Libra Love

This was the third story I wrote but it was about a month later from the first two. The style of it is a little different as it uses Love as the overarching theme right in the front. This story speaks of unrequited sacrifice and contribution and the angst that accompanies it. As to how it compares to the first two, I leave it to you to decide.
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Ever thought whether Love had a horoscope? Well, if it did, it would be Libra because it is like a pair of scales. In Love, there is always giving and taking but the key to it is balance. It is never a good omen when the scales tip excessively to one side and what it will leave behind is a trail of unhappiness and suffering. I was born under the horoscope of Libra. However, I never knew how to strike a balance in Love and unfortunately, I had to endure each and every ounce of unhappiness and suffering this unbalanced scales left behind.

When I first met her, she was not exactly the most attractive person around. She did not ooze copious amounts of charm and neither was she gifted with a beautiful face. To put it plainly, she was nothing more than ordinary. This ordinariness was not limited to her physical appearance; her character was also extremely average. Bubbly, outgoing, sociable and vocal were all adjectives that I would never use to describe her. We were classmates and it was only due to this reason that I even noticed her existence. Through some small chat I had with her, I found out that we totally belonged to two different worlds. We had totally different interests, goals and perspective of life. Also, I was the type of people who could never endure loneliness and always had to be in the company of others. She, on the other hand, was comfortable with being alone and going about her own life. However, Love is extremely magical. When Cupid’s arrow shoots you, there is no way you can escape and that is exactly what happened to me.

Even until now, I have no idea why I was attracted to her. We had almost nothing in common and I am sure to her I was not her best friend yet strangely I began to notice her. Slowly, I wanted to know more about her – her family, her hobbies and what she thought of me. Of course, all these were not done blatantly. I did not have the courage to tell her that I liked her or maybe to put it more succinctly, I was even afraid that she might find out about that herself. I had to ensure that my questions seemed as though they were but passing questions that were linked to the conversation. Although it was tiring having to think through everything before I even strike up a conversation, I was always happy when I got my answers. That was when Love first planted its seed in my heart and yet I had the faintest idea whether the fruit this seed would eventually bear would be sweet or bitter.

To me, she was like a magnet; drawing me nearer every day. When I did not see her, my mind would be racing with thoughts of her. Whenever I thought of her alone, I would smile like a silly little kid but all this made me feel blissful even though she never once displayed any reciprocation. Slowly, I began to sink into this quagmire of affections. I began to fuss over her and showered concern over her. Even the slightest cough from her would get me uptight and I always had to think through whatever I wanted to say to make sure they were sensitive enough not to hurt her in any way. Sometimes, I was very afraid my concern would be too overwhelming and obvious in such a way that she would know what I was thinking. I would consistently tell myself to practice restraint and remember to toe the line of friendship. However, I could not stop myself from doing all these and that was when all the suffering began.

To me, she was everything. Her happiness was all that sufficed. Whenever the environment became quiet, I would strike up a conversation just to make sure she wasn’t feeling bored. Whenever she talked about herself, I would convince her that she actually had quite a handful of achievements just to make sure she had something to be proud of. From the choice of food to type of movies, everything was catered to her interest and soon I even began to forget what I myself liked. Everything she said was etched deeply into me and I could even remember the most trivial things she said about herself such that they mattered more than the biggest achievements of my life. To me, everything was about giving and I thought as long as she was happy, I would be happy. I did not yearn for the slightest reciprocation like a single word of concern for me.

However, that was what I thought. Actually, deep down I longed for at least some sort of reciprocation. It did not matter if I gave one hundred percent and just received back one percent. A single smile or word of concern was what I yearned for but I did not receive even that one percent. All that existed was me giving and giving.

When I was alone, I would think why in the world was I doing all these for? Why was I acting like a silly and stupid person giving and giving, asking for only a smile that she never gave? Deep down I was feeling very tired. Tired of spending my time and effort just thinking of ways to make her happy. On top of that, I felt extremely sad. Sad that I never received a single word of concern from her and my existence was almost negligible in her world. The feeling was like an overflow of gastric juice making my stomach sour and my ears teary. However, I could not stop myself from caring for her and thus this pain only proved to intensify. In the middle of the night, tears would trickle down my cheeks just thinking of my one-sided affection. As the seedling of Love grew within me, so did this pain and weariness.

