In Memories of Those We Love

The Lost of Meaning

My inspiration was left buried

underneath the bed of ignorance

the soil of turbulence covered

the grave of my heart

I saw blood

I saw tears from the tombstone

but I could not find the source

of this tears

The fountain of happiness

had all been dried up

under the scorching heat of despair

the beating of my heart

could no longer be heard very clearly

the melody of the piece of music I once so

feel for could not be hummed

My songs left unsung

My music left unfinished

My soul runs dry

in the midst of change

At times my words have no meaning

have no flavours

written on a Thursday, 20 February 1997, 2:40am

What made me write that? Well, those were the days when I felt as though the whole world seems to crush upon me, I felt that enormous burden in my heart. Those feelings were indescribable, and could only be a part of me, in the past, which makes me who I am now. I have always believed that great work comes from tremendous hardships, under extreme sufferings, in any art form. In complacency in life, one could only live life on the very surface of things, unless you take time often enough to look within yourself, to reflect and to respond to something deeper within.

Memories are always haunting yet captivating in certain ways. You fear to travel back in time, to feel those pain once again, like a fresh wound on your skin, burning but somehow, your hands cannot resist peeling the warp that has been there, staring right back at you. I had news from a dear friend recently, who has just lost his beloved one. I had very few of those experiences in my life so far, the only one that I could remember was the death of my grandmother, so many years ago. The day of the funeral was like any other day for me, for there was a degree of detachment from her since I left hometown for further studies. The praying rituals of the monks seem like music to my ears, they were the least, sad or made me want to cry. But not when the men started to cover the coffin of my grandmother, and the pounding sound of the hammer on the nails to seal the coffin that it started to dawn on the naive and young me back then, that my grandmother was indeed, already dead and left us...forever and this is the end of everything...for her and for me, with her. The line just stops there, like what my friend sharply but accurately puts it, with him and his beloved brother. When I read those lines, my tears started streaming, like how it did, with my grandmother laying in the coffin, with the deafening sound of the slow pounding.

I write this now, especially to you, my dear old friend, to tell you that how much I care, even though I hardly knew your brother, but the pain is all the same. I hope you find the strength within you, to stand tall again and live life to the fullest, in memory of those, we have lost along our way. This is dedicated to you, and the rest of us all:

The Last Corner
When the world is round
then
any part of the circle is a corner
if you keep running
you will not find an end
so the solution is to stop
When will you and where will you
make and find your last corner?

Though the ideal environment is always looked for
Is there indeed, an ideal environment?
has not the Blessed One
taught that all things near and dear to us
must past away?
Though there will always be
better ones and worse ones

time is running out on us
this fact remains clear -
we have got to start somewhere
or rather
where we are
(taken from a Dhamma book)