I see her, hair chopped like shredded glass, panic stripped back on a numb face. I see her bomber jacket puffing out in the wind, see the gashes on her skin like tic-tac-toe hashes. I see her about to jump from the building, from the sky, about to take her own life.

At that moment, all I want is to be there for her. For her, for you, for anyone who has ever been pushed to that height. All I want is to hold them, wrap my arms around them tight, and I would tell them ‘it’s okay; everything is okay’ tell her with every last ounce of desperation and determination that I can muster. Tell her with a finality like nothing else. Nothing matters at that moment as her life hanging there by the sill.

I wouldn’t ask her why – why she did that, or what pushed her so far. I wouldn’t judge her for not being able to cope, for succumbing, for perceiving her life the way she was. I wouldn’t judge her for her background; ignore the fact that I’ve been told to avoid such people.

I’ll blanket her with my body and tell her that it didn’t matter and that I loved her – loved her no matter what, love her despite it all. I will tell her it is good that nothing matters anymore because then, we can start afresh on a blank canvas. I will tell her that we can build Hiroshima from bare ashes. And that she is not alone, that we could do it together.

Because at that moment, all that matters is that she is human, we’re human – her dark eye shadow and hair and gashes and all. All that matters is this inescapable urgency to love, to hold, to heal.


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A dancer unwinds herself upon the stage. Something comes alive in that empty space – some fervent energy that vibrates with each move of the dancer. There is no remarkable audience watching her weave this art, save the prying eyes of Time. But it doesn’t matter to her. She doesn’t dance for anyone save for the desire to dance.

As grace and passion unite, the linearity of time fractures until every small moment is animated with a sense of permanence. Time is either viscous as honey or frozen as ice.

In a while, the sensational movements of her body will be silenced as the stage blacks out for her. It’ll be time to go. The emptiness will return to that very sacred space she had held electrified just moments ago. And in a minute yet, a new dancer will ascend to seize what were her spotlights. And the stage, that beloved stage, will eagerly forget her like her divine dance was immaterial.

She knows that. But it doesn’t disturb her. It doesn’t matter to her that she is the Forgotten Dancer. Because she doesn’t dance for the watching eyes or waiting time. She dances for the sake of dancing. To create a ripple in every second and to feel eternity and impermanence entwine. She dances because she is mesmerized by the flow of the movements cascading one after the other, unthought of, yet in deliberate harmony

And at that moment, she isn’t just another Forgotten Dancer, but she is an impression- fleeting, yet undeniably real.


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There is an invisible orb of stories and a wisp of reminiscent legends that wrap the Earth. A sphere made of the transparent phantoms of dust. It is a place where time had never lived, and where beauty – in its most affectionate and vilest form had sprouted.

The orb is the Earth’s memory that still dances with life and the vividness of dreams, even a million years after the characters and lands of those memories had returned to dust. But it’s them that the Earth caresses in her heart – those men, whose dust our plain lives walk on – who have forever written their stories on a universe that could never be touched by fleeting things such as time and laymen.

And that’s why, in the silent whisper of the night, when the Earth weeps in the wake of their poignant memories, I ask her of those people and their lives. I would sit by the crashing ocean, listening to her ceaselessly mourn those long-lost stories, that had been from a time when humans had talked to the ocean’s spirit. I would sit by, and listen to the tales being told in a language that couldn’t be distinguished by those who didn’t discern the bubbling life in the calmness of nature. And I would talk to the wind and stars and particles of sand – for they are ancient lives, who bear in their long memories, infinite stories of a time so surreal with human greatness.

Once, the maroon-hued late evening trees whisper to me the tales that the old forest had recounted to her when she was young. In gushing tones rushing forth her black ruby branches, she would narrate to me of how the great king of the yonder days had sacrificed his own body and flesh to feed the flames of light that dispelled darkness. Stories of men who fell to the Earth selflessly, to save their land from the evil that festered through its veins. Of women who, scorning, burned their lives to protect with their embers, a sacred truth. Of children yet innocent of anything but golden fantasies about a vast multi-hued world, leaving this Earth before their life began, so as to give life to men unknown. And the dark shrubberies would nod in the wind that moved with those golden souls that were lost in the wilderness of history.

And then, I seek out to the deep silence that echoes from within the dunes and dust of deserts. A great legend moves within its time-woven folds. There in the red infinite, I listen as the sun and the Earth tell each other the stories of love, about the beautiful princess who etched out her life on the shattered stone of miseries and held together her soul and morale in the heart of the storm. The scattered sand would bring back its song about the wise seers who spun out the elusive silver mysteries of Earth from their silent tongues. Of wanderers who conquered love and land to find life.

