My Book of Love, My Book of War

I wrote my book of Love at the end of a decade. I write my book of war at the beginning of another.

My book of love is full of hopes, illusions and truths. Fata Morgana. My blinded spirit thought it was Truth, but this truth did not exist. My book of love is not for me. It was destined to reach the hands of one I will never see. Destined to reveal my thoughts, my feelings and my hours, minutes and seconds as I waited for the moment that I can finally rest the book in his safe-keeping. It was a request - fill blank white paper with black ink. Black ink which flowed with time. Which evolved into tears, and then into bile. My book of hopes, illusions and sacrifices, now conferred to rest in the depths of the ocean. An offering, a thanksgiving for the strength I have always received from the Deep. Black ink will be erased by saltwater. Paper will disintegrate and dissolve into nothingness. Words will disappear into the deep. 

I wonder, will the tides carry my words across islands and mountains? Will the one who boldly requested for words from deep within me ever hear these words carried by the tides? Will these words touch his soul? Will he suffer when he hears me in the wind and sees my shadow dacing on the waves? How long more will he continue in his madness to seek me, having no possible means to get close to me? For now it is I who have become Fata Morgana. How long more will he let the madness rule him, when will Time and Tide erase the memory of me?

I believe...I do not believe. I wonder, but I do not wish for answers, because I do not really care to know. Because my book of Love is now destined for destruction.

Destined. Destiny.

When I started the book of War, I was of the mind to perfect my skills in the art. Physically, mentally. I have searched, and will continue to search, long and far for all the knowledge which has been given to me. This book is destined for me, and there is no ending, as the pursuit of knowledge does not end. The book of War will always grow. I planted the seeds within me, now it has taken root and grown. It is yet a very young tree, a sapling, which others nurture and I treasure. But as I write the book of War, my consciousness asks me, "WHY, who are you fighting?"

Destiny.

My eternal opponent. My friend and enemy who has seen fit to throw in my path those who use guile, deceit and force. Fickle Destiny, friend at one moment, foe another. I never know which it will be. Destiny's violent generals have not gotten the better of me yet. But each opponent she sent has only gotten stronger, as though to test my limits, to see if my strength has grown or slackened over the years. How long can I last? How much can I endure? Her last general was a worthy opponent. He used the best strategy: DECEIT and AHIMSA. Begging for words from the deep to be transcribed on white paper. Deceit hurts, therefore is not the way of Ahimsa. Ahimsa from one who uses force on my friends, subjects them to his will, do his bidding, in order to take a step closer, since he was far removed from me. But I can smell violence beneath the skin, I can read chaos in the mind. Yes, I can be an animal when I choose. He did not win. And my victory holds a certain defeat.

Laugh at every defeat, it keeps me sane. Cry at this victory, it drove me insane.

A deflection, Destiny's general now wishes to enter my camp. But I have no camp, and no place for traitors. Once a traitor, always a traitor, the lowest form of life. My ruling command - no quarter, no mercy.

My book of War sharpens my mind, teaches me to focus, opens up doors to many other aspects of life. The words of wisdom given to me, or those which I beg for, glean, cajole or steal, yes steal, have taken life on white paper. And they will grow and flow. They flow within me as I write. They flow from me as I fight. They wait, ready to spring to life when I summon them from their slumber on white paper. Ready to take on the next crazed general Destiny launches my way.

As of 01h00 19 June, the battle is renewed. My book of War will be my companion, my weapon. It is full of words of teachers from years ago, and those who I will meet in the future. Words in strange languages. So many languages that sometimes I forget my own. Words which act as a light on my path as I fight through darkness and chaos. Yes, that is my ultimate opponent - Destiny. I object, refuse, reject what I KNOW is not good for me. Send me your best, most violent, most worthy champions...

Only the Almighty rules over life and death. In my turbulent spirit, there is no such thing as "It is written by Destiny."

It is written by me.

My book to be destroyed, and my book which will grow, IS WRITTEN BY ME.

For My Lover - Samudera

I close my eyes.

I fall over backwards into your embrace. Carried away by your strength. Plunged into your depths. Lulled into a trance by your calm, your power, your silence, your grace...and your beauty. In the heat of the day you claim me again and again. In the darkness of moonless nights and starry skies you encompass me with a gentle heat. You embrace me within and without, a maddening caress no human could better.

