[short story] The fateful night

[lamchopz]

Note: Something I wrote back in high school. It's nothing spectacular. Just a sudden burst of inspiration and the careless use of language that is imperfect. It's a romantic story. Action lovers may find it boring. =]

Prologue:

I have always wanted a story of my own. The idea of an intelligent conversation between two people of charismatic and impelling characters conceptualized as early as 2005. It failed to materialize then, however, as the first attempt was thwarted by my declining interest in the work itself – and also, my English needed some more refinement. In 2006, the dormant passion reawakened and claimed its rightful existence. This time, I was determined to translate my thoughts into words, to pay the debt of innate passion which I had neglected. The result is what you are about to see in the next pages.

On my other note, political excitation is sociological hazard – it serves nothing but chaos, brings everything but redemption. Which is why I shall refrain from installing the mechanics of politics in the characters’ speeches and will solely endow their words with ethical associations, and perhaps, with a view on societal conduct. It is inevitable that opinionative remarks in this composition will levitate controversies – in such cases, please keep in mind that literature is purposefully polemical.

lamchopz
2006

[lamchopz]

Chapter 1: Compassion

9 pm. Darkness had fallen. The moon had already set its pace across the starry sky – a long way to travel before the glittering sun began to rebel. The night was calm, and the wind gentle. Everything seemed motionless. It was the nocturnal world one would expect. Suddenly, the godly silence was broken by the funky music slicing through the air. Tracing its source, I immediately understood my brother’s room was the pool of those riotous incoherent notes. Having known him for years, through familial obligation – not that I wanted to, I quietly left the house for a peaceful walk. The park was just ten blocks away. It was 9:05 pm.

The chill settled around me. I never thought it would be this cold. “Well,” I told myself, assessing the irony of the situation, “thoughts are just fantasy after all”.

For eighteen years, I had always believed happiness is the fruit of perfection. Nobody is perfect, totally perfect. That is why we enjoy ourselves this minute, and weep the next. One could be the envy of the entire world – famed, wealthy, and gorgeous – and yet, his heart forever trapped on the journey seeking its missing half. My mother once said, “You are an intelligent boy but that doesn’t mean that you can comprehend everything.” I had not understood her then, and I never asked, knowing that she would not have answered me anyway. Five years had elapsed since. I still had not a clue.

The streetlights were dimmer today. Perhaps, the full moon had stolen the glory of these aerial lamps. From high above, a cozy draught touched down on my face. It felt icy, yet tranquil.

The park gradually surfaced from afar. The mist slowly thinned out, clearing the gravel path connecting to the entrance. Smiling, I headed towards the gate. It was Valentine’s Day.

Silence, overall. Though now and then, the intimate sounds sneaked out from the bushes. I wanted to curse myself for not finding a soulmate sooner, but it was my choice not to. The last thing I ever wanted was hurting a girl in a separation. I could feel it when my friends told me of theirs, then out of nowhere, my ‘celibacy’ was summoned to the round table where jokes and silliness presided. “Facetious buddies”, I mused.

9:15 pm. The marble pond drew closer as my body tangoed through the air. For ten minutes, my mind had completely been removed from reality, wound on the wind and elevated to the sky. It dropped short. To my right, I spotted a bench in impeccable singleness – one leg and one seat base stretching out above, next to a fountain where the statue of a goddess resided in the middle. Right in that lonesome picture, there sat a solitary figure.

A dark figure. A phantom. A lost soul. The last described him best.

Perplexed, yet, intrigued by the sheer knowledge, which lay right in front of my eyes, that there was also another virgin who managed to desist from the temptations all around, I approached him with measured caution – there was a need to be on alert, but no real indication of danger. His body rose from darkness. A wreck caught my sight.

“Are you OK, buddy?” I enquired; his head still sank in his arms. I refrained from a second round of questions. My friends branded me “master of singulus” because of my habit of asking only once – ‘singulus’ is not defined in contemporary English; its invention was based on “single”. The term means “one and one only”.

