and your reply a straight no,

out the door this will go;

what we have, many years old.

and if hearts do turn cold

with all that i will unfold;

if history is to be retold,

then this seed i’d rather not sow.

some pull me by my skin on the back. i cannot see them, and they cannot be seen. but they are there, reeling me inch by inch, to where i can’t say. back to the pit, maybe. they are a mighty force, the intangible, the untouchable.

some pull me from both sides, taking turns to tug strong and hard. strong and hard they tug, alright. if i could have my way, i would go to both sides just to stop it. but no, i can’t. because, quite obviously, it is physically impossible.

still, there’s a pair of hands from the ground keeping me rooted. the left has a sickly green tint to it, and the right is covered with boils mad ruby red. i feel uncomfortable with them on my legs, i really do.

then i sense the light at the deep end, and my spirit, like a withering plant struggling towards sunlight, pulls off from my body in an attempt to reach it, for it knows it is where i must go. but i won’t, unless i see it.

and i am extremely myopic.

it rings true or merely a lather

formed by two hearts rubbed together

that with ease washes off later.

know not the flip-side,

know not what’s right;

a season, a tide,

confused i might.

so take off the veil

and show me what’s real,

that you may reveal

and i’ll speak of no ill.

a newly founded sense of dreadful longing.

you would not show concern or pity, or something and anything.

my wailing is but a cannonade of whispers lost in the sea of wind.

you refused and i am confused.

i could not have my way, and you left me marooned with inane ideals,

to be consumed by foolishness.

tell nothing less than the truth.

tell me there is a reason for all this.

why, darkness swells while light fades,

and i am left oblivious till it’s too late.

i could not convince the world. and,just maybe,

i could not convince you.

- japheth

here i am.

am i here?

here am i.

the ending i think i’d never

reach. it is so far, so

far away and i don’t see it or

maybe i do but i deceive myself

and i don’t see it but look

i don’t know, really. honest,

truth i am telling you please

believe me. i dearly want to see but i

don’t, i can’t, and maybe i

shan’t until i reach it then maybe

all will make sense until then will

you please take a look at my hands

and tell me they are beautiful? because

they are scarred, skin ripped, palms sawed and

raw and sticky, dripping with

viscous red a liquid so thick it looks

yummy like this sweet strawberry sauce i

had once on my ice-cream deep red and gooey or

the tomato paste mummy had on the pizza and then

hours later i see my room painted with the pretty

hue. so lovely, i thought, and mummy chided

me. say they are beautiful. don’t say otherwise and

now let me rest in my cradle i want to

take an eternal nap please thank you sir.

this will house my writings, basically. there is a maxim going around that says to improve in writing, you should write more. i’d better start writing more than i take showers.

here, i will put up mostly my works, which is not much. a lot of them will probably be bad ones. and they will either be short or incomplete; i tend to have sporadic jolts of inspiration that has a short lifespan, so that explains it. i will be unabashed here, and will accept comments, compliments and criticisms. if i see anything too interesting to be hidden under the bed of my mind, i will voice it out here too.

i don’t see myself maintaining this blog, truth be told. there is a chance i will simply drop this idea after the very first post. i don’t know, really. i realised i tend to drop something as quickly as i start it, especially when it is highly dependent on inspirations. also, some of my beliefs and deepest thoughts may be reflected in my writings and well, i don’t fancy people knowing my thoughts and pretend they understand me. anywise, here is part of a story i wrote a few weeks back. i wrote this much and didn’t bother with it anymore even though i told myself to complete this short story. it is probably riddled with lots of errors and details that do not make sense, but i guess i will only edit it once i sit down and really focus on completing it. so for now, here’s the raw, incomplete story so far. your thoughts on this will be food for my writing.

The Attempt

By Japheth Lim

“Call no man happy,” said Shadow, “until he is dead.”

- American Gods, Neil Gaiman

But of course, we all end up dead.

Which begs the question: why bother? Why slog it out, tread through the long, narrow, meandering path? Why encumber yourself, bear burdens you know you cannot carry, lug a heavy heart, strive to live? Why the foolishness? Why do we allow the sun to play tricks with us, deluding us with rays of hope when every day eventually succumbs to night and darkness?

