Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.


On identity
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.

On Christianity
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.

On dreams
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.


On melancholy
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.

On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.

On language
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.

On politics
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?

On society
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.

On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.

On philosophy
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?

On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.


Saturday, March 12, 2005

now that i find all this around me, all this adversity. they are looking me in the eye, awaiting an answer to this deafening question. if i had enemies, they too would surround me, box me in, but attack me they won't. they would stand there waiting for the word on my mouth. and all the heavenly bodies would stop from quaking, from their wars, they will all stop. and they will wait and watch me waiting. if it's pindrop silence, it's pindrop silence. and it's cold and silent here now.

who am i?

a vagabond. i am a homeless traveler, a wanderer through towns i do not own, through places i must not love. i tresspass over this place like it were mine, but i am only homeless. i'm not a troublemaker. i didn't come here to steal you, to kill you, i didn't come here to destroy that which you love. i am a vagabond. i used to have a lot on me, but right now this is all there is. i've been stripped off my lofty things, so now i wander through your reeds, your trees, your cities like some kind of non-man.

who am i?

a blind man. everywhere i turn, i strain my eyes to see, to make sense of the world before me, yet i cannot make out its forms. the shapes and colours and textures i used to know are now alien to me. i look but i don't see. my eyes have been scattered so that everything before me is just a hazy approximation of yesterday's expectations. i am blind! there is nothing in front of me, so i walk and i stumble. i remember he said walk while there is light. but for one with no eyes, the night feels so, so long.

who are you?

do you mean me well? surely you do. yet, i do not feel i belong here, yet i do not see it as you mean it. who is this behind the scene, this almighty scribe of my presently miserable tale. they say you are an author with an eye for good endings. they say you are a father yourself, and you know how to love. they say you are a son yourself, and you know how to need to be loved. you see me right now, you know the pain i'm going through. for all i know you wrote this pain yourself. who are you? what incredible man do you have in mind to make me into that you must now write in such incredible despair? what sense is this you use, this sense that you alone use? if i could only grasp it, maybe i could try and play along.

who am i?

a lost sheep. not one that has fallen into a ditch of sin, just one that is lost. i am the sheep that has strayed from the flock, the sheep that stops in its tracks and looks around, and with its limited capacity to comprehend fear and abandonment and loneliness, starts bleeting for its shepherd. i am the sheep that wanders into a foreign land, a vagabond, the sheep that did not look, a blind sheep. i am the sheep that sits alone by a rock, and if it had eyes, it would cry.

where is my shepherd?

where is your rod and your staff? you call yourself shepherd. don't leave me here all night, please. if you don't come and lift me up and carry me back, i will surely die. i will perish in this alien place. in my blindness, i will be devoured by what i wouldn't even know. shepherd, i need you to save me. shepherd, i need eyes so i can see, i need a pathway so i can go home. shepherd, i know your voice, i just need to hear it. i know your footstep, it is slow and assuring, not like the ones of onrushing beasts. now that i've stopped seeing, and looking, let me hear you, your voice, your steps, your come-home call.

then surely, goodness and mercy shall find me, and follow me, and i will sleep in your arms forever.

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Genusfrog [ 7:43 pm ]


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