wreckage restored

i am no writer.

my words are lost in the untrodden land and uncharted sea,
my ink is dried from the fear of dipping into mystery and from the heat of the curious flame.
my mouth is parched from the dry barren ground, from the sandy wind of the wasteland.
my feet pace the floor furnished with sharp needles and electrifying currents.

i am no beauty.

my body shivers from the cold winter draft blowing from the old ruined neighbourhood,
my eyes are swollen from sleepless nights and silent weeping.
my laughter has broken like the shattered glass scattered on the cold marble floor,
like a shredded song tossed to the wind and carried into the unexplored darkness.

i am no writer. 

i am no beauty.

but He takes these fractured wreckage and holds it in His hands.
there is no beauty in the ashes, there is no lure, no charm.
i am nothing yet He chooses me.

He takes these unspoken words, the long-gone ink and showers them in the stream of love,
He kisses these wounded feet and heals the arid lips.
He wraps the trembling bones and gives beauty to the hideous eyes.
and there is laughter in His presence, there is joy, and happiness.

i am no writer. i am no beauty.

but He is all I need. 

midweek thoughts

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I sit in the middle of a crowded food market. The air conditioner seems to have broken down because all I feel is the warmth and humidity of this country. I hear the chatter of people all around. Gossiping, laughing, debating. I hear music playing with a lady's voice singing painfully about love (breaking up what??) And the smell of freshly fried fries plus the warm whiff of a burger. (ps: just glanced up at a box of donuts. no, I am not jealous). 

Everybody is so busy with life. Catching up with the newspapers, head buried in their study papers, or just talking and laughing with a mouth full of nuggets. And I think about how, how fleeting, life is. Because life is just about doing the next routine. Meet up with friends, study, eat, read current events, workout (or not), and you just keep repeating the chores and daily hum of life.

But after doing the same things for fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty years, you just die. That is the crude truth, without a sugar coat or pretty packaging. You will die-and there’s no escaping it. 

And maybe it’s painful to believe that after you die you cease to exist, or if you have no idea what happens after death. Because that means that whatever you do on this world is for nothing. 

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Then heaven happens. Heaven happens for those who had chosen Him. Because heaven is probably the sweetest most magical thing ever. Not because of the gold streets, or because of the magical choruses. No. Because you get to see Him. God's good. Heaven's real. 

And maybe it's a wonderful thing that we can't escape Death. Or in Dunbar's words:

"I greet the dawn and not a setting sun, When all is done."