Eventually, I was totally overwhelmed by all of it. I could no longer withstand the pain and weariness Love was giving me. I was but human and all that talk about giving without asking for returns were but idealistic notions. Today, I decided that I had to let go of this affection. The only way for me to be relieved of all that pain and weariness that was plaguing me was for me to learn to let go. I made the difficult decision to leave her and in my heart it was like cutting the thread that linked us together. However, this thread had already been implanted into me. I had to rip it out of me along with the part of me it was attached to leaving me all bloody and wounded. I knew that for the pain to stop I had to endure this heart-wrenching pain. If I could succeed in doing so, I could remove the lease that was put around my neck; suffocating me to death. It was as though someone held on to my heart and crushed it. Ripping off these affections left a deep gash on me and my whole body was dripping in blood. Beads of tears flowed down my face but I knew if I could leap across this barrier, it would be the last time I had to cry for her.

Hopefully I can really succeed in letting go. If not, this pain will only return to haunt me with ten times the magnitude and when that comes, I know I will no longer have the strength to pull myself out of that quicksand.

Beautiful Eyes

This was the second story I attempted at writing straight after the first one. I didn't really like it as much as the first because I felt that the emotions were not as thick. Anyway, this one comes with overwhelming maternal love, a grudge and regret.
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Many of my friends have commented that I have a pair of beautiful enchanting eyes. According to them, my eyes seem to twinkle with a life of their own. However, this pair of eyes was never something I was proud of. Conversely, they told of a story of boundless regret and pain – my life story of regret and pain.

I never believed that marriage was something happy because my parents’ matrimony was anything but that. My first memories were nothing but quarrels and disagreements between my parents. I never understood how two people could argue so much. Logically, my family was decimated quickly. My mother left the family in search of a better, happier life. Being closer to my mother, I begged for her to bring me along but she did not relent. She had cruelly deserted me as though I was nothing more than an old piece of clothing. My father died shortly having met with a traffic accident and I was brought to an orphanage where I grew up. I could not accept all these and I cried myself to sleep every night. Maybe it was due to the excessive crying, I soon developed an eye infection and by the time I underwent treatment, I had lost my sight.

After I came out of all the sadness, my childhood was nothing but a flash-flood of hatred. All traces of love were wiped clean and I sank into nothing but a quicksand of hatred for my mother whom I conveniently blamed for my plight.

The deepest hatred evolves from the greatest love

I sought solace in music, using it to nurse my torn soul. I learnt how to play the piano and my talent even caught the attention of the orphanage such that they sponsored my lessons with an accomplished musician. I bloomed under his tutelage and within a few years I was often performing at concerts and recitals. I carved a career out of music and for that I was always full of gratitude for the orphanage.

On one of my frequent visits back to the orphanage, I overheard the director speaking to a person whose voice was strangely familiar. The director was thanking the person for having sponsored my music lessons for the past few years. Upon hearing this, I was not filled with the slightest tinge of gratitude because it was at the same time it dawned on me who possessed that cursed voice.

My breathing quickened as several thoughts raced through my mind. “How dare she come back!” “Did she think she could really make amends for what she did!” I was shivering with anger as the dormant hatred within me erupted from within like a volcano.

I marched into the room and everything hurtful within me exploded. Of all that I said, the sentence that I could never forget was “You gave me my life but you took away everything good from it. You think you can make amends but all you have done cannot erase the slightest bit of misery I went through.” Having said all that, I stormed out of the room and left the orphanage hastily.

For the next few weeks, this lady whom I once called mother tried to contact me to explain herself but not once did I give her the chance to go on for more than three words. My life was no whiteboard which she could just erase off anything that she wrote wrongly. More than ten years ago I dreamt day and night of our reunion but now I realized everything that I dreamt of was utterly wrong. The day I lost my sight was the very day she lost her son.

I went about my life as usual but never once did she stop trying to reach out to me. Her attempts came in the form of explanation, begging and tears. As the days went past, her tries slowly smoothened out the hatred within me. I began contemplating to listen to what she had to say and maybe give her a second chance.

