It's weird how some regard me as this lighthouse, who in the dark of the night, would show some unknown but safe path in which they can be safe in the knowledge that my light won't fade or sway away.

how ironic.

that despite that impression I give to them, I can't be both the lighthouse and the person threading a path at night.

I'm not being boastful here because i find it extremely perplexing that I should take up that responsibility.
I am faced with a dilemma - between my personal emotions and their emotions who could somehow depend on me to listen to them and also be a pillar of strength.
I don't have a deep sense of duty or eloquence, to be that important a figure in their lives.
But indeed they regard me as so and I'm confused that they do.
It is like giving me the choice between Chopin and Rachmaninov - between the soft and the dramatic

Perhaps I'm just the most unromantic person around, who can only smile when I notice how Derridian a moment is.
Perhaps I notice things that are unromantic and will very blatantly tell you so.
Perhaps it is just my high sensitivity and pathos that makes me unappealing when I attempt to be a Don Juan, but appealing as a pulpit fireband preacher who tells you things you don't understand. Someone who remains somewhere else.

They have this weird sense of who I am.
Perhaps I carry a smirk all the time.
What they do not know is that behind this egocentric smirk is a heart-wrenching nihilism that eats me up. Externally I am a Mona Lisa. Internally I am a Munch's scream.

Perhaps I just love silence too often.
"To die in peace: to die without words" - Edmond Jabes

Silence is this void that demands speech, sound, or anything to fill this deadly silence.
What is more dreadful?
A dark room or a room entirely silent?
I can go mad in a silent room. But that is where I can be closest to Him.

I speak that you may recognise it as mine, and then again it seems so anonymous that it obliterates both of us.

Silence is that loud thunder that comes only after a lightning - it is in between lightning and thunder.
Silence is the passivity of the moment, ripe for birth and death;
it invites us to die and give birth at the same time. The moment I speak, I am alive and dead.
Everything that is not said, not written, is this silence. It is that absence that ties the dark and dirty words together. It is the presence of whiteness, pure obliterating, indiscrimating force that demands all the time.
It is the voice I run away from. Hence it is also the silence of the voice that pulls me back.
When there is darkness, I can only depend on silence. I can only tremble and fill up that silence with the gnashing of my teeth.
Silence is the peaceful death, after the murder has already been committed.
Silence is the sword wielded as indifference, a weapon of political struggle, the aufhebung of opposing forces.
Silence is question that demands.

So much for mediatations of silence.
it still does not answer the question of this bind that I find myself in.

"Because I listen." yea. for silences.
for quiet, and often dark motivations. infidelities. sin. lust. that which can murder without having to draw real blood.

I listen because I listen, every night, in that silent void, between waking and dreaming, out of time and space, a sense of the ultimate other, where I am and am not.

I cannot live not listening. I used to think I would go mad if I went blind. Fair enough. But I will be murdered if I can't listen. And the greatest gift I can ask for is to listen to silence.
Pockets between sound, where we don't listen, when we don't listen, which in fact we do. Every pause is that key to somewhere deeper. Somewhere we choose to veil.
And I'm standing at the somewhere else. Always the someone else.

Maybe, that's why I'm suffering from this role I play to a few. I am thankful I can be there to listen.
but who will be the one to listen to me? who can really listen to my gaps of silence? Who can partake in my supper?
It is not that I do not wish to share. But I cannot express it. Once I do, I immediately do injustice to it.

But that is not what it is about.
it is about coming to an understanding, a reason why there remains a few who regard me as important in a sense that they cannot explain. This is just my attempt to make sense of this situation I find myself in. I don't really like it because almost none does the listening back.
But it just is.

Forgive me whenever I snap, whenever I feel intolerant or depressed by that intolerance. Or when I resist this relation I find myself in. It is a helpless situation.

I find this dilemma more perplexing when I am simultaneously courting appearance and disappearance. They contradict. It is to appear as a lighthouse, but at the same time, wish I could just be that dark path that the light does not shine on.

If, they could but not walk the lit path and venture into that darkness, that is where they will truly find me. But that is also where they would never venture to. In the end, it might just be that loneliness that troubles them, and I become that answer; a connection conjured up from somewhere. And I am at that somewhere, presently.

But that might be too cynical of me. I know for some they are genuine friendships that I will treasure forever. However, one is often trapped by confusion, when definitions are thrown out of the window and doors are shut. How often can we hear the best harmonious symphonies? Perhaps, I am at fault for being who I behave in front of them. Perhaps, there is no perhaps but as mentioned before, it just is. Where I am that intervention of life that uplifts them in a way, either to my benefit or detriment. But if we smile over glasses of teh, why not?


For someone to venture into darkness and to find me there, one must be silent alongside me.
When that happens, she will be the one I love -- as if that love would mean anything to anyone....sigh.

It is just that egocentric me, screaming.
And my frightening, trembling cold me, staring back, silently. (You won't want to meet him)