For my Lover is not human.

Many names You have. Saagar, Samudera, Maha-Samud - these are my chosen names for You. Some worship You, live by Your grace. Some fear You. Some use Your bounty and profane You. I, simply, am bound to You from before the time of my birth, and all my life thereof. When You summon, I must run to You, or suffer an empty, restless existence, until You take me into You again. Until You are in me. Until I taste Your salt. Until I breathe while I am in Your grasp.

My Lover, I cannot stay long in Your world. Unless You make me part of that world. Many times You have attempted to, from the time I was 7, until now, You have selfishly tried to take me away from this existence into Yours. My time has not yet come. Maybe one day You will succeed. Maybe my final resting place is indeed in Your embrace. Am I to become one with You for eternity? Am I to dissolve, to disappear, to be re-invented in Your Depths?

With each union You reveal more and more of Your secrets. You show me Your mysteries and give me a better understanding of who and what You are. My human psyche will never be able to unravel Your depths - You teach, give me knowledge. You put others in my path, others who will help me, push me closer to You. I am humbled by all that You have given me. But I am not of Your world.

How long will You continue to summon me as such? Will You ever let me go?  I have given up others in Your name. The sacrifices I have made...just to have the taste of You on my lips. Salt. Is it the same salt that runs through my veins? What I have running within me is salt, is fluid...and it runs hot when I think of all the times I have come to you. Blood, it runs hot to go back into Your fluid embrace. You are fluid, yet Your will is as hard as steel. Your power burns me. You have been rough, and calm. Been beautiful, and angry. You have shown me a million faces which is beyond description. And I love You in all Your guises. Yes, even when Your wrath is ugly and threatens to destroy me, I still love You.

But I am like the wind - I come, I play, but I never stay. It is against my nature to stay. A gypsy from the sea. Tied to You for life, but always running away, until the time and distance that separates You and me becomes unbearable. Every single cell in my body begs to be returned to You. And that is when I seek You again. I am as selfish as You. I treasure my freedom, yes, even from You. I am bound to You, but I am not shackled.

For years I have always thought of You as a feminine, motherly, presence. Strange then, that You revealed Yourself to me in the form of a man, and a lover. Golden like the sun, clad only in a simple cloth, You came to me and staked Your claim. Even then You showed Your wrath, because I failed to recognise You. How could I? I thought it was all a dream. Since then, Your summons have been more frequent. More intense. Your call have made me steer my life in a different direction. I have embarked upon a way of life which I never dreamt of 365 days ago. A life which I dedicate to You. Like a priestess from an ancient lost religion, I have dedicated my life to You and Yours. I'll stand forth and protect and preserve what You hold. The wonderful and dangerous life within You I cherish.

Barely a fortnight ago I surrendered myself to You. And now You summon me again. My Lover, I am not of Your world. I am only human, and You, my love, the endless ocean. The beginning of all Life. And if You are to be the end of mine, I will gladly accept.

One last plunge into You, one eternal embrace, one with You.

When the time comes,You can have me. When You cease to exist, so will I. For I do not wish my consciousness to linger if You are to become a barren desert.

I will close my eyes.   



        

What My Father Told Me

Once upon a time, many years ago, the father of my heart sat me down to talk to me about LIFE. My life. As it had been written, a longer time ago, by a Hindu priest who documented this journey I had just embarked upon. The journey many call LIFE. A voyage written in the stars. An astrological birth chart which haunts me to this very day.

Destiny, Fate, What is Written - I never believed in everything I was told. I believe I am the Master of my own Destiny. Many a moment I had fought against what others would have simply accepted - "So it has been written in my Fate." Through hell and high water, when Fate conspires to defeat me in an all out battle, I will fight, and emerge victorious. I am proud to say that I never let any of Destiny's nasty surprises keep me down. Rebel, warrior, fighter, a cunning strategist and a worthy adversary, I have been that to Destiny - never docile, never accepting what is simply to me, unacceptable.

LOSS

This is what my father told me. "In your life, you have, and you will suffer many losses. Including of those who are very close to you. You will suffer for these losses in ways deeper than you can imagine. They will bear a profound mark on your soul." Yes, that is true. I have lost what other people don't cherish, what others take for granted in their daily lives. What I have yearned for all my life, others have, and never think twice about. I fouht against turning into a bitter person. A "victim", how I hate that word. I kept myself happy. I threw myself headlong into different worlds, cultures, arts and activities which have gained me so many true friends. Perhaps never to replace what I have lost, but to sustain my soul. Feed my soul with the knowledge, affestion and love that I received from so many.

