The soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone

Often, there is a constant relation of purity of any sort to naïveté; a child’s pure and simple imagination is a result of how naive he is.

Even now, as grown individuals, this tendency to relate naïveté to the most purest of expressions, be it in art or words is always rejected and deemed unacceptable because it is ‘naive’.

‘He is too naive, therefore his needs cannot be met.’

True; perhaps it cannot. I don’t see the means of engineering the way to achieving the most purest of souls, but I will try, as many have.

If we cannot convince people with words; for words are so limited – how do we convince the masses?

Art, yes.

It’s been said a million times before, and will be said a million times more. But how come no one’s succeeded?

Because no one has ever truly succeeded in painting his own picture. Not the famous ones, that is.

No one has ever succeeded in becoming the individual that paints his own painting. They cannot transcend to become art itself.

And that’s what we should all be headed.

That’s where I am headed.

To become art.
To work towards godhood.


Unwise, as it is, I sometimes question my intentions of sharing certain blog posts. I’d hate to have regular readers, especially when most of the posts are a construct of what I am. It’s like exposing my structures, I feel.

Not very wise.


Deception is only unforgivable if it is incomplete. Leave any access for doubt, for exposure, bad revelations, and then you’re much more than failing – you’re committing a type of delayed assault. Be utter and undetected and then no forgiveness will ever be required.

The man’s job is to be the perfect liar, because that’s what his audience needs. Blood, words, skin, face, eyes, breath, bone – he must lie in his entirety. His job is to be a window into their own minds, and not his own; that would be devastating.

There are times, when in trouble, people tend to look to us, helplessly drowned in their own  darkness, and all they seek is light. There are times, when you have no answer, and you feel that your only way is to perhaps help with their environment. Yet, occasionally, your efforts are useless and uninspired. You’ve helped with chores, changed their environment, lent a listening ear, gave them your shoulder to cry on, yet your efforts have been for naught when you realize – it’s not helping.. It is apparent, though, that the only way is to help them with their problems.

But you don’t know how to. And we tell them:

It doesn’t matter.
It’s all right.
There’s no need to worry.
You’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. You’ll be all right. 

You didn’t necessarily have to believe that these things were true, but they seemed constructive, padded out uneasy pauses and have been quite the distraction. But you understand this pain, because more often than not, you’re an understanding person.

All you’ve done is attempted to lighten a mood when no positive information was to hand – so you’ve made something up on your own, built it out of pure optimism and the eagerness to please, and if you thought of it as music or art rather than meaning, you’ve been able to absolve yourself for passing on information that’s false. And if the information is good – that it has good intentions – then it might end up becoming true. Any word can work a spell if you know how to use it.

Honesty has it’s savage side – you’re well aware, frankly, that it wouldn’t be your first or last option. The fabrications of kindness, of courtesy, optimism: they’re necessary – and more often than not, in pressured circumstances, there have been occasions when you haven’t been utterly accurate in what you’ve said.

This can feel ugly and uncomfortable and self-defying – you have integrity, and dishonesty doesn’t suit you. But nobody is fastidious all the time: anyone can be scared off from the edges of truths. And if, in such cases, you did something that is completely unlike you – a word, a thought, an act, or a total mistake – that it would describe you differently, or that it would mislead others into seeing you for someone else, then a deception might be called for, a silence might be justified.

But, what if you’re simply finding a way to express and practice your dreams? To let them play, sharing. Surely, this must be pure and harmless.

The friends, the family, the loves, the ones who know you: they can see through to your heart and soul regardless of what you tell them. So your lies can become some fantasies that you’d share and they’d enjoy it – secrets that join you close to them, and helps them enlarge their definitions of who you are – your lies as a person being dependably diagnostic and independent.

I would not use the term lies, though – that’s too harsh a term. When you study yourself thoroughly, you know that you’re better than that, than a liar. You’ve probably only avoided being truthful, pedantic, when it would hurt somebody – somebody including yourself – and what is wrong with that? Self-defense is nothing shaming.

It’s an indication of your moral sensitivity that sometimes, you’re entirely human and you can feel ashamed.

I have been, in the course of my life, occasionally erred, drifted, been too instinctive. Not everyone would admit this.

There were also days when I’ve said true things even though it would hurt. But I’ve withstood the injury. I could make myself admired for it, but instead I don’t talk about it.

For this, I always give people my middle ground – reveal the parts that won’t make me vulnerable, say the things that won’t truly matter, voice an opinion that is not purely reflective of my inner beliefs. And occasionally, I’ve revealed slightly more, sometimes driven by belief – erroneous, as I am – and revealing a window into myself.

It pains, especially when you’ve windowed yourself at the wrong part of your internal universe.

Why then, is deception unacceptable? It’s perfectly fine, I think. It means nothing.


People are watching

How I wish I could speak mandarin, or proper malay, in this context. I would love to listen to the stories of these aged ladies and men.

Today, I approached an English speaking elderly woman.

She has a house.
A daughter.
A grandson.

Yet, she has no home.

Her daughter, whom she has fed and cared and loved in her own way locks her out of the house because she feels her mother is incapable of looking after it.

So she would sit at the void decks, every day from 7am to 5pm, to wait for her daughter to come back. And as she opens her soul to me, as she shares her stories, like most other stories, she reveals her life, her regrets, her choices – seemingly full of humanity’s most challenging problem – as she speaks of her sons and daughters and her own personal lifeline. There is regret, but there is no remorse.

She was completely absent of remorse.

It then seemed to me as if she has fully acknowledged her faults, limitations and choices. She was fully conscious of what she has been, and what she is now. In a way it was beautiful, touching even. There was a book that opened, forcing the writer to write – his mind chaotic and messy, and it closes with the writer fully aware of what has been written, and he submits to himself, allowing his fingers to finish with the flow – his heart, his mind and his fingers in complete harmony.

“How can I help her?” I ask myself. I want to help her, desperately.

There is a beautiful picture, one I have never truly attempted to paint in my mind. A picture, that I believe when expressed and shown, would resonate with the souls of humanity. In my mind, I seek a way to window this beautiful painting to her, to perhaps help her find a window to her own painting, but it seems she has seen it. She seemed to have seen her own painting.

So the question then, was, “Does she need help?”

I would cry at night when I close my eyes and allow myself to see my own painting. My fingers, still incapable of finding the right strokes. My eyes, still incapable of studying it’s texture. And I am in tears now as well, because the time has once again come when I wish I could show people my painting. But I cannot.

I have said far too much, and people are watching.