Beauty in Death

Imagine a world that would never end. Picture a life of constant existence without an end. What if your soul was forever condemned to an existence upon this earth, and to never leave it? What would it feel like?

What would it feel like? How would it feel to live an existence that spans the millenia; And continue to do so upon a treadmill of time that sees no end?

If your body could rot and die away and leave you like shell-less slug. Or if you remembered the years long past, and the years beyond that. If you could watch decay, yet live through it.

What would it be like to live through the ages, yet never age? To have a youthfull shell that trancends over the decaying touch of time. To continue your earthly existence forever and never let go of your memories. To remember every detail of life that extends to an infinity of time.

Would life be so much better with no end? Could there be a beginning without there being an ending? Could there be a life without death?

To fully carry life out, it must be ended, for immortality is merely eternal uncertainty. - Dan Mencher

Death is neither good nor evil, right nor wrong, passive nor aggressive. Its nature remains its own. It is finality, having no form, and not needing one. It is a mirror of a man's life.

The man who leads a good life, finds a good end to it. Likewise the man who leads a dark life, leads himself to a dark end.

Thus is the beauty of death. It is life. It is what you make of it.

Life

Each passing day is muddled and clowdy. One week melds into the other, and the months are an endless string of days, with no beginnings or ends.

It is destined for the human soul to walk through this treadmill of time. And so he walks, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the days roll by and at the same time, feeling stuck.

No matter what he does, he would still feel empty. As if something was missing in his life.

But he continued to trudge through. Days would pass, then weeks, and years. Slowly, his strength would ebb away. Weariness would sink in and life would become dreary. The emptiness would grow.

His eyes, blurred with age, could no longer see like they used to. But it no longer mattered to him. For no matter how far ahead he looked, he could see no end. No amount of squinting would reveal any exit from the endless loop of days. And so, there was no need to see.

His ears could no longer hear like they used to. They stopped telling him of what was coming or going. They no longer warned him of what was around him anymore. There was no need for that now. He had heard all there was to hear. He did not wish to hear anymore. It was all the same. Life never changed.

His nose no longer sniffed the fresh air with gladness. Staleness did not bother him anymore. He couldn't tell the difference. It was all the same bland scent. He couldn't care less for it. Not anymore.

Nothing mattered. All that he yearned for, was an end. An end to the monotany. A stop to the endless droning. A finality to the tickings of the clock and the rotation of the earth. He just wanted to stop.

It was all he could ask for. To escape the grey silent movie that was now his life. To be free of the ringing, disembodied quietness of his life. Then again, what more was a dead man supposed to ask for?

Becoming Stronger

Weakness. A meek sense of disability that can manifest itself in many different ways.

A slow mind, lack of strength, the inability to walk, speak or even see. All these, minor disabilities that can escalate themselves into major weaknesses.

But don't get it wrong. Disabilities may be challenging, but they are not weaknesses. A blind man may not be able to see, but he's no idiot. His depravation of sight enables him to concentrate and empower his other faculties. He hears and feels more than what we could ever hope to achieve.

A man may be shorter than his average counterparts, but that does not make himself weak. He might even be able to do a lot of other stuff. Squeeze through small openings, dodge and weave through large crowds or even remain hidden in smaller places. As a matter of fact, the disability may prove more of a strength.

Weakness does not come from physical disabilities. It is a state of mind. It is a mental and spiritual affliction. A disease.

Every person starts off as a babe. A child maleable to the hands of nature and society. As we grow, we develop niches and strengths of our own. Just like a seesaw, as we improve in certain aspects of our lives, others will be neglected. These may be referred to as a "weakness".

But it can never become a weakness, unless you let it. The true strength in a person, lies not in how much he can carry or how hurtful and damaging he can be. That is merely empty power. True strength lies in the will to fight for what you believe in. The drive to fight for what you believe. To take punishment in stride and not give in.

A man who is unable to perform a task due to the lack of strength or mental capacity, is not weak. But if he does not try. If he does not believe in himself. If he gives up before he even begins the task, then he is no more than a coward. Weak, fragile, hopeless.

Giving in is a sign of weakness. The day you stop standing for what you believe in, is the day you've become a weakling. And the day that you start letting others tell you who and what you are, is the day you've become nothing more than a rag-doll.

Be strong. Know that just like everyone else, you have your shortcomings too. And just like them, you have your strengths too. Believe in yourself. Let nobody weaken you down.

Instead, learn from your shortcomings. Grow from that which tries to pull you down.

Our strength grows out of our weaknesses. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Smile... : D

From Abraham Lincoln to Hitler and Stalin, many a great leaders had it. From Albert Einstein to Socrates, many great minds flaunted it. The Greeks sported it and the Romans hated it. The English Gentleman thought highly of it, while men now belittle it.

The Moustache

What is the purpose of this tuft of hair under the nose? And why is it that most men are bound to have it while women are less likely to find themselves endowed with it? Is it just genes? But what's more important, is why do men sport it?

Let us look at the famous figures in history whom had moustaches as part of their get-ups.


Adolf Hitler.
Born: 20 April 1889
Died: 30 April 1945
Birthplace: Branou, Upper Austria

Well known and hated for being the Dictatorial ruler of Germany, he had been the cause of the death of millions during World War II. He was a Nazi Leader and a decorated veteran of World War I, armed with great charisma and intelligence that could move an entire country and change the very course of history.


Errol Flynn
Born: 20 October 1909
Died: 14 October 1959
Birthplace: Hobart, Tasmania

He was one of the biggest Hollywood stars of the 1930's. Suave, charming and an all around bad-boy. His life was a controversial one filled with booze, women and crime.


Albert Einstein
Born: 14 March 1879
Died: 18 April 1955
Birthplace: Ulm, Germany

He was the man who came up with the General theory of Relativity. A groundbreaking notion that set the pathway for the rest of the world to follow. His works had profound impact upon many fields of sciences, including Quantum Physics.


Mark Twain
Born: 30 November 1835
Died: 21 April 1910
Birthplace: Florida, Missouri

An incredible Writer of his time, Mark Twain was best known for being the author of "Tom Sawyer" as well as "Huckleberry Finn". His writings have been used in many literature studies by Americans, even to this day.


Charlie Chaplin
Born: 16 April 1889
Died: 25 December 1977
Birthplace: London, England

Sir Charles Chaplin was a superstar of his time. He invaded the silent movies with comical acts, dressed as a character known simply as "The Little Tramp".

The list just goes on. Many a famous people sport moustaches for one reason or another.

Such bushy out-growhts had once been symbols of rank within the military, as well as fashionable additions that made up a person's character.

In the history of the military, only high ranking officials were allowed to sport moustaches. The higher your rank, the thicker the bush.

Englishmen keep them long and trim, seeing the image as one of classy sophistication back then.

Yet in the trends of fashion that has now taken over our society, a bushy moustache is an unsightly feature. Messy and ugly. But you be the judge. Would any man you know look better with a bushy smile? You be the judge.

Friend

We've gone our own ways and I know it's for the best, but sometimes I wonder will i ever have a friend like you again? - Blink 182

Amid the silence of midsummer's night
Under the shine of silvery moonlight
I stand under the boughs of a giant oak
My mind astray, my heart revoked

I look down the earthen path old
You walkked on away with steps bold
No goodbyes or sweet farewells
Uttering those words were difficult as hell

The understanding was mutual
Our friendship a casualty of battle
You did not smile as you left
Did not even care for what I felt

All I could see upon your face
Was a stern demeanor of demonic grace
Still I could sense the grievance and pain
You're just hiding it under that veil

Yet each step you took flowed like water
You fleed from me faster than a raging river
Did I bring you that much shame?
Or am I the evil one in the game?

I can't comprehend any of this
How'd our friendship get torn to bits?
How could you let it be so?
Why was I quiet throughout the show?

Thus did friendship once so sweet
Turn bitter as a rotten sugar beet
I regret ever letting it happen
But now's too late to change course taken

Our ties of friendship are undone
Frayed and melted by the sands of time
All that's left is memories past
Remnants of a friendship we thought would last

I cleared my eyes of the tears
Reminiscing memories of past years
This pain is driving me insane
Do you not feel the same?

