Welcome to Earth
We live with the winter in our minds,
Hopes and dream frozen in thick ice.
Truth and falsity slip and fall,
We thought it was funny, and had a ball.
I saw a man who was a true knight,
He saved his damsel and won the fight.
He told the crowd to value their lives,
For even clowns had that one right.
I look at the stars and they wink their eyes,
But what I see are shadows in time.
I saw in that twinkle my true size,
And I got confused, what am I?
We hold in our minds two utterly contradictory beliefs; that each of us is precious and that none of us matter at all. (adapted from a quote by Jane Emily Bowers.)
This is the Human Condition.
Philosophers speak of things we condone,
The Law speaks of things we don't.
An act of kindness can hold true,
But even then we can't trust in full.
We lie, we cheat, we hurt, we steal,
We rely, we believe, we aid, we heal.
We judge, we condemn, we hate and speak ill.
We do these things but do not see.
Each one of us is fighting for the same thing, a small piece of happiness each day. (adapted from a quote by Paul Thomas Anderson.)
This is the Human Condition.
The world of man is a vast thing.
So are the choices man can choose between.
There are roads filled with danger,
and roads like straightaways.
Where we walk we can perhaps decide,
Where the road goes, now that, we roll the dice.
We pull ourselves through with decreasing vigour,
To escape we drown ourselves in pleasure.
Men is born free, but everywhere he is in chains. (Jean Jacques Rousseau)
This is the Human Condition.
Life is not easy, that I assure.
Answers to doubts elude us, but it is no terror.
Terror is where our hearts go,
Right off the road, where no man goes.
I can only say, live your life so well that death trembles to take you. (adapted from a quote by Charles Bukowski.)
Welcome to Earth, enjoy your stay.
Existential Angst
What we've lost we can never get back.
What we've done we can never undo.
That is the truth borne by the world.
That is the reality we are born into.
In this wind, hope grinds to dust.
In this wind, memories fade to white.
Visions of the past bring regret.
Visions of the future show only heathens.
The screams of those alive are wild.
The screams of the dead are in mockery.
Kings & Queens rule with benign facades.
Kings & Queens judge with lampoonery.
Worlds collide with rapacious violence.
Worlds collide into spiraling accusations.
Time watches as shadows consume men.
Time watches, devoid of intentions.
Life rushes as men become vapid.
Life rushes as vapid becomes mechanic.
How far have we come?
What have we become?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
March 17 2010, Shangri-La County, Shika Snow Mountain.
I am writing this from part of the Himalayas range. Almost 4000m above sea level. Temperature, probably -10 degrees celsius. Wind speed...very strong. As I write I struggle to keep pen on paper and paer on hand. Why anyone would come to ths place in this godforsaken weather is a mystery, until you experience it for yourself.
The glaring sun shines against the snow-capped peaks, reflecting a white that hasn't been seen before. It glares back at the sun with almost the same ferocity, but also with a certain dullness. It's a white that is both striking and calm. As I walk on the wooden pathway, the wind rattles the structure and shakes it to its roots. Gingerly walking, I slowly make my way across a ridge, and all at once the world seemed to stop. The wind howled, the pathway rattled, the sun shone on and my breathing was still heavy from the thin air. But for those few moments none of it registered. In front of me, was the Himalayas, the roof of the world. It was a sight to behold. No. I believed at one point I stopped seeing and felt. It was a feeling of awe.
There are many points in life where we hear people or that we ourselves have spoken, of how man is a part of Mother Nature. We speak of it because we know that we depends on her and to some, that we are a part of her. It makes perfect sense and it is reasonable to believe in them. But they are blind statements. Here on this mountain, with only wind, snow, sun, trees and man, humans being part of nature is an experience. It is not a bunch of words scribbled on paper, not the electrical signals that find their way into your screens and ear pieces and not the sound waves that ravel through the air from another's mouth. Like the blind man who has read about the color red through Braille. Here on this mountain, the blind man, for this first time in his entire life, sees the color red. In that instant, nothing goes through his head. It is the child in him that holds in in place, reveling in awe. It is the adult in him that holds him in place, trying to understand this experience using his life's knowledge. At the end of the day he reaches only one conclusion. Whatever Braille said about red, it wasn't even close.
Standing on part of the pathway overlooking the Himalayas range, I place my camera on the handrails of the walkway and took a quick photo of myself. It will serve to remind me of this place in time to come. What I write now will serve to remind me of of the experience I had in this place in time to come. Time is a funny thing. It comes and goes, but here time has little meaning. In a city, a 15min difference can meaning being late for a job interview, and costing you a future career. Here in the Himalayas the difference only means a stronger wind and a higher sun. Nothing here changes, and for once in your life you can only hear yourself.
