The way...

I wish I could capture in words the way the fading light of day was set across the horizon in a display of neon glow of orange, red, purple and blue... the way the slight sliver of the rising moon cut a slit in the darkening evening sky... the way the the wind blew whispers into my ears, while the waves roared as they hit the beach... the way sand steadily flowed across my feet like I was standing in a giant sandglass and watching time go by... or the way seashells crumbled and crunched with every step I took...



I wish I could capture it all in words.

Drizzle

It seemed like it was going to rain today. And it eventually did, as night fell and the winds started to blow. I stood in the drizzle, felt the refreshing droplets of rain fall, feel them tinkle and splash on my cheeks, nose and cling onto my lashes. Slowly raindrops slid down my glasses, and the world fogged and blurried. But it was a pleasant kind of bluriness, because you know when you wipe your glasses the blurriness would all go away. Unlike the other night.

Felt still a little bit dazed today, so plans to study and get some work done amounted to no more than 3 pages or so of reading. Somehow I felt really sleepy, even though I had been sleeping for eight hours or so, which was the amount I try to get nightly. Sleep wasn't really so smooth, and I definitely know I had dreams, which was pretty unsual, some of which were pretty intense, as if I was there again. Like little images and memories playing and replaying themselves in my subconsciousness, because of the lingering effects of the experience. But nothing that really kept me awake. I had a little bucket next to my bed... just to be on the safe side.

Last night I went home and took a long, hot shower, one that symbolised the washing away all the dirt and grime of the previous forty-eight hours. Now and then, I'd still have these moments when I wasn't fully aware of whether I was 'here', or whether I was at another moment in time. So I was still a little disorientated and bedazzled, but even in that state, I managed to fix a proper and healthy meal for the three of us, and clean up the kitchen after me, like I'd normally do. An amazing feat, seeing that I wasn't really 'myself' then. Nobody at home noticed there was nothing wrong with me. Either that shows how 'normal' I seemed or had acted, or how little they care.

I was a bit afraid to eat too much, fearing I'd throw up again. After some experience like that, I felt like I had to be careful with everything I did, as if I was exploring life and all the things I did before for the very first time. So all I had was a light meal of tofu with some stir-fry vegetable mix and olives, and a cup of orange juice. I felt full after that, and was really afraid I'd start throwing up again. I really didn't feel like doing that at home, especially when it'd arouse suspicions about what I've been up to. I remember when I was so out of myself that night, I was still somehow consciously telling myself that whatever happens, the last person I'd call is my brother.

So luckily, feeling full after dinner was just a normal reaction. I somehow managed to write that entry before... it was like the words and thoughts were flowing out of me, and I had to try to capture them before they slipped away from my fingers. At times, just trying to retrace those moments and thoughts made me dizzy and my mind spin, and I felt like I was about to have another fit of anxiety attack. But luckily, I guess it was just the intensity of the experience, like an extreme form of trauma being recalled, that temporarily caused the dizziness and spinning.

It was getting dark when I finished writing. But I felt like going out. I felt I wanted to be free... strange, because I had just experienced the 'ultimate' form of freedom. Somehow, even the looming clouds and dying light of day had their charms, and soon I was on my bike and cycling toward the beach. The wind in my hair, the low hum of the wheels, and slight metalic clink-clank from the vibrating bike-frame... they seemed like music.

On I cycled, and I never stopped... save for the occasional red traffic light. Past the empty and drearily gray beach, past darkened forests and shadows that danced in the dark, past countless houses filled with light and warmth.... On I cycled, feeling and absorbing that sense of freedom I relish whenever I'm on my bike, the feeling you get when you're in control of the direction and speed you are moving in. I felt no tiredness, but a rush. To go faster and further, and to be free.

And I was.

"I think we're dying"

After a night last the last, it's sort of funny in a morbid kind of way to see this...

Ego and id

I'm not sure whether what I'm going to write will make sense. I'm not sure if anything makes sense now. But I feel like I must write, write so as not to forget, not to forget what happened yesterday and today.

It was a normal start to the day, just work as usual. I left home thinking I'll be home again by the end of the day, that it would be just work and nothing more.