It was at this time I received an excellent piece of news. The doctor I frequented called me to say that he had found a donor who could donate a pair of corneas to me. It was the best news I could ever get – a chance of seeing things again after more than ten years of darkness. The operation was arranged the next day and when I recovered, I finally regained my long lost vision. With this joyous feeling within me, I decided to visit my mother to give her a second chance.

I went back to the orphanage and asked the director for her address. To my question, he solemnly told me something that utterly shocked me. My mother had passed away and it happened only a few days ago. However, before I could come to terms to that, the director told me that she had suffered from cancer but deliberately terminated her treatment. The reason was simple, she wanted to donate her corneas to me. I collapsed to the ground with my mind a total blank.

My mother had decided to repay me with whatever I lost yet her amends left me with the greatest debt of my life. I never spoke a single word to her since the time she tried to make amends. I deprived her of a chance to explain herself but more importantly, I deprived myself a chance to love her again. When I decided to give her a second chance, it was actually a decision to give myself a second chance but now everything was over. In fact, there was no need for me to hear her explain herself. Deep down I had already forgiven her and it was on the very day she had returned. For every bit of hatred running through my blood, I had double the love for her in my heart. I did not need to know whether she had her reasons for leaving me for none of them really mattered. I only wished that I had the chance to tell her the simplest three words, “I love you” but it was no longer possible.

Although I was drowned within all the agony of her departure, I forced myself not to shed a single tear. She had left me with her eyes and I had no right to use them to cry. I had to see the world on her behalf as she was now part of me. I vowed to treasure my life even more because part of me belonged to her.

These eyes told a story titled sacrifice and spoke about regret, pain and most importantly a never spoken “I love you”.

Painful Love, Painful Memories

This was the first story I actually attempted at writing so it is very coarse. Purely fictional with a tinge of family love
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Like any child, discipline was a memorable part of my life, yet for me it was exceptionally painful – lovingly painful.

As I race down memory lane and my past plays itself through my mind like a black-and-white film, I return to the time when I was about four or five years old. It was then I made my first mistake in life – to lie. Details of what constituted the lie I fabricated have been blurred by age. Afterall, it was but a mistake any other normal child around that age would make and it is only through our mistakes do we learn. However, the way I was taught right and wrong was nowhere similar to how other normal children were taught. I remember my father was furious, or maybe furious was but an understatement to describe him then. Seething with anger, he brandished a bamboo cane and swiftly lashed out at my hands once. As the cane left a red stinging mark on my forearm, I reciprocated with an equally angry look at the person who dealt the blow.

Yet this time what I saw in my father’s eyes was more than anger. I could not discern what there was but I knew there was definitely a tinge of something else. However, before I could extricate the mix of emotions, the next scene shocked me so much it left my mouth agape. Using all his might, my father lashed out at his own left forearm twice. Then with tears rolling in his eyes, he muttered a sentence I would never forget.

“You have erred by telling a lie, but your mistake has showed how much more I have erred in teaching you. You have to be disciplined for your mistake but I will also not go unpunished for my negligence.”

This was so much more painful for me than the physical distress the cane could give me. It seared my heart so badly I cringed as though it was bleeding. I ran towards my father and clutched onto his injured arm tenderly while my small body plunged into his embrace. Tears dripped onto the two parallel red marks on his arm and how I wished my tears could alleviate his pain. However, my tears were no magical phoenix tears; they were but drops of guilt and remorse from a disobedient kid who had hurt his father. At that moment, I felt something dripping onto my head and I did not need to look up to know that it was my father’s tears.

Only when two people cry together do they understand how much they love each other

For the rest of my childhood, I was often praised by others for being an exceptionally obedient child. Some jokingly said that it was because my parents were strict disciplinarians and I was fearful of the punishment that awaited my mistakes. They were absolutely correct. I was very afraid. I was afraid of the punishment my father had to endure for my mistakes. For me, the ultimate torture stemmed from the pain my mistakes would inflict on my father. I was not strong enough to bear such a pain, a pain that transcended the normal caning or grounding plaguing the average kid. For those many years to come, I was also never strong enough to face that.

We were two entities but our pain was one

Twenty years later, my father is no longer around. However, the cane that he wielded twenty years ago on that fateful day still hangs on the wall in my room. Whenever I see it, I remember what my father has left behind for me – his legacy and teachings of love and pain, intertwined into a bamboo cane and crystallized into drops of tears……

Was it pain or was it really just love?