I Am Old Now

Friday, August 17, 2007

My room is sparse—
It has always been
Tied to the past.
I lie alone,
A bed for my throne,
A Queen of simple pleasures.
Sweets to my left,
A luxury of youth.
My bony hand quivers—
Just short of the candy.
Perhaps, I deserve them no more.
I am old now.
My smile is bare
But filled with life yet.
But that, too, is diminishing
Before my own eyes.
Myself is all I can see.
All else is a blur—
But memory is vivid.
The shades of war,
Dull but unfading.
The first colour photograph---
My beloved son.
I hold these dear,
Though my touch is numb.
Though I grow old,
My mind is young.
But Death does not see—
She comes for me,
Takes my hand gently, softly
To peace in eternity.
And perhaps, I do not mind.
For I am old now.
I belong to a world
Of a different kind.

Posted by jon at 10:36 PM

truth hurts

Sunday, April 09, 2006

There is ever always lack of sooth
Within he who bears the truth
His secrets hidden painfully
Eyes glazed over shielding misery

For the world pours forth
Doubt, anger, lack of worth
Directed to one, disguised from all
Sneaky nuggets behind his heart's musty wall

Twisting, turning, torturing, trying
To flee for the light dimly shining
Dimly caring still
Wearing down his battered will

Yet these doves that yearn to fly
Are but ravens ravishing he who cries

Suppose then that this one man
Held the world in his one hand
Looked behind our hideous lies
Uncovering the people for whom he dies

He who understands man's very nature
Bears our ill with postured stature
Our truth pierces hands and side
That fateful day love and forgiveness collide

Posted by jon at 3:51 AM

a worthy sacrifice, a blessing in disguise

Sunday, December 11, 2005

I embraced my mother as she collapsed against me. Tears streamed down my face as a haunting hum rang through the still air of the hospital ward. "Daddy's gone," I whispered. The medicines, the machines. They could not save him. Then I caught the smile that lingered on Daddy's ghostly pale face. Then, I knew that at least I had done all I could for him.

Last December, I was caught up making plans with my friends for quick Christmas escapades. We had plans for Sentosa, where we would get our glorious Hollywood tans. We had plans for sleepovers, filled with gossip, popcorn, laughter and barrels of girly fun. These plans however, were cruelly shattered when the frail, lung cancer-ravaged frame of my father walked into my room one day. My face turned sour. He sat me down on my bed and began to speak slowly, with a slight tremor in his voice. "Alice, you know I only have two months to live. I just want to see my hometown again and I'd like you to go with me." I was momentarily stunned. My father was asking me to leave my friends behind and go with him, a sickly man to a place I had never been to? I was angry. "Daddy, can't mum go with you?" I asked in the most passive, neutral voice I could muster. He shook his bald head. Was it not I who had forewarned him that smoking would get him killed? I turned away. "Alice, please. Mother has to take care of little Justina. I just want some time with you before I go. Could you do just this last favour for me? " Could I say no? That last line touched me deeply. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but I was determined not to show weakness. I simply nodded. Father and daughter embraced for the first time in months.

As I packed my bags on the eve of our departure, I could not help the nagging feeling that I was missing out on so much more fun with my friends. It was difficult, telling them that I would be away, but they helped by encouraging me to go, as they were aware of my father's plight. Mum and little Justina waved us goodbye at the departure hall as I turned by back on Singapore to face the interests of my father. During the flight, I felt conflicting emotions searing through. I was bitter about missing out on an ideal holiday season yet I wanted to do all I could to fulfill my father's final request. When we finally touched down in Manila, a fleeting radiance touched upon his face that had been absent all this time. He was home.

The long bus ride to the province took us through the main districts of Manila where my father excitedly pointed out to me the places where he used to study, and his old haunts. I felt happy for him, that he could see one last time the places and faces that brought him up. Then it dawned on me that this trip meant the world to him, for it would be the last time he would see all this. There would be no repeat visits, it was simply a sense of closure he sought. I realised that I should make the best of the situation and make him happy in his last days.