But how wrong I was. An innocent home baked brownie turned not so innocent. We ate, and ate. Though there was a pecculiar aftertaste, we felt nothing. Nothing. The dark, dark brownie lay before us, beckoning to be eaten. And we ate some more, but nothing. Nothing at all.



All hype perhaps. The world didn't suddenly start to turn funny, I wasn't seeing circles, I wasn't feeling ill. But the worst was to come. It was still to come.

It kicked in as the alcohol mingled with the brownies in an untested brew of chemicals, hallucinents and fine African herbs. It was slow to start... but we started to realise what was happening to us. Flashes... flashes... things happening so quickly... but, but at the same time happening so slowly, so strangely. Time had no meaning... time and space lost their grip on my life. It was like someone had gotten ahold of my remote control and continuously pressed 'play' and 'stop', 'play' and 'stop' again and again. I remember one moment trying to put into words what I was saying, and the next moment seeing the characters in the documentary we were watching burst into applause. I saw myself, sitting there one moment... and the next feeling miserable and ill.

The nausea didn't come much later. I closed my eyes, realising I was slowly losing it, losing it all. But even though I knew my eyes were closed, I could still see... everything spinning, turning, twisting and twirling around like a slow tornado getting stronger, and stronger. An overpowering storm within me, churning everything in its path, and pulling me deeper and deeper in. I closed my eys, but I could still see... the world, in bright colours, like a kaleidoscope in yellow, purple, red... and there were eyes, following me, watching me... warning me: "You have gone too far... you have gone too far".

Putting it all into words feels dizzying now... perhaps such an experience should never be put into words, was not meant to be put into words... but a writer must write, for he must get those images and feelings out, or else they will consume him, and he will die.

And it was like that yesterday... All those images, all those colours... too confusing to capture, too overpowering to master. The more you tried to control your thoughts, the more you tried to stable yourself, the more and more intense the slow, luring dance of some unknown spirit twirled around you, dancing, dancing, and dancing, waiting for the perfect moment to prowl.. the moment when you are vulnerable. And weak. Now, then, here, there... it all meant nothing. Nothing.

And that moment came. Nausea, pain, furstration, that deep, deep sense of loss and loss of control gripped my body and insides like a monster with sharp claws clinging onto its pray. I felt air within me, poisonous gas that needed to come up, but couldn't because they were trapped in the depths of my bowles, and ferventing even more poison and pain within me. I swallowed deeply, hoping my own saliva would drown away the flood of indescribable unease and physical sickness I was feeling then... but the more I swallowed, the more I felt the flood was flowing up, up, and up... I swallowed, and felt like I was forcing crass and hard wheels down my own throat... There were bubbles, there were air bubbles and water bubbles. I closed my eyes, again and again, thinking with eyes closed everything would stop, everything would be OK again... but no... The world spun, the world danced, and it stormed all around me. It had to come out... it all had to come out.

Arched over the black bin, I felt the sickness pour out. Not once, not twice... but countless times, each one more intense, more dizzying, yet at the same time more relieving and necessary than the last. My stomach growled, and my eyes teared. Streaks of warm tears flowed down my cheeks, as wave after wave of vomit poured out of my mouth and nostrils. "What shame! What embarrasement!" I thought to myself... and out loud I continuously apologised to dear friends who were around me, who were with me all the time, and who watched over me, took care of me, took ahold of me... and who had had a evening of innocent fun twistedly turned into a haunting nightmare they were probably going to remember for a long, long time.



But the vomitting was necessary. The sick had been collecting within me, had piled up over the years, and they had to come out. All had to come out. All the frustrations, the swallowed tears, the surpressed memories, the images of people and places... they appeared before me seemingly simultaneously like a slow slide show. Some were shocking, some were kind, some were loving, some were as horrible as the nightmares and pains of childhood... I continued to throw up, getting rid of not just the bits of food I had consumed earlier that day, but also foul, foul fluids and snot that were choking me, choking my insides, and stopping the beauties of life from flourishing in the dark, dark hollow chambre of my insides. My friends kept on handing me tissues, patting me, holding onto my shoulders, and whispering to me... their touch and whispers were the only things that told me where I had to be... their touch and whispers were like welcome road signs in a dense and dark forest of utter confusion...