Never before have I seen a state of melancholy so profound and prolific – it felt as if every passing minute pulled together tighter and tighter and time and space seemed to freeze, then crash upon a focal point: him. The mass shook several times – each turn, a stream of tears fell on the ground, dispersed and vanished. Then it iced, and stilled.

Unknowingly, I tapped on his right shoulder, and found myself seated on his side: “Do you really think those tears can dissolve your miseries, my good friend?” Right at the end of my sentence, his eyes traversed upwards, searching for the voice that awakened him and the body asleep for so long. His hand quickly embraced the foreign touch that offered the flame of compassion and comfort. The cold of the night reached him at last.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 2: Maxim

“I do believe you don’t have any interest in boys”, I cautioned.

The person spoke, for the first time, somehow bemused by my remark, “I think we can run a little test”. Emptiness echoed in his voice.

“It’s the hollow in you that I’m conversing with, isn’t it?”

I was right. His cunning reply was only bare words.

“Tell me, my good man, are there stars in the sky tonight?” his voice, so exhausted before, miraculously found a path to ascension, albeit transient.

My eyes ran across the serene and lucid sky. The only constellation I could spot was the Southern Cross, and this in itself answered his question.

“A stranger once told me that when the ambient objects, however palpable they are, elude your consciousness, reality is surely loathsome”, I reiterated the famous line which greatly contributed to the life of philosophy I had avidly led.

It was a fortuitous meeting earlier that had engrossed my life in the subject of ethics and moral logics, and given me the equivocal remark above. My schools camping trip in a suburban area, intriguingly, turned out to be the first turning point of my life. It happened less than three years ago, when the innocence which characterized my childhood gradually receded and in its place, the understanding of a complex world rapidly emerged. The scenery was the initial highlight of those days, as I was always fascinated by the geographical spectacles that only the hands of Mother Nature could possibly create. One day, we organized a “small-scale” expedition and each found their own way to explore the campus. A few groups of three took shape and the rest departed with the body and heart as their sole companion. In my lone path, the sound of water jumping off the rocks led me to the waterfall – the site that marked our first day of visit, but it was insipid then, owing to the tumult of people crowding in for a better spot only to walk away, apparently in a failed attempt to catch something of grandeur to them. The picture changed its color, though, when I was there on my own. It was the feeling that would tell a person to roam no further, as it did to me. And I bowed to its request.

The fall somehow was tenderer. I could hear the rhythm of the water droplets dancing on one another, all throwing their way to the guidance of gravity. It was like listening to Apollo’s golden lyre – if calmness did not bloom in the core of my heart at that time, the sensation would be something heavenly. In that vast space of tranquility, my mind started to drift, slowly inwards until it met my inner self, constantly locked away, unexposed even to those whom I held dear. The undisturbed demeanor that I put on each day was the prison, the suppressant – whatever you call it – of a rebellious youth. Suffice to say, it was natural for a fifteen year old to be wild, occasionally, but it was strange for him to be composed all around the clock. Austerity was more abhorrent than it seemed.

“What do we have here, a young lad admiring the waterfall? ‘Tis something we don’t see these days…” an alien voice caught me off guard; in shock, I shuddered.

The image of a man, most likely a local, materialized as I turned to face him – and I had thought I was alone. In his sixties, the colloquial speech and the casual clothes still couldn’t hide his avuncular appearance – his eyes indisputably haloed the wisdom of an eminent academic.

“Pardon me, sir, but your presence was… unexpected”, I did not know what else to say.

“I, thus, should be invited, shouldn’t I?” the colloquialism evaporated, just as I foresaw.

“Err… no… I don’t think it is necessary. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“Of all the people I’ve met, you’re one of those rare beings who try to attract regard. So please don’t burden yourself with such a thought.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir. Do you live around here?”

“I do, indeed. What brought you here, son?” his grin broadened.

“The school camp.”

“No, what guided you to this lonesome site is what I asked”, his tone amplified so to reinstate the query.

I paused. For a second, I was certain my eyes had tried to evade his.

“Tell me, son, what do you like the most about this place?”

“Solitude”. A sigh followed.

