Sky

Were you to ask someone
To draw the sky
Most, very much so,
Would gladly paint the background
Blue
Clouds light, white, immaculate
Perhaps some birds, free
Here and there (isn't it so?)
And oh, lest we forget,
The sun,
Bright, shining, radiant
Great white beams emanating from its core,
Flourishing the life of millions.

Perhaps it would be mildly annoying
Inconvenient
Or even disturbing,
To imagine that someone
Living on the same planet
Would draw the sky as a simple, tiny window
Or, a mere ceiling
Or, a dying bulb
Or, even, green
Of hails made of lead and sulphur and chlorine
Mildly disturbing, yet glaringly true.

Were you to ask me
To draw the sky
It would be black
The most lethargic of the colours
The most ominous, the most fateful
Clouds would not be white, but crimson
With a tint of bloodshed orange
Threatening to release its fury
Where is the sun? There is none
In this forever idle, stormy, turbulent
Land of nightmares
Of inadequacy, of macabre melancholy
Of irrationality and undying suffering.

But once
Once in a while
A white light flashes through
A burning meteor, expending its life
Burning away its very body
To give the final vestige of hope
In this ridiculous sky.
So tender, so small, yet firmly existing
As if there is something
Some
Goal
To reach for.

So clutch tight to this fleeting star, I say
Wish eternally to the ephemeral meteor
Resonate with its death wish
And raise your chalice
To the fantastical, pure sky
Watch, wish and hope until it shrinks
To infinity.

Rage, Rage against the dying of the light

A lot may say that Hong Kong is dying, and indeed it is. Democratic systems and bulwarks can be blatantly neglected for developing a haven for obvious foreigners, while petty mistakes can be infinitely exaggerated to form verbal abuse against the clear truth. It is to no doubt that the separation of "two systems" is virtually not existent nowadays, even if we are reluctant to admit it. Many Chinese I know are brilliant, well-mannered and conscientious individuals who prove to be true intellectuals, yet the portion who have sold their morals for power, money and fame through collusion, even if they constitute only a small portion of the country, are enough to overwhelm this small city of Hong Kong, turning it into a wasteland of extreme crony capitalism and uncivilized coliseum.

Even if Hong Kong is doomed, we shall not forgo our strife. We shall tell the oppressors that we do not approve. We are murdered in a heroic brawl, not willingly subdued to power. To sum up, let us appreciate the words of Dylan Thomas in the poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (another brilliant poem shared by Mr. Harrison). Even if death is at hand, we rage like millions of swords, like the unforgiving, metallic cries of Schubert in the face of the reaper.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night 
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Nietzsche on friendship

In The Gay Science, Nietzsche remarked on the nature of friendship in aphorism number 279, Stellar Friendship:

"We were friends, and have become strangers to each other.  But perhaps this is as it ought to be - and we do not want either to conceal or obscure the fact as if we had to be ashamed.  We are two ships each of which has its own goal and course.  Our paths may cross and we may celebrate a feast together, as we did – and then the good ships rested so quietly in one harbor and in one sunshine that it may have looked as if they had reached their goal and as if they had but one goal.  But then the almighty force of our tasks drove us apart again into different seas and sunny zones.  Perhaps we shall never see one another again, or perhaps we may meet again but fail to recognize one another: our exposure to different seas and suns has altered us!  That we had to become strangers to one another is the law above us – by the same token we should also become more sacred to each other and the memory of our former friendship more sacred.  There is probably a tremendous but invisible stellar orbit in which our very different ways and goals may be included as small parts of this path – let us rise up to this thought.  But our life is too short and the power of our vision too limited for us to be more than friends in the sense of this sublime possibility.  Let us then believe in our stellar friendship, though we should have to be terrestrial enemies to one another. "

Although this presents a rather dismal and deterministically pessimistic view of friendship, which is doomed to end, it is already quite a bright side of Nietzsche's view on humanity and behavior that friendship, no matter how transient, exists at all; that friendship not based on absurd customs/morality, personal benefit or personal incredulity exists. Matthew Arnold, behind his wonderfully crafted yet painfully disturbing verses of Dover Beach, wishes that there indeed is capacity for "true" "love". Yet that can only "lie behind us like a land of dreams", while "ignorant armies clash by night". This is the truth, that I shall never find a true friend. Poignant, yet unequivocally and always true.

On this day of parting I would remember the words of Nietzsche. Perhaps it may soothe the constant pain from the scar she made (or I made for myself).

Feather

Light as a feather
Swift as a stream
Tender is the midsummer night
Brushing its wings of blessing
Unto the city of Tokyo

The grey tiles, grey pillars
Are they wailing in melancholy
Or bathing in bliss

Or cowering from their past
In the ever so soft
Ever so peaceful breeze?

Perhaps in the dawn of Armageddon
This is the piece
Of light
Free from consumers, routine and numbers
But all will have to wait for the sun
To command another march
Unto the city of Tokyo.

Japan, 2014

Normality

Smile
Without meaning

Mirror
Without reflection

Tags
Without purposes

Expensive outfit
Without uniqueness

Advanced "smart"phones
Without intelligence

"Philosophizing"
Without being alone

"Remembering"
Without remembering

Emoticon
Without emotions

Hating
Without judgment

Arguing
Without arguments

Living
But already buried

Knife

"Cut the cake

             And put down the knife"

The candlelight flickers

      "Make a wish!"

