Spiraling Melody Of Light

Not much time really passes when you're lying awake at night, the ceiling fan's blades, slightly rusted at the edges, rotate seemingly in slow motion. You can't really help but think "whoong, whoong, whoong" as the blades turn, and turn, and turn.

Laying there thinking, about the troubles you're facing, thing you worry about, someone you care for, what the future holds, who you are, are you just another speck in this vast world? It makes no sense sometimes. They told us life was supposed to be great, but yet here we are doing things that mean nothing, things that mean nothing that people have placed too much emphasis and too much faith into; and yet here we are, not even sure of what we're fighting for.

I wonder sometimes, maybe we cling on to our devices, phones, mp3 players, iPods and the sorts, because we want to know we're not alone. Maybe it's a subconscious reaffirmation, just talking to or texting that somebody over the phone, forgetting everything in drowning rock music or listening to that melancholy invoking instrumental; we are not alone.

We all wish for more to this life we're having, who really wants to spend the rest of their life labouring and worrying away. The wishful thinking is sometimes dealt with, suppressed, and yet again it will rise inevitably to the surface of our minds like cork in water. The future, what does it hold, will I be alone, what will I be doing, where will everyone else I know be in the future, who will remain my friends through storm and calm; is it all fated? I don't know, but someone once told me that life is not worth worrying away.

People like security, but that's just a nice way of saying people are boring. Badminton club, basketball club, football club; what happened to archery, fencing, dodgeball and whatnot? Language clubs, nature society, noble endeavours indeed, but really, if you're going to be like everyone else, why live? Such are the thoughts that leave one a little depressed, but it can't be helped....

Right?

Go to sleep, hug your pillow and make it warm; dream of a possible future, another reality. See the spiraling light that enters your mind and shelters your soul; hear the silver melody that rings clearly yet softly, and pray that it is eternal.

Live.

Creation

It is in 17th century Germany on a nameless street, just another day begins as the rising sun paints the entire street like a sepia photograph. Inside one of the houses with identical facades, a man in his late 20's performs his craft. Holed up in his workshop upstairs labouring away at his creation, the golden sun rays shine through the windows of his workshop; there is little sign on the man's face to indicate that he had been up all night at his work. On his immaculate countenance an elegant smile is etched, a mirror of the enjoyment, fulfillment and pride he takes in his work. Perhaps he does not call it work at all.

The dollmaker pours over his intricate equipment, and yet he seems perfectly poised and at home with his surroundings, his nimble fingers efficient and never hesitating. It is hard not to be inspired by wonder watching a craftsman at work, even more so for the nameless dollmaker; it is clear that money is not his motive. What makes him tinker over all that material and turn scraps into something beautiful?

Perhaps there is a love of his who inspires him, perhaps a child; perhaps something lost to him, perhaps a longing? There he stays in his little bubble of timelessness immersed in the passion for his work. So noble and passionate his work that time itself could not bear to take him away in her tide. And all that is of him is stowed away in a tiny fragment of reality, floating around in the space of existence. Forever immortalized.

The dolls born of his hands that lay scattered around his workshop seem almost lifelike. With eyes glowing with emotion and faces lit with compassion that it takes conscious thought to remind oneself that they are just dolls; and yet it just seems that they would just suddenly get up and smile at you. Such love put into his handicraft, like a great desire for a child he never could have.

And as the creator walks past a doll of a girl child, it reaches out to him haphazardly, and whispers:

'Fa...ther...'

The scene fades and diminishes into the fog of thought, as if just a dream.

Inspired by Mitsumune Shinkichi's "Creation", Rozen Maiden: Träumend. 

Sleep

What is it like to sleep? They say sleep is when the body rests itself, when the mind processes the day's thoughts and sights. They say dreaming is believing, nightmares shadows of darker things. What is sleep really?