“Then how much of your world do you want to be real?” came the reply.

I was startled. “Real”? “What about it and my world?” I asked myself, looking blankly at the air between our bodies.

“When the ambient objects, however palpable they are, elude your consciousness, reality is surely loathsome”, the man spoke, didactically, rhetorically.

I looked back at him, even more puzzled, “Forgive my limited knowledge but what are you trying to say, sir?”

“The answer lies in the question you’ve avoided before.”

I instantly understood that his question early on was an erotema (or erotesis) – a type of rhetorical questions which implied an answer rather than sought one itself.

“Erotesis eludes me just as much, sir”, I responded apathetically.

“Shall we disambiguate it then?”

“My interest in the truth is waning, sir, should this conversation digress any further”, I could no longer conceal the excitement of finding out what the man really meant.

“A litotes user, very interesting” he exclaimed, obviously seeing my attempt to downplay the fact that his wisdom had now engaged me more than ever, “and you are yet to tell me why you came here, my young fellow.”

“I followed the sound of the water”, said I.

“And you claimed you were guided by solitude.”

“Yes, I suppose so…”

In a flash, the totality of my speech was abruptly seized by the irony the person pointed out. His comment was sarcastic, and I responded to it – a fool, I was.

“So this is what he meant…” I mumbled. Caught in hilarity, I found that the murmur was still comprehensible to the man whose attention had always been locked on me.

That did not bother me any more, because I discovered the connotations of his words. Why should solitude be my companion when another presence helped lay my path? I came here by the musical notes of the waterfall, with the desire to seek tranquility and befriend nature. The failure to acknowledge the other beings – living or inanimate – was the antecedent of the unreality of my world. It was all due to the troubled heart that clouded my vision, my capacity to sight the material world, and instead search for the fantasy within the fantasy of my thoughts. Because reality, to me, was only hateful.

“I may have talked too much, but allow me to convey a final message: perfection lies not within the thorough sophistication that you have demonstrated, but selective compliance with current societal functions. Do not deny the youthfulness that blossoms from within. Nor promote the malice that pertains to your thirst for enjoyment thereafter. It’s all about balance”, the voice faded as it graduated to the end. In my momentary preoccupation in his veracious maxim, the man had long retreated into the woods, somewhere unbeknown to the mortal world of ceaseless struggles.

A spark of light imploded within me. And came the something I had never truly felt before…

Peace.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 3: Acquaintance

As the trail of nostalgia concluded, I quickly moved to address the present – the present that was reminiscent of the past.

“And to your question, the answer is yes, there are stars in the sky tonight”, I continued, “Those tears might have taken your eyes away.”

“Quite right”, he sighed, as if to mock himself, “I already lost my vision, I suppose”.

“Do you mean ‘sight’?”

“Both”, his face gloomed with a bitter smile.

I was certain the monotonous answer was enigmatic. Puzzling as it seemed, but all in all, it was only a simple question of linguistics.

“Vision” and “sight” are interchangeable, that is, if their first meaning is derived: the faculty of seeing. It follows, implicitly, that their significance diverges as the second way of interpretation applies: “vision” also refers to how we see things should be, especially in the future, whereas “sight” fails to capture this meaning. By assuming the loss of “both” of them, he was telling me that the present as well as the future – his present and future – no longer concerned him.

This kind of sentiment most likely bred suicide and my unprecedented companion tonight was cursed with that ominous thought. ‘Would he commit such a foolish act, an atrocity to himself, and ultimately to everyone who loved him so dearly?’ I gazed up, laying the thought on the dark cosmologic canvas as to dissect it carefully. With a shiver down the spine, I feared of its lone outcome.

My life had always been a pacifist one: my academic performance was ‘extremely reasonable’ (my friends always added those inverted commas to connote my modesty), occasional parties and night-outs were well within moral restrictions and my family was all very nice to me, except my older brother for whom my slightest concern had long reached the end of its minute life. I had seen people die or contemplate suicide in the movies, but not in real life. Not until now.

