Coming Home.

Oh, how I've missed this space.

All those ideas that flitted about in my mind: words, phrases, eloquent sentences; how they so eagerly awaited to be splayed across these pages as memoirs, never to be erased, and certainly never to be forgotten. Words, words, and more words that circled, filled, and ever so vibrantly coloured my mind; it was so much like flora bursting to life at the first glimpse of the new season of spring. These words danced me to the end of the world and back; they have shown me abundance of beauty and knowledge beyond my comprehension, leaving me no choice but to drink up all that life had to offer me...

And now, these very same words have led me to this end of the road. The journey was almost surreal, and I find myself still unable to completely comprehend the life that I've spent here.

It's been over three years. With that has come what I've known to be some of my highest of highs, and no doubt has seen my most desperate of lows. I could never cease to forget how frustrating it would be to maintain this blog - desperately stringing words and phrases to conjure up something emphatically pedestrian, and then pasting a pathetic sorry by the end of an entry whilst kicking myself for failing to meet my usual standard of creativity. I would almost panic if I'd ever leave myself no time to write an entry - more than two days with no posts certainly would have me nervously scraping at nothing and everything just to satisfy this craving for my words to be posted and to be read.

Consequently, this canvas has certainly not been left plain or untouched. It displays the fullest and most vigorous strokes of the last three years of my life - some of the most intense memoirs which can never be forgotten as they resonate from the block letters on our screens. It is full of contradictions - times of undeniable joy interwoven in moments of utter downheartedness and pain; downcast faces mirrored by ones resonating with momentous hope; hurricanes of confusion and loss, and yet certain peace in a still heart, and a faithful light bringing warmth in the darkest, dampest of hours. It has withstood irrationality, impulse, and intense emotion, and yet, it had not once failed to be my solace.

Yet... The more I think about this, the less I am certain that this canvas which I have for so long toiled over needs anything more. There are very few holes, more or less merely in need of the final touches; bits of refining paint, and that finishing gloss to complete it. And now, when I turn to gaze at this piece, I find myself almost completely satisfied with the result. I'm happy to put down my tools, cease working, and leave this piece to speak for itself.

For once, I'm content with this blog.

Now, I know that I don't need fancy letters or picturesque paragraphs to round this off, but I feel that after so long, nothing else would do this blog justice, heh. It's almost laughable how hard I had tried for this, and how I would somehow always find reason to fail myself from achieving any sort of commitment.

But truly, really, I am happy. I'm happy that I can leave this all behind, and (perhaps finally) grow up. I definitely won't stop writing, and I most certainly won't forget this space, but I feel that it's time for me to leave these last remaining words to ring for themselves.

I hate corny thank-you's, long speeches and emotional dedications. But I can't leave without saying how blessed I am to have you guys (my readers) support me through these three years, and helped made my blog whatever it has become today.

But what can I say? You guys make my life, sort of. :P We all have our ups and downs, but it's all these things: mistakes, regrets, impulses, reactions... all these make us who we are, and if it happened any other way, we wouldn't be who we are today, nor who we are intended to be in the future... you get? Heheh. :)

And I praise God that He gives me a reason to smile when I become blinded by the things that overwhelm me. He's pretty cool like that. (:

Well, that's me, over and out. I hope you all enjoyed the ride with me, and in some way I hope my blog (or even just fragments of it) stays with you as it will with me for the rest of my life. It's been a good one.

Sincerely,

PTL/LOL, Sarah.

The Foolish Heart.

Meeting you is like finding treasure.

I am trapped in the allure of having finally made a fantastic new discovery: one unseen, one unheard of. And amidst this ecstasy my eyes widen, and I am filled to the brim with utter excitement, and it wants so desperately to escape from under my fastened lid.

But I can't let it escape, I dare not let another being even hear of your existence. You are now far too precious to the ignorant world. They wouldn't appreciate you, they wouldn't love you as immensely as I do...

But what can be helped? Because deep inside, I know someone else already knows all of your secrets, all of your treasures. And my feeble attempts to keep you sheltered from the world, as though you were mine and mine alone, are inept. For though I desperately love you and long for you to be my own, you already belong to nature, and another, and I can't tamper with nature. I certainly know that if I dared to chip you from the foundations on which you stand, your brilliant glow would immediately begin to fade, you would sooner die than survive and be called mine...

And now, all that I have done, my entire journey and my efforts in seeking, finding, and discovering the beautiful creature that you are... It is all futile, for my time and efforts have been sacrificed for something beautiful, and yet it is tragic, for I know so well, and so clearly, that I could never have you.

Honestly, I do. I feel a tinge of self hatred, because you truly can only tolerate me. My being to you seems only to trap you, and to suffocate the vivacity that wells up inside of you. It is by far too much to expect you to notice me as a friend, let alone appreciate me for my reckless behaviour. How can you? I'm selfish, and I want you to all to myself. I want to keep you hidden in the corner of my heart, where no one else would dare enter in. But this is only disastrous for you, for you need your freedom, and you need others far more than you need me.

So I can only watch as your enigma is discovered, and even loved, but certainly never appreciated, by the world, and I only hold onto the fact that I could at least share, even for just a little while, in this wondrous treasure that is you...

LOL, Sarah.

I thought this old quote was worth re-quoting, heh.

"...not all the birds and butterflies will stay on your hands forever... some may fly away and come back, some may never come back. But true companionship and trust stay at the warmth of your hands as long you don't close your hands on them..." - NitNav.

The Trees.

I have a huge fascination for people. I'm not quite sure why. It's something about meeting people, the spark in their eye, their little hop in each step that they take, the tiny clicks between their fingers when they point here and there. People are just so interesting.

I love people. I love meeting new people (this is especially interesting, because they are only new to me, but they themselves aren't new at all...) . I love to hear their whole life story, everything they've been through, in hopes (and often to no avail, but that's okay) to empathise with them, to understand where they come from. I want to know what it's like to live their lives, to be human in the way that they see it. I am so intrigued by their reactions; why people believe the things they believe, and how they react in such a unique way to any sequence of events. I want to know their thought process, what they think, why they think it, and how their thoughts play out. And how do those thoughts translate into actions?

It is not only that. I love getting to know the sound of their voice, their nervous laugh. I yearn to anticipate the sound of their footsteps, and to recognise the shape of their back, and their posture every time they walk. I want to see the little features across their face; a dimple, a little flinch, and visualise it in my mind everytime my mind crosses towards them. I want to see how their face lights up when they are met with a gentle surprise, and how their eyebrows furrow at the sight, or even mere sound of something foul to their taste.

I find myself with such a deeply profound interest in every aspect of a person's life, that I don't know what to do. I cannot help but long to know them, to understand them, to recognise every single bit of them, and to isolate them out from the 'crowd'.

--

Whenever I'm on the tram, I like to watch people. Not in the seriously stalkerish way (although the more I think of it, the more I'm convinced I've become a stalker haha), but whenever I pass by a street full of people crossing, I can't help but to glance at each person there, and just wonder about who they are.

Their background. Their experiences. Their knowledge. Their interests. Their hobbies. Their pet-peeves. Their philosophies. Their beliefs. Just... their entire life.

Isn't it amazing to think that each and every single person, young and old, has a whole life that they have lived? How inside the world in which we all live in, there's another totally personal, intimate world that each person can call their own? I don't think you would understand. Not even I do... I just accept that it is beyond my imagination and will never cease to bewilder me whenever I think of it. But it is quite profound, and it is a really humbling experience, just being reminded of how truly small we are in this world, and, although there is one world, somehow there is an endless multitude of worlds within.

--

Sometimes, I feel like I see not the forest, but the trees. It's just that people are just so interesting, and I am constantly astounded by them.

I love people. I am constantly, and perhaps will forever be, intrigued by them.

It's just that sometimes, I wish I were just so too.

LOL, Sarah.

De-Guise.

I stare and I think, and I think and I stare some more. And yet, it's still all just white space that floods my eyes. There is no slight tremour, no flicker of movement. There is no spectacular spark of beauty, no stroke of vibrance. It is all just plainness, and this time, I fear it is no longer temporary.

My mind has become the body of a manikin, undressed by fancy sentiment, stripped of the trends of eloquence and materialism. I am bare, and I am naked, and now I'm just too afraid and too ashamed to walk on. As it is, I am a mere figure, aren't I? So why can I not feel the tips of your fingers pressing against me as you twist and turn my joints, exercise my limbs and stretch my posture to continue your work? Your work that chisels, chips, and slits deeper into my woody flesh, leaving me fragile, vulnerable, and weak.

... But I quickly forget. I am far too drawn by, and helplessly drowned in, the love pouring from your eyes when my head is tilted your way. The twinkle is right there in your eyes, and I know that what you have in mind for me is far more beautiful than what I could ever dress myself in.

Yet, sometimes, you turn my head away. Sometimes, you don't let me even catch a glimpse of you. I am left, terrified, with only my faith in you to keep me from jumping right out of my skin and deep into another's dresser. I strain to see, but I cannot. My neck is so stiffened for your purposes that all I've left to do is strain to hear that familiar clink, clink, clink! as you chip away at all my rougher edges.

I'm afraid. I'm afraid because sometimes, I can't see you. I can't hear you. I can't feel you. I stare, and there is nothing, and I find that I am left with nothing - nothing but my wavering faith and mere memories of your voice. Your voice that says: I love you, I will never leave you or forsake you, I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

You are the only reason I still stand here, trembling and terrified, completely broken and exposed. Yet I stand unashamed, because I know that only your love can bring me to my knees.

PTL, Sarah.

They'd Say.

They'd say that I was strong, when I couldn't take anything anymore.
They'd say I was positive, when I could see no good in the world anymore.
They'd say that I was happy,when my heart was breaking.

It's not as if I don't have any problems. But it's not as if I'll ever act like I have no problems. I do. I'm just like every other person in the rest of this world. I suffer, I hurt. Sometimes, no one even knows.

But it's not as if I won't say something. It's because every time I feel that I have to say something for an ounce of relief from heartache, there comes a voice. It's a voice that tells me to stop whining and complaining. It forces me to envision so many other broken people, suffering much harsher circumstances and going through more heartbreaking situations than I could even dream about. People who are on the brink of dying, and yet... still rejoice at seeing another day. And truly, truly no one knows what they go through.

It's these people, and they are real, and I'm weaker than that. They're the ones who should be called strong. They're the ones still seeing positivity in the world. They're the ones who are truly happy with nothing.
And I, a spoiled little girl in one of the luckiest countries in the world, should have nothing to complain about. In fact. My life is so wonderfully fortunate. I have all I need, want, and so much more with the God who would have died for me alone, even if no one else would believe.

So I shall, once again, purse my lips, hold my tongue, and refuse to let another tear escape.

LOL, Sarah.

Clothed.

Colossians 3:7-14

⁷You used to walk in these ways, in the life you once lived. ⁸ But now you must also rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips. ⁹ Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices ¹⁰ and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator. ¹¹ Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.

¹² Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. ¹³ Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. ¹⁴ And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

---

I happen to find that life can be like cleaning out a closet. There always comes a time when we have to empty ourselves, lay everything out on the bed, and assess what we keep, and what needs to go. We have grown now, and we need to purge ourselves of childish desires, letting go of the things we do not need, and instead clothe ourselves with the new, be equipped for what is to come.

Where I once laid my childish ways aside, just in a small corner of my closet, I now set it in a pile on my bed. It is a pile I no longer need, for I have grown; clothes of holding on, stubbornness, self-orientation - I let go. A pile that no longer lingers in my closet, taking up space, weighing me down. These must go, for they are too tight, and I suffocate in its cover.

So too, the clothes that must go are the ones that were never mine: clothes I have attempted to put on to become someone else, clothes that don't fit me so well. They must return to their owners, for the clothes which are mine are mine to be worn, not to be left hanging upon the hooks.

And finally, the clothes that are still stained by human's shortcomings: selfishness splattered over compassion, pride seeping in the seams of obedience, and materialistic desires drenching pure, white, love. These clothes will be surrendered, to be laid at His feet, for Him to wash clean, that I may dress myself anew. The stains of sin are washed away by His blood, so that I may be clothed with the robes of a child of God.

And in so doing, I am no longer a sinner, I am a beautiful, loved daughter of God.

---

With the New Year having come around, there are a number of things I must do. There are loose ends to be tied, knots to be loosened, and other strings to be cut off completely. This blog - this string, is one I am not sure how to deal with. Perhaps it will stay a while longer, or perhaps not. But it is a consideration that I need to be aware of, as are many other decisions which I have to make.

Rest assured though, I will offer a valedictory when the time comes to lay this beast to sleep :P

In the mean time, I must immerse myself all the more into my roots in the Motherland (:

Much love,

PtL, Sarah.

In The Stillness.

I breathed in the silent air, like a gulp of icy water. It was refreshing - revitalising. To be alone and not lonely, perhaps was the grandest gift to have! Oh what it was to be how I was at this moment... and what I would give to have it again!

Right here, where I am, people do not question what seems to be the matter, and rightly so, because it is not their matter. They do not ask why I look so... unlike joy, unlike the sun beating away the down of the clouds in the sky. Yet again, I address the question with the question. Do they know my expression? Do they know this queer feeling of the upturned corners of my lips, which really are the contracting muscles underneath? Do they know the true meaning of a furrowed brow, a lackluster eye?

I could say yes, but I long to say no, for the secrets of my heart could be spilled to no one. It is my choices that people are unfamiliar with, not necessarily the circumstance upon which I face, and their interpretation of my outward appearance would, I fear, only distort their understanding of my decisions.

I fear losing the privacy of my thoughts. The very faint idea, even if as tiny and as insignificant as an ant, that my wall is in any way corrupted makes me quiver and tremble. For the minute a tiny little thing like that breaks in, my rations will not survive. I will have no control over anything that I have. It will rot away the pristine clarity and purity of these walls which hide what others find so delicious and quenching. They just want it all, and they want to take me as well.

No, the secrets of my heart must remain deeply hidden. Nature understands - it hugs me with its loosened leaves, and brushes my hair with soft, grassy bristles. This may sound strange, but I do feel that nature speaks. Its voice is in the breeze, in the songs of the birds. It whispers into the inner sanctum of my heart: We hear you, we understand your decisions. Who is we? What is that sovereign voice, so faint, yet so lucid and clear, that seems to know the secrets of my heart, and understands who I am, what I am?

And yet, still, it embraces me with such a natural warmth when I am numbed by cold. Cool water laps at my feet, ready for drinking, when I am weary and tired.

But I can't help but to continually feel that there is a cosmos - larger than me... larger than life, even- that knows, and, even more to the point, understands.

What's more, it loves.

And I am so content that the secrets of my heart are known by this grander and more sovereign being. It is the one being I am willing to surrender to - to Someone that knows, and yet still loves - it is an amazing thing.

To this, not to anyone else, am I willing to lose control to.

PTL, Sarah.

Life Is Wonderful.

If you're the best I've ever met, and I can't have you...

Boy, am I blessed, because the best is still yet to come.

---
LOL, Sarah.

Unfortune.

It is the last night before Methods Exam 2.
I was determined to complete one exam paper.
So I did (though left the last question due to time constraints).

Then it was time to correct.
I search for the solutions...
Only to discover that I spent two hours doing the wrong exam paper.
Mathematical Methods Exam 2≠ Mathematical Methods (CAS) Exam 2.
Sad.

I want to shoot myself.

LOL, Sarah.

Austere Daydreaming.

Don't you hate the idea of structured, innovative, new writing?

I think I struggle most with that. If you'd ever gotten the chance to look back and read over your past writings, doesn't it seem rather poxy, what you discover? Say... You've written something along the lines of:

She stared back at him, and breathed, "I'm not afraid".

It's that 'something along the lines of' that bugs me, because everything everyone's ever written is 'something along the lines of' something else already written. And suddenly, what formerly sounded unique and special to you rather becomes conventional, idealistic. No matter what the context, it's the same. Now, there will always be certain words that one must use if they were to write a short piece of fiction; words, or even phrases, like: "he stared in horror" or "my heart dropped" and "He whispered "I..."" you get it. I know you get it.

For lack of ability to then express oneself successfully without already sounding corny or even phony (damn English is getting to me. Just when I thought I could lay that subject in the grave, it comes back to haunt me. And already, how conventional do I sound? Exactly my point.), we then turn to subject matter. Suddenly, everything we've written about has already once been written about. We capture moments, significant, rare, dare I say, magical moments in our lives, and yet, what magic is there if we've already written or read about it a thousand times? What does a feeling really feel like, if we're so accustomed to it having placed our angle of it that way?

But... I do think that it is our flair that makes it innovative, new, fresh, different. Our spin on words, choice on lettering, (American and Australian - don't discriminate (: ), sentence structure. Everything that makes literary writing is at our disposal, and we can use them however we want. Most of the time, it's just easier to work with something previously done - the way I've adopted a liking for Mansfield's style, and thus have incorporated some of her writing flair into my writing (obviously not this one, but you know what I mean - the stories!), but at the thought of being innovative, being new, being fresh, and being different... I mean, isn't it alluring?

I don't know. I sometimes think that when I write, I'm the least my own... yet still, it is only me who really understands it all. We're used to writing universally, because not one person has experienced and responded to each and every circumstance, for example, as I have throughout my entire life.

I do realise this blog feels much like a waste of your time, and I do apologise for that, but I can't help it; I like to ponder. Thoughts like this, to me, are often more vibrant than the colourful language spouted out by talented writers. I don't proclaim that I do have talent here (on the contrary, one can see I clearly don't from my plain and bland use of english here), but sometimes it's just why I write about simple things that pull at the corners of my lips. The things that work themselves out, which required none of our doing... now isn't that magical?

LOL, Sarah.

Still Alive.

Ames, I don't mean to copy you (though it seems that I cannot help it, genius idea) but I have ready-made two dedications so far. I'm not sure whether I will fulfill the whole 30-letters-to-30-people...
thing. But here's one, and another for another blog, because I don't want to be greedy and steal all your time! Pls enjoy.

I don't know why this image was titled 'Alone'... but ohwell.
---
I remember back to a time where I once shared my devotion time in the mornings. I remember us talking about trees, and their roots, and how often-times, we are likened to these very plants. He said, and I remember so distinctly, that he imagined his state to be a young tree who was setting his foundation in the church, whose roots were beginning to firmly grasp and hold the soil in God's house...
And I remember my response, where I, on the verge of tears, said that I was struggling to break out of my seed, push through the dirt and find my way out into the light. You said it was possibly one of the hardest steps to take.

I would have to agree. At the time, though I faced the adversity that he spoke of, I could not take comfort in his words. But, having that become my past, I understand his testament. I feel that I have grown, and where he stood, I now do. It is possibly that hardest to combine our first passion with holding true to our commitment.

I think it's our initial steps when we are most wobbly - yet is is just that achievement that is the most significant in walking along God's path.

And I thank God that I have that person in my life, and that through his guidance and support, and his reflection of Love, Grace, Mercy, and Kindness from God to me, I can now continue to grow stronger and hold more firmly onto God, and flourish in His house.

PTL.

---
And back to creativity.

---
The way that crowd would roar loudly, how it would sneer in my ears. It was the very same sound that could come from a collision of metal that would grind, crumple, grate and smash at each other - like a tragic crash on the roads. They screech, yell, and bellow, and mock me. Suddenly my vision is blurred - there is not one individual that I can see; not even a single face that I can recognise; instead, I see all but a huge wave, enveloping the space around me with their ringing voices.

And it is these howls that seem to echo within the binds of my heart like a clanging bell - an ever present reminder of hollowness. It is there no matter how I fill it with noise, because, even among the loudest of clamours comes a faint reverberation of helplessness, of the inevitable stillness that I must, alone, face.

But I am still not game enough to face it. And that is why I hide myself under these noises, for they are to me like almost silence - the rain drumming on the roof; white noise that eclipses the silence that I fear.

I would much rather face being lonely alone, than in a full room with no one to face it with.

LOL, Sarah.

Spontaneous Nonpareil.

I haven't disappeared just yet (:

---
There seems to me to be something a little strange...

As usual, after being dropped off at school, I take my daily hike up the hilly surfaces that my school has been miraculously built upon. As I walked, I listened, and all that I could hear was the unrehearsed songs of the birds, with voices of different tweeters and chirrups. Their voices sang so perfectly into my ear, like a perfectly unique little melody, a high trill intertwined with soft, murmured coos, percussioned with the tremour and rustle of leaves. It's as if the wind held the stave of these little voices; and each note is a fresh intake of beauty and a new sound.
It is truly unique.

And I cannot help but to think of our music. We crave structure to our music. Birds' song may delight us, but it is so beyond our grasp; so beyond our boundaries conjured by theories that melodies must take a few steps, then a few leaps, but not all over the place; that harmonies must have either 3rd or 5th higher pitch, give or take a few veriations such as a sustained 4th from time to time. Each instrument must perfectly be in tune- there is no in-between note between B and C. "Accidentals" are truly accidentals.

It is not that the music that we make is horrible. I truly love music; our deepest inspirations, our most heartfelt emotions, and our innermost desires are teamed together with various sounds placed so exhaustively and structurally detailed upon our black-and-white stave. We almost slave ourselves, and the result is a piece of music, a piece of our attempt at perfection.

Still, my mind wonders back to the song of the birds. They need not harmonise. They need not follow the rules. They know not perfection.
For they sing, because that's what they do.
And its perfect.

... And it's so beautifully moving that it could bring tears to my eyes.

It is how God's creation moves me. Beyond music. Beyond words.
Is God.

PTL, Sarah.

Fluffy.

I reaaaalllly want to watch Despicable Me!

Look at this!!: Agnes!

SOOO CUTE!!!

That's all I really wanted to say (:

LOL, Sarah.

In The Valley.

It is much like this; like flowers in a valley.

---
At the mouth of a valley, you know what you are about to face. Deep, dark secrets linger about the musty air, whispering quietly, harshly, against the damp, mossy walls. Just one step in, and the wind arouses- it is excited. A small breeze isn't a breeze at all- you are suddenly cold, and your entire body is on edge. That presence that so comfortingly followed you before, now feels almost absent, and you are left almost utterly alone. The sun that urged you on so warmly, so encouragingly, and so surely, has escaped from the eve of the valley, it is swept away with the wind. There is nothing that would bid you onwards, unless you knew, and absolutely trusted that beyond every valley, a hill resides, and will return you to the crisp air, and the warm embrace of the sun once again.

And you do know this. So onwards, you walk, into the damp, into the unknown. The path is rocky - if it was to say that there is any path at all. Stray roots from under deadened trees seem to want to strangle your footing, and often you stumble, but you do not fall, for you are still strong from the sun's provision. But the darkness drifts towards you, slowly, inevitably, and ebbs away at any remaining light that you so depend on. You squint your eyes. Soon enough, they'll adjust, mind you. They were made cunningly for such moments as this. Your hands are stretched as far as arm's length will allow, and you feel your way through, for as surely as the darkness has settled, your vision has faded. You waver around. Nothing is familiar. You grope, and shuffle about... the wind is like the cold belly of a snake slithering along your shoulders, sending shivers down your spine. You slow down, and stop. You know you cannot turn back. But what can you do when you cannot see beyond this lingering darkness? But your vision is adjusting, slowly, surely, and soon, you see something.

Ahead, a single flower resides. It seems to be illuminated by a tiny stream of light, and though it is clouded and murky from the polluted air that you must breathe, the blossom gleams like stars against the night sky as it stems from a black pit within the crevasse of the valley. It shines. And it reminds you once again, of that hill- that beautiful hill, sprouting in abundance with flora, and streams that run alongside green grass where you may be laid to rest, under the shade of a flourishing tree bearing bright, ripened fruit. That hill is abundance - and it is where you are going once you conquer the dangers, the fears, and the insecurities hidden deep in the heart of the valley.

And so, you can take another step. But be careful! For you must not take the flower with you. The flower cannot sustain you, for as soon as you uproot it from its habitat, surely, it will wither, and die. You perhaps should leave it there, and simply be reminded of the abundance of which the flower originated from. How can something so alive, so full of joy and prosperity, live in such a deathly valley? Surely, if this flower has been conditioned to bear the harshest that this valley has to offer, and yet is still cared for, and brims with such warmth and goodness, surely, you are cared for just as well, if not more, and can journey safely, soundly into the depths of the dark.

Memories of that flower- no, of your destination: that hill - must linger in your mind, but as you wade through the darkness, darkness eats away at all seeming joy. It seems to feed on you - as you resonate with joy, darkness growls, and and magnifies. If you had carried that flower with you, and had drawn your strength from its warmth, surely it has failed you now. Its life has waned, for it is no longer sustained, and can no longer sustain you. You can no longer hope in it, for what precious life it had, nestled within the crevasses and cracks of the valley, you have stolen from.

A feeble flower. You cannot rely on it. But bear in mind the reminders it holds: its life is so sufficiently provided for in the darkest of dark. It is a signature of blessing; a reminder of the place you journeyed from, and venture towards once again. And, just as the little thing gleamed in a tiny shed of light, surely, the sun has not faded. The valley may impair your vision, but it cannot destroy the sun it so desperately tries to hide from you.

And so you continue. But the darkness grows ever darker, and your vision wanes, and your strength fails, and you begin to lose heart. Don't lose heart! Look left! Look right! Find those flowers that are sprouting up among the darkness! Though they do not sustain you, they remind you that this valley cannot destroy even the most delicate of beings, and it will most unequivocally not be able to conjure up the strength to destroy you, for, though the sun may fade, and warmth may be deficit, though your body fails, and provisions are scarce, the one who calls you is faithful, and He will carry you through.

These blossoms; though there are not many, they are sufficient. They are like lamps that guide your path. Even in your darkest hour, a little lamp will shine through, not beyond your vision, and it will light your way.

The valley can no longer overcome you. It never could, for though the darkness seeps in, and steals away our warmth, it is not warmth that we rely on. And these flowers, though their warmth is temporary, and we cannot journey onwards with them in our grasp, they instill in us the hope that we have that cannot be taken away, for surely we will be delivered, just as these flowers spring from the darkest, murkiest habitats known to man, and we will reach the promised land, flowing with milk and honey. Land of abundance.

---
Indeed, it is so much like this. Our blessings, like flowers in our deepest turmoils. And though God's presence may seem distant, we do not lose heart, for as surely as the sun rises, He is faithful to us, and He will never leave us or forsake us.

And though we are blessed, we do not place our hope in these blessings, but on the one who provides them. For where God is, there life is also, like flowers...
Even in the deepest valleys.

PTL, Sarah.

At The Park.

It was such a lovely day to be out in the sun. Finally! After such a long, cold and dreary winter, Vera could see the shy sun peek out from behind the clouds, to sweep her into his warm embrace once again. She let the sun stroke her bare shoulders, and whisper softly, sweetly, into her ear, “winter has passed”. As Vera breathed in the fresh breeze, her chest elated. She wanted to sing! And how the birds near her had started to sing, too! Their voices danced along with the warm breeze; the wind like a fresh whiff of perfume that flooded one’s insides with absolute joy and euphoria. The birds twittered and hummed; she felt right at home, as if she were sitting in front of her piano, her glove-adorned hands splayed out to play along with their cheerful tune. Vera really did feel something inside her bosom move – like a song longing to overflow from within. “I shall hum along with the beautiful creatures as they sing to my piano,” she declared gleefully, as she swept her hands across her lap to the right, and fluttered her fingertips at the end, just as the birds let out a pretty trill with their flutey voices.

---

Today was the perfect day to spend in the park. She had walked by the park many times –but quite hurriedly, so she would not have to spend a further minute out in the daunting cold of winter. So little happened during those few moments, where she would glance at the barren land – only ever was there one or two little creatures brave enough to venture out into the frosty terrain... It was far too cold for Vera, and too mysterious in the almost deserted unknowns of the park. However, Vera felt adventurous today, with the warmth of the sun assuring her of his supervision and comfort. And so, she had ventured into the park, eager to discover whatever that splendid morning had in mind for her…

And then she saw him, sitting on a nearby bench, peeling an orange in that strange way that she would never forget. Vera almost laughed aloud at the sight! She could succinctly remember how he would claw at the fruit, his sharp nails quickly splintering into the skin to create some sort of decorated swirl. The orange was his canvas – he would doodle all over it, skilfully and precisely dissecting the firm outer layer and scooping out the zest and fibre to reveal the tender, unspoilt fruit within. Vera had told him off the last time, to put away such radical behaviour and just to peel the poor orange as everyone else did. But his wily face would stare back into her, with that all too familiar and all too broad grin. Vera could distinctly hear his words dance around her ears as he positively shouted, “I’m my own artist!” the ladies and gentlemen in the café around them softened their murmur to silent reproach. How he would just smile right back, and how mortified she had felt... Vera heaved a sigh. Then, as if he’d heard her, he whirled around to face her, his light face flickered so quickly into eagerness, just like a spark bursting into tongues of flame.

“Oh my, Vera!” he exclaimed, and leapt right up to greet her, taking her hand in his, “I surely didn’t expect to see you here! Having a lovely stroll in the park? Out enjoying the sun?”

“Ah, yes, the latter”, she replied, and he grinned back at her. “Would you like something to eat? An orange, maybe?” Vera declined politely, but as she tried to withdraw her hand, he clasped onto it with both of his. At that moment, a strange beast inside of her began to move. “Won’t you come and sit? Come, just for a little while!” He led her back to the bench, and she sat down alongside him – but his hands remained firmly clasped onto hers. Vera felt like her hand was hovering low over a small fire – intensely warm, but it did not burn her. Instead, its warmth seeped in through her glove, and flooded throughout her body. She felt like she had been out in the sun for a minute too long, though she had only been out for a little while.

“You see, you came at a very convenient time. I was just looking at these bright yellow bunches, just there. Can you see? They reminded me of you, and of that time when we wandered about Kew Gardens. You named for me every single flower there was… and yet, I still cannot recall this one! You know that I am quite hopeless at remembering things. See here, how I have even carved it into the skin of this fine produce…” Vera glanced towards a colourful bush just ahead them, where his inspiration lay. She leaned in a little towards the little flowers with a warm smile, and they all reached out, wanting to hold her, beaming back at her ever so brightly.

“Verbenas,” she breathed, and turned back towards him. “Mother used to have them in her garden, in a hanging basket, and whenever we went to water them, she would tell me that I was like her Verbena, beaming at her like sunshine…” Vera’s voice faded as she remembered the warmth of her mother’s embrace, and how she would never feel it again… She shivered slightly, but he did not notice. ”Oh, the tenderness of this fruit is magnificent!” He took a generous whiff from the deepest cut of the wounded fruit. “Vera, you really should try some. Its aroma is just wonderful.” He turned her hand ever so gently in his, and placed the orange in her palm. Vera felt a grimace from inside her chest creep towards the corners of her lips, but she pursed them quickly enough for him to not notice.

“No, no… it’s okay. I really do not want this.” She was almost pleading. Would he understand what she had meant?

“Ah right…” He said, taking back the orange, and letting her hand go. His eyes wandered from hers. “Oh! Look, Vera!” he said softly, but she could hear that restrained eagerness bursting from his lips. “The children!” Vera inhaled sharply, and the beast inside her began to whimper silently, but she followed his gaze towards the playground. Suddenly, a wave of jovial children, just as adventurous as she had been, swooped in towards the playground – two in particular, a sandy-coloured haired girl, and a boy whose head of curls were boundless and untamed, scampered across the dewy grass, directly towards the monkey bars.

“Don’t worry, we’re big enough now!” Vera heard a high-pitched voice sing out towards the girl. “But I’ve never been on them before!” A higher, prettier voice sang back, and Vera could almost hear a tremble of fear from within the little voice. “Don’t be a chicken, Lottie!” the boy shouted back, and so the little girl reached for the pole.

Vera watched the girl in silence, and suddenly warmth grasped at her hand once again. The strange beast inside her chest rumbled. Lottie swung once, twice… and the little tyke successfully grabbed a hold of the next bar. What an achievement! Vera felt something inside her leap in joy and relief. But as Lottie let go of the first bar to grab a hold of the next, she lost her grip, and fell onto the ground.

“Ow…” Lottie began to sob, and Vera felt a faint chill across the skin of her neck. Wasn’t it a little colder now than before? She was sure of it. She trembled slightly, but she did not move towards the crying girl.

“Oh Lottie! You weren’t meant to fall!” The little boy dashed towards Lottie’s side, and pulled out a bandaid. He dabbed at the graze on Lottie’s knee with a tissue from his pocket, and quickly covered the scratch with the bandaid. “See? All better now! Now c’mon, let’s go!” He grabbed her arm and helped Lottie back up, and they dashed away.

Vera could not get that image out of her sight. How quickly Lottie had moved on! Yet, she was sure that she heard Lottie stifle a sniff, and saw her wipe the tears from her face before running after the boy. How hard it was for her to keep up…

“Verbenas in your garden – indeed! They really are lovely little things!” Vera heard his voice break her from her trance, and his warmth left her hand. He had knelt by the flowers beneath their feet. “Your mother was right, you know. I do believe that you are much like these delightful blossoms. In any season, you resonate with such warmth and energy...” His calm face broke into a slight smile, and the strange beast began to pound at her heart. Vera gathered her hands at her bosom, and pressed hard against it.

“Yes… you must be the only one in the world of whom I know nothing can take away that fire inside of you.” He snapped off a cluster of verbena from the bush and twirled it between his fingers. Vera stood up.

“You’re going already? But you must stay a little while longer!” He held tightly both the bunch of flowers and the carved orange in his hands, and Vera pressed even harder at the strange beast’s beating at her heart. The orange’s juice began to drip from its incisions.

“I really must go. I’m sorry,” she gave him a smile that did not hold. At that moment, she was even sorry that she had entered the park at all…

“Surely I will see you again soon?” His voice sang of such hope, and yet, such dreamy vagueness. Vera could no longer stand it. “Perhaps… but perhaps not.”

---

The sun had drawn back behind the safety of the clouds, and the winds picked up, silencing all the flora and fauna from singing any more. Still, he did not hear her last words. He placed the bleeding orange on the bench, and he hovered his dripping hand over the bushy flora, where he had removed the cluster of verbena. He loosened his suffocating grip on the isolated plant; its vibrancy had already begun to fade.

---

Finally, the story I was talking about. I got an A+! YAY! My teachers loved it (: But.. I think they liked the reflective commentary more.. bummer x]

And thus begins the final sprint. A close other has my password for Facebook, and I vow to be absent from MSN for the coming days, until my focus can turn away from study. I dedicate this to You, God, for I know in You, I have the strength to carry on. Continue to shed Your light upon my path; may I see You in everything around me, and when everything overwhelms, I know that You are God.

Blogspot will be my hangout space (:

PTL, Sarah.

In Heaven's Wake.

The more I think about it, the more selfish it is.

Isn't life... so much more? So much more than materialistic and monetary value? Much more than gain?
Isn't life so much more than me? And yet, we are so wrapped up in ourselves that we have no time for others.
We label them; student, worker, businessman, police woman. But who are they? Does no one know? Can anyone identify an individual? Does anyone know someone's life story, besides their own?
We can't. We simply cannot, even for the hope of the world.

Life is more than superficiality, gain, riches. Everyone knows it. But for those without hope, who else can they turn to?

---
I've written a story, but I will not have a direct post of it. I have provided a link to it; click here if you wish to read. By no means do I abuse such a time as this... And with everything I have, I mean it in the deepest of respects.

But I just wanted to say.. sorry. For I'm so caught up in my own skin, that I have no time to mourn for you. But I earnestly pray that you are lifted up to a place of rest, and a place where it is okay for you to cry. For He comforts. And He loves.

But I am torn. For it is especially times like these where I want to jump out of my own skin; to escape it, and forget about my own selfish and insignificant desires. I want to cry with them... And yet, I feel that myself has once again drawn centre focus. And it is a wretched feeling. My spirit is perturbed... But life, far greater, far beyond comprehension, and all I can think of is myself?
Selfish. And as silly as ever.