FRIENDSHIP

"In your life, you will come across many friends who will give you love. Many who will love you because you give them love, and in doing so, you give them respect, a respect for themselves. Some will seek to possess this love, and when they realise you cannot be possessed, they will start hating you. They will envy you. They will try to hurt you in one way or another. Beware Jealousy. It will surround you like a dark cloud, all your life. Some people are not happy to see happinness and strength in others. This jealousy will consume you and give birth to despair within your soul, for you are not able to understand jealousy from those you hold close to your heart." Yes, this is also true. Upon rare occasions, friends have become foe. Being forewarned, my only recourse was to cut them off from my life. I am not happy being surrounded with dark clouds. For a short while I will be sad, then I throw myself once more into different worlds, and my soul regenerates. I am ME once more.

ANGER, MY COLD AND CONSTANT COMPANION

"In your life, Anger will be your constant companion. You will be angry at the injustices of the world, at people exploiting the weaknesses of others, at your own helplessness to make things right. You will be angry at people who do not understand you. My Rebel Queen, you will not be able to steer the thoughts and actions of the world. But you MUST, you MUST, tame your anger and make it into a friend. Don't let it hurt you. Use it, to your own good." How difficult it has been, to turn Anger into an ally. It is still a constant battle. Yet as the years go by, I find that Anger is indeed a great companion in life. It had shown me ways to win over enemies. It has been used, in its pure and cold form, to conquer matters beyond my understanding. It has been used, unfortunately, to plot the downfall of others who dare croos me beyond limits. And this dark part of myself I embrace and keep close, for many a times, it kept me afloat and brought me to safe harbour when I felt I should drown. It kept me awake and alert when others crept up with a knife destined between my shoulder blades. It has kept me alive, awaken my senses, and allowed me to see things in many dimensions. My Anger, my cold, cold companion.

How right my father was, to tell me these things.

WATER AND WIND

"In your life, some people you will meet for only a brief moment. You have a purpose in their lives, and they have a purpose in yours. Do not regret their leaving. More than others, you will meet transitional souls, as you yourself are in constant movement. Like water, you cannot be contained, like the wind, you have to be here, there, and everywhere. Ask yourself, what is their purpose? What lesson do they bring you? And what lesson did you give to them? Then let them go. Do not seek to stay, for that you cannot do." Those of you who are my friends, YOU know I won't let go that easily. Some of you have been with me for years and years. Yes, people I meet briefly are plenty, and some I have already forgotten. Some, though far, and lost, are never forgotten, such were the lessons they brought as a gift to me on my journey, when I met them at one crossroads or another.

PROSPERITY

"You will bring prosperity to others, like Lakshmi the Goddess of Prosperity you are to me. You brought me prosperity from the moment of yoru birth. In your absence I feel the loss of my well-being, my happiness, my prosperity. So will you be to your close ones. For you will gladly give all you have to those in need. Beware, for there are many who will seek to use you in this way. You will always have enough to live on, and happy in all that you seek to achieve. But you yourself, will never be rich, as you tend to use money only to please yourself. You do not save for a rainy day, and this you must learn to do." I never consider myself a good luck charm for others. Never thought that helping a friend in need is a big deal, even if it means I have to tighten my belt for a while. After all, my friends have also helped me in times of need. Yes, I do help blindly, and I don't listen to common sense. Yes I know some people will conveniently disappear after taking what they need. Deception - also part of life. I do not hold a grudge against them, because deep inside, I know they cannot help be what they are, cannot help their own weaknesses.

As I cannot help my own weaknesses.

A TWIN SOUL

"In your life, you will meet your twin soul when you are older. He will be younger than you, not of your culture, nor of your beliefs. He will be of a family with means. He will also be a Twin, like you. He will think you are a TIDE which comes and goes. He will not recognise you. Until it is too late. And great will be his regret. And you, turning into the coldhearted twin you carry within you, will turn your back, and carry on your journey alone. You will carry this knowledge. It will be a burden you carry in your soul till the end of this lifetime. As much as it will be a burden on your twin soul who will forever be haunted by his loss. My daughter, do not be so quick to judge others, for their world is different from yours, your strength is not theirs, your spirit they do not possess. My Goddess of Prosperity, I pray that you will learn to forgive and forget."

