I sometimes get an almost surreal sensation when I read back some of my old poems, as if I couldn't recognize the products of my own creation and imagination. I guess poetry has always been an integral part of my life and it's a wonder why I chose studying the sciences over the arts and humanities. If I could turn back the clock, I probably would but I suppose if I did, I would incur the wrath of my family (and possibly the dissidence of certain friends) who deemed the "arts" as something dead, worthless and lacking a future. I wish I had laughed at their misconceptions, thrown caution to the four winds, and plunged straight into the depths of my passion.
However, I didn't; I was a meek, subservient son and chose the predictable path. Or at least, that was what I had thought. I know there's nothing to be gained from thinking about such things, lamenting about irrevocable events long past and the what-ifs and I-wish-I-hads of life -- Sometimes you just think about it without you actually realising you're thinking about it and when you finally do realise it, you're so far gone into your little dreamland it's difficult & a mite painful to yank yourself back to reality, back to where you're a dissatified and disgruntled little human.
I better end this entry soon before I start rambling nonsense. Keyis is right -- I can talk alot, but only if I'm in the mood =p Anyway, here's a little blast from the past for those who have been wondering about my yahoo account nick; I wrote the following for an inter-school poetry writing competition eons ago (macam dah lamer sangat gitu. lol) and tied with another fella for second place -- third placing was scrapped. Thus, the cash prize had to be divided amongst us both. So sad rite. Anyway, there were few participants (hardly more than two dozen entries, I think) and the competition was badly organised despite having a credible jury. This was most evident when I received my prize, via cheque thru' the mail, a whole semester after the results were released. Kwang kwang kwang~!
Chasing Horizons
The blind man is standing there, playing his instrument.
Does he not see?
The men accoutered in their sharp, snazzy suits --
Their black asian hair streaked with bronze or blonde
Or red or mahogany or blue,
Slicked back with designer gel to last the entire day --
How, from him, they contrived to turn their gaze away
By looking ahead at the looming passage of the underpass
Or at the flashy ads that interchange behind the glass.
Their chins up high, briskly walking;
Does he not see they could just be pretending?
Or are they really chasing their horizons -- relentlessly pursuing
The wrong dreams, the wrong things?
Oh! But he is blind!
These slit-eyed men in their sharp, snazzy suits;
Do they not see?
There is no need to divert their glances away from him.
For his blank eyes cannot possibly judge or be prejudiced
Against people he cannot possibly see.
If he cannot look into the distance, what horizons can he pursue?
But the hope that some people with empathy -- or a dollar or two --
Would stop and listen to his (sometimes tuneless) tired song.
Is that too much to ask for? Is that wrong?
His chin up high, bravely waiting;
Do they not see, his life is still worth living?
His limited boundaries are not his undoing.
He isn't begging for fancy things.
Or are they also blind?
The blind man has stopped playing his instrument.
His song has ended.
But the men in their sharp, snazzy suits are briskly walking --
Chasing their horizons.
