Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow...
What do you think you are doing? What do you want? Why are you here? For years I have been asking myself these questions. I live for myself, fight for myself, for surviving another day in this ruthless world of competition. But then you appeared, and I stopped questioning myself, for you are, by any measure, a much more interesting person to question than myself.
From the first time I saw you I find you laughable, perversely detached from reality. To fight for justice, to fight for happiness, hope, order... How ridiculous. Life is too short to care about anything other than your own survival. How many times do you have to fail to learn this?
In some sense I understand how you feel. Your happiness derives from others'. Yet, isn't this the worst form of disability? To rely on others all the time, to depend on situations where uncertainty rules high for your own well-being. Only foolish girls would fall for this blatant trap.
Aren't we all specks on the never ceasing arrow of entropy? Our existence has always been doomed to end in an entropic manner. No one can reverse the force of irreversibility. It is a written law above us all. So you think you, making a wish for someone who doesn't even love you, would somehow reverse this never-ending cycle of doom? I am here to tell you miracles are thus named because they do not happen. The laws of this universe do not operate on sympathy.
Red. All the red around us. The colour of blood, of sacrifice, of fiery passion. How fitting in this occasion. In you I have found my past, my foolish self who never doused her flames of destructive fantasies. I, like you, have only recently been revealed to the truth. It almost took your life, yet you continue to march majestically into this gaping trench. Is your life worth so little that you are willing to throw away for nothing?
How ironic that the most beautiful insects are also the most deadly, the brightest flames destroys the most, that the most kind-hearted person brings upon the most tragic death. And now, the hopeful of them meets the most aloof, so desensitised to the tragedy of our kind. Perhaps it is true after all that the extremes always merge back into a cycle, as if time loops around itself, and I am here to meet my own self again. How ironic, that I now shall fight myself. What have you done, Fate? The mighty sorceress, who transcends time and space, lusting over the glowing essence of all that we call hope, till all that remains is but an empty core of despair over extinguished candles.
My concerto is coming to an end. The brass flourish, tremolo from the strings, trills from the winds... All instruments awaiting for the final swing of my bow. So let me defy you once, Fate, let me defy you just once. Let me be both death and her maiden, and seal my last vestige into this realm.
Sunday, 26 April 2015
Monday, 20 April 2015
Identity
(Way overdue from November last year. In before why not Chinese cartoons?)
His life lasted for merely 61 years, yet he has seen the rise and fall of three dynasties, the struggle for the people who had been slaves of his race for three centuries rise up against him, with himself going from an oblivious emperor living inside the golden shell of a palace to nothing but dust, among hundreds of millions of others, witnessing the tumultuous birth of what China is today. What would such a man recognize himself as? Does he even have an identity?
I came across the TV series Extraordinary Citizen (非常公民) a few months ago (while procrastinating during the IB exams), which portrayed the last emperor of Qing, Aisin-Gioro Puyi with superb attention of him as a person instead of what role he fulfills in the eyes of the common folk. Though the show centres upon his romantic life (which is also quite interesting), it is the candid portrayal of Puyi's psyche as he was, suddenly in the middle of his childhood, ripped from his position by the breaking out of the revolution, eventually declining into being the puppet of the Japanese empire, and even as a war prisoner to be "re-educated" by Russian and Chinese Communists that interested me the most. After wasting half of his life trying to fulfill his delusion to be an emperor, in the process sacrificing his dignity, his power, his freedom, and eventually his sanity and, most importantly, his identity as a person. The incredible detail carved onto Puyi makes the man marking the end of imperial China extremely easy to relate, as I learnt how Puyi, the supposedly most powerful person in the whole of China, was still unable to escape the flow of time, floating helplessly as a piece of log.