“I’m reading about a book about a duke who lost everything in a mishap, even the wife he loved, the children he treasured, but he told himself that someday, he would find them and relive their happy past. Lost and found, to a certain degree, does not shape one’s life, do you think?”

“Does it truly?” he shot back.

I paused, dumbfounded. The words that had just hit me carried a strange force, compelling me to examine them heedfully. He was right, I concluded. Life, partly, is a game of “lost and found”.

From conception to birth, then maturity, in every fabric of our being, changes never cease. Right in our first stage of existence, as an embryo, numerous changes take place such as the disappearance of the legacy placental tail or formation of characteristically human features. Throughout manhood, we interact with various people. As years go by, most of those silently retreat into our memory, and some subconsciously leap into oblivion. ‘Changes’ are brought about in one way or another, by oneself or the other. Whichever the circumstances, conservation always occurs, as “new” replaces “old”, “one” inherits the place of “the other”. That is “change”, which lies behind the mechanism of “lost” and “found”: to be “found”, one must be “lost” – this effectuates the “change” that governs the flow of this world.

(My biologist friend, with no degree yet, so-called for his obsession with biology, kept nagging me about the “zygote” – the result of a sperm fusing with an ovum or, commonly called, egg – being the real indigenous of our being but I ignored this fact in this story. The reason is simple: in casual talks, “zygote” is seldom used to address the first stage of a human being. To all intents and purposes, this book does not aim at extolling the virtue of biology, so I avoided complicated jargons to benefit all bio-lexically challenged readers.)

“Change does not always equate conservation, little brainy”, said he.

My jaw dropped, not because of his indisputable comment but the fact that he could read my thought.

“You were saying them out loud by the way”, he explained, trying to swallow the laughter that was pushing up his throat. Embarrassment momentarily nullified my reaction – the usual witty comeback failed to launch completely.

Then he lifted his eyes towards the crescent moon as to appreciate something he had not seen before. The object was incomplete, but brilliant enough to illuminate a soul that knew only the darkest corners of life.

In that brief moment, I could feel his count of enchanted objects had increased by one.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 4: Rhetorical pedagogy

When I was a little boy, my father used to drive me to the river upstream, some twenty miles away from home, and showed me the face of nature in its purest state – “wilderness”, he said, rightfully ruled the place.

He laid me on his broad shoulders, and pointed at the school of salmon darting upstream.

“Do you know why those fish are swimming up, instead of down with the water, my little Einstein?” his head rubbed my belly joyfully.

“Because it’s their breeding season”, I replied, “Teacher told us last week”.

He then turned to the bears splashing the water, where occasionally, an ill-fated salmon haphazardly parted from its companions and served itself to the famished predator.

“So why are they going in the way of those bears? Surely they know they will be killed”, my father enquired.

“Maybe they did not know the bears were waiting…”

“Did you see the bears here last year or the year before?”

“I think so”, I answered innocently. Just then, I realized something I had never thought of before.

That particular day was my first lesson about life – it was part of a plan that my father had devised since my first audible exclamation sounded in the delivery unit. The salmon migration had been a bitter experience, but it made me who I was, and how I was.

At the age of seventeen, I revisited the place. I wasn’t as cheerful as I had been – the first realization still sat sharply in my memory. We took a look at the salmon’s travesty just like we had previously done, but this time, I was the one who raised the question.

“Dad, do you know what those salmon went through before they reach this place?”

He looked at me, and smiled. His hands lifted slowly, gently, and landed on my hair. Words were superfluous in that very second. His pride was unspoken, but apparent in the way he rubbed my head and the ever growing happiness in his eyes.

“You have grown, son, but there is one final upcoming which I think is about time”. He walked me to the upper end of the stream, where the remaining salmon attempted their last deed: breeding. Then their life faded away in exhaustion, wounds and bruises.

“What do you see, son?” he asked.

“New life”, I said with no hesitation. It was a new life that I saw and it would always be. The salmon had fulfilled their purpose. A new generation was destined to rise and the old to fall. The cost was tremendous, the loss was colossal, but compared to the future which they had sacrificed their lives to create, death was miniscule.

