Cages.

  I'm looking at our little yellow pet parakeet as it's striding along it's tiny metal cage. It's hopping up and down plastic tubes painted just to look like branches. Not like this poor guy has ever even grasped a real wooden branch with his scaly bird feet before. Never tasted the fresh air and sunshine outside. Never spread his wings to fly high up into the skies. Shit, that's probably the best part of being a bird, even he's been robbed of that. Robbed of his freedom. But no, he's singing and chirping along, happily rolling around in his own poop. He doesn't know about the world outside. All he knows is his cage.

  We all have our own cages, whether we're aware of that fact or not. Be it our cozy homes , our comfortable beds or our same close-knit group of friends, our cages are all around us. They keep us safe. They keep us sheltered. Our sanctuary when the big bad world out there doesn't seem to work in our favour anymore. We crawl into our cages. crawl in and wait out the storm. But the storm never dies, it never fades. The world is always going to hurt you, so you stay inside your cage, never braving the cold outside.

  I had a cage once, oh, and what a lovely cage it was. I holed myself up in this cage for such a long long time. Sometimes, I still wonder what I could've done with all that time, all that good time put to waste. For the first two years of my high school, I spent at least four hours a day gaming. Mom never knew, she thought I was doing schooly things or sleeping off the morning, like every good little boy does. In reality, I was spending all that time playing DotA.

  Believe me, I wanted to stop. I knew it was wrong. I wanted to get out there and do something useful with myself, like join the athletics team or get involved in school activities. But I guess I wasn't willing enough, I guess I just didn't have the balls, I was a little bitch. In my defence though, I was having a pretty hard time in my life. My acne started acting up, and my self-esteem was at an all-time low. So I turned to this virtual world, this virtual world where I could destroy my enemies and said I was a 'pro'.

  Like a serial killer on a murderous rampage, I killed all my time away for a good year and a half. I got caught eventually though. Needless to say, I got into real big shit because of that and I doubt my parents ever completely trusted me after that. Their trust for me shattered, and it took me a long time to gain it back. Even though I played less, it was still there, right up until I left for Germany. Even on the eve of my SPM exams I still went to cyber cafes to satisfy my needs. It was THAT strong.

  It was like a drug. My drug. It was my escape for the harsh reality of the big bad world. It was my escape from the big exams, condescending teachers, non-chalant friends and just plain stress. It's one of those :" Fuck it, everything's screwed anyway, so why even bother? " kind of thing you know? Even in school, the only topic we could bring ourselves to talk about was about last nights' game or if there were any upcoming cool games. I craved it. I needed it. Thankfully, not anymore.

  And it worries me to think that I was one of the lucky ones. I had a kick-ass mom who was strict enough with me to do what's necessary. Sure it was stressful that I hated her most of the time. Sure it was probably easier to just let me play away at the computer for 8 hours a day. I'd create less of a fuss that way anyway. But no, she stood by me, even though I never did realise it. She did what's best for me. What's best for my future. Love you for that, ma. But what about the others? The others still locked away in their comfortable cages?

  Computer games are only the tip of the ice-berg. What about the things that go unseen? What about those kids who spend 10 hours a day checking Facebook, and still think it's completely fine? Now, I'm not some idealist whose hell-bent on changing this world by ridding it of these things. No, I've given up being the hero a long time ago. In this world where no one wants to be saved, a hero is no longer welcomed. Maybe it's meant to be this way. Maybe we'll be stuck in our cages forever. And when we finally grow old and lay on our death beds, maybe then we'll finally look out the window and see the world outside. The world we missed.

 



 



 

The forest where we met.

  Swaying left and right on a rocking hammock, I'm looking at the clear blue sky above. The sound of running water and chirping birds are drawing me closer and closer into sleep. But no, I can't sleep now, not yet. I need to think about this. Think about the people here. They baffle me, and I don't like the idea of sleeping when something out there is baffling me. Especially when they're everyday normal People. Everday normal people doing something extraordinary. No, sleep can take a hike for the next week. I've got a week of discovery to make.