I remember apologising profusely. And thanking them again and again. It was a strange mixture, of guilt and pain, struggling and trying to triumph over elation and bliss. On the one hand, I was held hostage by the illussions of hallucination, I was captured and losing every bit of sanity and control over mind and body. And that made me frightened, so very afraid that I would die, just die and disappear into an abyss never to wake up again, and forever in pain and suffering... Yet, on the other hand, I felt such strange bliss, and I remember myself laughing, chuckling and realising that the whole experience would do me much good. I needed the cleansing, I needed the hallucinations, even if they brought back much pain and trauma. I needed them to be sane again, to go on in life and realise that everything is so relative... to realise that everything is so trivial. For when you are out of it, when you are standing out of your body and watching yourself twitch and shiver like a lost, lost and bitter child, you realise that it can all be different. Life can be different, and life can be pretty. I was laughing and remind myself of the possibilities, of the so many beauties that this world has to offer... the beauties and the good that I realised were such a contrast, and such a far, far world away from the darkness and confusion I was feeling then. "Nirvana... Nirvana...the light side, the light side..."


I saw myself, legs crossed and hands resting on one another in front of my stomach. I saw myself in a tranquil and strangely attractive posture, the way you position yourself for meditation. And I sat like that for hours, how many I do not know. In the darkness and confusion, in the world of mind-numbing yellow hexagons and circles, it was as if I knew the way to escape. And that was to meditate... to collect myself, to observe my anxieties and observe my fears... to watch my breath as it went in and out, in and out. And I remembered all those weeks and months in the forests of Burma, in the mountains of Taiwan... I remembered the lessons I learnt about mindfulness and self-observation. I remembered I needed to watch, watch, watch... not to feel aversion or attraction... not to want to get away from fear, not to want to want to cling onto bliss... just watch, watch, watch. Watch the breath as it went in and out, in and out... watch the mind as it wandered and lost itself in confusion. Just watch...

I remember thinking to myself as I sat there in that tranquil and meditative pose, that never have I felt such elation... all those hours of meditation, of trying to calm my own mind and body, nothing could compare to the strange, strange sense of clarity and lightness I felt. It was like I was floating, flying, free. A spiritual experience... of pleasure and pain, of tears and laughters, of love and hatred, of evil and good... a spiritual struggle, manifested in the strong shivers, in the sick that from time to time flooded out of my bowls. In the ramblings and repetitions of perhaps senseless nonsense, which at the time seemed so wise and so true. I remember thinking to myself that I had found the 'Way', the way to salvation, the path to freedom, and that the world could learn from all this I was experiencing. I remember the bloodshed and pains of the world, and felt them on my shoulders... there were moments when I felt that I had found a solution to the world's problems, that somehow I could unite the world and humanity, and that there would be such a beautiful eternal peace and bliss... 'An die Freude' I sang... that piercing piece of poetry and moving music that so truly and deeply symbolises the union of man and woman all over the world. I was moved. The world was moved.

I remember telling my friends, who by then were panic-stricken and frantically trying to figure out whether (and who!) to call for help, that they should watch me and learn from me. I wanted to creep away and die slowly, I wanted my friends not to be bothered by me, and to just let me be. But they couldn't do that. And actually I needed them more than anything else... I needed help, and I had to ask for it. I had to reach out, to touch others, so that I could be touched. "Help me... help me... scared, scared..." I whimpered like a small puppy that had just been kicked and abandoned. And they were there... they were always there.

The unfinished piece of brownie lay on the floor. Someone joked that we should finish it... but hearing the name brownie made me sick. It was as if once I heard it the image of that dark, brown cake which seemed to represent evil at its purest stayed smothered in my vision. "Don't eat it... don't mention it..." I rambled on and on, even fearing that they would feed it to the ducks and geese. But I felt indignant and upset at that possibility. Even in my state of stonedness I knew what was wrong and right. I kept on repeating that the remaining piece of brownie should not be fed, should not be eaten. It was like I had to defend the whole world from everything that was bad and evil, and that all that bad and evil were churning and turning in my insides, making me sick, high, delusion, but at the same time passionate, kind and caring as I thought of wanting to protect the world from everything that was bad and evil.