Each night, the passing vestiges of darkness soak the sky with serenades of life, love, beauty and the divinity of sorrow that had walked the Earth in the form of people ancient. And I grew up listening to those stories of the Earth, still heard in the language of those who listen. And day by day, I grew with the old, undying souls – with the moonbeams and bluebell breezes, the chimes of the brook and the deep musical silence from the Earth’s heart. And the epic of their lives inspired my breath.

So one day, when my breath ceases, I would leave behind a life that drenched the Earth once again in forgotten human conquests, and illumines in its depart, a legacy of love, change and humanity. And my soul would leave this mortal world, to return to the Earth’s arm, to forever live with my long lost heroes in the eternal sphere of memory.

Because, all else, who live for the mediocrity of the trifles of everyday life must perish after a hundred years, with their memories swallowed by the soil, and forgotten forevermore.


And in death, I wish to leave behind my life.


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Imagine, when a silver vein of lightning rips through the pink sheets of sky to pierce the deep indigo ocean in the end of the world. Scintillae of golden flecks sparkle up from the embers of the ocean. Thunder rolls across the bloody sky with its white scar. Two powerful Gods are speaking to Each other. Two lovers cursed to be separated until eternity, transgress their oaths and fall into the temptations of touching each other only once more. The color of love escapes into the twilight and their powerful union brightens the sky, though only for a moment.

But then the Gods speak to each other once more. Thunder growls. The sparkling hand of lighting withdraws. A foreboding tension sweats into the air, making it humid, and poesy pours into the breeze. In a beautiful moment, the sanctity of unspoken love had been scuttled as the young lovers broke free of their iron chains. There was something fascinatingly beautiful and wicked about the moment’s spasm of unfettered love. But the Gods forbade it.

Yonder from the horizon, the ocean begins to crash agitatedly, serenading its woes and yearning. Its hymns dissolve into the infinite sky, and the sky begins to weep miserably, gifting its musical tears to the sea’s songs. Their pain – the hymn and rhythm- collide in mid-air and intertwine, giving birth to a million little children of love that ache to fill the chasm between their parents.

The pain and sorrow of the separated lovers, destined to a parallel love, to walk with each other untill infinity and never to meet once, darkens the Earth. And in the dusky hours of rain, when the wind whistles the melancholy serenade of their yearning, all things grow deep and sad, blessed with the quaint touch of a divine love. An aching enfolds the Earth in its arms.

But the Gods – tormented by their young children’s misery, themselves- shriek out their disapproval. Because sometimes, a love so passionately uncouth ruins life. For what might happen if the sky falls to the ocean and the ocean weaved itself into the sky?


To be continued…

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With the question answered, the impediment that had choked my ink into silence so far, melted. Unbarred now, a passion gushes out again, to reclaim with its lettered traceries, all that flames the imagination.

For long, a foreboding mist of darkness and doubt obscured my passion and fettered my art. I drowned in the anxiety of my ability to wrought words into wonders and hence, hunted the lead of a lantern light – an answer – to devour the darkness. But now, those unlit days are left behind as the journey with words ends and opens out into a new world built of a brilliant iridescence.

As I look back, the meandering rill of a road that had so long been my sole company, vanishes into the distance. In another lifetime, I had stood at its brink – now hidden behind the redolent mist of the horizon – callow, and endeavoring to set out on this journey.

Yet now, ahead of me lies the time that hastens me to forsake this familiar path and wander into strange new lands that invite me with their eluding, arcane whispers, yet unconquered.

As I had quote in the past pages, this quest has ended with the beginning of myriad new quests. Now the time has come to disembark onto those, for the voyage must continue. Though one known path rends, another unknown road is sought. Thus is the odyssey of life destined – where the unremitting dance between beginnings and endings lead the adventurer forth to ever uncover the unexpected…


This journey with words will always remain an unfading memory with its rich experiences and revelations ever stirring at the bottom of my mind. But the only revisit to resume on this road will henceforth be iterations in the lane of memory unless, someday, brought along by destiny, this path I might be obliged to rewalk upon with a new understanding of depth.

Until then, my steps have strayed already in a different direction, and –

This must be farewell.


To be continued…

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The ultimate flower – the uncompleted puzzle – was the definition of who I am. The secret at the core was the revealing of the colourful life of an artist, buoyantly etching herself as intricate designs in the stones of memory, so that she would live as a form of art, remembered long after she fades into a forgotten dancer.

The pursuit to understand the ephemeral life beyond its mediocre veil – where, in the end, we are all just forgotten dancers in the unending universe; the seeking to find in the fleeting life, a lasting sense of flow and achievement and mining out our passion and potential that lies unawakened in the mindscape; and a desire to create from those ideas and answers, a unique and individual expression of beauty that sparkled magic into the mundane- to infuse the ordinary and extraordinary, to speak through art.

