My Remaining Years Unus

I have been thinking, reflecting, contemplating and introspecting about the function of my life. I realised that asking the question "What is the meaning of life?" is too broad and complex an aspect for me to even contemplate, let alone understand. So I stopped looking around for answers at such a broad capacity - it is simply not meant for me to find out; someone else will, and that someone else will share that aspect with me if he or she wants to and is meant to.

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So I started asking, how is my life suppose to pen out? One thing I'm sure is that my heart has protected me so far and has led me to where I am today - the way I had pictured myself, in this framework, about two decades ago. But running along, since I know that the universe gives me what I want in its due course, somehow or other, I started asking what is the function of it?

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I'm sure so far, my life has not been one that is to procreate and to multiply - if not, I would have - most probably - a quarter of a dozen running around by now. Maternal instincts has neither been cultivated nor activated - there is no inclination to have a child of my own. I just know that the normal way of life of starting and raising a family doesn't apply to me and hankering after textbook normality of life will lead me to desperation and depression - two possible outcomes that are going to lead me to nowhere.

I trust my heart to ask, "Then what is the function of this life and how do I die properly at the end of it?"

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I feel that death is neither dark nor a fearful subject to think about, even though I am not considered anywhere near middle age; but it is realistic to contemplate and prepare on this taboo subject - an event of eventuality. Since I can't avoid it, I might as well think about it and prepare for it.

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I believe that my life is written uniquely - like anyone else's - and I am meant to learn something from this life and add value to the world around me while I’m learning from it. How I’m going to do it? I don’t know, but I am certain that life has its way of leading me to it.

What I can promise is I will do my best to protect the temple that protects my heart; the temple that is needed to house me while I am walking this life filled with unknowns and opportunities and its fair share of treacheries and tragedies.

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I started to appreciate that this body of mine has repaired and mended itself well in spite of abuses and neglect through thoughts, diets and sloth throughout these years. The resilience of this temple is indeed the protection, blessing and miracle bestowed upon me.

I know that it is my responsibility to nourish my body and mind on these three aspects: good thoughts through knowledge and good association; proper diet through eating consciously and selectively; and proper actions through discipline, for I know that this temple is going to carry me through the remaining journey to answer my question on how to die - properly - without feeling that I have not done what was chosen and written for.

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For the rest of my journey, may my heart be led by the divine.

Why I Write

I just finished reading George Orwell's essay "Why I Write" written in 1946. The piece detailed the reasons on what inspired him to write.

What stood out were Orwell's "four motives of writing" that exist in every writer:

Sheer egoism, the desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed
you in childhood, etc., etc.; aesthetic enthusiasm, the
perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement; historical impulse, the desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity; and political purpose, the desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter
other peoples' idea of the kind of society that they should strive after.

Orwell, who was renowned to be a political writer, professed to be motivated by the first three in the list - surprisingly.

That led me to wonder: What started me writing? Now that I have Mr Orwell's analysis on different writers' motivation in print, I can use his take on the topic to ask myself that question.

Initially, I questioned if his list is too short and not exhaustive enough to categorise all types of writers - I took his analysis nonetheless. I am basing on the fact that he had written and published so many well-known literature that are still very much loved and well respected by the world to this day; therefore, his observations must hold some empirical truth.

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Honestly, the reason that I write is because writing has made me more sensitive and more aware of my feelings and of others. Whenever I experience something that would arouse my emotions that vary - from sheer ecstasy to utter misery - I will try to put together emotive words in my head to "get THAT right feel for THAT moment"; likewise, I repeat the same process when I see a myriad of feelings coming from characters ranging from reel life to real life.

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A simple example would be how I dislike using "happy" for situations ranging from receiving a pay raise to winning the jackpot. The feeling I get when I can express the different tonations of happiness with words, is like finally being able to bake the perfect pound cake that granny used to make: the right taste, the right texture and how perfect it feels when I put it in my mouth. When I am able to construct the exact right level of tonations using words to express how HAPPY I am for that given instance, that will really send tiny currents of thrill through me.

From the above said, I can say that I love collecting emotive expressions using words.

Another group of expressions that I thoroughly enjoy collecting are beautifully crafted expressions to describe the most mundane of the physical senses: hunger, thirst, cold, a tummyache or simply a description of how irritating a painful pimple can get. I collect them as how people would collect movies and music and stamps.

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It is without a doubt that it was confusing when I try to fit myself into any of the four groups on the list. The initial thought would be that I am writing out of sheer vanity and having a need to show how clever a piece of my writing can get - I feel that most people would be aroused to write due to these two reasons, to be honest. Orwell was not wrong when he wrote that writers are vain. They need to be vain and to be sheer egoisticical to start writing; however, being sheer egoistic cannot be the main reason. The main core must be topic relevant: what compels the writer - me - to write? After much given thought and having written so much about it, I can honestly say that I get aroused to write due to some form of sheer egoism. The big compulsion to do so is due to an underlying motivation that ought to be aptly placed under the category of aesthetic enthusiasm.

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Woman

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

I am the wife and the virgin...

I am the barren one,

and many are her sons...

I am the silence that is incomprehensible...

I am the utterance of my name.

In Search Of My Caricature

Not that easy to do at all! Lots of self reflections... to even get the nose, eyes, brow and shape of face "right"... yet it still looks incorrect.

Millions and millions of permutations of different features, tiniest differences will make us look that unique.

Real Love - John Lennon. It's Poetry.

All my little plans and schemes,

Lost like some forgotten dreams.

Seems that all I really was doing

Was waiting for you.

Just like little girls and boys
Playing with their little toys,

Seems like all they really were doing

Was waiting for love.

Don't need to be alone.

No need to be alone.

It's real love. It's real.

Yes, it's real love. It's real.

From this moment on I know

Exactly where my life will go.

Seems that all I really was doing

Was waiting for love.

Don't need to be afraid.

No need to be afraid.

It's real love. It's real.

Yes, it's real love. It's real.

Thought I'd been in love before,

But in my heart I wanted more.

Seems like all I really was doing

Was waiting for you.

Don't need to be alone.

Don't need to be alone.

It's real love. It's real.

It's real love. It's real.

Yes, it's real love.

It's real. It's real love.

It's real.

Read the fine print.

To The Man Who Told Us To Look At The Man In The Mirror

I have watched his life since I had a single digit to reflect the number of years I walked on this earth. The triumph of his first few albums, the adoration of his fans, the sculpting of a once beautiful face.. only to crumble in front of the world to see..

Being thrown into the wilderness and milked by the beasts of the jungles.. only to be regurgitated and spat out when winds and tides changed against him.. Vultures circled around him, to take a piece of whatever that is left of him as his seemingly beautiful world collapsed around him.. There was no support.. Only ridicules.. And the egging of the beasts for that further collapse to feed on him..
That was hard for any mere mortal to bear. What dignity was left for him?

The world had been hard on him. Everyone wanted a piece of him.. a mere mortal placed involuntarily in the position of a demi-god.. only to demand the very same qualities that we carved him out to be.

The tears behind the curtains that were not shunned from the lights that shone on him...Till the curtains finally came down...

Take a bow, Michael.. May you finally have peace.
R.I.P.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...

...Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

- William Shakespeare

Picture: Wun Ying's collection