I had an iron heart and nerves of steel; but you forged me into something weak. 


[1] Yes, I paraphrased myself from an earlier post titled ‘The Blacksmith’, to check that out click here.

[2] I could do with a bottle of Merlot just about now. *sigh* It’s too bad I don’t drink.)



n. Psychoanalysis
The part of the mind in which innate instinctive impulses and primary processes are manifest.

Years have passed and today,

Years ago,

You and I were here together.


Stranger. Today we meet again.


(A/N: part 2/2 of upload for International Poetry Day.)



(A/N: This upload is part 1/2 for International Poetry Day)

Sometimes I think we are like body and soul;
I am, because you are.
Other times,  we appear as a petal and a dewdrop;
We are distinct, yet whole.
Or perhaps we are like two eyes;
Separate, but with the same vision.
Our paths are not parallel, but they do not intersect.
What we want is too far apart
For us to want each other.


n. Injury caused by a severe jerk when you’re moving too damn fast


To put things into their metaphorical perspective – my last year at school will begin tomorrow. This feeling isn’t what everyone describes it as.

It’s not a sudden urge to do everything right and be great, or a feeling of immense nostalgia, or even anguish and an overwhelming sense of futility. For me, it’s a childlike bewilderment – something closer to what I felt when my grandmother died when I was very young and I didn’t comprehend what was so possibly sad about it, after my mother explained the concept of death to me. It’s the emotion you feel when you’re spinning for a minute and you stop all of a sudden; the world keeps on spinning even if you aren’t. Suddenly I’m here at this sudden sally of the brooke of my life and I’m confused as to why it surprises me even though I knew it was coming all along.

Perhaps I delude myself, though. Yes, I’ve known it was coming all along. Like a wanderer studying topography on a map, my prairie-dwelling self never saw a mountain. It’s irrelevant that I’ve grown up seeing photographs of it and reading literature accorded to its magnificence and terror alike. I delude myself into thinking I know this because I know the facts and figures about it; a thousand stories cannot compensate for experience. The range will inevitably be crossed, even if the time and the effort vary. It’s time for me to ascend the mountain.

I’m childishly befuddled about what lies ahead. I realize that I know only the answer that everyone else has given to me – something that may not even be applicable for me. I feel that everything passed by too fast, and this moment is stretched out as long as all of it together. All of my life has led up to and is encompassed in this small, dissatisfactory point in space and time. If I have been falling, then this is the landing. I feel empty and overwhelmed at the same time, and too odd for me, calm. I feel a whiplash.


Perhaps the most helpless emotion of the entire spectrum. Wrecking, to say the least, even in its lightest degrees. Crushing. Nagging. Fought off, unsuccessfully. Lingering; no, festering. It suffocates joy. It dims optimism. It destroys hope. It pains the soul.

Disappointment is that part of the world that’s away from the sun and the moon. It is the land that has no rain nor any light. It is cold, paralysing, blinding. It burns. It asphyxiates. It brings that little NaCl.H2O to the visual centres of homo sapiens. It is a void, a vacuum. It is inescapably shattering.

Even as people are unmade by disappointment, even as they disintegrate, hope grows back. Like a persistent stalker it finds its way back into the subconscious thoughts of the person, whispers quiet words of encouragement. It whispers of the light yet to come. Of the the delightful agonies yet to endure. Pure, tender hope peeks out of Pandora’s jar to soften the blows by the hard rock of reality.

Sometimes it is successful. Sometimes it isn’t. Maybe it’s human to feel alone in the confines of negativity, but if so, it provides no comfort nor assurance. The tongue feels metallic nonetheless, and the heart like it bears an open stab wound.
Yet, the part that’s most astonishing about human nature is the art of forgetfulness. The mind loses the sensation of disappointment after the while. The wound is as raw as ever, but now just goes ignored. The next injury gets our attention even as the old one weeps its bloody tears. The fists unclench, the jaw loosens and the eyes are dry once more. Humans compartmentalise, suppress, and move on to the next day. And eventually, they forget.

Perhaps it is disappointment that fuels drive. Going at one thing over and over again to prove something to yourself. Perhaps the modicum of hope following disappointment is the key that opens doors towards a wider horizon. Perhaps the unconscious act of pushing away pain is what keeps a person on the road to their destination. Or perhaps it’s merely idiosyncrasy, or insanity. I am too young, and perhaps too inexperienced to remark on the unfathomable depths of the art of living. I have only seen the disappointment, and I await the light.