We finally arrived at the province, and I was amazed at the vibrancy of the atmosphere. The Philippines, being a predominantly Catholic country, celebrated Christmas with great flair and importance for Christ is born, and a new hope is given to mankind. However, I knew that there was no hope for my father, no Christmas miracle this time. We settled in at a quaint hotel decorated tastefully with Christmas lights and a beautiful Christmas tree adorned with an angel in the middle of the lounge. We took a rest that day, for my father was tired out form the flight and the winding bus ride. As he slept, I watched television at a low volume and as the images of Santa and his elves popped up on screen, I knew that this was going to be the most special Christmas ever.

We woke up early on Christmas morning, and dressed warmly. Taking a stroll through the once familiar streets, my father reminisced about his younger days. We had a simple breakfast as he kept up his lively stream of words. Till that day, I never recalled my father laughing ever since he was diagnosed with terminal stage lung cancer. Maybe the spirit of Christmas too played a part in helping me find a special meaning to this Christmas. I realised that I had probably given my father his best Christmas present yet. I had given him the opportunity to spend his last Christmas in his rustic hometown, and a chance to form a bond with his daughter again. My mood perked up tremendously as we headed to mass at a nearby church.

The church was packed, but a kind youth gave up his seat to my father. An angelic chorus sang out melodious Christmas carols in rousing harmony and I felt our spirits lifted in songs of praise. I never attended a more beautiful mass and the priest said in his homily, "Give all you can this Christmas to your love dones." Those words rang in my head as we left the church, perspiring from the heat but feeling spiritually uplifted and fulfilled. OUtside the church, I took my father's hand and said, tears brimming from my eyes, "Merry Christmas Daddy. I love you." He smiled as he gripped my hand firmly. "I know Alice. I love you too. " It was the most poignant, touching moment of my life. At that point, I could care less about what my friends were doing back home. It was worth the while accompanying my father on his way home, eventually to the Father above.

Two weeks later, our world was shattered when my father was rushed to the hospital with breathing difficulties. He could not be saved. Our parish priest administered the Last Rites before Daddy left us, and together with mum and Justina, we said goodbye. It was inevitable, but at least I know, I did my best for my old man. Merry Christmas, Daddy.

Posted by jon at 4:45 AM

inspiration

Here's the first of two edits from school essays. Felt that I expressed myself best in these two.

Inspiration. It came upon me like a resurgent wave, each time stronger than the last. It flooded my mind, washed it clean of any shred of doubt i had of myself. Each ebb and flow pulled me inch by inch further into its stronghold, and i embraced it.

edit

Inspiration. It is lik ea cyclone. It whips you up, tosses you around, strikes fear in you simply bdcause it is so overwhelming. Suddenly, you find yourself in its eye. All is quiet. You know not what to expect because you have never felt this way before. You fear the worst, that inspiration will ravage you and give you and irrational sense of confidence. But inspiration does not come to those who cling to fear. Inspiration is the spirit that frees the hearts of those who can.

edit

Inspiration. I doubted its presence surrounding me. How could I, when it is a passionate fire buring within me? It is constantly spurring me to do more, to do better, to work harder. Sometimes, I feel so tired. It fills me with the longing to do so much but sometimes, when I try, I stumble and fall. It is at these times when I feel low, that I am inspired by those closest to me, my parents, my pillars of strength, to stand up again and rise above the rest.

Posted by jon at 4:36 AM

quayside

Saturday, November 12, 2005

I take in the air Quayside. It is fresh. A tinge of chamomile, perhaps. It is just past noon on a Monday. Strangely, the office people few around here. Normally, this would be a cause for concern, for no one can afford a dwindling business. However, I savour this opportunity to come out from behind the stoves at the cafe, to soak in the life that goes by only too quickly. A ray of sunshine breaks through the the juxtaposition of white clouds, meeting the lapping water of the Singapore River, stretching out flowing strands of blue to embrace its warmth. A single eagle soars overhead. The sight is almost majestic as it glides sensuously across the unrelenting expanse of blue skies. The bumboats' engines whir as eager tourists traverse the narrow banks.