Father of my heart, understand I can, accept I can, forgive I can. Forget I cannot.

AN IMPORTANT YEAR, A MILESTONE

At this point in my life, when I look back at all the things I have been through, it seems as though many reveleations, pre-ordained by a simple Hindu priest, divined from the stars, seems inevitable. My comfort is that I have never taken it lying down, never thrown in the towel.

This year is a turning point in my life. I steer myself towards new directions, new destinations. Achieve new goals which I set at the end of 2010, at the end of a year which saw me enter into a new decade, a new beginning. Bring it on, I'm ready to face the bad and embrace the good. I am born under strange constellations, but I have NO grievances. I have all things, all the people which have made, and will continue to make my journey a wonderful one. Pitfalls and obstacles are just the simple topography of an extraordinary adventure: LIFE. And I am still full of hope and dreams.

Thank you Father of My Heart, for all the things, too many to write, which you have given me, shared with me, told me, advised me. In this very important year of my life, I wish, above all other things, for you to be walking next to me, holding my hand. Yet, I will be content to know that you are at peace.

Black, White and Shades of Grey

2009 has been a year painted with black, white and shades of grey. A little burst of colours as vibrant as Paul Klee’s works, in the form of my beautiful friends. I could not have survived this year without you, Karen Thibault, Fadila Arar, and François Guillevic. Thank you, from the depths of my heart and soul, for your peerless friendship. These are the friends that say “How are you?”, and really care, and wait to hear your answer. The friends, who, like those few I left behind in Belgium; I carry in the depths of my soul. Heart of my heart, blood of my blood, soul of my soul.

I lost one friend forever this year. Duli, I have to admit after grieving I became angry. A reversal in the grief process, but despite my anger I will miss you for a long time to come. My stomach still churns when I think of what we could or could not have done to help you.

I ‘lost’ two more friends to the recession and ups and downs (down being the operational word) of the corporate world. Last night my two friends finally crossed the continents and oceans which will remain as physical barriers for a time to come. A short time I hope. Fadila and François have gone back to France to start a new life, a better life. I will miss the breaks, the conversations, the movie sessions, the swimming sessions, the good food, drinks and fabulous desserts. You kept your hearts and home always open to a mongrel like me. I didn’t have enough time, and I think that forever would not have been enough, because the friendship you gave me was as infinite as the universe. Unconditional. Thank you.

Karen Thibault, I have no definition for you, nor for those I consider my friends. You are just Karen, a Being, a hybrid, divine. Forever you will remind me of the Guns N Roses song Sweet Child of Mine. A hybrid just like Laetitia Sedou, Thomas Govaerts, Duncan McIntosh, Sophie Renson, Nonka Matsuda and all the people who really mean something. Karen, I cannot imagine this year without you. Your presence in 2009 is probably what kept me together, and thanks for sharing Sher Khan with me for a while. You did not desert me during the blackest moments of 2009. Your strength was always a beacon guiding me as I fought to keep myself afloat. Tears and laughter, songs and dance, languages and sleepovers, dreams and nightmares, what would I have done without you?

2010, my fourth year in Singapore is approaching. I have no sense of belonging here. My country is within me, and the laws I follow are my own. I know I will never “belong” anywhere or to anyone. For people who forsake, betray, cheat their friends, people who call you friends and abandon you in the next breath, I will never understand your modus operandi. I may feel sad at your act, your motivations, but I know that I have not incurred a great loss. A blessing, to be rid of such users. My God is with me, and He doesn’t tell me to make others conform to my beliefs, nor does He demand for bloodshed and violence. My allegiance is only to those I love.

A social butterfly, a bookworm. Un oiseau de nuit (a nightbird - party animal), un rat de bibliothèque (a library rat - bookworm). My acquaintances have defined me as all of the above. My friends have no definitions, and what I love about them is that they don’t even try. They accept me as I am – me, myself and my solitude.