These were the desires that stirred unfound within the unblossomed flower, drawing with its vitality the questions that would help release it. And once found, these desires became the vision, injecting current and energy to reliven my diffused attempts into weaving this dream part-by-part. In this ultimate undertaking, my words and art of writing would play a part – weaving the ideas that shape my personality into colourful tapestries for the world’s fascination.

The hunt for the missing pieces that complete the vision of this puzzle would nonetheless stretch into distant horizons and deep trenches. But once found, the puzzle pieces that express the discovered answers in concrete colors would be my words.

With this understanding that my art is not to diffuse in the air, but is infact guided by a greater purpose, vanquishes the paranoia that surrounds it, and no more do my words feel lost. I know now, why I write.

But what I write, is an answer that the journey with words can’t explain. This is to be uncovered by other quests. And how those quests are accomplished – the path I would take to reclaim and uncover those hidden puzzles – are ever evolving, ever being found. But with every step further along the path, with every new, fascinating discovery, a core – thrumming with energy – is uncovered, to give purpose and the glow of life to my once hollow and aimless words.

So far, I had indulged in the art, devoid of a vision to guide me down its deep mines. Yet now, its place and meaning lie revealed and no more must my words wander in vain.

And the question unanswered lies now answered…


To be continued…

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Months ago, while a young night seeped slowly into the Earth, under the dimmed light of a chandelier burning gold, this restlessness arose. In the twilight of profound sombreness, a flame of truth flickered, drinking in the light and yet dispelling the darkness at once. From it’s burning heart of inquiry, a question was wrought – a meager question about ‘why I write’. Yet the answers that were required to douse the flames were not destined to be shallow. Only the heat in the core depths of a being – be it the answer, or the human heart in which the answer lies nestled – could cool these flames.

Thence started the quest with this question. But little did I know then that this was the beginning – the first silent stroke of stillness that signals the brewing of a mighty storm.

Questing with this question, I traversed across skies of days that seemed never to end, and seas of nights spent in contemplation that ran to fathomless bottoms. I sought endlessly, groping in darkness for a mere sliver that may lead me forth – for at least a shattered shred of light mirrored by the answer. Yet, all around me scuffled silently, mere shifting shadows – too many intangible answers that lay beyond reach, yet unformed to be seen by the eye. But in the brooding silence, the shadows had begun to stir into shapes, materializing into solid figures. But the darkness draped the answers in concealment from me still.

It happened when at that point, completely torn by the hopelessness, I dispelled the thoughts out of the narrow confines of their womb – my mind – and into the open unknown. There, in the wide world, my semi-formed mind children – unshaped answers and gathering ideas drunk in the light of the world, clothed themselves in vivid words and ideas that other beings uttered, and at length, returned fully formed in vivid colors.

So it was that when I freed myself from the question at last, the answer emerged. And lo, it turned out that the answer – or answers rather – to my question were more questions; and the quest to seek the answer ended in the beginning of myriad different quests for myriad answers that lay scattered in different directions, like pieces of a lost puzzle.

And to that lost puzzle, all these questions were connected – ‘why do I write’, ‘what do I write’ – they couldn’t be answered by themselves. The secret had to be revealed by the blossoming of one ultimate flower. And that flower, unfolded petal-by-petal – answer by answer…


To be continued…

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This realization (that writing is not the end in itself but rather, the spell to express my life in enchanting tones) lead me also, to the answer to the question that had previously buried me alive with suffocation.

I began to discern that my original perspective of my desire had not been flawed. I had been an artist and the charming craft of words had indeed mesmerized my mundane existence. Indeed it had lead me down the labyrinth of life to explore myriad, undiscovered haunts.

But things fell apart when I had began to use life as a chisel to sculpt my art rather than using art as a chisel to carve intricate meaning into my life.

That’s why, I had to know who I was and what life meant to me. Only if I weaved in my mind a vivid effigy of what I would carve would I be able to trace the chisel across the stone.

So for a while, I began to make a macrame of order inside my mind to knit one tapestry of life where everything I did fit in. Long days and unslept midnights I stayed brooding, little by little knitting my past desires and future aspirations together to find what lay common. In the end, I defined my destination, where I currently stood in life, and the path that I strove to saunter on.

Now I knew why I indulged in this phantasmagorical art and how it was important to my life.

My life would be my greatest masterpiece that I would leave behind in memory, past my time. That’s why, the strokes that I etch on my canvas must fall in proper order, in harmony with the soul of the entire painting. And writing is the vivid paints through which I would convey the mindscape of my life to the world’s gaze.

My mission is to make an art of my life. Then, this life of myself – the forgotten dancer – can be infused into the art of words to hold in its core.