The winds howl a tune that drown out everything. At this height it's not like there is anything to drown out anyway. But as soon as the wind stopped I realised something. This stop in howling is also part of the larger orchestral piece the winds were playing. The break away from a routine is part of it. When a musician plays, the pauses between notes is just as important as the notes themselves. They determine the pace and the mood of the entire piece. The many pauses and breaks that we take in our life are part of our lives as well. Sometimes we do not get to our goal immediately, sometimes we get to them extremely quickly. There are times we feel distressed that obstacles get in our way, but take a step back, and see how these events color your life. Is it a piece in Staccato? Or a piece in Legato? There are times we are so used to sound that soundlessness feels empty, but this soundlessness is a sound as well.
The air is still when the wind dies. There is only the sound of my breath. I stop. Soundlessness. A silence that speaks more than sound could. Broken by the cry of a lone eagle. Strange. An eagle? I walk on, intrigued by the possibility of another creature wandering on this godforsaken terrain. Over another ridge, the possibility became reality. Tibetan prayer towers, constructed from random stones, with scriptures placed on them. On top of the discordant mess of rock, stood an eagle. Proud. It was white. I approached it and it took off. I felt sorry for disturbing the eagle's rest. A few seconds later the wind howled again. The sound was back. I climbed further on, partly wondering if I had disturbed it or saved it from the gale. Soon I was at the peak of the mountain. Behind me, a sharp slope down and a city beyond. In front of me, a deep valley and the rest of the Himalayas beyond. It was nothing short of beautiful.
These Tibetan prayer towers stand as a testimony of a time when monks climbed up to this very place to meditate. It is not hard to see why. Admist the howling wind and sun-baked terrain, you can only hear yourself. In all that noise and temperature, it is silent. Not a single voice. No rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be heard, no rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be accepted and no rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be accepted. This is a place for the tired. Where scientists come to die, where artists are born. This is a place where you don't have to convince others and hear then clamouring to say utterly nothing. This is a place for the world-weary. A place for the thinker that needs no recognition. For the lone seeker of truth. This is the birthplace of the introspective religion of tibetan buddhism. This is the Himalayas.
This is Shangri-La.
The glaring sun shines against the snow-capped peaks, reflecting a white that hasn't been seen before. It glares back at the sun with almost the same ferocity, but also with a certain dullness. It's a white that is both striking and calm. As I walk on the wooden pathway, the wind rattles the structure and shakes it to its roots. Gingerly walking, I slowly make my way across a ridge, and all at once the world seemed to stop. The wind howled, the pathway rattled, the sun shone on and my breathing was still heavy from the thin air. But for those few moments none of it registered. In front of me, was the Himalayas, the roof of the world. It was a sight to behold. No. I believed at one point I stopped seeing and felt. It was a feeling of awe.
There are many points in life where we hear people or that we ourselves have spoken, of how man is a part of Mother Nature. We speak of it because we know that we depends on her and to some, that we are a part of her. It makes perfect sense and it is reasonable to believe in them. But they are blind statements. Here on this mountain, with only wind, snow, sun, trees and man, humans being part of nature is an experience. It is not a bunch of words scribbled on paper, not the electrical signals that find their way into your screens and ear pieces and not the sound waves that ravel through the air from another's mouth. Like the blind man who has read about the color red through Braille. Here on this mountain, the blind man, for this first time in his entire life, sees the color red. In that instant, nothing goes through his head. It is the child in him that holds in in place, reveling in awe. It is the adult in him that holds him in place, trying to understand this experience using his life's knowledge. At the end of the day he reaches only one conclusion. Whatever Braille said about red, it wasn't even close.
Standing on part of the pathway overlooking the Himalayas range, I place my camera on the handrails of the walkway and took a quick photo of myself. It will serve to remind me of this place in time to come. What I write now will serve to remind me of of the experience I had in this place in time to come. Time is a funny thing. It comes and goes, but here time has little meaning. In a city, a 15min difference can meaning being late for a job interview, and costing you a future career. Here in the Himalayas the difference only means a stronger wind and a higher sun. Nothing here changes, and for once in your life you can only hear yourself.