Thank you for being my pillars of strength, my books of wisdom, my guiding lights, my dictionaries and my "Google search engines". Despite my solitary nature, you climbed over "the great wall of China" and gave me your friendship. Thank you for being my friends. I feel in my bones that 2010 will be a better year for all of us, maybe because we will be one year wiser. I'm wishing all of you a very merry X'mas, with your families or close friends, drink one for me, smoke a joint for me, eat loads of desserts for me, my thoughts will be with you, imagining that I'm sitting right next to you for a while, until I move on to the next table. Then the New Year, 2010...for those across the seas, time to think about a little visit here. I will come to you at the end of 2010. In the meantime, my best wishes for all of you. You are all very precious to me.

Memories and Monstrosities

Footsteps on a sandy beach are washed away by waves. Soon all traces of them disappear, and the sand is smooth as it heralds the coming of a new tide and the onslaught of new imprints. Why then does memory lingers in the recesses of our minds? Are we supposed to learn from our past or are we shackled, tortured by these memories? Why do some among us mutate into mere shadows of what we can be? Instead of a sublime buttefly that spreads its wings to tackle the world, those who let their past reign supreme over their present and their future evolve into a hideous monstrosity. A shadow - neither human nor animal.

Revelling in an existence of survival, of the basest instincts; eat drink, fornicate. No pursuit of intelligence nor growth. Stagnation, like a cesspool that only contains rot. Slowly decaying with age. The contrary of good wine which matures with age, they turn into vinegar, sour. But even vinegar has its place in the scheme of things.

Senses numbed by the weight of the memories they carry. Empathy raises their hackles, sympathy they spit upon. False pride they wear like a crown. A keen interest in the downfall and dirt of their peers, the knowledge that a close one or one far removed has weaknesses they carry like a valuable sword, to be used at their behest only to wound, or to kill. Feeding off every misstep, every downfall. Feeding off...

That is what they have evolved into - the most vicious of parasites, for want of a better word. Yet even parasites serve a purpose in nature - desease, elimination, decomposition. Are these monstrosities parasites in human form? Are they meant to cause the downfall and the death of their peers? Like an infectious desease, are they supposed to turn others into weaklings like them?

Survival of the fittest then. Only the strong remain unscathed in wake of these parasites. The weak will succumb and wither away, one more pawn succumbs to the tireless attacks of a monstrosity with no name. One more flower deprived of its short life due to a desease. But the flower nurtured by love and nature prevails, strengthened by simple elements it draws its life from. For these are the simple elements which we need to grow strong and true.

A strong flower will mock the desease - I will not wither in your presence. My strength and my tolerance you cannot conquer. I will leave and breathe. I will dance in the rain and the sunshine till my time comes. My beauty and essence are for others to appreciate. The elements which have made you into what you are are the same elements in the same universe which feed me and makes me strong. You have used them for all the wrong purposes. You have not learnt, you have not grown. I am not a monstrosity like you.

Black Snow

this one's for T.G.

The white tomcat looked at his fast disappearing paw prints in the black snow. He knew that the black snow will overwhelm him sooner or later. He has been trying to ignore the possibility for as long as possible, but he is cold and tired now. His destination is nowhere in sight. He had in mind a nice warm nest where he can curl up and rest for the longest time, but the cold hurt his eyes, and he couldn’t see clearly anymore. “Just get it over and done with, no point prolonging my misery,” he thought. He felt like roaring at the black snow, pretend for one instant that he was one of the big cats he descended from.

Roar in insolence at the black snow which had claimed his companion. Being black, he didn’t realize that she had succumbed to the blizzard way back on their journey. “She should have tried harder,” he thought. He knew she was complaining of the cold, but she always complained of the cold. “STILL she should not let the black snow defeat her. She lost the battle, she lost herself. Maybe that’s what she was planning all along, just give up.”

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Walking with purpose now, he was bent on getting out of the black snow which had cost him his companion. Little did he know that his anger which was tinged with despair would save him one of his nine lives.

Every step he took brought him back to sunny days passed with the black cat. She was as black as he was white. He found her years ago injured and abandoned in the woods he called home. He nursed her back to her paws. She loved to chase birds and butterflies. “I just wanted to play…” she would complain when they ran away from her, or when she accidentally hurts one of them. Her right ear would fold over with shame and regret; she would walk with her head down looking like a perfect portrait of wretchedness. Only the tomcat can lift her spirits when that happened.

