Where to start with this blog? It has been a long time since I last wrote one. I'm feeling a little brave tonight so forget the whole poem thing--the old stream-of-consciousness writing ensues.
I was thinking the other day why I started putting only poems or retarded "metaphorical" stories on here. I think I started on a path of a broader difference between the outside and within--to be even less serious and joke around more and yet write more introspective things on here. As if I was going to reveal some other hidden part of me, or even the real me or something, I do not even know what the real me is. Somehow I thought that I would get people's attention through what I wrote. Humph, silly idea that was. I guess in order to do that you have to write about relevant things or in a way that makes sense to people. So then I found myself in such a conflict, is it better to write in a way that is true to yourself and what you are trying to express? Or better to write less vaguely so people can more easily identify?
I just read a friend's blog and I feel so broken for him, what can I do? So much pain in the lives of people I know and regretting not saying the words to let them know of the vicarious hurt I feel for them, even if I never had the words. You, my friends that bear the scars of troubles, that come out stronger--are my heroes. You who mourn your losses and take on life with even more courage.
I did not set any New Year's resolutions this year. No, it was not that I resolved not to make resolutions or anything clever like that. I only hope that it was not a manifestation of my apathy. I had never been real big on it but I would try and change things I guess. Sheesh, talk of resolutions is so trite. Ok, moving on...
A struggle recently has been belonging. I always thought I would belong at home in that humid paradise of sweat and splendid food. Bangkok I will always love you. Thailand you are always my home. Then I met with my classmates and friends and I felt very out of place, which I was perplexed at initially because we had come from all over--none of us had seen each other in a while. But as I thought about it I realized that we were living such different lives, headed in different directions and that saddened me so. The decisions they make, the lifestyle that they live contrasted with mine. At times I felt as if maybe I was not really living life in this institution we call Simpson University, in an artificial atmosphere. Truly, being surrounded by Christians 24/7 is amazing in the fellowship I get, but it is so ersatz. I say this because when we are finished with our time here, we are in the real world again of nonbelievers. I'm not sure how to tie my several thoughts in here into one paragraph. Anyway, all this to say that I felt like it was difficult for me to identify with my friends and relate with their experiences because my life is so different. Not that I am jealous of their lives, I just felt empty. Especially because I felt like I would always have that closeness with them. Even more so because I felt between two worlds, not belonging to either. Because I am not a super-Christian, or as vibrantly expressive in my faith in this place of deep spirituality. Because I grew up overseas, I can get close to but not never quite relate with people here. [Do not get me wrong, people here are amazing, just the belonging is not quite there.] Home is where the heart is, but if the heart is reluctantly extirpated where is home? [I know I know, my family is still there. Duh, home is always with them but...you get what I mean.] 'Sigh, the human need to sense belonging.
I noticed that in the times I am feeling the most melancholy is sometimes when people laugh most at what I say. Kind of counter-intuitive I guess. But I guess humor makes it easier to hide.
Sometimes I wish I were like those people that write inspiring things or revelations from life that move people to live life differently or to think about stuff. Or to at least write about relevant things that matter, based on the constant outcry of pain and suffering in the world exacerbated by apathy and inaction.
Going back to living different lives than my friends...a difficult thought was, would I have lived any differently had I been in their situation? What foolish decisions would I have made, or even if I were put in them now would I fall?
Well that concludes for now. I thought I had much more to write when I started but this is what managed to leak out of my fumbled mind.
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
April 06, 2005 - A Metaphor
Below I have a story which I wrote pretty much in a stream-of-consciousness manner. I got an idea and decided to run with it. It is a metaphor, analogy, or short story or something for what we face in life with decisions and what is on my mind. I realize it is not very deep and it is imperfect. Usually I try and develop an idea before I write it but this time it just all spewed out. This will probably bore you if you actually read to completion anyway, but I realize that if you analyze elements of my life (allow me to be narcisstic for a moment and pretend that it is even a possibility) it could seem that this has specific implications. Please do not assume so.
Mouth agape he entered the massive library, the wise incandescent glow watched from above. The smell of old books filled his nostrils as he stood in awe, gazing at the daunting labyrinth of books. The library was empty except for the sole librarian who sat at her tiny wooden desk, illuminated by a small bronze lamp. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair short and curly, she looked up at him with faded green eyes through her spectacles, offering a gentle smile. "May I help you?" she asked. He looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "I'm here to find a book, but I don't know what i want." She chuckled and said as if she understood, "Take your time and browse, since you are new around here, I'll only let you take one book out, okay?" He nodded and began on his way, scanning up and down and along the towers of bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to many different types of books, whether it be the title that captured his curiousity, or the familiarness of the author or even an unfamiliar author with an interesting name. There were books that had colorful and artistic covers that caught his eye, others that drew him out of their simplicity. He visited the multifarious seictions systematically, in some he lingered for a long time while others he quickly left.
After going through several books which he decided he did not want to read for various reasons after reading little portions of them, he finally settled on one. He had walked by this book many times but did not really notice it until he had become frustrated with his previous selections. He found that he really enjoyed this from the start. He began to read it earnestly and as quickly as he could when suddenly the librarian rushed over and snatched it from him. She asked if he was sure this was the book he wanted and he said, "Yes, I think so." She said, "Well, I'm going to take this from you for a bit, you can sit and think about it some more. You can browse some more if you like."