But even in my deepest regret of narcissism, my condolences go out to you. As hopeless, as selfish, and as greedy as I am, with little goodness that is in my heart, I give you Love. If not mine, His. For I know that He sees your strength, and how you stand. He knows the innermost depths of your heart. And just as He fell from the skies, so too, along with you, in all your inequities and pain, He is lifted on high in glory.

Hosanna,
Amen.

---
I do not seek approval, I do not seek attention.

RIP, for you wake up in heaven.

Sarah.

Alluring Reminisce.

Hello. (:

Be eagerly anticipatory of my story, of which I will post soon.... No, I'll be generous. Make that two stories, because I am guilt-ridden for my unexplained near-one-month absence.
There is no excuse, but there are reasons which I can only give with a slight grimace, but I'll smile it out.

Year 12.
It really is the most overwhelming breath of reality I have experienced so far.

Pray for me, please? I cannot go on without Him.

It is a mediocre post today. Significant to one. That one is perhaps only me, though there are two addressed here. I do not mean for it to be sad, for I am only filled with love for my past, which has weathered me away to who I am today. I hope you enjoy the style, if nothing else.

---
"To: Doofus
From: Awesome"

I closed my eyes, and imagined. Well - I tried to imagine anyway. There is only so much I can work with. All I have left are tiny fragments, but I feel that I have been robbed of all the adjoining pieces, left only with tattered, confusing pieces that I just do not understand. You know, I probably did understand once... it feels like a lifetime ago now. But now, I just can't connect anything together. I can remember nothing.

And yet there is this empty feeling. It's as if I should have something there - almost as if you should be there, but that is just silly, because you're not. Nevertheless, this is it: the feel is like a room, windswept, papers scattered everywhere, but everything is deafeningly silent and dangerously still. With it, the wind stole my memories of you.

But I have dug up some sort of creature - it's not real of course, only a stuffed animal. It sees with no eyes, has a large tummy with no food. It is strangely reminiscent of my birthday. Yes. I think you gave that to me as a present. Praise the heavens that I remember something, I suppose. Oh- and with it came a card from you. Of course; how could I forget? Our mutual yet pointless obsession of a colour; it adorned the otherwise naked envelope... its contents really were naked too. I definitely believe this is true, even now: that I heard you laugh when I opened it.

But I can't seem to remember that strange sound, that laugh of yours, despite the acoustics of this room I'm in. I should be hearing something - I'm straining to hear something. But nothing is there. Even the faint echo of your voice is nowhere to be found.

And what are these figments of my imagination? They are bountiful and boundless. I've looked at so many; and they are all so incomplete... and yet, my mind is completely covered. They portray a face- or rather, various facets that, if correctly placed, may perhaps reveal the slight resemblance of a face. Essentially, they all make up one thing, but I cannot grasp the product of all these fallen fragments of information. They are useless to me... but they aren't meant to. They are here for a reason... but for what? It is a question I am unable to answer.

Nonetheless. They must be here for a purpose. You, after all, were in my life for a purpose. And memories of you, as disintegrated they may seem, and as emptied as I am of them, there are pieces- very small, very insignificant pieces, that remind me of that something in you that even a fool is smart enough to treasure.

So, I bid you fare-thee-well, and I leave you on good-graces. May whatever these segments of what seem to only point to you stay or go as they please - perhaps carried away - or otherwise, left in this room as that one reminder that you were once significant in my life.

Take care, and I wish you love from here, to wherever you are now.

LOL, Sarah.

Alleviated Assent.

It's little things that I remember, and thus it's also the little things that hurt.

To remember the thinly veiled insults exchanged behind eloquent words and fine phrases; the passionate singing along to such sweet music from the top of our lungs; the witty, and sometimes sarcastic jokes shared and understood only by us; how we dared not embrace, and yet somehow I feel that we knew just how much we meant to each other...

I remember your laugh, and vaguely, yet quite distinctly, the sound of your voice as you sung for me for the first time ever in front of an audience of two; at least you still have one of that audience, huh? And I'm glad it's one of the people I trust most, because I know that you're still in good hands.

And so we tackled the first hurdle, head first... we both got hurt, I suppose, but we recovered quickly and ran side-by-side for a while longer... or for as long as one of us could last. But I just couldn't keep up with you over the next hurdle; I was knocked down, and you just had to leave me behind, because I slowed you down enough already.

It was an awkward goodbye... surely I'd see you down the track, but we had our own journeys now. Our paths ended then and there on that one hurdle that tripped me over, and I just could not run with you any longer.

But I'm thankful that you didn't slow down, and that you didn't try to ease the pain that I'd consequently felt from this. I'm thankful that we grew apart. Because now you really can move on, with no hindrances, with nothing that holds you back. You're running the race, and you can run it with all your might now, and with complete concentration. Your next hurdles may be higher, but you've got no one pulling you down when you attempt to jump over it.

As for me, I'm so much stronger that I've ever been. The pain singed at me for a while, a long while, I'll admit, but because I wasn't strong enough. But now I'm just thankful that you were there to run that race with me. And when the road got thinner, and the path got steeper, I can only conclude that this was the best decision we've made. The race that you're running just isn't mine to run, and neither is my race yours.

I'm a little sad, but my heart abounds in joy and in peace - because I know that you're making your ways well. I too, am doing so, and if you wanted to know, I'm doing great. I really am. I've learnt a lot from you, and I just wanted to say how great it was to have you as one of my best friends, even if it was only for a little while.

Thank you, friend. You've meant so much to me. Maybe you can't look at me the same, but I still hold you up with great respect and affection for you. I only wish for you the best from now on.

Lots Of Love,
Sarah.

Avant - Garde.

And so this is a very Merry Happy Birthday of exactly 2 years of my baby blog's existence.

So I thus present thee, of whom perhaps may be a many or a little, a long blog (:

*To be read whilst Everthing Is Beautiful - Starfield plays softly, but distinctly, in the background. (:

Today is a new day. Today is a good day. Why shouldn't it be? God has us physically, spiritually and mentally rested, preparing us for new places, new objects, new trials. Today must be good, for He made it, and He makes all things good, working everything together for the good of those who love Him.