“It’s alright. It’s your nature to be playful, but you must remember that they are fragile,” he tells her time and again. She loved to laze in the sun, snapping at the occasional fly or swiping her paws, trying to catch the sunbeams. A sunbeam could have saved her now, he thought, “Too bad we can’t capture and keep sunbeams forever, and use it when we most need it.”

Strange companions they made. Apart from their day and night coats, they liked the same things; wandering in big tall grasses, peeping at the humans and their weird ways, racing through the fields till they felt like a bird themselves. If only they had wings, they would rule the skies, thought the tomcat. “Then there will be very few birds left!” said the black cat to her companion.

Both of them would laugh themselves silly with the thought of sprouting wings. “I want butterfly wings, as colourful and ethereal,” she would say. “Typical impractical female. I want eagle-wings, built for power, go everywhere on those wings. By the way, you’re too heavy for butterfly wings…you need vulture-wings to carry you!” he would say. Usually they end up squabbling over such talk, and many other small talk. But the tomcat never could stay angry for long.

He couldn’t voice out his despair, not yet, he thought. “Let me get out of this damned black snow first.” His anger also took him to the darker moments when the black cat would be melancholy. Lately, those moments were getting more and more frequent. “It’s just that I can’t see the blue sky anymore, all I can see is black snow, I can’t see your eyes,” she says in tears, complaining as they got into deep winter. “I want the blue sky, I want to see your eyes in the sky,” said the black cat.

She had a special name for him. “Blue-Eyes”. The white tomcat’s eyes mirrored a cloudless summer sky. “So look at my eyes and NOT the sky”, says the tomcat, “Let my eyes hold you through till the myosotis come out again,” he said.

“Alright Blue-Eyes,” that’s was what she said, secretly in shame because she felt like a weak little kitten, and because she made him shout at her again. He couldn’t bear her sadness. One day he made the decision to go where the sky was always blue, and where there is no black snow. “Then you can always see the sky, AND my eyes,” he told her.

Blue-Eyes didn’t know that his companion’s despair had taken a toll on her body and her spirit. To him the black snow was merely an annoyance. The black cat on the other hand, had only recently come to live in a land where black snow was more frequent than sunbeams, and she hated its oppressing presence. It coats everything, and even during the day, it made sunshine gloomy. Such was the power of black snow when it falls without reprieve. She became just a shell of a cat. She grew more distant, slipping into the shadows as the black snow continued its descent.

The tomcat didn’t understand why his companion was so terrified of black snow. It paralysed her hunter’s spirit. She couldn’t reason anymore, like a trapped animal, her only will was to escape, run, and disappear. Her fear became worse each time it fell. In the end she could not overcome her dread, and the very thing she tried to run away from claimed her.

Blue-Eyes’ howls made the hairs on humans stand, and gave them goose bumps. The animals in the barn where he was passing through could feel his suffering and became as agitated as he was. But he was just passing through. The thought of being surrounded with other creatures did not appeal to him. As the snow continued to fall mercilessly, the tomcat put one paw in front of another and forced himself to continue.

At that moment, he did not know which he hated most, the black snow or the black cat.

He hated her for succumbing to the coldness. He hated her for abandoning him, when he had promised to bring her where the sky stays blue. He hated her distance and melancholy, and thought of her as a weak spoilt little housecat, and not the feral prowler she really was. She was never grateful for everything he has done, or tried to do, he thought. He just hated her.

It took him a while to realize that he was howling. He could see the beginning of a new day at the edge of the woods. He has walked far enough. Blue-eyes looked for the closest shelter, which happened to be an inviting wooden cabin with opened doors, with a cheerful-looking fire burning at the hearth. An old man was standing at the verandah, peering into the darkness of the dawn. He was wondering where the caterwauling came from. He saw the poor white tomcat spotted with black snow a few steps away. Blue-Eyes didn’t know how the human would react. “That’s all I need now, a crazy old-human male who will end my suffering with a blow to the head,” he thought.

The old man came closer. Blue-Eyes, too tired to move, stayed very still.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” says the old man. “Let’s get you nice and warm now.” He picked up Blue-Eyes like he would a human child, and brought him into his home. “I’ll just stay a while, rest a while,” thought Blue-Eyes. He was placed in front of the fireplace, and he snuggled into an old blanket which smelled of mothballs, a strange new smell for the tomcat which made him sneeze a few times until he got used to it.