“What about the falling salmon themselves? Do you think they were prepared to die?”

“Yes, they were”, I lamented, “and they always are…”

The life of a salmon is a sad one. One is born only to die giving birth to the young. It does not matter, somehow, to the creature itself. Perhaps, it has accepted what it is, what it must do to allow its own species to survive. Perhaps, it has accepted its destiny, accepted what its life is. Perhaps, that is what life sometimes is.

“I got it now, dad”, I turned to face him, graciously, and kissed him on the cheeks.

“I always enjoy a son’s last childish kiss for his old folk”, he gazed down upon me, radiating a loving smile. Our hands circled around each other, and my head rested on his right shoulder. Affection was mutual and intimate. We both knew that it was the last time I was his little child, that he had shown me what I needed to know before bidding farewell to my adolescence and entering the world of maturity and responsibilities. From then on, my life would be my own. My decisions would be ultimate and final – efficacious or ruinous outcomes would be mine to enjoy or suffer.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 5: Revelation

The night fell deeply into silence; yet, our bodies remained, not knowing the chill, or the coldness it brought.
Well, that was what I really wanted to say anyway…

“Don’t you think it’s a bit cold out here?” I enquired, scouring for a “yes” in his worn eyes.

“You may leave, if you wish”, his eyes still locked on the glistening moon.

“I never intended to abandon you”, I padded his back, and stood up.

“A little stretching might do magic for now”, my arms and legs were constantly in motion.

The man left his seat, and rose tall, for the first time. Merriness somehow blazed in his sight. “You are an interesting fellow, I must say. So let me tell you a story, as a reward for your compassion”, his arm extended across my shoulders, and we started walking.

Then came the revelation of his past, of the reason why he had been crushed under the wheels of despair and devastation.

“Men make counterfeit money; in many more cases, money makes counterfeit men (*). Is it a fair description of our contemporaries?”

“In that case, let’s blame it on greed”, I said.

“But in the end, the person is the sufferer”, stopped on his feet, the man threw a morbid gaze at the creek nearby.

“What is the most important object in your life?” asked I.

There was only quietness.

From his pocket, the person took out a Valentine card whose cover was dated the year before.

“Would you do anything for the one you love?” the question was already a cliché, but its repetition in that second was more than the weight of three mountains.

He nodded.

“So what are you waiting for?” I urged.

Then he ran. Into the curtains of darkness he lifted, one after another, to find the path of light, to find the object that held his being together. Once it shattered, so would he. That was why he had to sprint hastily, restlessly, arduously, and hopefully, he would win the race against time, against all odds that had chained his feet, melted his heart. It was not a race to salvation, but recuperation.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 6: Condemnation

The following morning, I picked up an early mail. I ascertained that the sender had delivered the item by himself as the envelope was left entirely blank.

On my way back inside, I carefully unsealed the mail. It was not a letter that I found, nor a late Valentine card.

“Thank you”, it read.

A smile grew on my lips, and I headed for the door.

Later that day, an emergency call arrived. My aunt had been hospitalized, the reason unknown. Without a second to waste, my family hurried to the town hospital – the place where miracles occurred each day. It was our town’s own folktale. Some even believed that the soil had been blessed before the construction commenced.

“So, his love is also here”, I told myself as our vehicle pulled in the car park.

Two hours of waiting had its own style of rewarding the patient. “Your relative only suffered a minor heart condition. She’s recovering as we speak”, the nurse told us. For once, I knew the true meaning of relief.

It did not stay long, for me, at least. Out of ward 14/2 appeared the one thing beyond my wildest dream. It went past me like an anguishing scent, a device of torment that would condemn my mind for all eternity. In the lifeless hand, the card from last night stuck out.

He was dead.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 7: Truth

I did not attend our family dinner that day, citing an unexpected health condition for which rest was what I needed. If there was one thing I loved about my family, it would be their respect of my privacy.

Lying in bed, I counted the time passing by, one minute, two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, five minutes… The clock seemed to turtle its way today. Perhaps, time was slowing down, eventually stretching each second to the equivalent of one century.

No, nothing was unusual.

I was.

As my head turned away from the window, the morning mail stood out from the bundle of papers on my desk. I reached out to grab it. The content was still inside the envelope.

When the paper was released, the two words I had seen formed only the first line. The neat handwriting demonstrated an admirable level of sophistication – the message must have been composed with great attention to details, perhaps suited for one’s last words.

“I apologize for not thanking you properly last night…” it went on, “Love is transcendental. If social status is a barrier, passion will break it. If fate wills our love to be broken, dedication will piece it together. We have sworn our lives to each other, so we shall walk on the same path, for our souls have become one…”

The reading came to a halt, as a guest I never expected to see slammed his way in.

My brother was a new person when he smashed in my private territory. I had always known he worked at the hospital, but a decent doctor out of him escaped me every time the thought started to tick.

“There’s an operation in one hour. Would you like to come?” he asked.

His invitation was suspect, for a normal person. I, however, accepted it without having to think it over. Given our intimacy which had dissipated into thin air, there was no reason for me to accompany him to the surgery ward – this was also unprofessional of him. There must be something he wanted to show me.

In that place… Could it be…?

“So you met him last night”, he eyed the paper in my hand.

The trip to the hospital was too short for me to unravel this web of incidents. In some corner of my instinct, I felt there would be more surprises – more to meet the eye.

“He is your friend, isn’t he?” I glanced at the busy streets as our car rolled along.

“You can put it that way.”

“And I suppose the person you are about to operate on is her”, the strand of logic led me to that conclusion which astounded even myself.

“Your intellect never stops amazing me”. I could swear I saw him smile at me for the first time.

Room 14/2, where his body had been removed for autopsy, was now equipped, and maybe decorated, for another miracle to come. It puzzled me, though, since the ward was usually for patients in recovery. Her father must have been a billionaire to influence this change.

But why 14/2? Didn’t he refuse his daughter’s love because she should marry someone better, someone wealthier? Didn’t he turn down the man’s offer to donate his heart for the operation? He wanted nothing to do with the person he loathed, so why chose the ward where the object of his resentment had lain just moments ago?

“Hey, you should greet my general manager”, my brother cued me on the boss’s entry.

I was in the twilight zone: the three-year-old image suddenly surfaced afresh. The day at the waterfall was as lively as ever in my memory.

“So we meet again, young fellow”, the wise man of those days was standing right in front of me. I was speechless.

“Oh, hi. Nice to meet you…” I employed all the remaining strength to satisfy the code of formality.

“You have changed”, he said.

“I guess”, said I appraisingly.

“Well, then, folks, let’s get down to business as usual”, he turned around, issuing commands with a charismatic tone. As his words of duty drew to a close, if one was to listen attentively, the end somehow drastically collapsed on its own shortcoming. Then he left, silently into the hallway, just like he had done in that evening.

“You just met my boss, and my friend’s father”, my brother revealed a shocking truth.

“What?” I quietly exclaimed, in the knowledge that I was in a public place. “But he told me he was poor, and the girl’s dad looked down on him…”

“The girl is also his daughter.”

My head span like a whirling wind. Nevertheless, the truth had been told. The lurid reality had been unveiled. In its ghastly dimension, there were two souls united in a horrid bond – incest, condemnable in shame and perhaps, even in their deaths.

“So what really happened? … ” I enquired apathetically – my interest in the truth was truly waning.

“The last bit of the truth is contained in his message for you”, he pointed at the piece of paper in my pocket.

“What else is awaiting me?” I asked myself; my hand searched for that last quintessence.

And here it was – his true final message.