  To be honest, I had no idea what to expect of this excursion when I shuffled off that bus with my 200 pound rucksack filled with shit I probably didn't need. Frankly, I was pretty pissed at how I didn't get my first choice. A bike tour over 3 different countries sounded a whole lot cooler than cultivating mushrooms in a forest. Well, six days in a forest didn't sound too bad either, I could use some time to just rest and relax. I pictured it'd to be 6 days of laying on grass and just chilling out next to a warm fire at night burning on marshmallows. Hah, that sounds good doesn't it? 

  And that's when they explained what we had to do for the next 6 days. We had to work. 8 hours a day. 2 lunch breaks. No pay. At first, I was pretty dumbfounded. Well you'd feel like that too if you had to pay 100 euros just to haul your ass halfway across the country on a 10 hour trip just to work. But what the hey, I rolled with it. What have I got to lose anyway? It's not like I had any REAL plans for this summer holiday other than mentally starving myself at home. Might as well get my hands dirty and maybe, just maybe, I'll have some fun while I'm at it.

  And that's when I started to get to know these people. These crazy people. Their motives interested me. I mean who the hell would spent a whole entire week of summer holdiays working their butts off in a forest for no apparent gain? Hell, most of them are grown-ass adults who actually have to take time OFF work to be here. If I had known what to expect, I probably would have wussed myself outta there. Wussed out and told myself to stay at home and stone in front of the computer all day. At least, i'd stay comfortable. Thankfully, I went for it. Thankfully, I'm an idiot like that.

  And so we worked those six days away. Six days of little sleep. Six days of blisters and back aches. Six days of swatting off feasting mosquitoes. Strangely enough, none of us complained  about those things as we broke our backs under that blistering summer sun. In fact, we were laughing and sharing jokes about how fucked up our lives were. It was truly remarkable for me. It defied and smashed all I knew about people. Or at least what I thought I knew. I never knew people like this still existed, people who are willing to selflessly give themselves to a bigger cause.

  They say humanity reaches it's peak when men start planting trees whose shades they'll never sit in. Not wanting to over-lament things, but for the past six days, I caught a short glimpse of that. We paved forest paths that we'll probably never walk in. We fed animals we'll never see or touch. We did all these things for something bigger than us. The forest probably won't even notice we were there. We were like tiny little ants. Tiny ants who slaved their asses off for a huge colony that probabaly won't even acknowledge their existence.

  Maybe some people would call it stupidity doing something like this. Not like we got any money, right? Not like we got any gain, rihgt? Not like the rest of the world noticed or glorified what we did, right? Not like we became successful or anything. No money. No certificates. No proof. Just us and our efforts. Our efforts to work for the bigger picture. Our efforts to make this world a little bit better instead of bitching about it on Facebook or complaining about it to our friends. Even if it was only a tiny bit.

  And as we hugged and waved each other goodbye at the train station platform, I can't help but feel my heart getting a little heavier. Where else in the world am I ever going to meet people like these again? People who selflessly gave their time, sweat and effort for something nobody else wants to get their hands dirty for. It's a sobering thought. But I like sober thougts, they always surprise me. Just like these people have. These people who I met in the forest.





   

Outside my window.

  Smeared and smudgy with fingerprints and possibly dried snot, the bus window which I was looking out of made me rethink what I called dirty. I withdrew my hands before I could touch them, I'd rather not catch cancer today. A middle-aged man was leaning heavily against the railing in front of me, obviously being too cool to sit. His body was riddled with piercings, and he had tattoos on top of his tattoos. Whenever he had the chance, he'd shoot a withering glance in my direction, just to make sure I knew how much of a bad ass he was. From that distance, he could've heard my muffled smirking. But with the deafening volume of music he was listening to, I doubt he could hear anything at all.

  Not one of my best bus rides admittedly, but my mind was somewhere else. Through the filthy bus windows, the world outside had my full attention. Ever took a good look at one of those country-side post cards? Where there's a picture of rolling hills peppered with trees sitted so beautifully in front of a sunset? And birds, they'll always add pretty-ass birds in there just for good measure. Toss in a couple of farm animals, and I almost feel like buying one for myself already. I always thought that part of the world was a myth. Not because I was a conspiracist or anything, I just never saw it  with my own eyes before.

  Growing up, the big city was everywhere around me. Traffic jams were common as dirt  and the only trees you see are ones sprouting out of concrete. Even when I lay my head down at night, the distant sound of zooming cars and redundant fireworks was never too far away. Where the only things I scrape my knees and elbows on are tar and concrete. A concrete jungle. I remember spending my childhood in this. As kids, we'd stuff rolled up newspapers into car exhaust, just for kicks. We'd patiently wait for the owner to walk by and we'd burst out laughing when the newspaper roll shot out in black smoke after a million starts.

  Just going outside to play required adult supervision back then. Even then, I still managed to break a poor kids' nose off a bike. Somedays, we weren't even allowed to go outside. The air would be so thick with haze that our eyes watered and it hurt to even breathe. Even when it rained, the water would still feel warm on your skin. You've learned to keep well away. Get enough of that on your skin and you'd bound to be scratching a sleepness night away. From where I'm from and where I'm at, even the most simplest of things are different. Even the rain.

  But here, it's different here. Not the most happening of places though, malls and fancy cafes don't exist, and the only action you get around here is watching cows chew their cuds all day long. But at least I can breathe here. Here, the rivers don't stain the bottom of my pants brown. After staying in the hustle and bustle of the big city for so long, I guess I've overlooked some of life's simplest gifts. A breathe of fresh air. Beautiful scenery.It's the little things, you know? It's the little things that make this world all worthwhile. The world outside this window.



Candles.

  It's probably nothing short of plaigarism when I quote William Shakespeare's "Life's brief Candle". It's one of those poems that really stir your mind by throwing it into a blending machine. He puts it so well, he puts it so morbid, he puts it so real. I could never really wrap my head around his words back in high school. But now, as I think about his words again, I start to see them a little bit clearer. Of course, not as clear as the great poet himself, but somewhat clearer than my younger self. And that's reason enough for me to write. 

  Shakespreare poured out his thoughts on life with pen and paper. I've always been one for words and how they can invoke all sorts of images and thoughts in the depths of your imagination. Words prod and poke at your grey matter, making you think about ideas and things that are larger than you can grasp. It promotes healthy thought. Cause after all, what do we really have to call our own, other than the thoughts in our heads and the senses in our nerves?

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

creeps from this petty pace,

To the last sylabble of recorded time,

All of our yesterdays have lighted fools,

The way to dusty death.

  I'm shambling, crawling and struggling through each day like it's another curse tied to me. The days grow less and less significant as I progress, the days mean less and less, until they eventually mean nothing to me anymore. A petty pace, as he puts it. I'm trapped in someone else's life, living someone else's dream. Study hard. Get good grades. Have a job. Make loads of money. Have a family. Grow old. Die. All I'm really doing is dying then. I'm dying, and I don't even know it.

  Society makes me feel that way sometimes. You ain't nobody till you become successful. You ain't nobody till you make loads of money. You ain't nobody till you own a big house on top of a hill and fill it with a picture perfect family that you can brag about to all your friends. And so we set out, we set out to find these things. These things we THINK will make us happy. We spend our lives chasing fast cars, fancy clothes and huge mansions all in the name of popularity. All of us not having the slightest idea, our time in this world is short.

  And the worst part is, when we impart this dreadful dogma of ours to the next generation. Our children, our grandchildren, they'll live the same lives we lived, slowly die the same way we died and regret the same things we regretted. We'll be lighting a way for them. Lighting a bunch of fools onward to their dusty deaths, where they'll tell their children to do the same. A cycle. A cycle of dusty deaths repeating itself over and over again.

Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player,

That struts and frets his hours upon the stage,
and then is heard no more,

it is a tale,

Told by and idiot,

full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

  We'd all like to think we're somewhat immortal, like each day is entitled to us, and that there will always be more days to come. That's why we live the way we do, cause there's always another chance tomorrow, isn't it? Cause tomorrow, I'll finally do all the things I wanna do, I'll chase those big dreams I've always had. But only tomorrow, okay? Cause today, I feel like sitting around and think about all the wonderful and productive things I'll be doing tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

  In a methaporic kinda way, our lives are a lot like burning sticks of candles. We're burning away, our way dripping down, drop by drop, bit by bit, until we eventually burn ourselves out and fade away, fade away into nothing. Heck, some of us don't even burn out all the way. A draft of rogue wind, a drop of cold water, that's all it takes to put us out. To put us out before we eventually burn ourselves down to nothing. Nothing but melted wax on the floor. Melted wax that no one will take notice of, that no one will remember.

  And that makes me ponder. Makes me ponder about what kind of candle I am, and what sort of candle I wanna be. Frankly, I don't want to be the candle who burns the brightest, nor do I want to be the candle who burns the longest either. When I finally extinguish myself to the ground, I wanna be the candle who says :" That was a good run." I wanna be the candle who says:" There isn't a single drop of wax I would change." I wanna burn my ass down and not regret a single damn thing.

  It's amusing really how such a short jumble of words can stir all these ideas into my head. Wheter or not they were intentional, we'll never find out now. In short, just get out there and do whatever you wanna do with your life. Maybe you'll displease some people along the way, maybe you'll break some rules. But at least, you're living a life that's honest, and you're being true to yourself. And in my opinion, that's the best damn gift you can treat yourself to. A little bit of radcial honesty. Radical honesty and hot chocolate.

  

The Nomad.

  You travel. You adapt. You survive. Everywhere is home, cause home is wherever you lay your head at night. You've abandoned all the luxuries you've once took for granted. Video games. Good friends. Family. Your home. They're all thousands of miles away from your reach. Cause luxuries can't afford to exist when you're living like this. You thought it would be glorious, to move away, to break out of the norm. But gosh, you never thought about the lonliness that would ensue, never thought about the isolation, never thought how'd it'd be like to be disposable. A nomad.

  This isn't a dry and unforgiving sand dune though. This isn't a journey with a camel across thousands of miles of desert to sell and trade your goods. No. It's a city. It's a town. It's a village. There's thousands of people around, and yet you feel so alone. Because you're different, you're an outsider. They know you're not here to stay, they know you'll move on. So, they alienate you, they shun you and they exclude you. Cause they know there's not much you can give them, nothing to gain from a friend with a expiry date. 

  But you try anyway. You adapt. You blend. You change. You change into their ways and mold into their shapes. You start walking their walk, talking their talk and mocking what they mock too. Anything it takes. Anything it takes for them to see that you're human too, just like them. Sooner or later, you progress. You find yourself thinking the way they do even when they're not around anymore. But deep down, the timer is still clicking away, whether you remember or not.

  You're happy. Happy because you've finally been accepted. They mutually respect you now, seeing you as one of their own. Seeing you as an outsider who gave his all to be one of them. Part of the flock. They celebrate, they praise you. Praise you for your adaptability and how you're able to do it so fast. That's when you start to forget. Start to forget where you're from. You're lost in a soceity that finally accepts you after all that effort you've put in. After all those lonely nights waiting.

  You've finished packing. Tying up your shoelaces with your luggage by the doorstep, you don't say a word to the others. You leave. Not because you want to, but because the winds of change dictate so. Forces bigger than you. Forces out of your control. Forces that say it's time for your ass to get a move on. And so you leave, to your next home. Your home away from home away from home. This is how it is. You're disposable. You're adaptable. You're a nomad.

  

 

The stork.

   By now, my sweat has already dampened the running tee under my jacket. My breaths came out long and hard, the result of 30 minutes of a good pace. I've ran many roads here in my small town, but somehow, this road always appeases to me best. The way that it stretches for 3 kilometres straight to another small town and is lined by an abundance of trees and fields always keeps me coming back to it. Like a beckoning lover. Up ahead, a cleared straw field draws up, freshly cut and trimmed. My nose twitches to the light smell of diesel.

  I've seen this field dozens of times on my runs, but it was a little different this time, cleared and more watery than usual. Highlighted white among the yellowing fields, there it stood. Well stood wasn't really the right word, there it... leaned. Waddling around in the watery grass, ocassionally pecking away at the mud by stretching it's already more-than-stellar neck, a stork.  Not that I've never seen a stork before, just not one this close. I thought about stopping to admire it for awhile, but I didn't want to risk losing the Endorphins already pumping hard in my veins. So I ran on.

  I always have this funny habit of reaching this certain sign in town to before I turn back. After completing my quirky little ritual, I finally turned back for the return run, relaxed and satisfied. Needless to say, I came across the already yellower fields of cut grass. To my surprise, my acquaintence still stood there, pecking away aimlessly at the ground, clumsily waddling around with it's pinkish legs. It must've been at it for the full 45 minutes I was gone, seeing as how no other storks were squelching around.

  This time however, I couldn't help but slow down into an eventual stop and look at it. With the loud music blaring from my Walkman, I could've sworn I perked it's interests. It tilted it's head, just enough to set it's coffee-black eyes on me for a moment. Sensing this lanky young man was no danger, it went back to it's aimless pecking and waddling around in the already reeking muddish grass. And I just stood there, at the side of a bicycle lane, looking at it. 


  In many ways, this bird reminds me a lot about myself. Butt-ugly as it is, it could never match up to the fabled Birds of Paradise with their dazzling plumage and intricate mating rituals. It isn't exactly agile and graceful like the magestic Bald Eagle either, seeing as how it has been practically rolling around in marshy-filth just managing for it's next meal. But one thing about it does strike me about myself though, it's patient as fuck masticating around in that muddy crap, and doesn't really give a crap about whose watching him doing that. That's about the only thing I can hold to myself in this ever-competitive world.

  Not to mention my legs are just a tad bit fatter than it's, and that's just me being positive. That's gotta count for some points on our relativity chart. Not wanting to look like some hillbilly hitchhiker, I slowly started up my pace again and made way back home. Because I'm running on a severely-underused bicycle lane, I could spare myself the luxury of looking at it a bit more while I trodded back. Right before my vision was curtained by branches and leaves, I could've sworn that stork pecked a fish right outta of the water. That clumsy storks' gotta eat too.

Spring, is that you?

                 "It'll get better next week." That's what my host father told me the night I first arrived at my new home. The memory still fresh in my head. That was the by far the coldest night of my life. Where -16 degrees of biting wind and light snow punctured me to my core and robbed me of all warmth. Don't get me wrong, I was all hyped up about winter and snow for the first few days. For the first few days at least. I rolled around in snow, had snowballfights and swallowed some of it just to see how it feels to have it melt in your mouth. But the cold doesn't let up. No, it's not some toy that you can pull out of a toychest whenever you want. I wish it was though. It's an everpresent thing.

   For those of you who have never braced the chill of winter before, here's a little head's up. The first time I stepped out into the cold, it was a magical experience for me. Having grown up in a tropical country where the coldest thing you'll ever feel is ice on your palms, having 2 degrees outdoors and misty breathes was magical. Well, magical for about 2 minutes at least. After that initial joyous moment, I shivered my ass back inside. Humidity is also a big issue here. It's only been 3 weeks, and I swear the back of my palms feel like beef jerky right now.

   Don't laugh at how much of a little bitch I am, but having grown up in a constant 30 degrees environment you'd feel the same too. But I think I'm managing well, I haven't bitched about it yet to anyone in person, so you know this blog gets all my hate. Thankfully, my host father's words finally came true this morning. It's shocking how fast the weather can go from total shit to perfect here in Europe. Just a few days ago, I was biking my way home in a shower of freezing cold water and today I wake up to this little beauty here:

Hallelujah!

                                                 
      The transition from winter to spring feels so novel to me. It kinda feels like one of those cartoons we used to watch where the main character frolicks around flowers and chirping birds. It also feels like one of those deep poems like Robert Frost wrote about. To finally have 15 solid degrees is relief enough for me, but let's hope spring doesn't turn its back on us. Well that's enough sitting around indoors for today, better savour this day while I still can!