Puyi threw away his love, his life and his humanity for one sole purpose: To search for his lost identity. He lived the first two decades of his life as an emperor (unofficially, as he was unaware of). When the truth of his powerlessness eventually broke in (fairly well hidden from him by the officials around him), he sought to stay as an emperor, and eventually, under the convincing of the Japanese, willingly gave in everything. He knew of nothing but to be an emperor, as his whole life hitherto was filled with this role. He had no skills, but an enormous ego, an ego that all emperors were taught to have and reasonably possessed and infinitely inflated. To him, this ego is everything, everything his life meant.
Today, we look at Puyi askance, wondering why he betrayed his people, questioning the true motives behind his actions. Yet, his life of frantic search for an identity poses a very profound challenge to what we mean by purpose; specifically, the purpose of life, the ultimate purpose. The meaning of life (certainly not 42) is complex, and no one would claim to have/be able to grasp it fully in his/her short life. This turns me to wonder if the search of meaning itself is the meaning itself, that when we realize the vastness of possibilities and uncertainty do we, ironically, begin our search and consolidate the meaning of life.
Here, identity plays an important role. To have an identity means to be realized as a part of a community, to play a role in the course of history, and perhaps to make a mark, because we know that only through this can we make ourselves permanent in memory of the future, that we can be remembered as what we want to be remembered as. Thus, I daresay that this makes us immortal to a certain extent. With immortality being one of the dreams of humanity, identity, defining the direction of human life, perhaps has become what we mean by life itself.
In this ever changing world, almost nothing stays constant, even if it is not always apparent as in Puyi's world. To become an identifiable person is more and more of a challenge in the age of dream-seeking, with fate forever diverting the expected course of life. Yet, can we still embrace this rapid and uncertain flow? Can we get hold of what we are currently, and live with acceptance but vision?
For me, forgetfulness comes to play.
His life lasted for merely 61 years, yet he has seen the rise and fall of three dynasties, the struggle for the people who had been slaves of his race for three centuries rise up against him, with himself going from an oblivious emperor living inside the golden shell of a palace to nothing but dust, among hundreds of millions of others, witnessing the tumultuous birth of what China is today. What would such a man recognize himself as? Does he even have an identity?
I came across the TV series Extraordinary Citizen (非常公民) a few months ago (while procrastinating during the IB exams), which portrayed the last emperor of Qing, Aisin-Gioro Puyi with superb attention of him as a person instead of what role he fulfills in the eyes of the common folk. Though the show centres upon his romantic life (which is also quite interesting), it is the candid portrayal of Puyi's psyche as he was, suddenly in the middle of his childhood, ripped from his position by the breaking out of the revolution, eventually declining into being the puppet of the Japanese empire, and even as a war prisoner to be "re-educated" by Russian and Chinese Communists that interested me the most. After wasting half of his life trying to fulfill his delusion to be an emperor, in the process sacrificing his dignity, his power, his freedom, and eventually his sanity and, most importantly, his identity as a person. The incredible detail carved onto Puyi makes the man marking the end of imperial China extremely easy to relate, as I learnt how Puyi, the supposedly most powerful person in the whole of China, was still unable to escape the flow of time, floating helplessly as a piece of log.
Puyi threw away his love, his life and his humanity for one sole purpose: To search for his lost identity. He lived the first two decades of his life as an emperor (unofficially, as he was unaware of). When the truth of his powerlessness eventually broke in (fairly well hidden from him by the officials around him), he sought to stay as an emperor, and eventually, under the convincing of the Japanese, willingly gave in everything. He knew of nothing but to be an emperor, as his whole life hitherto was filled with this role. He had no skills, but an enormous ego, an ego that all emperors were taught to have and reasonably possessed and infinitely inflated. To him, this ego is everything, everything his life meant.
Today, we look at Puyi askance, wondering why he betrayed his people, questioning the true motives behind his actions. Yet, his life of frantic search for an identity poses a very profound challenge to what we mean by purpose; specifically, the purpose of life, the ultimate purpose. The meaning of life (certainly not 42) is complex, and no one would claim to have/be able to grasp it fully in his/her short life. This turns me to wonder if the search of meaning itself is the meaning itself, that when we realize the vastness of possibilities and uncertainty do we, ironically, begin our search and consolidate the meaning of life.
