He was seen from halfway across the school gym. Loose pants, dress shirt tugging from his belt, a satchel. He was nothing short of that man in the romance film with the quiet death scene. Not to mention he was real, he was speaking in the microphone, and he was positively, quiet determinedly, perfect.
His stance he carried like his belongings, loosely and with determination. He spoke with awareness and viewed everything with clarity. Yet, yet, he was still a tad mischievous; he kept that weapon in his pocket, but it was never a secret.
“You saw him, this morning?”
“He was inspecting the books on the shelves.”
There was only one somber cloud: he appeared only for two minutes during the day. Because what hasn’t been addressed is that, the other hours, he spends elsewhere; the other minutes, he dreams in another adventure; the other seconds, he walks as himself, and no one else.
Reflection must be the most reliable compensation for choosing to believe that the present is inexhaustible. You live in it all until you realize it is all over, and so you turn to your memories and feel as much comfort as longing. This fixation with the past, somehow, always seems to compliment any strive for the future. I come back from the tundra with wisps of a fresh mindset (certainty will always be fragile) that I hope to knit into form and dimension. And so, today looms into yesterday and tomorrow.
I was close to entitling this “4 Years Later, And I’m Still Here!”, but I thought the title would suggest that tending this blog has been a chore. Indeed, the opposite: it has been a wonderful responsibility. However, I recognize the reality in my almost-title, namely the fact that it is true that most of my initial blogging friends have long since left the community. I began this blog with a strong focus on book reviews, music, and bubbling thoughts. Four years later, I have shifted my focus to introspective narrations, poems, and a side of music; the refinement of my writing almost seems like a compensation for my growing relationship with ambiguity.
If you didn’t know, the past year I started a Youtube Channel called MindArt, where I post short videos where snippets of scenes are overlaid with a piece of music that reflect the tone of the storyline. I liked the channel’s name so much that on several occasions I have felt compelled to change this blog’s name to MindArt, but fell short in realizing it. Continue reading “4 Years Later, And Here I Am!”→
You spend your nights comparing
and your mornings idealizing,
Don’t you see the minutes in the trash
and the hours extending their hands?
How foolish they are, banalities
coloured by insecurities and self.
How foolish you are.
The rain reminds me of the
uncompromising nature of the
life outside of me, and
inspires me to think of such
It is the gift of a coming of season,
a release from stagnant commonality;
the night’s darkness folds with
the becoming dew and the breeze
of nostalgia, evaporative clouds. Continue reading “April, May, June”→
The pure whiteness of the sun’s glare made her miss the thunderstorms of hours past. Not that she didn’t appreciate mornings -the sweet birds and mellow grass- quite the contrary. Lately however, nothing seemed absolute and the birds and grass were caged in glass. No – she was caged in glass. The glass was phenomenally thin, undetectable when glanced at, and that’s what tugged at her the most. If her uncertainty was certain, she’d like to think she would be more satisfied. But the cards are never dealt in one dimension.
What she found perfectly funny was that the more distant her memory, the more she reminisced it with exactitude. The healing knee scab that was scraped again, the lollipop rewards, even the laser tagging and hot dogs. She thought of this as she ate her omelet, a morning routine tended with time. She thought of this still when she made her bed and arranged her clothes. Small scatterings kept on popping up the carpet of her bedroom, and truthfully she did not want to gather her energy to gather those little pieces of discarded materials. She could not help feeling like psychologist when she decided that her unwillingness to clean her carpet was very much correlated with her uneasiness of her own perception. Continue reading “Thunderstorms”→
If I can boast the fact that I’ve been to more provinces in Canada than the average Canadian, it is largely thanks to the Canadian Chess Challenge. And of course, my brother, for being the chess player of the family. This year, our family packed our bags and drove for a half a day to the city of Regina, green scenery and bridges on glistening lake. Our fourth year and fourth city, succeeding Halifax (NS), Ottawa (ON) and hometown Winnipeg (MB).
Though each tournament has brought about new forms of experience, I know in my heart that this year is comparatively different than all the others. In my luggage, I’ve packed research books instead of novels, a calculator instead of my (now defunct) iPod. I’m even typing this on Saturday evening, with the last half-day of tournament still ahead of me, for I fear I will force my time on other priorities once I set foot home. All to say that these last two years, the balance of my life has tipped to the weight of academics, and this event could not emphasize it for myself any more.
As a writer, as a diarist, as a poet, and as an all-around feeder on nostalgia, I have always counted on experiences to last. I have always expected to experience moments that would define the course of my life, that would shift my perspective on appearance and images. But with each burst of emotion and late night revelation, I seem to be disappointing myself: there are scarcely lightbulb moments… mostly temporary dilations.
Social media makes it seem like our lives are shaped by a breathless series of defining moments. There is a raw, sentimental captions accompanied by a candid picture of an exact second. And at the moment, the feeling is true. The emotions are cursing through the veins, and the hand shakes with an anticipation for the reveal. But what has the memory become of in two weeks, in a month? Most likely just a nostalgic reminder of a humid summer night. But the caption and picture are still there, and so our Internet identity is gifted with a seemingly life-changing moment.