Today is not the quarrel yesterday at recess, nor the hurt that followed during the day, nor was it last night's depression. Today, you have been healed. Or, if hurt still, you are undergoing a great recovery. Today is not yesterday's rushed morning, stressful afternoon and exhausted evening. We start anew today. We start having had enough rest. We start with the wakening of the senses to the chilly smell of a winter morning, the clinging of warmth from our blanket as we grasp it gingerly in our fingers. Inside, we have been massaged, relaxed, restored and renewed.

So, if God has done this inside our midst, on us- our souls and within our hearts, in our spirit and in our strength, should we not then be life? And by this, I mean truly alive, alight with brightness and eagerness for the events of today? For we are being renewed every day. Should we revert to old ways if we have been restored? Should we start old if we begin new?

We have been redeemed from yesterday's hold - yesterday's tantrums, hurts, and tribulations cannot cling onto what is today. They are old, and they dare not touch a new thing. When we wake, we do not have to think about old trauma, for it no longer binds us to its situation.

It is a new day! and a good day! We have been prepared for it- restored for it, renewed for it, and redeemed for it. Is this not something that delights our hearts? Do we not believe that our God does all this, and more? Nuggets of blessing throughout the day, fresh laughs, earnest smiles, sincere joy. New hardships to make us pray, reflect, and pray for change, so that in another new day, we are renewed again - and not with old strength, but instead we a moved from His strength to His next strength, where His strength is made perfect in our utmost weaknesses.

Is this not good news? Is there no reason to praise? It's a new day, a new dawn, a new life - for me, for you. And shall we not, then, feel good?

Of course, this is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it, for the Lord has made us in His own image, and He knows that His creation is good. He is glad in us, for He can live in us - and restore, renew and redeem us.

Praise God, who makes all things new - we are new creations! The old has gone! The New has begun!

- Taken directly from my devotionals journal from 22.07.2010
---
It is at these glowing moments where I feel so incredulously joyful.

It's as if I've walked out of my door to find the curtains drawn, and only the sun beams down on me, with the clouds even daring to recede. I close my eyes, and I enjoy the sunshine as he embraces me, stroking my cheeks with his rays of light, and warmly clasping at my hands as he eagerly fills the spaces between my fingers with his own in earnest affection and ardor.

And he leads me towards the front step of the porch; from there, a stone path invites me to step into the new season. Each stone is frilled with little bristles of dewy morning grass, each droplet on each leaflet bouncing bent light onto the stone - so much so that it burst with colour - surely even the stones were proclaiming the promise of this day!

I feel there is spring in my step, and daisies twirl from the traces of my footprints, and butterflies circle from beneath my feet. It's as if they are lifting me off the ground, and I begin to soar as I leap from stone to stone. The butterflies at my feet beat away at the mist so as to reveal the stones, joyfully glistening its true colours in the sun. I kneel on a particularly large stone, and suddenly, I hear music.

The birds, out of nowhere, perch onto a naked branch with but one budding leaf, chirping gleefully as if they all had a reason to sing. Their voices carry me along, dancing around the sun's rays, and encompassing me with impromtu rhythm and rhyme, and smiling as their melodies flow through my ears, and enter every corner of my heart, and I cannot help but to sing along with all that sings around me.

So, from my lips escape a chilly, yet refreshing kiss of wind, and out comes unrehearsed: a harmony that all but exemplifies the great twitter of the birds, the buzzing of excitement and expectation from the wings of a tiny bee as it hopes and expects to find great provisions even from a tiny budding flower, and the lullaby of the sun as it cradles me in its arms, uninterrupted by the soft coos of the winds that playfully tug at my hair.

And how my heart overflows with love and gratitude! How I am blessed to be embraced by the sun itself! And how my surroundings resonate with such beauty, and that I, little I, am able to sing along with the flora and fauna, and together celebrate a brand new opening of a new day.

---
And I really do feel that spring begins in my very next step. I have felt no joy greater than now - I in so much awe that my thinking is even childlike...

I cannot help myself. I must smile all the time. I must smile at every small thing, and I must capture life in its fleeting moments, for I know that everything - every infinitesimal thing - conveys beauty, and captures the essence of a Saviour whose faith is complete.

And I step into a new season, leaving the frosty bites of winter alone. I am embraced by warmth now, and I have everything to be thankful for.

---
And finally, it shall be that until one year from now, I have no intention of committing to any relationship closer than best friendship other than that between my God and I.

PTL, Sarah.
*This is entirely optional, but listen to the song anyway (:

The Delicate Equilibrium.

I have a strange habit of only posting memoirs which are permeated with such strong levels of intensity; of obscure pain or sorrow, or of such refined happiness and joy that deserves no veil in front of it as its light breaks through the lines of black ink, and radiates its vibrant warmth from the led lighted screen. And as these waves leap from the screen, flooding into the chest -sometimes warming and calm, sometimes frigid and icy waters - they lap against solid hearts, finding small entrances into its tender secrets within.

In any movement of these currents, I could only hope the hearts consumed within it are moved along with it. However, the intensities of the overflow of my heart haven't been what I long my readers to be swept along with. The currents go deeper into colder, more mysterious, painfully bitter depths, and I long to change the direction in which these currents flow.

Perhaps my life is made from ocean trenches, and I am unable to channel these currents any other way, but the least I could do probably is to - yes, cast my readers into this flow of words - but not in biting, chilly tidal motions, but instead into a stream of warmth, which rushes them to the surface quicker, where the sun's rays may catch them, and hug them in its embrace.

So I've decided. If there is any lingering emotional imbalance, where sorrow far outweighs joy in a blog, I hope to restrain it, and instead pour in an extra flow of fervour to restore this emotional imbalance to its original state. I know in our humanity that we have a naturally great outpour of sorrow, and so little natural exuberance.

But thank God for the sun to warm our cooled currents. Thank God for His son to flood us with His love, hope and joy, so that we, in turn may illuminate His light to the coldest of hearts.

I cannot promise, but I hope to turn this leaf over, and let its wilted ends be revitalised once again in the same way I walk with edges that no longer wilt in its circumstance, but brim with the light that is my sustenance.

LOL, Sarah.