There's nothing left in my heart
You tore it all apart
Now all that's left is a ghost of a shell
An empty, cold, dry well

All I have to say to you
For all you've done the whole time through
From when we began till the time we part
Peace be upon you friend of my heart

Friends are like the seasons. They come and go, following the passage of the sands within the hourglass.

When they've passed, You'll find yourself empty. No matter where you go or what you do, you will still feel lost. As if standing upon a rolling desert of sand and dust. With nothing to accompany you but the howling winds and the billowing sands. No matter how far you walk, for how long, it doesn't make a difference. Because there is none to share it with. No one to laugh and cry with. No one to listen to you. No one to talk to you. No one.

Dreams of a blind man

I could feel its gentle caresses upon my face. The soft flowing touch of its delicate body sends a calm, serene ripple of pleasure all through me. It flowed all over me. Seeped right through me. It cradled me within its silky delicate hands.

Cool, sweet scintilating rush of happiness. I took a deep long breath. Ahhhhh...The sweet, refreshing smell of fresh roses in the early morning. My lungs screamed out the flutering happiness of a thousand butterflies in the peaceful quiet of the rising sun. The elation within every breath, was like the beauty that I now felt upon my skin. Unbelieavable.

It hummed its melodious tune to my ears. Singing to me softly. A quiet tinkling music barely audible over the lovely chantings of the birds all around. Listening to its singing; their singing, there was nothing I could do but appreciate it. The low moaning and high crescendo of their song. I loved it.

I stood there, reaching out to it, relishing in its soft touch and quiet voice. I reached out and sang with it.

Can you imagine a life without sight? What will you see? Picture the beauty of a dream without pictures. How will it be?

The Raven - Evil, Dark, Loathsome

The raven. Dark, eerie and brooding. Loud and often misunderstood.

A companion to witches and warlocks. The representative of death and bad luck. An evil omen. Be these wily creatures of ebony beauty as ugly as they've been made out to be? Far from it.

These creatures of twilight are intelligent survivors of the ancient world. They are the scavengers of the medieval lands. Dark companions of the lonely and outcast. they live mysterious lives, appearing and disappearing from sight as they please, bringing their raucous cries with them wherever they go.

How did they get so closely associated with their titles? Why do we see them in such a dark light? Is it the color of their feathers? Or maybe their harsh shrill voices?

Death. The bleak end which comes to us all. The entity that looms over the fields of war. Picture it. The aftermath of a colossal battle. Hundreds of dead bodies littered on soil caked with dried blood. The revolting stench of death hangs heavy in the air. Amidst the graveyard of bodies and weapons, lurks creatures dark as the night. They peck and feed upon the dead. The vile smell inviting to these creatures. Nature's "clean-up crew". The ravens.

An old hag, greying with age and wisdom, travels through the woods as she always does; In solitude. Her hideous wrinkled and wart-ridden face looking out to the silent woods, the only place where she can find true peace and acceptance. No family. No friends. And one day, she finds a little hatchling. The tiny bird lying on the ground chirping helplessly. She picks it up and raises it as her own child. Thus did it grow into her dark companion, its beady intelligent eyes recognising her as its mother.

Years pass, stories became exaggerated. New tales spun. Memories blurred and warped. Thus, the raven became what it is now. A mysterious creature of urban myth and furious intensity matching its color.

I Love You

Need it be said? Does it have to be pronounced? Why must we announce it? Need love be told to be known?

In a world crawling with romance and short-lived passion, it's hard to find true love. It becomes even more so when you have dozens of people announcing their love and devotion to you. Who among them is sincere? I love you. I can't live without you. Phrases that have become synonymous with romance and love. Effective pick-up lines if said at the right place and times. Is that all it has become? Pick-up lines?

Its depth could only be comprehended by the one who said it. Yet, do we need to hear those words to know that compassion exists? That love exists.

Perhaps we do need to hear it. Then comes the question of "are we listening out for it?".

