A Villanelle - An Etude Of Life

Move on with the scars; move on with the past.

Scars do not define, they teach to refine.

What is the future? We will always ask.

Great dreams were broken, outside they were cast.

Words of the pessimist we must decline.

Move on with the scars; move on with the past.

They lost sight of their dreams, said mine wouldn't last.

"When will the path I travel become mine?"

What is the future? We will always ask.

Why do the patient ones finish the last?

Lacking the strength to challenge the incline.

Move on with the scars; move on with the past.

How many beings in this world so vast?

Of wonders and magick there seems so sign.

What is the future? We will always ask.

Denounce destiny; fate and chance, lambast.

To be remembered, unique, ne’er defined.

Move on with the scars; move on with the past.

What is the future? We will always ask.

Resting thy head upon a void, nothing is secure, nothing is real, nothing can be felt.

The wings await growth, still.

Night-time Blues

Feeling detached, philosophical and melancholic. Drifting off to my own realities every night, never wanting to wake up.

That person...

You weren't quite sure what was it, that unnatural feeling about her. Day by day you'd see her randomly up to something, and then one day you'd realize, it was the creepy visage of someone putting up a pretence.

I Am A Little Bird

I am a little bird,

With wings so small;

That tree so tall

For ever, I fall.

I am a little bird,

With dreams soar high;

Though I have no hope

To fly those skies.

I am a little bird,

With no food to grow;

Trying so hard,

Let no weakness show.

I am a little bird,

With no home to go;

Long time wand’rer

Of this world, alone.

I am a little bird,

Looking high to the sky;

I’m sick of suff’ring,

I’m tired of life.

I am a little bird,

I am waiting;

Waiting, some day,

That something will change.

Jie Sheng Lim, 12/08/2011

It is both the sheltered, and the tormented, who grow up to torture and even kill.

Imagery

I despise the cliches which rob meaning from words, they rip the soul from the frame of poetic craft.

You don't know what it's like to be irreparable until you are, and it's nothing to laugh about whether talking about the old times or just a reminiscence. You become a creature in the eyes of society, you become different.

You don't know what it's like to be basking in the warm light of sanctuary and acceptance until you've seen the sorrow and despair, the dark abyss sans any hope.

You don't know what it's like to never be able to feel the warmth of family although you have one, because if you don't feel it, you can never again.

Can a person's dream reach only so high? With seemingly rudimentary ones, yet so hard to attain, such as love, acceptance, and happiness; people like to think they can provide them to those around them, but not everyone knows how to. Or perhaps the titanic dreams of freedom, peace, ceasing suffering? They require the wings of liberty; but how to create them?

Money; study grants, scholarships, research funds.

Power; position, knowledge, influence.

One has to beware, they may exert a heavy burden on the wielder if not used proper. Like wings of gold too heavy for lift.

And what of love and acceptance? All too scarce to be practical.

So when you find yourself standing there at the edge of a cliff, waiting for wings;

Thunder and lightning all around to deter the weak,

Downpour to beat down those wanting in determination, strength and perseverance.

Crows and vultures sounding cries of doom and desolation,

It is difficult, but they must be ignored.

Failure is not an option.

And when the final few chains have yet to be broken,

You realize: all you need is the Rain and the Wind,

And your wings.

Then you shall fly above all others.

When you're down low, when you're at your worst performance, worst mood and just fucked up; they who stay beside you during this time are your friends.

The rest are fricking bullshit.

Life's Lesson 101

Trust no one.

C'est La Vie

A story you will hear.

What you may deem basic to your life, may be a luxury to me.

I come from a cave with one opening; they who birthed me chose to stay there not out of choice, but of tradition. And so because I have not the means to take me on any journey, I must return everyday. Back to the cave of conformity and apathy, nothing ventured everyday.

Where you may have experiences you deem normal, I may only dream of having.

I live in this empty room, stone walls on all sides with the door in darkness. There is no warmth in here; the sun's warmth reach not these depths, forever in my small sky there ever be a little shed of light shining down, taunting me for what I cannot have, or what I cannot yet have... I hope...

How do I live? Off my imagination, my immaterial world of thought and envisioning, a world manufactured from whatever knowledge I harvest off the writings on the walls. Just a dream which can never be realized; only extended to change the future, with these binding chains of the past ever wearing down my soul.

The unfortunate do not necessarily live in total misfortune, bleakness and despair.

What you may deems basic to your life, may be a luxury to me.

Think of me sometimes, the one living in darkness in a splendid sea of swirling light.

Matter?

Probably the things that matter most: money, knowledge, truth, friends, myself.

Nothing else really does.

Economics: Thieves

When you steal, you devote time (a resource) to taking away something from someone in a community, which could be better spent on more productive actions.

So when you kill a thief, you eliminate a waste of resources which is detrimental to society (time spent by the thief stealing as well as food and drink needed to sustain the thief's life).

Seems it is not wrong to kill thieves and having 'thief hunters' In society would actually be beneficial from an economic viewpoint. Therefore more people should kill more thieves?

Hmm... How strange.

(if any economists out there read this, I'd appreciate your thoughts on this matter)

Abstract

                A recurring dream…  A world of wonder, where nature blossoms in full splendor; perhaps a creation of my mind, another world where I may exist on my own. Skies forever a serene blue, with the cirrus clouds sweeping across the sky like feathers drifting in the wind; the soft green grass billowing in the breeze, mountains in the distance; the world where I saw your silhouette, eternally beyond my feeble reach.

