New Being

Well, here's a part of the story we've been thinking of for some time, will let Cyril take over from here.







As he sat on the branch of a dead tree gazing at the bright full moon as it rose higher and higher into the night sky, he realised his body did not tire, nor his eyelids turn heavy. The change happened so fast, the day before he was still human, the lack of normal human sensations seemed odd, yet somewhat, better. Also, it was not too long ago that he learnt to control his wings, reshaping them into arms that could fit into his father's jacket, the only remnant he had of him, now embedded with his own insignia, a black sun. His right eye that had been scarred ever since he was 7 was now endowed with sight again, but this time he saw much more than he could ever have imagined. Its colour a dark crimson, with a black slit for a pupil, as desired, it bore no resemblance to a human eye. No human could ever see or comprehend what that eye presented before him, and he was certain there was still much more to it. All these changes were like a dream converted into reality, and it didn't feel like a nightmare, instead, he felt relief, relief that he was finally free of his curse.



"I see we have a lonewolf". The deep voice caught his attention and he turned his head slightly such that his remaining human eye caught sight of the well-built figure that had brought him to the ruined city that a group of people, if they could still be considered human, called home. It was then that it dawned on him that he had never really noticed how his eyes were a gleaming silver, just like the full moon that hung in the sky. It brought to mind the memory of his transformation into a silver maned werewolf just a few hours ago.



"So, how does it feel?" He asked in a somewhat concerned tone.



"Which incident are you talking about?" As he replied, he was feeling his right hand as it changed into a black claw that easily sliced just about anything, including human flesh and bone.



"Both." came the answer, this time a little sterner. "We all had our reasons for accepting the contract, I'm sure you have yours, but usually there's an adjustment period which can be rather uncomfortable. But still, why did you do it?"



His eyes lay transfixed on his hands, it was undeniable, the greatest change yet, they were now stained with blood. But was it really murder, after all, he wasn't human anymore, should those laws still apply to him? Maybe, maybe not. Nonetheless, the "victims" were still human, those who brought down others to raise themselves, scarring others physically and emotionally. Basically, they had it coming. Ripping their hearts out wasn't much of a hassle, it was debatable if they actually deserved them. But his memory was cut short there, for after eating them, he felt overcome by a consuming urge to kill, and everything went black.

"I hate them, I hate them all." came the soft answer. the traumatic events in his life had given him a new perspective on things, everyday he saw the unfairness of humanity in the world, and yet they stood arrogant in their own self-proclaimed greatness. It was then that he realised that he himself was human too, and nothing he did could ever change that, a curse by birth. In that he despaired, why did he have to be one of those monsters, was there no way to alter his own fate? The contract was the greatest blessing he ever hoped for, the so called "price" was more like the fulfilment of his burning desire, to never be human again. And without much hesitation, he accepted.

"Do you think that gives you the right to kill them?"

"Why ask me? They kill themselves on a regular basis, shouldn't you be asking them that?" Anger began to build up in his heart, fuelled by the painful memories of his past. The conclusion he always arrived at was that humans weren't half as great as they claimed they were, but apparently choosing to believe so brought them a great sense of achievement. Their downfall was merely a matter of time.

"No, what I mean is, don't you feel any remorse for your actions? Is your human conscience still there?"

It was then the anger in his heart overflowed. Jumping off the tree and landing right in front of his silver-eyed "interrogator", he yelled, "Don't you relate me to them! All this time I've been dreaming of being free from my cursed humanity, and finally I am!"

"What do you hate so much about them?" Those words came out a little more gently this time.

"What's there to like? What good have they done? Of course they won't notice, a monster is normal in a group of monsters. " Spreading his wings to their full extent, he added on, "I can fly now, something that those monsters would never have given me the chance to, why should I bother about them, their value is only self-imposed, outside of that, they are nothing." And with that, he took off into the night sky, leaving his acquaintance behind. It was then that he remembered, he never really got to know his name and vice versa, guess he would be back there sooner or later.

Watching his friend, if he could be referred to as one, fly off, he thought to himself, "another hurt child, just reborn and already in pain."

Hope it was somewhat enjoyable, please comment, and note that this is only a small fraction of the whole.

Someday the Dream Will End

Lately we've been quite obsessed with the piano, and we've also been downloading scores to try out, mainly Final Fantasy VII & X ones though. Strange how music easily invokes emotions and memories, grief wells up so quickly when we recall Final Fantasy X's ending, the protagonist Tidus fades away, guess dreams do end eventually.

And to find out more about music, we've been searching for Musicophilia by Oliver Sack to shed some light on how it affects us. Sadly, we have had limited success. Now many melodies and stories flood our mind, mostly invoking sorrow and nostalgia we guess... They're so hard to control, yet the meaning of their existence is to be unrestrained we guess. Like in the case of birds, their wings allow them to fly, which is when they're most beautiful (and when we're most envious), so what would be the point of keeping them in a cage?

For those we might not have explained to, here's a description of what's inside our mind. A large forest all around, flowers of every colour and form bloom in every season, the sky a clear azure blue, it's reflection imprinted in the ocean. The main feature of it, the nightingales and morningales that inhabit that world, flying and landing as they wish, each containing thoughts and memories. Though we exist in that world, we do not have full control of the birds, sometimes they come to us, sometimes they stay away, all in their freedom of choice to do so. Though Cyril usually gets the nightingales and I get the morningales, if we could draw, we would of course draw them out to be seen. And so we'll end off here, with a quote we guess.

What's the point of pretending to be all grown-up when the things I wanna say never get said? How am I supposed to change anything? - Tidus, Final Fantasy X

The Nightingale and The Rose (part 3)

The final part of the story, tragic...

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.' So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. 'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. 'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.

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Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. 'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.' But the girl frowned. 'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.' 'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it. 'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house. 'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.' So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

Why does sorrow bear so much meaning...

The Nightingale and The Rose (part 2)

Here comes the second part of the story.

'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?' 'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.' 'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.' 'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.' 'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?' So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. 'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.' The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

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But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches. 'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.' So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar. When she had finished her song the Student got lip, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. 'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

There is no point blooming for the blind, they can't see your beauty although they have eyes

The Nightingale and The Rose (part 1)

As promised, Oscar Wilde's short tragic story.

'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.' From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered. 'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.' 'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.' 'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.' 'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.' 'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

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'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. 'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. 'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. 'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale. 'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray. 'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.' But the Tree shook its head. 'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.' So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. 'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.' But the Tree shook its head. 'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.' So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window. 'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.' But the Tree shook its head. 'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'

Hope it's not too much, more to come in future, but for now, please enjoy (:

Please don't cry, I promise I'll make you real one day. For now, please don't fade...

Sun and Rain

Just got back from East Coast Park with the YF, or at least most of them. For our 5th Sunday activity, which we got back just in time for, was mainly cycling, rollerblading, or just chilling. So without much of a dilemma, we chose cycling. Though it sure is great to be back, the welcome was really warm, plus the weather.

So we cycled all the way to an airport runway, and watched an SIA plane take off, which unconsciously brought up some memories... On our way back, it began to rain. Fortunately, Justin and I managed to return our bikes and head to the shelter in time. After which, we waited for the rest to arrive, some of whom were really drenched.

Then, it was carry every bag you can and get to the bus while shading yourself with an umbrella, which admittedly, was quite fun. And one can guess what happens next, back to the Church, but first, some rest.

Time flows by and here we are back home blogging. Though lately there seems to have been some changes in our thoughts. Most of the time we see beautiful images and hear flowing words, but now, we can hear melodies too... Unfortunately, the frustrating part is being unable to translate them into reailty. Guess it's going to take some time to figure that out.

Next post I'll be posting Oscar Wilde's The Nightingale and The Rose, a truly sad story which would've made us cry had we not held back our tears... We hope you'll enjoy it.

The warm sun and the cooling rain, beams and drops of joy...

Aftershock

Just got back this morning, not that we're not happy about it, but it's just that we still miss Beijing we guess... That feeling lingers on, triggerring memories, and the memories in turn, call out those feelings, a never-ending vicious cycle. But as promised, shall do Hui Yee's quiz on this post, though Cyril has requested to be out of this, so it's just me this time.

10 WEIRD THINGS,HABITs AND LITTLE FACTS BOUT ME.

-rules and regulations.each player of this game start off with 10 weird things,habit and little know facts bout urself.
-people who get tagged need to write a blog on their own 10 weird things,habit and little know facts as state this rule clearly.
-at the end,u need to choose 10 people to be tagged and list their names.
-no tag back.

1. I dream more in the day than at night. Yes, I value dreams alot.
2. Though I want to fly, I don't want to do it in a plane
3. I like hedgehogs, black swans, nightingales and other interesting animals
4. I like classical (though quite alot of romantic) and rock music, 2 quite conradicting genres
5. I hate working, just a born slacker
6. Books always excite me, whenever I walk into a book store with enough money, it's a shopping spree. Plus, there're tons of books at home that I haven't read.
7. If I don't play the piano or violin for some time, I'll get "withdrawal symptoms"
8. I like sad stuff and am easily triggerred emotionally, eg. I can watch the sad ending of Final Fantasy VII Crisis Core over and over but not get tired of it (why did Zack have to die that way? T_T)
9. I like learning new things, which would explain why I downloaded some old Latin textbooks
10. I believe you, the dear reader will know my relationship with Cyril

And now, 10 people to do this quiz nex (not many people know about this blog though):

Celine
Hui Yee
Claire
Glen (as soon as I tell him)
and pretty much anybody else who wants to