The cat drowses, eyes no longer green

           "Now you are an adult"

The scorching wax drops down

                                         flows down

                                                     the stoic candle.

        "And put down the knife."

I held the knife tightly.

       It wasn't a knife. It was a piece of lifeless 

    clear plastic.

             Etched with the words:

Beauty

Time.

Flash

         The camera.

    "Come on up, we have our cake here!"

  The knife was lead, that sank

             into the cake

                                  red, flowing

                                                       warm.

         I              

did not move my hands

    The lifeless

                    despicable

   hateful piece of polythene 

           propelled itself

 created

                   forcefully ripped 

      apart.

The way of flowing

           Downwards.

        The way of thinking

                  Backwards, archaic.

    Isolated, despised.

 The toppings collapsed 

                      The execution

       by the guillotine.

              Callous, murderous.

    They never liked to be on 

        there anyway.

      

         Then

I realized

                  I have torn it apart

       Myself.

   The knife

         just a piece of

 lifeless

       thoughtless

  polythene

A tool.

Of beauty

and time.

Lux

It was a fine night. A stormy, turbulent, unrestful night, darkened with fog and not the atmosphere, with bouts of violent flashes that mades the cat hide, but a beautiful night. The skies lifted the belligerent waves up high, crashing them onto the jagged rocks not unlike swords of soldiers, dead and washed away from our memories. In these nights everyone on this island would curl up in their blankets, praying that the storm would spare their wrongdoings and mistakes they made. In the miles of sparsely populated darkness, my house shone like a beacon through my dilapidated windows, cracked, ill-made, ill-repaired with duct tape through the frequent typhoons that had done worse to the poor windows than this storm could ever do. It was on this island that I lived. It was in this storm that I awoke, then hereafter, sleepless.

Perhaps the barely surviving black grass that hinges on the soil ever so tightly, was green once. I would not know, since I, the hermit, had lived on this island for decades, yet always dwelled in the basement of my wooden shack. Who would build a basement under a shack, you may ask. The naive me, 20 years ago, would have asked the same question, with the same fervor and disbelief that you have. Unfortunately, there was no rational explanation for the malady that I had. I used to write for B, a company that rewarded based on the ability for me to compose pieces based on themes. I, of course, failed to seize this opportunity, and ended up with a tray full of underachieved, stock, unoriginal articles that I myself struggled to not cringe while reading, and a trash can full of derogatory remarks that sliced, literally. I figured that I was done with this business. No more. Down to the enfer I sent myself.

The wooden floor rattled while the storm tore away. My mind started to become hazy, much like the rain. At times, violent and passionate; at times, soft and withdrawn. The missing piece in the window let in discrete drops of water that formed a small puddle, a cold reflection of myself, superimposed with the flickering old lamp I have on my desk. The surface trembled, as if in fright of the storm. I would let this small pond rest in my shack, but it nevertheless drained itself into the basement through the cracked floor, so I had to mop it up, just to see it reappear after an hour or so.

There was a path that was exactly 200 metres long, which connected my home with the shore. There would normally be wild cats and dogs that scatter around the garden which this path bore its way through, yet in this night I doubted there would be any. For whatever reason (not important), I decided to see for myself what this storm had to offer. I took out my coat, and closed the door behind me. The lights I kept on, just in case I would be lost in this dense downpour.

It turned out that my plan to seek refuge in the bask of the light from my desk lamp was futile, as I could not even keep afoot in this slippery trail in this gale. Raindrops castigated my forehead, beating on each inch of my body with mighty force. Nothing was still in this chaotic beauty of a night, while un-creation descended. I could see nothing but my feet, as I traversed through the dreary path that seemed to never end, in this night that never ended. Trees clapped in desperation as they witnessed by passing. The lone crow screamed for help in this perilous night. The garden was alive.

I knew that there eventually was an end, yet it never came. I slipped and fell multiple times, and shouted curses that were immediately silenced by claps of thunder. Unreasonable! I simply picked a random direction to continue my endeavor, for I could not tell which way was which anymore. The track curved and dwindled, until the sound of the sea itself revealed that I had reached the end. Finally.

The waves were furious and crashing, with its fury revealed every few seconds due to flashes of lightning. There was nothing in the distance, only endless darkness. The night never seemed to pass anymore. Time had stopped for me to view this battle between the sea and the sky. Alas! Finality! The symphony of nature! I applauded in this great theatre composed by myself, while, gradually, the sounds of rain were muffled, the anger of the sea faded, the strike of thunder started to weaken into a drumroll. The smite of lightning smeared out into a signal of a beacon that seemingly lasted forever... just like a desk lamp...

The night was beautiful as ever. I leaned over my dilapidated window, cracked, ill-made, ill-repaired with duct tape through the frequent typhoons that had done worse to the poor windows than this storm could ever do. I sat back, and enjoyed this everlasting storm that awakened the island, the garden, and my house.

There was a path that connected the shore and my house. Yet, I was no longer sure whether it was 200 metres long. or 300. or more. After all, the night was fine.