Here, identity plays an important role. To have an identity means to be realized as a part of a community, to play a role in the course of history, and perhaps to make a mark, because we know that only through this can we make ourselves permanent in memory of the future, that we can be remembered as what we want to be remembered as. Thus, I daresay that this makes us immortal to a certain extent. With immortality being one of the dreams of humanity, identity, defining the direction of human life, perhaps has become what we mean by life itself.
In this ever changing world, almost nothing stays constant, even if it is not always apparent as in Puyi's world. To become an identifiable person is more and more of a challenge in the age of dream-seeking, with fate forever diverting the expected course of life. Yet, can we still embrace this rapid and uncertain flow? Can we get hold of what we are currently, and live with acceptance but vision?
For me, forgetfulness comes to play.
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Colours
Even if the colours of the world that were sent through prisms fade
And everything is filled with this kind of grey
When it comes down to it, I can do it on my own
I'll show you that I can repaint them again in future
And everything is filled with this kind of grey
When it comes down to it, I can do it on my own
I'll show you that I can repaint them again in future
Slowly the room flooded with morning light, the sun sending down countless diverging rays, penetrating through the ever so slight gap between his curtains. Another day has arrived.
He lay, motionlessly, on his bed, blurring the line between unwillingness and inability. The blanket enveloped him like a cocoon, an unyielding cage of idling. Each minute passed by made the room brighter, gradually intruding his peace. A sickly white projection manifests on the wall, peering down on him with utmost judgment.
The concept of time no longer exists with in this isolated, airtight space. One hour is worth as much as one minute, or a day, or a lifetime. Motion is no longer possible, while his mind was paralyzed within the frame of time he exists within. The cocoon wraps around him, ever tighter, almost strangling him.
Perhaps in another room, there would be a person, man or woman, shaking off their cocoon, freeing themselves from the confinements of the present. They would walk up to their mirrors, and plan their day ahead of time. A day full of excitement from meeting others, to seeing new places, gaining new, however trivial, knowledge, and perhaps sometimes discuss politics and philosophy.
In another room, that would be him.
Deathly silence permeates this space of his mere existence. It speaks louder than any crowd, producing shockwaves no one can imitate or induce. In his mind no more can be heard, but random garbage and pseudo-intellectual ramblings. Something about the future, about how he can use his skills, to help the world, possibly. Some picture of him under a bright, azure sky, looking up, realizing that he is one of the colours in this spectrum known as the society, that he is one of the atoms that scattered the UV light, painting out this stunning sky.
How ironic, that the blue sky outside would project a ghostly pale image on his wall.
It is with this thought that he resumes his eternal slumber. I wish him a good night.
The concept of time no longer exists with in this isolated, airtight space. One hour is worth as much as one minute, or a day, or a lifetime. Motion is no longer possible, while his mind was paralyzed within the frame of time he exists within. The cocoon wraps around him, ever tighter, almost strangling him.
Perhaps in another room, there would be a person, man or woman, shaking off their cocoon, freeing themselves from the confinements of the present. They would walk up to their mirrors, and plan their day ahead of time. A day full of excitement from meeting others, to seeing new places, gaining new, however trivial, knowledge, and perhaps sometimes discuss politics and philosophy.
In another room, that would be him.
Deathly silence permeates this space of his mere existence. It speaks louder than any crowd, producing shockwaves no one can imitate or induce. In his mind no more can be heard, but random garbage and pseudo-intellectual ramblings. Something about the future, about how he can use his skills, to help the world, possibly. Some picture of him under a bright, azure sky, looking up, realizing that he is one of the colours in this spectrum known as the society, that he is one of the atoms that scattered the UV light, painting out this stunning sky.
How ironic, that the blue sky outside would project a ghostly pale image on his wall.
It is with this thought that he resumes his eternal slumber. I wish him a good night.
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