I have missed so much. Sometimes, it takes moments like these to remind me that life goes on outside work. Moments of silence and tranquility to appease my stirring soul. Too often have I brushed aside requests from friends and family to relax, to let work take a back seat just once. I persistently reject, stubborn heart unwilling to let go of my life's passion. Yet once in awhile it does not hurt to indulge in the unparelleled beauty of landscape. Manmade though it may be in Singapore, theres is much to be marvelled at the way the charm of the 19th century is captured in the architecture of downtown Clarke Quay. I feel the wind streaking through my long black hair. Snap back to reality. The first few customers stream in. I have to go now.

Posted by jon at 5:56 AM

four walls

Four walls. He was alone, or so he thought. But I was there watching, an omniscient observer unknown to his senses. The windows were tightly shut but it was not stifling. Rather, the air was light and the tranquillity that hung in the air seemed to lift his spirits. He picked a pencil up from the dusty vinyl flooring and sat upright on the rickety old chair. He began to write furiously and the table creaked as his weight began to lean upon it. My heart swelled with pride as I looked on in secret. He wanted to do this alone. But I couldn’t restrain myself. He told me that he had to do this. He said, “I shall write about the rays of the sun, of how it warms me in winter. I shall write about the ocean’s hand, so blue against the white grains of sand. I’ll write of the leaves of green, and the dewdrops and the morning mist.” I wept at his confident proclamation five long years ago, out of pity, but today, I wept for joy for him. He lifted his head and looked straight ahead, out of the window, right at the setting sun. It glowed a warm hue of red and orange. But he couldn’t see that. He relaxed his shoulders and set his pencil down. You see, my son was born blind.

Posted by jon at 5:54 AM

driftwood

I am nothing of great importance, a mere dull slab of driftwood, flowing ever downstream and it never stops. The current pulls me along. I am too weak to resist. Where do I belong? I see the world on either sides of me. It is deeply rooted inthe banks of rigidity. I see the people live their lives. It seems to be a single mundane routine, their movements so meticulous and predictable, they are almost robotic. Yet once in awhile, I see a flash of expression. Sorrow, anger, contentment. There is a spectrum of emotion unique to mankind. It makes them feel and maybe, just maybe, someone along these banks will sense my loneliness and take me in.

Where in this place do I fit in? I, an insignificant piece of driftwood. Perhaps someday, I will find comfort in some small niche deep in the warm, inviting riverbank. This journey must come to an end for I cannot drift forever. The river opens out in the big blue oceans of freedom. Suddenly, the banks seem to be but a soft option. I can only dream to reach the river's end to attain a new beginning. I know that obstacles stand in my way, and the sea of opportunities are nothing but a fantasy. I am trapped, trapped with a dream. For now, I drift along with fading hope.

They are waiting for me to slip into their arms to caress me, eager to make me one of them. But I want to be different, not complacent. I want to go places and maybe I do not really want to fit in afterall. I want to drift away, into the open arms of new life. The path ahead is daunting, and I have no control over it. I am powerless to shap my destiny but the nudging current is encouraging. I am ready to stand out from uniformity and step out of reality. It is all too overwhelming, the temptation to be taken in by the banks but I long to go places. I will try, though I may not succeed. A tiny piece of driftwood can go places, if it will only try.

Posted by jon at 5:43 AM

vintage collection

Monday, September 19, 2005

Welcome aboard everyone. I haven't actually told anyone about this blog I've just created specially for my little bits and pieces of writing I tend to do once in awhile, so I guess I'm just saying 'hi' to myself for now. One day, maybe in a year or two when I look back at the vintage collection, I can see how far I've come. My dream is to be a writer or a journalist of some sort, and I can only hope that this is a step in the right direction. Happy reading (: