A Conversation IV

A Conversation IV

Boy: Where we left off the last time, we were talking about virgin and whores. I’m sorry, but that kind of conversation entails certain details which I am not ready to share…yet. Okay, maybe virgins and whores do exist, but I am disdainful of theories; especially those which are mere generalisations and depth-lacking, broad categorisations. It really leaves me feeling hollow every time I broach the topic of women because, albeit indirectly, I get glimpses of how imperfect our male species really are. Please, spare me.

ROTW: Ha! It surprises me that anyone should think that the male specimen isn’t refined to the greatest perfection. Suit yourself then, we shall leave virgins and whores aside. Patriarchy is quite misunderstood nowadays, and probably even becoming obsolete. The last of our dominance has been eroded away and the layered ways of our hegemony has exfoliated. All men…and women are now born equal…

Boy: I almost thought I heard you sigh. Hey, has it ever occurred to you why the human spirit seems so aggressive, competitive and perpetually looking for ways to impose control over others?

ROTW: Power my son, Power. As long as two objects are different, then one must be better than the other…simple as that. Each individual, each gender, each company, each firm, each community, each nation, each race struggles to be the better one, and in hence doing so, subdue the other. Power is the intangible treasure and incentive which motivates us. From Genghis Khan of the Mongolian steppes who conquered a third of the world to the guy in the turbo-charged WRX who recklessly overtook you this morning, Power is their driving force. Power is the wonderful gourmet that feeds their egos. And the ego can only be satisfied with the condemnation and destruction of another’s ego. That is why our world revolves around an imaginary axis of Power. Mark my words, you would be very much happier with just a little more Power. Does that answer you question?

Boy: Well…no, that does not really answer my question. Nothing unusual though, it has been a long time since I actually turned to you for the right answers. Besides, I was not looking for answers. I was merely seeking an opinion which would provide deeper insights. But now that you’ve mentioned it, ego sounds like a bad word, vulgar and crude. If I could substitute it with an equivalent word, I think insecurity would be appropriate. Insecurity bites at those who think that the power, as you call it, to control anything else except their own wretched minds is the ultimate law of the universe. Genghis Khan could well swing his halberd right in my face and I would not flinch an inch. The WRX driver can accelerate for all the horsepower his ride gives him and I would not swerve aside. What are they trying to prove? What can they prove? Nothing…besides how their decomposing souls are being consumed by their false pride. There is an unquenchable thirst for power because it is the drug which gives them temporary relief from their stinging insecurity. Watch their addiction grow! And watch how their desperate need for power slowly enslaves and dominates them spiritually. This very power which was supposed to give them a (false) sense of control in the first place! And finally, watch how an imminent overdose of power gets the better of them! Yes, this is insecurity. And I cannot emphasise enough how ridiculous it all seems to me.


ROTW: It’s been some time since you said anything with such gusto…I thought you have lost your dexterity in oration? But speaking of addictions, you are a slave to many as well, nicotine and caffeine amongst them. Fancy having such a passionate outburst when you are pretty much entrapped within your own addictions. And how many times do I have to remind you that smoking creates negative externalities, which as a result increases my expenditure in health care services and environmental maintenance? I have always assumed that you, a youth with more than a decade and a half of education, ought to know that you are too tough to puff. In order to optimise the benefits to be reaped from your education……and your contribution back to the society, you need to prolong your life. The cigarettes must go. What is wrong with you? Your need to suck on a stick of fag habitually hints at your depraved and unbalanced psyche--- exactly what Freud proposes to be an underdeveloped and hence dysfunctional oral stage.

La vie en rose!

Never underestimate what a bouquet of roses can do to rekindle a relationship on the rocks.