After that, I threw up again and again, throwing up until there was nothing else to throw up, until all there was was clear stomach fluid that hung from my trembling lips. What a sorry state I have been in... what horrors my friends had to witness and clean up after me... Yet after each burst of vomit, after each ejection of the rubbish that had been piling and stinking up my insides, I felt I was slowly regaining control, regaining consciousness. I was coming to, and I felt powerful, I felt strong. The world spun more slower, and the yellow colours, and spinning hexagons and circles slowed, and slowed, slowed and slowed. I sat there, still in that meditative trance, reasling and rejoicing at the fact that deep inside that the 'good' was triumphing... and that once more I would regain control again of my body and mind. It was like before I had been naked, exposed... all the traumas and the pains were flung open for the rest of the world to see. When darkness took control, when I let go and let life drain away there was the 'real me', shivering and suffering, frustrated and angry. Yet... yet after that nakedness and exposure, it was safe to clothe myself again... it was safe and necessary to wrap myself, to hold onto myself.

"Back, back, back..." I chanted. "Here and now, here and now..." I muttered. Back to reality, back to the here and now, back to consciousness, back to the world as it is, and away from the confused world in its countless guises, delusions and dimensions.

Amid my repeated apologies and gratitude, I felt closer to life and death than I could ever imagine. Closer to life and death than I could ever imagine.

Mother's Day

The other day I lost my scarf. It was a grey one, and a warm one, one that my mum gave me for Christmas one year, some years ago. Being careless I forgot it while attending a lecture. It was only stepping into the pouring rain and the cold North Sea wind did I realise what I had lost something so precious.

Luckily, I found it again the next day. I put it around me as soon as I saw it, and I felt so warm again. I am lucky, because I have a mum who cares. And sometimes I forget that, the way like I forgot to take my scarf with me. But then I find that care and warmth, and realise how precious it all is.

I spoke to mum just now, like we would do every Sunday. She would tell me about her week, and I would tell her mine. In the half an hour or so on the phone, we would bond and bridge the distance and time separating us.

Sadly, the main thing we talked about this week was about... money. More specifically, money for my brother. He's been wanting to buy a flashy new car for sometime now, and recently managed to get a loan from the bank. But the problem is it's not enough... Actually it's more than enough, but it's not enough because the car he wants has a bigger engine, and of course the bigger the engine the more expensive it is. The main difference between a car with a 1.4 litre engine and a 1.8 litre engine is that when you press the gas pedal, the car with the bigger engine accelerates faster. Faster, by perhaps a few seconds or so... but for those few seconds, the price difference is around 3000 Euros.

So the other day he called my mum and asked her to borrow some money. I was very upset when I heard he had done that. For the last couple of months I had told him very clearly and time and again, if he wants to buy a car, use whatever money he has and buy one that he can actually afford. I laid it all out before him: he's been working for less than two years, yet already now he wants to buy a car that's going to be more than his annual salary! I reminded him what little our mum has at the moment, and of all the mortgage burdens she has to shoulder every month... Why do you need a car that can accelerate faster by a few seconds if all you're be doing is using it to get to work and back? Why buy such a new and good car now, when you're just starting out careerwise? And I even asked him: do you really need a bigger car, or do you actually want a bigger car? He admitted that he only wants one.

But, like so many times, my advice and words vanished in the wind, and he went to ask money from my mum despite of all the reasons I mentioned not to. And like the mum who would do anything to please her child, the money was transfered immediately.

I was hurt when she told me about it all just now. For a long time I said nothing. She continued to say, in ways and words of a caring and understanding mum, how much she understands my brother, and how tenacious he can be once he sets his eyes and mind on something he really wants... I asked her why, and she told me how she would do anything to make him happy, and that everything else is not that important... She'll get by somehow, spend less here and there, and she'll get by somehow. True words. Painful words.

At the end of our conversation, I softly said to her: "Happy Mother's Day..."

She thanked me, and told me to take good care of myself. I said the same back, almost inaudibly...

All I could think of was how bizarre it is that on this day when children of the world are thanking for their mum's hardwork and love, my mum would be the one to be giving a gift.