The signs of love and affection are sometimes subtle and small. So minute that we pass them off as nothing more than smal favors. Yet, isn't that what love is? A favor.

Sometimes, it turns out to be a huge favor that ultimately goes unpaid and unnoticed. The one who truly loves you may not necessarily be the one who says it out loud. Friends, siblings, parents. Sometimes the last people you would expect these magic words to come from. At times, these people tell you their love in very different ways. Small simple acts of love you see everyday. Do you take notice of them?

I love you can be said through actions, not words. No amount of telling can match what one silent action could achieve. Judge not a person's love for you through what he says. Judge him through what he does.

And remember, at times, the one who truly cares, is not the one who speaks to you. Rather, it's the one who listens. These are the people usually forgotten. Remember them. Love them as they loved you. For they will not shout it out to you. They may be the ones loving you while you blindly search for it elsewhere.

Stop. Appreciate. Have you seen the love?

A spy story

Clad in black from head to toe, the figure snuck with the stealth that was so common among those within his profession. His feet stepped upon the thin ledge with the surety of a cat up on a tall tree branch as he crossed the ledge overhanging the two roofs.

Silent steps trailed wherever he tread. His eyes and ears sharper than a hawk’s and his reflexes swifter than a viper’s. Never had he thought it would be so easy to infiltrate this building. Looks like easy money.

A swift leap down to the balcony, through the window and he was inside. He crept in the darkness, silent as a mouse, ears twitching to every sound that assailed them. Coast was clear. He continued on deeper into the building. Hopefully he could get to the core before his 10 minute time slot was out.

Suddenly, the whole building lit up and loud alarms sounded everywhere within the premises. He cursed under his breath and spun around to dash back to the room. As he leapt for the window. The whirring of gears and clanging of steel resounded as a metal sheet slid down and covered his escape.

He spun around to move out. Then stopped. There was a commotion outside. He knew it was too good to be true. They’d planned for it. Footsteps were coming his way.

Despite all those years training, he had allowed himself to become trapped. The footsteps were coming closer and the only way out was a window that looked out upon a 30 meter drop. And even that was blocked. He shook his head. He’s screwed.

He flew over to the door and slammed it shut. His eyes darted left and right. There had to be a way out. There always was. His calculative mind raced , going over one plan after another. All of it was scrapped.

Boom! Boom! The door shook and screamed as they pounded on it. He left from the door and he looked around the room. Desk, sofa, electrical lamp. Cushion. Rug. Nothing he could use.

Screeching and whirring gears hummed again. Moonlight streamed through the window as the steel seal rose. He stared suspiciously out the window. Something wasn’t right.

He put his hand to his ear, depressing the device buried under the flap of skin on the back of his ear. “Max, you hear me?” He whispered

Static. “Get out of there!” Came the familiar voice of Max amidst the static. He dashed out the window. Big mistake.

Last thing he felt, was a sharp pain on the frontal lobe of his brain, as he crumpled down on the balcony, a bullet driven into his head.

Of abortion

To throw a life away. How does it feel? How does it feel to murder someone? To cull the life of a child.

Abortion. There are many reasons why it happens, and there are many reasons why it shouldn't.

The reasons for a mother to go through with abortion's many. Perhaps she's too young. She may not be ready to have children. She may not be ready and mature enough for motherhood. Or perhaps blame it on financial instability. Or marriage. How would it look for a single woman to have a child? And the list just goes on.

Pregnancy marks the beginning to a vast change to a woman's life. One that she may not be ready for. Thus are the reasons for abortion. Selfish? Perhaps. Painful? Yes.

The reason why it shouldn't be done is faily simple. It is murder. Though some would say that would be debatable.

How is it murder if the child does not have a personality or any obvious signs of being fully developed or human? The time when the conceived child is said to have a life in itself is debatable. Some say it is alive from the point when the ovum was first fertilised, others when the first clot of blood comes into being. There are others still who believe that life first begins when the brain and heart first develops.

So is it fine to destroy it before such stages in the foetus' development begins? Let us look at things a little differently.

