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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
ON LOOKING DEPRESSING
If you don't know who this guy is, he is michael owen. that's 2008 ashen-faced bedraggled-looking 5 o'clock shadow michael owen. it's incredible what a few years in the wilderness can do to your countenance. in 2000, this same michael owen was the fresh-faced beacon of hope for english football, the darling of liverpool.
ambition, perhaps. after the 2004 season, owen would ask to be transferred to the bloated real madrid. liverpool received pittance for what was their biggest star but one season later would win the european cup while owen watched from a tv set somewhere in spain. he would spend most of his time in madrid sitting down and eventually moved to newcastle, where he is now.
there's just something about post-madrid owen that doesn't look right. maybe it's something that the mid-20s does to someone. or maybe bad decisions leaves a shade of defeat on the faces of some people. maybe it's just the really uninspiring photoshoot that the fools at newcastle fc put together for their new home kit. can someone please explain how what was once england's most exciting young striker can look so depressing at what should be the peak of his career?
i had a friend once, this girl, who used to be a bit like a young michael owen. she was really on fire. she served at her church, had a gigantic singing voice, and always sounded either thoughtful or excited. she loved GMB, the indonesian worship band, and used to tell me that i should jam with her one day so she can sing some "raawk" songs. once i sent her home from somewhere and she played a cd and sang really loudly over it - a really passionate person she was. this was in 2004. then i lost touch with her.
this year, i discovered that she lives in the same apartment block that i live in. a few floors up. i see her sometimes, waiting outside or walking to the lift. and when i do, i stop and talk to her. most of the time, she has very few words to say. busy. project. tiring. but you know what? it's not even about not having time or energy. like owen at newcastle, something about this friend has been taken away from her. once she was really spunky. now everything about her seems dead. as a friend - or an old friend - i really don't know what to do.
yesterday was day 12 of my give me 40 days. i prayed first for her. then i prayed, funnily enough, for michael owen. i hope both of them find their feet and start to get some joy into themselves soon. lord knows, if anyone saw me last year, they'd have thought the same thing.
Labels: defeat, football, growing old
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