, the most fulfilling thing that everyone woman craved for, even though she could refuse to admit it; a warm body to wake up to every morning.

No, she had lost that one to another woman.

"I'll be leaving you this place, so it'll make settlements a lot easier," he said, as he was tugging the suitcase along the hallway.

" And where will you live then?" she asked absent-mindedly. Communications between them had broken down to lines of polite chatter.

He shrugged." I and Su.. I mean, I've found a place to stay in, for like, you know, a short while." The words struggled to coordinate themselves, and he had given himself away.

She shook her head as recounted that particular memory. It was no wonder that Philip had let go of the house so easily; he had already established another home, so whatever here never really mattered in the first place.

But she knew that it had not been the woman she saw, that made her tremble and her vision cloud over.

She had wanted to look away the moment she had seen him, but it had been too late, they had made eye contact. his lips had formed into a tight smile, then he nodded generally in her direction. She probably made a similar sort of reaction, but she couldn't know for sure, her insides had been shaking so badly for her to notice.

She knew that what had really gotten to her however, had nothing to do with seeing them together. She had seen that coming anyway.

No, it had been that little boy, whom they were swinging around with the perfect laughter of a picture perfect family. A little boy who was shouting "Mummy" and "Daddy" all the time. He must have been three years old, and she had never known.

His voice must have been dripping with innocence, but all she heard were the razor blades that went directly for her.

coffee for two

coffee for two,
and i chose you.
but an empty seat
across the table.

and nothing fulfils like
waking up to warm arms
across your shoulders.
unfortunately,
this only means

many will be left unfulfilled

much less
someone like me.

stain

i need words stained with everydayness.
the ink of my hands drained onto paper.
quixotic.
cathartic.
i have fulfilled none.