Blue-Eyes slept through the next few days, barely waking up and hardly eating what the old man placed in a small tin bowl next to him. He just couldn’t. Even with his eyes closed, he could see black snow. It was gone, but he could still feel it on his fur, and even under his skin. He refused to open his eyes and look out of the glass windows.

The old man thought Blue-Eyes was dying. He left the tomcat alone until he became exasperated with worry. Kind soul that he is, he finally decided to talk to the tomcat. “It’s alright now. Everything is alright. Look, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the trees are beginning to bud. A healthy tomcat like you should be running around catching mice now,” says the old man, stroking the tomcat’s head. Blue-Eyes screwed his eyes shut even tighter, because the old man’s words made him think of his black companion trying to “play” with the birds and waiting impatiently for the myosotis to appear.

It took him a few more days before he ventured out of the old cabin. No more black snow. No more black cat. Yet it was so peaceful here, he thought. “I’ll stay for a while”.

Over the days to come, Blue-Eyes became the old man’s companion. The old man was a painter. He loved to transform blank canvas into nature, and Blue-Eyes would become one of his subjects. When he would have other human visitors, he would tell them, “No matter how much I try and capture his essence onto canvas, there is still something missing. Some thing I cannot capture, as though he is bearing a burden which I cannot see,” says the old man, whose visitors would think he was getting senile.

“Only close friends can see these things,” thought Blue-Eyes. It took the tomcat even longer before he started racing through the forests again, but he never pretended to be a bird anymore, nor did he ever wish for wings again. That part of him was lost in the blizzard, lost along with the black cat. Now he had the forest, the cabin, and the nice warm little nest he could snuggle up in. He had found what he had always wanted.

Only when the forget-me-nots blossom and the butterflies dance, would the old man hear spine-chilling caterwauling again… on a cloudless sunny day when the sky is blue. - by a.h. sharm

The Bridge With No Name by A.H.Sharm

Everyday, the Bridge with No Name bears the burden of a hundred assaults. Feet, paws, hooves and countless other creatures charge on the bridge. It has withstood all these and the ravages of nature, but it still stands. The question is, for how long?

Each day, the squeaking gets worse. Each day, a piece falls of the bridge. Oh…it is still considerably strong, but it is falling sure as the sun rises from the east.

The Bridge with No Name links two villages across a river almost half a mile wide. By now, thought most of the villagers on both sides, the Bridge should have already been named…but every name given to it has always been erased with time, as though the river flowing beneath it could not tolerate having a named entity above it.

The River brings life to the villages and the lands miles before and thereafter. The River itself has been given many names, yet none stuck. So if the River doesn’t have a name, how can the Bridge have one? It seems as though they were resentful of each other, the River and the Bridge. Sometimes, during the months where rain clouds take over the skies, the Bridge is submerged by the raging River. The villagers can hardly see it, and they stay away from the River, knowing that it is on a rampage. Anything will be swept away and swallowed.

At other times, the River is calm, docile and inviting, the bridge the perfect place for lovers to stand and admire the Moon and her reflection in the water. They make such a lovely pair, the villagers thought of the River and the Bridge with No Name. But the Bridge is constant, and cannot withstand the ravaging nature of the River as it breaks its banks and overflows, drowning livestock, destroying homes and sometimes taking lives of the villagers who love it albeit its capricious nature.

As for the Bridge, it has no choice. “I am a bridge, and this is what bridges are made for”. Linked against its will to stand over an unpredictable force, it stands patiently bearing the brunt of the River’s frequent brutality. At times, the villagers can hear the Bridge’s long sad sighs. The more sensitive souls among them feel the Bridge’s burden as though it was their own, but what can they do about it? They need the Bridge as much as they need the River. To them, the Bridge seems to say, “Let me go, it is better to collapse and disappear into chaos rather than be linked to a frenzied companion like you.”

The Bridge with No Name no longer objects to falling apart. It has given up hope. It no longer wishes to be walked upon. It is used for the villager’s own purposes, and is at the River’s mercy. Though strong and stable, it wishes it could crumble and be forever free. After all, who would really care? Another bridge would be built in time, and maybe, this new bridge would have a name. Just another bridge to be walked upon. Do the villagers even realize how vital the Bridge is?

No, every single creature takes the Bridge for granted. They see the Bridge as an inanimate, insignificant structure. There to facilitate their lives. So what can a Bridge do?