                Why did the world vanish when you appeared? Was your beauty so overwhelming that all other beauty had been eclipsed by comparison, or two opposites whose existences conflicted? I need not ever know; I only wonder why I ever saw your stately figure, shadowed by the fog of ignorance, identity concealed. It evoked a question that would consume me if thought of for too long: Who are you?

                And then you walked into the distance, beckoning to me with hand gestures so subtle, but I could not follow, for this heart here remains rooted to a flaming ice. The source of the emotional cryogen? I no longer remember, for the memory is too frozen, perhaps already shattered.

                Those who speak of hope, they know not that ‘one day’ means nothing. ‘One day’ will never bring solace to anyone, ‘one day’ never saved a soul, ‘one day’ only saw the dream, ‘one day’ will betray itself. This is the truth, as much as anyone, even I, wanted to deny it; I stopped fighting the laws written for the world. One could say that I learnt the meaning of insanity from the experiences, trying the same thing and expecting different results.

                 What if I could escape, just temporarily, to my alternate reality, unscathed by time. A world without the rush of events, melancholy, lack of uniqueness, apathy and ignorance, stigma and hate, decadence and suffering.

                Maybe I can go there with you, a place where we can rest our heads.

The Great Chef

No day is a normal day for me, who labors daily over my forge. My materials taking many forms, my apparatus and tools giving birth to the aroma of food. I work for enjoyment, of self and consumer alike. There is no greater satisfaction and gratification greater than seeing one's creations appreciated and honored.

Look there across the street, that man with his stove, making pancakes for the people. A noble profession indeed, to provide. But one may delve deeper into the culinary craft, and see that he may further improve his pancakes by adding maple syrup, corn, honey, the sort. And yet, he has not done so; this be a hindrance to the progress of humanity towards mastery of the culinary world.

The pieces of meat, vegetables, dough, I rend are not my enemies, they are my friends. I slice them, I fry, bake, steam, broil, boil, braise, and perform many other procedures, so that they may go forth from my transforming forge and do service and pleasure to the world.

Why do I harm them?

Is it not the friend who assails you with bitter truth and tells you to change, to go forth, that you value the most in the end? Or is it the friend who lies to you and lets you rot in your raw state?!


I do not understand the street vendors who do not put their soul into their cooking.

I do not understand the hawkers, too many overzealous with seasoning and salt.

I do not understand the home bakers, who abuse sugar.

I despise those who look down upon my art; who claim to understand my science and yet do not really know.

I am a chef, all I do is create; the sight, the smell, the taste.

20th February 2011

Seasons - Winter

A forest of barren trees in winter, shed their leaves,

Abandoned them for the sake of not letting itself suffer.

Memories, we forget and leave behind, suppressed,

In order to keep looking towards the horizon of the unknown sanctuary we all long for.

As the flow of life resumes, the leaves on the ground,

They wither and die, return to the earth.

To prepare the trees for spring,

When everything begins again.

As we all leave behind traces,

Shadows of ourselves and others,

They dance between the trees;

Gone but never really forgotten.

There was once a person standing there,

Where these eternal footprints lead;

Beyond the veil of branches,

Always singing her song.

As I stare out into the distance,

I glance upon the shadow,

Of your hair, your hand, your smile.

And I chase after you.

The things I leave behind,

Nothing but my tracks in the snow.

Time shall pass and erase them,

But forever my imprints will remain,

In the plants which sprout from my footsteps.

Signed,

The evening at eight,

The day of Saturn

The 15th of January in the 2011th year.

Wish

If you asked me when I stopped believing in fairy tales, I would say, a very very long time ago, when I was still a kid. No, perhaps I never believed in them. Mischievous pixies, petite wish-granting fairies, evil goblins, man-eating trolls and princesses with a heart of gold; it was all too unbelievable, a dead giveaway from the very beginning! FAKE! UNREAL!

But if you asked me when I stopped believing in supernatural things; time travel, supernatural powers, creatures of the night, telepathy, myths...I would have to admit: I never did. Perhaps I thought life was boring without these things in it, but one could also say that everyday phenomena is already quite magical, miraculous even. Yes, I am just a little kid wishing for the impossible, yet my common sense tells me that these things are not real and that I shouldn't hope for their existence, and yet I do.

So, sometimes I come across the question, what is the point of fantasy? Common answers: happiness, satisfaction, longing for a different world, curiosity.

Bullshit.

Why do we know that it is improbable that a random person will just pop out of nowhere and say: "Hi, I'm from the future.", but yet we sometimes wish it were true? Isn't that quite naive; bordering on idiotic even? That makes us quite dumb a race does it not? Or perhaps it is only the children who dream so? The notion makes sense at first, but, neh; why aren't the ones who are (or at least claim to be) grown-up happy either?

Me? I just want a more interesting life, and for people to appreciate the things they have more, which is why I constantly wish for a world where humanity has to unite against an unknown evil threatening our lives. Childish, naive, decadent, stupid; I know.

Sometimes I wish for myself to be able to sleep for ages; decades, centuries, millennia, aeons; time passing by me, hoping to see how the world changes, to steer the world in the direction of change. But then I also know that I'll find traces of memories strewn across the world of the world past, and I'd long for the past, and feel melancholic, and lonely...