I did not fantasize about death. I guess I was, in a way, looking forward to it, but no, I didn’t crave for the end of my life. Not yet at that time, at least. Some things, you have to wait.

And so I wondered why I jumped the queue and decided to throw myself will all abandonment down a building from the twenty-fifth floor head first. Not that it would matter if I went down feet first. Or would it? I never got to find out. It is almost funny, come to think of it. As I dived, that though flashed through my mind. But before I can come to a decision and change my choice of body part to come into contact with the cold, solid concrete first, it was a blank.

Wow.

It happened so quickly. I had hoped the journey down would last a trifle longer. Life refuses to go your way, even till the point of near-death, it seems. Well, if anything, at least I made a wise choice. I thought death by slamming the ground with your body at a high speed would be easier than, say, slashing your wrist or suffocating. The latter methods leave way too much time for the past to creep into your mind, thereby making you even more miserable than when you decided to commit the last act. They also leave room for salvation, which you would probably want to avoid given the situation. Unless someone manages to blow up a gigantic cushion right before you hit the floor, jumping off the building guarantees an end, a teleute, finis. Of course, you must get off from a considerable height. That goes without saying.

Back to the blank. Its unbelievable lack of substance weighs you down, swallows you and eludes you all at the same time. It is neither white nor black. It is not grey, blue, brown, yellow, green or pink (thank God) either. It is blank. You cannot fathom blank. It constrains and it liberates. As you look forward, you are looking down, and then you are glancing to both your left and your right while eyeing the sky, or where the sky should be. You are neither on terra firma nor floating. There is no wall at the sides and you are leaning on to nothing. Nothing makes sense, but it is all natural. Quite an experience, being in the blank is. Three more seconds and I would have gone totally bonkers. I was already there for an eternity.

I decided to count sheep, maybe get some sleep. I was not tired, but I was not brimming with energy either. It was more for occupying time, if anything, and not let time occupy me. So I started to count them wooly creatures. That was about the time I realised I could not conjure the image of the animal in my mind. Had I forgotten how a sheep look like? I tried to recall how Sean looked like (I swear you can’t tell the difference between sheep and Sean), and I got a slightly better, but still very fuzzy, image. The picture that popped out in my head looks kind of like the sort that my grandma’s vintage television with no remote control and bad reception get. Strange. Very strange indeed. Have I lost the ability to think? Are memories eluding me? Are sheep really white and fluffy like I assumed them to be? Is Sean really not a sheep? Can I scratch my back with my leg while playing ping-pong with a Chihuahua? Questions questions.

It was when I was trying to scratch my back with my left leg that he appeared. Out of nowhere, if I may add. He looked old but seem to possess a youthful countenance. I figured his age to be in the neighbourhood of sixty-five, his height to be around 1.75483m, his shoe size to be 9.43 UK size and his status to be married twice over with many grandchildren. Short, white hair, white beard, immaculately white shirt, blinding white pants, glaring white shoes. I could bet my ear that he was wearing a pair of shining white briefs, if he wore any. This dull, utterly uncreative choice of colour for his outfit contrasted quite nicely with his rich golden tan and his intense blue eyes, though.

‘SHUT UP!’ I yelled. God knows why I did that. Force of habit, maybe. As to why I did that to a stranger at that point of time, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe I knew nothing good would come out of his mouth. Maybe I knew I couldn’t bear hearing someone else talk in that all-forsaken blank. Maybe I wanted to gauge how loud my voice can be in that place, and it suddenly occurred to me to test it out. Maybe I just wanted to provoke him and pick a fight. Or maybe three seconds were up and I had gone bonkers for real.

He just stood there. If he was frightened or amused, he didn’t show. We stared at each other, waiting for the other to say something. Is he obeying me? Should I, then, give him the permission to talk? Do Chihuahuas honestly know how to play ping-pong? Can someone please give me an answer?

The weird old guy smiled. It was not a smirk, and it was not the smile of a child molester. It was more like a I-know-what-is-going-on-in-here sort of smile. I thought I may have mentioned that last thought of mine out loud.

to be continued…