Here I am, prude in the new–in the nude perishable righteous and lustful free and tethered lulled by hope upholstered by grace confused by happenstance wandering in mind finding naught but sin and God (love), losing him, being prodigal and returning Here I am, dead but alive like I came as I shall go (saved) tomi
in the quiet of death,
in its uncertainty and
is the greatest philosopher of all
teaching us the things we know (but forgot)
reminding us of life’s salience:
the sacrifice of love,
the madness of hope and
the gutsiness of faith.
to give and be given
and to forgive
on earth, where hell is present
and paradise is lost
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Do all dreams come true?
What is the end that all things come to?
Where have we been?
What have we been through?
Are we to be trapped by sin?
Set free by truth?
Is ageing a seamless affair?
Are we chasing youth?
Our spark, wonder and wander
Are embroidered in the fabric of the
Questions we ask
We have journeyed together for many years
Photo by Brian Ibinson
I often claim to rediscover Christ through song (worship). Not that I ‘lose’ him or backslide, rather, I attain newness that comes from spiritual melodies after a prolonged phase of internal struggles, doubts, and existential battles. But in reality, Christ finds me again. There’s peace in those moments (the type the world cannot give). An intangible and yet ever accessible serenity.
It is the beauty of worship, the peeling of the all human layers so that the spirit vitalises the mind and by so doing, the body. I dream of capturing these moments in a bottle to keep for the rainy day, for when routines wear me out. For when tears abound and for when it feels like God has forgotten to give this beloved, sleep.
I usually get to a point of brokenness where the only remedy is the message of grace and unending love. And more often than not, the medicine is in the self-forgetting ambience of worship that allows for vulnerability. That allows us to receive from the ever-giving supply, without considering ourselves. Shedding like serpent for new skin.
“Even when it hurts, I will only sing your praise.”
Image source: crowdalbun
Have a merry Christmas 🙂
“Good afternoon sir”
“Our doctor! how is school?”
An awkward silence ensues. On a good day, I’ll spend minutes justifying my decision to leave med school. On a not-so-good day, I’ll answer: “school is fine, thank you.”Besides, if anything, med school gave up on me, so I left (finally!).
Everything changes when you change your degree, and hence, career path. “What do you want to specialise in?” suddenly becomes “so, what are you going to do now?” You often become defensive when being harmlessly queried about your decision.
My reply always adds sourness to their seemingly masked disappointment. “Oh that’s interesting.” sounds like code for “really? how are you going to make money?” or “what are you going to do with such a degree?”. Or maybe I have become cynical. For these reasons, I have over the past two years, proactively avoided conversations with some relatives, friends and family friends.
Most people are encouraging about it, and even if they weren’t, why should it matter? What fuels the need to seek validation for our decisions? Maybe people’s opinions are the checks and balances of our judgements. It is strange not being on that grind anymore but I have not missed it. Of course, the regret of wasted years pursue my day-to-day but it is not unexpected. It is human nature to long for what is lost.
“Why are we here?” marks its territory in my mind. A thousand motivational quotes and trite coping mechanisms lay siege on my dejection. Sometimes they win, sometimes they are conquered. The need to make money as one ages; provide for one’s family; and repay one’s parents for their labour of love, are permanent fixtures in my musings. These things are not peculiar to anyone; I suppose we all deliberate such concerns, some of us more than others.
By December next year, I will be writing my last exam as an undergraduate. I think of the day just over two years ago, when I agonised and decided to heck with it, as I wrote that long desperate forlorn email to my dad, and I marvel that I’m one year away from concluding this ‘new’ chapter. The torment of having stayed at home for six months waiting for something to happen is now unrecognisable.
Regrets persist and I have learnt to accept them for what they are: regrets. “We can’t change the past” is an exhaustive truth, but a truth nonetheless. There’s a spring in my step; it will often reach its elastic limit when melancholy and the stringent force of mediocrity fall upon me. But that’s okay, I guess. The darkness of the night does not affect the brightness of sunrise.
Thank you to everyone that has followed this blog over the years, for reading my poetry and occasional prose – the good and the terrible.
Image Source: turbosquid.com
this is it
the breaking: like a tree hacked
but made into paper.– the making.
the disintegrating: like paper soaked in liquid starch
but made into Papier-mâché.– the reintegrating.
this is me: falling apart
and making things from my fallen parts.
there you are, bending over backwards
but never breaking.
your elasticity is limitless,
it pleases you to please
even at your displeasure (you are often displeased).
you are a mobile servant; an iService,
serving all eyes. even the blind (to your love)
and unkind (to your hurt).
your pretence hides like raging hormones
in plain sight but
you have a heart that truly gives.
you are pretending to be you
(a subservient you)
Image source: ohgizmo.com