The Bridge decided that it would break free. No compromise, no patience. It would use the River’s own violent nature to break its bondage. Thus the Bridge with No Name began it own assault on the River. It would be a long and tedious game, and the Bridge hated games. It was a game with high stakes. The Bridge is staking its very existence, willing to buy freedom at its own expense – willing to exist no more.

The Bridge with No Name one day began its assault on the River. “How mellow you have become, how smooth and tame. Any human child can wade in and piss in you…”

The River, startled out of its banks, never thought for one moment that the Bridge was taunting it for its own purposes. It swells and churns and yells back, “You useless piece of wood, I have only TOLERATED your irritating presence over me till now. I’ll bring you down for good if you continue your senseless chatter. I’ll show you what I’m capable of”.

The surroundings became very still, the birds stopped singing and the bees stopped buzzing. The River summoned its element: more water. Rainclouds gathered, and along with Water came Wind. Strong Wind. The villagers ran into their homes, leaving their fields unattended. They knew a storm was brewing. A storm heralding a battle of wills.

The storm grew in size and strength, the River continued its mad swelling. It called out to Earth, and the ground shook. The Bridge with No Name reveled as the banks began to tremble and send jolts of force down its length. Big chunks of wood broke off from the Bridge. But still it was there.

Laughing now, the Bridge taunts the River further, “You call yourself a River? You’re nothing but a stream, a trickle. A human alchemist could make a better storm than that, and YOU call yourself an elemental? Go underground and hide like all the other tame trickles.”

The River raged. Its cohorts Wind, Water and Earth bound by nature to its aid, increased their assault on the Bridge. The banks shook the Bridge. It swayed as the Wind blew big pieces of it away. It rattled as the Earth ripped its foundations. It flags as Water washed away at where it was deeply rooted to the banks. On both sides of the banks, the Bridge weakens. As it weakens, it felt a joy it has never felt before. “Not so long now”, it thought. One more assault and it would crumble.

“I’m too strong for you River, you cannot destroy me,” was the last thing the Bridge with No Name screamed at the River. Beyond control now, the River gathered her last reserves and blasted at the banks, gouging out the Bridge from the ground it clings upon.
The Bridge began to cave in the middle. Creaking, swaying, trembling. It falls slowly into the River’s madness. The storm continues. The River’s fury unabated. The Bridge falls.

The villagers heard the Bridge with No Name collapsing. In each and every heart, a worry – how would we get across now? No thought was spared for the Bridge, only for themselves.

The Bridge loses itself in the mad embrace of the River. Shattered and battered, it lets bits and pieces of itself be torn apart. As it disintegrates into the crazy River, its last thoughts were “I am free”.

***
After the storm, an eerie calm settled upon the area. How ugly the banks look without the Bridge. Gouged-up earth, holes in the ground, like a desecrated graveyard. Battered trees, some even uprooted, some stripped of their barks. Wind, Earth and Water are still. River calm, but in the calm was there remorse?

“What have I done? I bragged to be the giver of life, yet I have stripped the villagers of the Bridge which they need for their livelihood. Oh yes, they will build another bridge in time, but it would not be the same old friend that has been with me and endured my caprices silently for so long…what have I done?” laments the River.

Slowly, the villagers came out of their homes to witness the River’s brutality. They looked at it with disrespect. For the villagers, now that the Bridge was gone, the Bridge was a friend, and the River suddenly became their enemy. Silly villagers, valuing the Bridge only after it has disappeared. Well, they will learn their lesson in time, as they build a new bridge for themselves, and not take for granted their own efforts.

After many months, the Bridge with No Name became sorely missed as the villagers tried without success to build one in its place. The banks and the earth around the same area were loosened; so badly damaged by the storm that no solid foundation could be built upon those shores. Furthermore, the River that runs through it does its very best to bring down any structure that was built. Soon the River became known as bad luck.


***

Hundreds of miles away, where the River was joined by other bigger rivers, bits and pieces of wood littered the banks of other villages. These villagers gathered these wet soggy pieces of valuable wood. They found good use for the wood in one way or another – to repair leaking roofs; drafty walls; make a small chair or table out of it. Soon the Bridge with No Name became a part of households miles away from its origins. It is said that the “driftwood from the river” brought luck and fortune.

The Bridge of No Name had gained its freedom, and its spirit and benevolence cannot be drowned by a raging River.