Whys and wherefores.

The phone was warm, almost hot to touch, pressed up against my ear, my eyes open but oblivious to what they were seeing, my reality barely defined by the soft glow of yellow LEDs and the humming of a sleepy computer.

"Nothing you say will stop me from caring about you."

"But you shouldn't. I know I'm not worth it. Don't get yourself into something that you'll regret.."

"Can't you just... be happy that you knew and met me..?"

"I wish I could just be happy too.. But it's not that simple."

"I'm not going to stop caring. You can't make me."

I managed a weak smile. Weak, because the swirling negativity seemed rather intent on staying in control. A smile, because I could feel the sincerity and earnestness in that soft, melodic voice.

"But why...?"

"Because you're interesting.. And with you, I could never run out of things to say.. Why would I want to stop talking to someone who can make me go on forever?"

And for once, I had no answer.

I'm off...

I know it has been a while since the last time I posted an entry on here.

I've been doing alot of thinking, (all that self-worth and 'what would the world need me for anyway' sort of thing) and well, you know how these things can lead you down a path of doubt.

I'm quitting on everything....

Choices in cyle of life

It is tough to say what stages in life lead to. We will always fail to see past our own choices, bound as we are to previous experience and excruciating reminiscences. Where shall we lean next, which path should we take now? Does it matter, what the choice is, in the end?

I will pick my heart on this road, for my mind has rarely served me as well as it has been trusted. For the music of my soul, the heart will sing in its own incomparable splendour.

Welcome. And please stay.

Two syllables.

I have loved, but I have not lost.

I have grieved, but I have not despaired.

I have wept, but I have not given in.

I have failed, but I have not fallen.

I have died, but I am not dead.

And it's all because of you.

Imagery.

Always in motion, the future is.

But so is the present. So is the past. What you think of as the past, is not fact. It is memory. And memories are subject to points of view, conjecture, interpretation. They are merely perception. And like all points of views, conjectures, interpretations and indeed, perceptions, they can change.

Your past can change. As can the present.

And you think to yourself, how could that be? Did things that happen before, actually happen? Or did you remember they happened, merely because you wanted them to? You fill yourself with questions that have no answers. And when the realisation comes, it is a shock to the system that you can barely hope to cope with. Why?

I do not know.

I do not know why events that transpire in the here and now, can change what you thought of what had happened before. I do not know why the fluidty of our consciousness is so malleable, so easily twisted into something else. I do not know why I feel so inclined to throw away all sense of positivity, the moment something insidiously distracting happens.

I suppose I let my past haunt me. I let things that have happened get to me. I feel the agony of pain, and the euphoria of joy, only because I let them happen. It is a consequence, of learning detachment. Of learning to grow old. Of learning to treat both triumph and disaster as the same. Indeed, Rudyard Kipling said it well.The effeversecent enthusiasm of my idealism seems to pale in lieu of my numbness. A numbness brought on by death itself.

I grieve over the death of my youth. I am alive, but I feel dead. In many respects, I suppose I already am. I just haven't gotten round to lying down yet.

There must be hope, many would say. There must be some way of turning this all around, of bringing back the smiles and the laughter. Of bringing back hope and the casual happiness of an uncomplicated life. But what for?

Where is that spark? That flash of inspiration? That small motivation needed to go on, to believe in all that I have stood by. To defend what I know is right. You were there. You were there not so long ago.

When did you die?

The PURRfect one.

Except it never is perfect.

He could be witty, intelligent, mature, caring, loving, understanding, beautiful.

But he has whiskers.

Ahhh. Purrrrfect.

Dead and dying.

I was going through my old blog the other day, reading some of the comments some of my previous regular readers had posted. They elicited contrasting reactions, either putting a smile on my face, or reminding me of the dark I was in when writing some of those older posts.

Due to a spurt of randomness, I decided to pay those readers a visit, just to tag their boards and to remind them I had moved to a different place. Hoping to invite them to come read and peruse through my writings once more.

It turned out to be a wholly depressing experience.

Many had... stopped. Stopped blogging, writing, digitally penning their thoughts and publishing their emotions online. And I realised I wasn't alone in considering 'retirement' from my voluntary profession. I may never know why so many of them had decided to discontinue their writing efforts, and it puts into context my own dithering over whether or not to quit.

I recall extracting myself from the notion that they were my readers, but real people with real lives, and very real responsibilities. And that for all their appreciation of my writing, and the awe they seemed to display at what I had written, I was, for better or worse, merely an abstraction to them. Merely a little footnote that would be considered when they came online, to be perused and appreciated for fleeting moments.

They would not need my insight to survive, nor my stories to entertain them all the time. That they would not need my advice to solve their problems, nor would they need my creativity to brighten up their lives.

I realised, how insignificant I am. And how little difference it would make if I were to indeed stop writing out my thoughts and feelings.

But I will go on. Because in the end, it is for me.