Instead he sat there dejected because he had been so excited about that book. It seemed like an eternity had passed when finally she returned it to him. He read for a long time before she came back and did the same. She repeated this everal times, so he began to look around timidly, not really searching for anything because he had made quite a bit of progress in the other book. It pleased him and kept his interest, "it is good" he thought to himself. As he was wandering aimlessly he accidentally bumped into one of the bookcases which were so solid it did not even budge, but a single book fell off. "Silly fool!" he thought to himself, "watch where you are going!" He looked at the label of the section he was in and walked over to replace the book to its original location. There was something about it that made him not want to put it back, so he looked at the front cover--the title was an interesting one but he hadn ever heard of the author. He then flipped the book over and read the back and this really made him want to read it. He could not, he told himself, because he needed to finish the other one since he had read so much already. He refused to put the book back however.
The wait for the other book was forever. Finally the librarian returned and he tried to ask her which he thought he should read but she refused to answer, "you must make the decision yourself." She did say that it was time for him to leave as the library was closing. He was puzzled, which to read? The one he had begun, which he already knew as good or the other which was a new possibility? Risk keeping the good to find out the other was better? Or take the new and risking that it be a letdown? To go with what he knew already, could he make himself satisfied knowing that he had made a good choice? Or would the possibility of "better" haunt him?
Panic gripped him as he could not decide, but he knew he must.
***Yeah yeah, I know, there are many faults where you can say that it's not a big deal because its a library he's only checking out the book, he can get another one later. I could list more but that would be dumb.***
Mouth agape he entered the massive library, the wise incandescent glow watched from above. The smell of old books filled his nostrils as he stood in awe, gazing at the daunting labyrinth of books. The library was empty except for the sole librarian who sat at her tiny wooden desk, illuminated by a small bronze lamp. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair short and curly, she looked up at him with faded green eyes through her spectacles, offering a gentle smile. "May I help you?" she asked. He looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "I'm here to find a book, but I don't know what i want." She chuckled and said as if she understood, "Take your time and browse, since you are new around here, I'll only let you take one book out, okay?" He nodded and began on his way, scanning up and down and along the towers of bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to many different types of books, whether it be the title that captured his curiousity, or the familiarness of the author or even an unfamiliar author with an interesting name. There were books that had colorful and artistic covers that caught his eye, others that drew him out of their simplicity. He visited the multifarious seictions systematically, in some he lingered for a long time while others he quickly left.
After going through several books which he decided he did not want to read for various reasons after reading little portions of them, he finally settled on one. He had walked by this book many times but did not really notice it until he had become frustrated with his previous selections. He found that he really enjoyed this from the start. He began to read it earnestly and as quickly as he could when suddenly the librarian rushed over and snatched it from him. She asked if he was sure this was the book he wanted and he said, "Yes, I think so." She said, "Well, I'm going to take this from you for a bit, you can sit and think about it some more. You can browse some more if you like."
Instead he sat there dejected because he had been so excited about that book. It seemed like an eternity had passed when finally she returned it to him. He read for a long time before she came back and did the same. She repeated this everal times, so he began to look around timidly, not really searching for anything because he had made quite a bit of progress in the other book. It pleased him and kept his interest, "it is good" he thought to himself. As he was wandering aimlessly he accidentally bumped into one of the bookcases which were so solid it did not even budge, but a single book fell off. "Silly fool!" he thought to himself, "watch where you are going!" He looked at the label of the section he was in and walked over to replace the book to its original location. There was something about it that made him not want to put it back, so he looked at the front cover--the title was an interesting one but he hadn ever heard of the author. He then flipped the book over and read the back and this really made him want to read it. He could not, he told himself, because he needed to finish the other one since he had read so much already. He refused to put the book back however.
The wait for the other book was forever. Finally the librarian returned and he tried to ask her which he thought he should read but she refused to answer, "you must make the decision yourself." She did say that it was time for him to leave as the library was closing. He was puzzled, which to read? The one he had begun, which he already knew as good or the other which was a new possibility? Risk keeping the good to find out the other was better? Or take the new and risking that it be a letdown? To go with what he knew already, could he make himself satisfied knowing that he had made a good choice? Or would the possibility of "better" haunt him?
Panic gripped him as he could not decide, but he knew he must.
***Yeah yeah, I know, there are many faults where you can say that it's not a big deal because its a library he's only checking out the book, he can get another one later. I could list more but that would be dumb.***
February 15, 2005 - Taunting, Transient Terror Revisited
Taunting transient terror, revisited...
"Taunting transient terror" thou have proved thyself not a sojourner, but rather stalwart in the tantalizing of my soul.
Have you come to materialize and show thyself to be an oasis and not a mirage? Or have I begun to fade, hiding behind the solid that creates me, from the light and become a shadow? Helpless, fettered to the movements of that which I hide behind. Only extant in the presence of light--that of which I hide from--the paradox of dependence upon its existence and yet it is what erases my existence.
Oh, terror, have you and I traded places?
"Taunting transient terror" thou have proved thyself not a sojourner, but rather stalwart in the tantalizing of my soul.
Have you come to materialize and show thyself to be an oasis and not a mirage? Or have I begun to fade, hiding behind the solid that creates me, from the light and become a shadow? Helpless, fettered to the movements of that which I hide behind. Only extant in the presence of light--that of which I hide from--the paradox of dependence upon its existence and yet it is what erases my existence.
Oh, terror, have you and I traded places?
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