Now and then I find one Sleepless, I am there where there is no sleep. Why do they not embrace the gift of sleep they are endowed with? They know not what it is like to be unable to rest in peace, to awaken the next day and see the dawn. Me? I can only rest once dead. I see not the dawn for I too see not the night.

They say they sleep not for they are troubled; in their hearts I see the worry and sorrow, and yet I do not understand. I return to my realm of cold under eternal twilight to ponder, and no light be shed upon me.

Do you know what it is like to be unable to remember? My memory is ever obscured by the barrier that separates sleep and wake. Such a thin barrier, which yet cannot be overcome. The memory of my son was cast to the abyss of sleep, and he speaks none to me.

Then I remember, once in a while, that I am always sleeping. How oft the memory returns I know not, for to me time is not.

My love I have never seen her, nor I ever will. She comes and goes, she has duties to perform; when one's time is up she wakes, and one's soul she takes. And when dawn arrives once again, she comes to sleep in our timeless twilight, with me in her cold embrace.

I am darkness,
I am night;
I am not.
Forever, good night.

-Probably partially inspired by Neil Gaiman.

Moonlit Nights

On that moonless night we celebrated the Mid-autumn Festival. In darkness we gathered with candles held in hand, as if to mourn the passing of summer. The square of the school was crowded with alumni from over the years of the school’s legacy; and yet I felt as if I walked the school grounds alone.

How ironic it was to hear the sonorous cry of celebration of the Mooncake Festival on a night with no moon. My old friends and I sat on the long corridor of the side entrance to the school where many memories lay. In semi-silence we gathered, with only occasional speak of current events and musings of the past.

Though always receptive to my surroundings at the time, I was at the same time immersed in thought. Perhaps there is no moon tonight, but in my heart always lives a moon of my own. Is she only a memory of what she used to be? When I felt her light dimmed, why did my inspiration too ebb away?

That night, I saw the warmth that thoughts of love bring; I saw the sorrow that love invokes; I saw the void that love can create. The legend of Chung E came to mind then, and in my mind the mist weaved a story for each pair of lovers under the moonless sky. There would be endings to them all, but with the endings would come memories, which I have not.

In my head to this day plays a soundtrack in the background; always there but not always audible even to myself. The song always changes, in tune, melody and words; but the feelings stay the same. I don’t think I can believe any longer, so I shall pretend.

Perhaps you are still the one I remember from spring; perhaps you are just a memory, but still I ask of you nothing but your heart.

“Fly me to the moon,
And let me play among the stars.
Won’t you let me see what spring is like on Jupiter & Mars?
In other words, hold my hand.
In other words: darling, kiss me.

Fill my heart with song,
And let me sing forever more.
For you are all I long for,
All I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true.
In other words: I love you.”

Do you know?

Do you know what it's like to be unappreciated by your own parents? Whatever skills you have they dismiss; whatever weaknesses they berate. To be forcefully moulded to their sick idea of a success plan; to be reprimanded for anything about you different to their useless ideals. To be hit and called useless for being something other than they want; to feel unloved and unwanted by the very people who brought you to this world.

That's my father. I do not love him.
Because he cannot accept me.

If that's how I've got to live my life,

Maybe I don't want to wake up.

Home

Let me stay home.

Tonight I fly the starry sky,

Tomorrow I cry and cry.

Look at my eyes,

These tears they shine with memories,

The summer days; The summer nights.

Let me be home.

At 2120 hours that plane I catch,

Look out your window,

Stare at that sky bereft of stars.

And maybe you'll see my airplane,

And we'll pretend it's our shooting star.

Let me go home.

These cards and letters I read,

Those memoirs I keep;

Arrayed faces and places,

Secrets and revelations,

Indeed the last dance is complete.

Let me remember home.

The sighing breeze;

The singing trees.

The breaking dawn and the melancholy twilight.

Things once unkown,

Carved now on stone.

To never fade even in the darkest day.

Someday, I'll know.

I'm already home.

I'm home.

For SeaYunn; for those who shared days and memories with her.