Frankly speaking, I’ve never thought very highly of roses in any shades of any colour… especially after hearing the Taoist priest chanting something about ‘fresh flowers withering’ (Cantonese) at my grandmother’s funeral. Ironically, my mom used to be in the floral industry…

But these little ironies aside, I have finally seen the magical wonders of a well-wrapped dozen of roses tonight. It all began when I had a tiff with her last night, one of those minor arguments which arise not due to a lack of love but rather, due to differences in the definitions of love. I think of love as something more spiritual, although that runs the risk of sounding too idealistic. She thinks otherwise and prefers a love more physically expressive. And here, I don’t mean simply in the romantic sense. It’s hard to explain what the differences really are…and somehow I think I am digressing…

Anyway, in a bid to reconcile such differences, or at least work out a compromise, I dropped by the florist before fetching her from work. He recommended a mixture of baby pink and crimson roses and mumbled something about my girlfriend (purely his conjecture since I never told him anything about who would be receiving the flowers) being elated. I must have cast him a rather disbelieving look when I paid him, for he reassured me that lovely ladies and lovely flowers were stuff that went well together.

His words must have provoked my thoughts a bit, because I couldn’t help thinking about it while driving down to her work place. I mean, what is the link between a lady and a flower?

A woman in the splendour of her beauty is like a blossoming rose in the summer breeze. The rose’s bright vermillion shade of colour signifies a woman’s vibrant passion for life. Its layered petals stemming from a single stalk represent the essence of womanhood as a woman’s many complexities unfold in unified brilliance. Its soft velvet texture of petals is remarkably similar to the smooth and delightful tenderness of a woman’s touch. Its mildly intoxicating scent is akin to the natural fragrance a woman possesses.

A woman full of passion, character, touch and mesmerising aura is indeed beautiful.

Yes, a woman is a rose.

Having arrived at the porch of Hotel A where she was waiting for me, I stopped day-dreaming, picked up the bouquet and hastily fumbled for the letter I wrote for her. (yes, I write her letters) I was half expecting her to bicker with me but I noticed she was smiling from ear to ear when she saw the roses…and me, of course. What was totally incredulous to me was that upon seeing the bouquet, she seemed to have forgotten all about our quarrel the previous night! Suddenly, as if the roses had cast a magical spell on her, she was all sweet and nice! So my dear brothers, here’s my two cents worth: don’t forget the roses!

Chronicles of a Dreamscape Reality II

What a lot of things he had to holler out to the world!

But when our dearest anti-hero, more affectionately known as the boy, finally takes time off from his idle, vain and most probably worthless day-dreaming to begin penning down the thoughts he had so enthusiastically wished to tell the world, they (his thoughts) crumbled upon his pen like little specks of dust which disintegrated into the blankness of the paper.

Oh what a long sentence that was! His English teachers would have been totally displeased. What did they always preach about sentence structure? Keep it simple. And precise. Like this…

But a simple sentence probably doesn’t have the capacity to contain what he wanted to express. Well, if what I see before me is correct, then I began this post with an exclamation of the humongous amount of bantering the boy had to say. But wait…that’s him, not me. Why then, should I reflect his state of mind in my own manner of writing?

Now, this is becoming absurd. The boy never did enjoy waiting for Gordon. As a matter of fact, he was never really fond of waiting. Reason being, he was perfectly aware that he had spent the better part of his life waiting for a good many thing to happen…and most did not. Yes yes yes, we must all work towards our dreams because good heavens above isn’t going to bestow to us everything we ever wanted without a certain degree of effort on our part.

But he wasn’t very sure about his dreams. Some nights his subconscious would take him wandering, lonely as a cloud, reciting poem after poem to himself. On other nights, he would dream of that girl he saw on TV, and awake with a weird sensation as the excesses of lust spill out from his hardened truncheon. On some other nights, he would, in his dreamscape, see familiar faces of multiple expressions, or familiar places with distorted variations. And on most nights, he would fail to remember any vague remnant of any dream.

Ah…Dreams….It was making him sleepy. World Conquest….here he comes! Feel his jubilation. He is happy as can be.