The conceived child, is an organism with its own set of DNA (Dioxyribonucleic acid). Its own unique set of chromosomes. It is ready to begin its journey to growing. It had begun as two sepparate beings. A sperm and an egg. They joined together and within that moment became one. They become the foetus. So I ask now. Is it alive? Is it human? You be the judge.

Be it murder or otherwise, the reasons why women choose to go through with abortion are understandable; though fairly debatable No matter how you look at it, culling a life before its birth is an ugly thing.

Beyond abortion here's always adoption. And contraceptives. There's always the choice of reducing the chances of pregnancy via avoidance. So why choose abortion?

Fertility is highly prized and children are a gift of God to bring joy to our eyes. It is sad to see them being thrown away just like that.

Though it may seem like the easy way around things, it's far from it. Abortion is a painful affair, for the child as well as the mother.

The amount of mental torture that would drive a mother to kill her own child, is immense. And the pressure would hardly lessen after that. For the weight of losing a child would remain with her. Even though it's yet to be born. The pain will be something she will remember for the rest of her life. The pain of losing a part of herself. Of losing her child.Of abortion.

She cries

She cries
In silence she cries
In fear
She had lost something so dear

It happened
There was no way of changing it
It happened
And it happened to her

6th of February
By the beach
A date she will remember
Oh how she will remember

Him running in
The constant pounding
His bloody grin
His devilish bloody grin

The beating and pounding
The way he forced himself upon her
How he ground her
How he ground her to the floor

He came
Oh how he came
He kept coming
He refused to stop

The pain
The gut wrenching pain
The torment
Her soul was torn

What would they say?
What would they do?
What would her parents say
if she told the truth?

She couldn't
Oh no she couldn't
Couldn't tell them
Couldn't hide from them

A million tears she'd cried
And a million more she will
For she had to tell them
Had to come clean

Clean
It was the last thing she was feeling
For that she wasn't
Filthy was what she'd felt

Tortured, violated
She fell to the floor
Sobbing was all she could do
No more

The bastard
He did it
He did it to her
How dare he

But she had no strength
She was drained
Emotionally battered
Physically bruised

She could do nothing
She was too hurt
All she could bring herself to do
was cry

A love story

Poetry. There was no other way to describe him. He was a poem incarnate. Beautiful, graceful, kind and a gentleman. He was everything she could ask for. Everything she’d wanted. Too good to be true.

“Far too good to be true.” That’s what her friends said.

What is love without trust? What is life without a little risk, right? It wasn’t like her to jump into this, but she couldn’t help it. He was just too good. Too perfect.

Those love letters, the poetry, the song. Not to mention those afternoon walks together, those times spent at the beach talking. The smiles that he brought out of her. It was all so surreal.

She stood upen the edge of the cliff, looking down. The visions refused to stop. Her mind was scattered to a million pieces. It was all wrong. The memory just refused to stop coming back. She shook the tears away as once more, she relived the nightmare.

She closed her eyes, feeling the gentle caress of the wind. Morning light bathed her skin as she spread her arms as if in embrace of the sun. Her soft beauty in contrast to the dark nightmare that was haunting her mind at that very same moment.

She remembered well enough that very moment when it happened. The torn emotions that had flooded her then, and continued to drown her even now.

She could not believe her eyes. He had promised her so much and there he was, with another girl, laughing and joking. All the things that her friends had told her seemed to be coming true. She turned and walked away. Away from the sight of the couple. Of her shattered dreams.

The winds begged to her. Oh to fly off to some faraway place. She stood on her toes, her hands out-stretched, like wings, her eyes closed, her body leaning forward towards abandonment.

She felt the freedom. Could taste it within her blood. Everything around her melted into a blurred mess, just like her life. Thoughts and emotions flooded her in a rush of adrenaline. Family, friends, colleagues, all of them. The hidden treasures in her life that she had forgotten in her hopes to find the romance that he had promised her.

Before her thoughts could finish, the ground came up to her. All that came out of it, was the sickly squelch of her body upon the rocky floor.

Rex’s eyes snapped open and he sat up on his bed. Sweat beaded his forehead as he stared wide-eyed out the window of his 3rd floor apartment room. Panting, he looked around him. That was the second time this week.

Roses are Red

The rose. A symbol of attraction. A plant that has existed for over 3.5 million years. Its silent imprint upon man has lasted through the years, planting itself into the hearts of romantics everywhere.

The red rose. A symbol of passionate love. From Greek myths of how Aphrodite spills drops of blood onto a white rose while trying to help her wounded lover to the Persian stories of how a nightingale's wound turns a white rose red. Its origin has always been one filled with tragedy and love.

Love, respect, courage. The red rose is strong and exciting.

Then there's also the pink rose.A symbol of grace and gentility. Its varying degrees of color tones can speak feelings of "thank you" or conveying admiration and sympathy.

Roman mythology claims the pink rose first came into being when Apollo turned Rhodanthe into a rose after her unsuccessful attempt at unseating Diana, his sister, as the goddess of the hunt and the protectress of women.

Gratitude, appreciation, admiration and sympathy. The soft sweetness of the pink rose holds more than a tinge of feminine touch to it.

White. The color of purity and innocence. The rose of reverence and humility. It's the simple plain color of silence that is often placed upon the graves of young children in Wales. It is also, in medieval Christian Europe, a symbol of the purity of the Virgin Mary.

Reverance, purity, secrecy and innocence. The plain, clear and untainted color of these roses. Truly they are the symbol of true love.

Yellow roses signify trechery, deceit and adultery, as is painted out by Islamic folklore. Though it is seen by modern day flower lovers to be a symbol of joy and freedom. It's brightness is similar to that of the rising sun. Uplifting.

Be they one color or another, this inspiration to writers and gift of romance is indeed a sight to behold.



What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet - William Shakespear

A survival story

In attempting a round-the-world, single-handed yacht race, you experienced a storm and are stranded on a mid-ocean island where there seems to be no sign of life. No birds, no trees, not even crabs or fish. Just you and you alone.

You look around and see nothing but sand, sea and the bright blue sky rolling by. A silent peace hangs in the air around you. Not a single sign of life, or civilization. How odd. You listen, nothing comes to your ears but the sounds of the waves lapping upon the sand. Their humble swishes hypnotize you, and without a second thought, you lie down upon the sand and close your eyes. You feel yourself slipping slowly into a deep slumber. Blackness slips in, and the sounds of the waves slowly fade away.

Out of the blackness of your deep comatose, you hear a voice calling out to you. Soft, sweet, tinkling like tiny little bells. It beckons you to come back. “Wake up. Wake up.” It says.

Time stretches to a grinding halt. The voice continues to call you. Gently it tries to coax you. You ignore it. You like it here, in the blackness. It’s calm. Peaceful. She continues calling out to you. The hours drag on, but you don’t care. Time matters naught to you now. As long as you’re here: where you belong.

Then it stops. Perhaps it’s decided to leave you. You smile. Finally. The peace ad tranquility you’ve longed for. The deathly silence. You welcome its warmth.

Suddenly, there’s a loud rumble. The black emptiness around you shakes violently. The peace is shattered as wave after wave of tremors shake your entire being. Thud! Thud! Thud!

Behind the loud thundering shocks, you could hear the voice. It’s crying. She’s crying. Your eyes snap open, convulsing from the shock of the transition. You look around you panic-stricken. Strangers dressed in white coats stand around you, looking down at you, and behind one of them, you see her. The beautiful angel that had been calling out to you. Your savior.

Dreams of peace and tranquility...

A thousand balls of fire
rain upon the sea
Storm
Ashes
Destruction

Death comes in millions
Pain rocks the waves
A tide of torture
sweeps the shores around
Silent ripples of doom's in the air

Littered upon the surface of the sea
Decorating the ocean floor
Ashes and dust
Burnt remains
Death

Lost within the heat of the moment
Fading in twilight
Amidst the smell of the boiling sea
Blood rising
Bile

Silence hangs in the air
Accompanied by the hissing of the sea
Visited by the moans of the dead
The tears of the living
The world in mourning

Stormy seas
Silent pleas
Within the vapours sulfury-green
Death comes with ease
Harbouring promises of peace

It Takes Two Hands To Clap.