The winds howl a tune that drown out everything. At this height it's not like there is anything to drown out anyway. But as soon as the wind stopped I realised something. This stop in howling is also part of the larger orchestral piece the winds were playing. The break away from a routine is part of it. When a musician plays, the pauses between notes is just as important as the notes themselves. They determine the pace and the mood of the entire piece. The many pauses and breaks that we take in our life are part of our lives as well. Sometimes we do not get to our goal immediately, sometimes we get to them extremely quickly. There are times we feel distressed that obstacles get in our way, but take a step back, and see how these events color your life. Is it a piece in Staccato? Or a piece in Legato? There are times we are so used to sound that soundlessness feels empty, but this soundlessness is a sound as well.
The air is still when the wind dies. There is only the sound of my breath. I stop. Soundlessness. A silence that speaks more than sound could. Broken by the cry of a lone eagle. Strange. An eagle? I walk on, intrigued by the possibility of another creature wandering on this godforsaken terrain. Over another ridge, the possibility became reality. Tibetan prayer towers, constructed from random stones, with scriptures placed on them. On top of the discordant mess of rock, stood an eagle. Proud. It was white. I approached it and it took off. I felt sorry for disturbing the eagle's rest. A few seconds later the wind howled again. The sound was back. I climbed further on, partly wondering if I had disturbed it or saved it from the gale. Soon I was at the peak of the mountain. Behind me, a sharp slope down and a city beyond. In front of me, a deep valley and the rest of the Himalayas beyond. It was nothing short of beautiful.
These Tibetan prayer towers stand as a testimony of a time when monks climbed up to this very place to meditate. It is not hard to see why. Admist the howling wind and sun-baked terrain, you can only hear yourself. In all that noise and temperature, it is silent. Not a single voice. No rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be heard, no rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be accepted and no rush of mad people fighting for their thoughts to be accepted. This is a place for the tired. Where scientists come to die, where artists are born. This is a place where you don't have to convince others and hear then clamouring to say utterly nothing. This is a place for the world-weary. A place for the thinker that needs no recognition. For the lone seeker of truth. This is the birthplace of the introspective religion of tibetan buddhism. This is the Himalayas.
This is Shangri-La.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Tempered.
As the world behind burns, the winds' only victims are ashes.
As I walk on, the stones beneath my feet crumble into sand.
As you watch on, the frigidity of our lives is reflected in your eyes.
The sun riseth not on wanion shores.
The cold rain pours down unrelentingly, intent on putting out the fires of the past.
The sand thickens and becomes wet mud, spraying its insults with every step of mine.
I watch as fire, wind and rain ravage my past.
I watch as the mud slows me and makes my every step increasingly harder.
I watch as you watch me with nary a shred of emotion on your face.
Eyes like tempered glass.
A face like tempered steel.
I realise then, that I am looking at something that isn't human.
I realise then, that I am looking at something that has betrayed me.
I realise then, that I am looking at nothing.
The road I have walked and am walking, burns and crumbles.
The monster at my side is walking on his own.
The direction I am heading, is unknown.
As I lament my fate, you nod and smile, but do nothing as I trudge on amidst flames, lightning and mud.
As I see you smile, I look away.
As I look away, I see that on this road, I walk alone.
The rain, fire and wind die down eventually as I walk further on.
The whole time I fixed my eyes on the horizon.
The sun was rising.
I watch as the sun's rays shower warmth on my cold body.
I watch as I see you fight your own fires, winds and rains.
I watch as I find the look of desperation in your eyes when you look at me, and I show you,
Eyes like tempered glass
A face like tempered steel.
As you watch on, the frigidity of our lives is reflected in your eyes.
The sun riseth not on wanion shores.
The cold rain pours down unrelentingly, intent on putting out the fires of the past.
The sand thickens and becomes wet mud, spraying its insults with every step of mine.
I watch as fire, wind and rain ravage my past.
I watch as the mud slows me and makes my every step increasingly harder.
I watch as you watch me with nary a shred of emotion on your face.
Eyes like tempered glass.
A face like tempered steel.
I realise then, that I am looking at something that isn't human.
I realise then, that I am looking at something that has betrayed me.
I realise then, that I am looking at nothing.
The road I have walked and am walking, burns and crumbles.
The monster at my side is walking on his own.
The direction I am heading, is unknown.
As I lament my fate, you nod and smile, but do nothing as I trudge on amidst flames, lightning and mud.
As I see you smile, I look away.
As I look away, I see that on this road, I walk alone.
The rain, fire and wind die down eventually as I walk further on.
The whole time I fixed my eyes on the horizon.
The sun was rising.
I watch as the sun's rays shower warmth on my cold body.
I watch as I see you fight your own fires, winds and rains.
I watch as I find the look of desperation in your eyes when you look at me, and I show you,
Eyes like tempered glass
A face like tempered steel.
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