Writing is not the end in itself, but rather, the spell to express my life in enchanting tones. This answer materialized at last from the tempestuous pits of pain; for that is the way of the world – answers emerge from the darkness. Incubation…


To be continued…

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It dawned on my that my relentless approach towards innovation was fundamentally flawed. At once I had been drenching the flow from a river of ideas without letting back the water to garner. Soon all had been quenched – the reservoir used up.

Armed with the freedom and vigor that a repose had kindled in me, I set out to confront and battle the problem I had once evaded. I began to seek the rotten heart of the quagmire – what ultimately fell amiss?

The new quest went beyond just the immediate problem – which was but a manifestation of a bigger infection. I decided that I did not just want to rise from this deep chasm I had fallen in but rather, pave my path up and discover the secret to ‘rising’ itself.

‘The next time I fall, though inevitable, could be tarried if I understand the nature of the boulders I stumbled on and avoid them,’ I decided. ‘ I’ll learn from this fall, what it is like to emerge a phoenix. The art of rising, I’ll master.’

With this, I set out to study the problem, which, as it turned out was overworking. My mind, I discovered, was so constrained to the masterpiece it was supposed to be working on that it grew soon, void and deprived of food and sleep and ultimately fell ill. The sickness of the contraction began to fester down my mental alleys and destroyed my ability, imprisoning my potential. Consequently, I had plunged into despair, because all the world that I had known had rotted.

I needed to redefine myself, reconsider my potential by releasing it from its bonds to writing alone and interact with the rest of the world as well. As much as I had to explore deep and innovate, I also had to drink in from the world and fare far and wide. The scales had tipped. From once being constrained with just the external world and its ways, I had now begun to focus on exploring the mines of my potential and interest, neglecting the brightness of reality. And mines… even though they house gold and diamonds, are dark and lonely places. A balance was required.

If I wanted to go back to exploring myself and extracting buried treasures, I would set out with a map that leads back to the world of light and men. To uncover the secret of this balance – which is a motley of relentless odysseys against weather and wear, and idyllic exhilarations of the moment without any expectation; the deep core of the Earth and the tranquil vastness of the sky. When the realm to walk on was this huge, the world was a colorful and dynamic place, I realized.

So this was the time I began to see the value of letting things go, relaxing and giving my mind space to breath. Passion can’t be chiseled. It has to be left unperturbed so that it could flow down forth its peaks and wet my soil to rich luxuriance.

To rise back from the fall, I had to unfold my wings and fly rather than weep by the dry flakes of the faded river. It’s okay if I can’t do this. This failure can’t stymie the flow of my life. In the end, my aspirations soar beyond just words and art and the heart – it is life in itself. And I will exist, if not through expressions of art, through my unremitting flow that devours even hardened rocks that hinder its journey.

Flow and freedom – unfettered potential.


To be continued…

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‘My potential is infinite and I am what I want to be – whatever my heart desires. Nobody could etch in stone my definition – not even my own misguided mind – because I am always transforming to the whim of my passion.’ I breathed out.

I still remember, only about two months ago, I finally gave up.

Suddenly I could feel fiery wings unfolding from my spirit, blazing with enthusiasm to explore every crevice and ocean in this planet. Those wings throbbed to traverse through the multiverse – anywhere and nowhere – released. At the same time, a daunting shadow withdrew its grim claws from the sides of my vision – my eyes were once again mine own and fresh, ready to behold the world unfiltered. The ghosts of guilty words haunted my world no longer – for I owe them nothing, no longer did I belong to their beautifully pungent world.

Oh, how delightful that felt, to be able to hear the heart and mind in harmony again – to feel my mind exhale the stale air it had held so far and inhale freedom!

A fortnight faded in paradise of the release. To a man just stumbled from deep caves of darkness after years, even the glare or ordinary glow would blaze akin to the whole power of the sun. So this renewed light that had seeped into my days where so supreme that happiness descended down unbounded.

Those fifteen days I transitioned across a periphery from a constrained realm to one of wide vision and unrestrained reality. It was only by the end of the two weeks that I woke up to the change that had descended upon me, seemingly unseen.

It was like the blossoming of wild roses – when you force one into your lonely soil and shut it in dark chambers, tormenting it every moment with unemphatic request to grow… well, it pines. On the contrary, when left to the lacquered mercy of the sun and the untainted freshness of the air, to be fondled in soil that loves the roots and understands its burden of bearing the roses, the roses just blossom out unasked, blushing lips smiling wide.

The metamorphosis I noticed in my being was as fascinating as unexpected. Questions I had long slavered to uncover now revealed themselves…

…the dawn of the epoch of answers.


To be continued…

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