It takes two hands to clap. It takes two legs to walk. Many things in this world come in pairs. As does love. There is the lover, and there is the loved.

But when only one of the pair is moving, only one hand is swinging, it is no longer a clap. It has become a swat.

To give and at the same time receive nothing. To show concern for one who doesn't seem to care. To love one who does not wish to be loved. Such situations are quite commonplace.

This is something that can happen to anyone. It is an unlucky predicament and a sad experience. To be the hand that claps the air, is hard. It becomes harder to know that all your efforts are in vain. For no sound could be made without the help of the other.

It takes great strength and courage to love and not be loved in the same way. But it takes more courage to admit this and to move on.

Some things are never meant to be. A hand could never clap on it's own. So when it happens, and you find there's naught you could do to change it, just smile. Know that you've done your best, and there's nothing left for you to do but move on. So move on. Find a hand to clap with. Make music with those who would do so with you.

Regret

Mistakes. We make them everyday. Be they significant or otherwise, we're bound to cause unintended harm to others as well as ourselves. It happens.

At times, we can forget these mistakes. Brush them aside for what they are. Mere mistakes. Yet sometimes, we make errors that are irreparable and unforgettable. We begin to regret our actions that had led to the committing of such mistakes. It's unavoidable.

There is nothing left for us to do then, but to regret it.

To regret is a sign of reflection. It shows that you remember. In remembering you will learn. Powerful regret may steer you away from making the same mistake again. In fact, it may even cause you to avoid such a situation in future at all costs. It becomes a drive and motivation for you.

It has always been an agent for change within us. Guilt and remorse is capable of culling or raising the spirits of the person; Depending on how he or she reacts to the pain. It could make you, or break you.

The feeling of wanting to die. As if you've committed a grave sin and ought to be punished for it. Or perhaps escape from whatever punishment awaits you because of it. Or wishing perhaps that you could forget it. Pretend it never happened at all.

Forgetting. Yes. That is a very tempting alternative to regret. It would be so much easier to do so. But to forget, is empty

Regret it. Don't forget it. Within regret exists wisdom. Most careful is the person full of regret. Most knowledgable is the one who learns from his mistakes. With each passing mistake and error, comes a lesson learnt. How could you learn if you suppress and forget?

Wisdom. That is the mark of regret. That is the scar it leaves.

Most wise and kind is the regretful man. He remembers the pain.

It takes strength and courage to feel regret. And even more so to live with that mistake engraved within your heart. To remember it and learn from it. And it takes kindness to do something about it. To let this dark feeling in your heart be the fuel for you to lead yourself to repentance and self-trancendence. To improve yourself and become a better person, in the eyes of friends and God.

But beware, too much regret could only lead to torture. Do not beat yourself down with the weight of your past. Rather, use it to build yourself up. Be the man who lifts his weights, not drag them.

Always remember that regret is kindness. Regret is care. It is a lesson that comes after great pain and anguish. It is born from the bowels of great mistakes. Learn from these mistakes, do not dwell upon them. Move on.

As a friend of mine once said:

We live in the present, not the past. - Asraf Basri

Be strong. Have faith. Let not past sins ruin your future. Learn to regret. Regret to learn.

What is it?

It holds the beauty of nature within it. It glows with a soft radiant kindness, refusing to interrupt the lives of those around. All it does, is just wait to be discovered.

Often it is overlooked by those blinded by the blur of their lives. And it just sits there and wait.

With time, its loveliness will fade. It will slowly die, wilting away. But it counts its days in silence. Not a single sound from it.

Rain or shine, in darkness or light, it just smiles. It gazes out in silence. Blooming in silence, rising quietly, demanding nothing and dying quietly, asking nothing.

It is love. It is beauty. It is friendship. Bright and different yet at the same time humble. It shines quietly, giving peace yet receiving nothing.

Oh to be like it.