[lamchopz]

Chapter 8: Miracle

So I read on, to finish what I had started. The words were more compelling this time. In them lay a strange force, a mysterious attraction…

“When I was outcast by her father’s disgust, I have constantly questioned myself, of the wrongs I could have done, of the mischief I had unwittingly committed. What troubled me the most was the extinguished joy on his face upon seeing the necklace bearing the picture of my mother. It, thus, set me off in the vain pursuit of any possible link between them two. Then the truth descended upon me from the sky of madness, thundering in my ears, stirring in my eyes and burning in my heart: I have fallen in love with my sister. I now understand that he threw me away, shouting the poverty to which my life was bound, only to mask this painful reality. My sister, heartbroken, eventually succumbed to illness, not knowing the curse our love had borne. I pleaded to donate my heart to save her, but he turned down the offer each time. I wandered, my mind emptied, my will shattered. Your brother has tried to salvage the situation, but to no avail. It’s laughable, isn’t? What could he possibly do? And you came, bringing the redemption that your elders had failed to deliver: my death would end this once and for all. My heart would then be placed in her chest, and together we will breathe as one, not as lovers, but real family.

I thank you for all you have done. Please remember that guilt is not your reward, but satisfaction that you have helped a human soul find its rightful place.

I wish you well, for your future will be beautiful.

God bless you.

God bless us all.”

I stood still for a while, did not know what to feel, what to think any more…

Just then, from the surgery ward exploded the roar of ecstasy: “Her heart, her heart is alive again!”



THE END

[lamchopz]

Last message and some thoughts about the world in the year 2006:

My sole purpose for composing this story is to leave a bright spot in my high school years, which I can in later days recall with pride, joy and satisfaction. The person to whom this book is dedicated is, to me, a teacher as well as a friend.

I have always doubted my capacity as an English user, and each time, she told me otherwise. It is ironic that confidence and diffidence retain equal shares of my thought. There was a time when the study of the English language was as important to me as mathematics. It did not last long, and for a while, I had thought the passion was long buried in the soil of time. It is her inspiration that somehow reclaimed many pieces of that dead enthusiasm, even though the balance could never be fully restored.

This story is the last testament of my once glorious obsession with the English language. My skills are yet to improve. My ideology is yet to see a new horizon.

Taking a moment to look out the window, I see the world in the year 2006 is a sullen one. Political philosophy is the most terrible mess that we have ever created. Nonetheless, it is essential for the human community to function properly. So whether it is communist or capitalist, theocratic or monarchial, the governing body is responsible for the lives and deaths of millions of individuals. We are taking chances when we accept the head of the system, whatever its political ideology is. Even in a democratic environment, communist elements do exist and thrive. Stereotype is another unfortunate substance that humanity has created. In any case, the world always moves on, each year is decorated with the pearls of emerging technology, and in the same year, marked by the destruction of more ethical reefs that form the ancient beauty of this sea of life. The remedy lies in the hands of the so-called leaders; many unashamedly ascend to the throne with little or no regards for the wishes of their loyal subjects. It is, however, even more staggering to justify the murders of innocent lives for any religious/ethical motives. The devil doesn’t exist in man, only mankind choose to believe and nourish the thought – only then are exploited to commit atrocity in the name of their respected deity, and so uphold a direct libel on their belief. If wrongs are to be returned by wrongs, there is no end to conflicts. Surely no God would favor this plight.

Peace is when the war ends. I do agree, but is it the war outside or the one inside that must end? Those who do not understand the question, or in any case refuse to recognize the answer implied should seriously look at themselves.

The teaching of Buddhism emphasizes acceptance of fate whereas the essence of modernity promotes idealism. It seems inconceivable to have them both, but not all that impossible. Indeed, one can accept what is laid by his own destiny but still look up towards the sky of prospective accomplishments, and reach out for them. Peace is perhaps somewhere in that sky of ours.

The future is yet to unfold. Many interesting things are yet to reveal themselves. Optimism is, without a doubt, the best medicine to survive the ills of this current life. So why not take a turn, if one has not done so, to the light of harmony and mutual love, undimmed by races, religions or political ideals?

The reality I see now is, sadly, far from that goal.

Ignorance is bliss. I was once negligent and am no longer. Instead, apprehension and disdain have taken over me whenever I shed a thought on this planet dominated by the demonic creatures of Pandora’s Box.

But I will remain hopeful, for one day, the goodness of this world, presently faint and unnoticeable, shall piece together the fragments of humanity. And peace will be upon us.