Pieces of Japan: Day 10 - Crying Zen

28th December 2009

Yamadera, Yamagata, Japan

The thudding sound of the footsteps through the snow-covered concrete came to a stunning halt, as I stopped short in my tracks. Silence filled the air, save for the sound of a singing winter-bird, singing her lonesome song that added much to the ambience.

Breath-taken and in awe, I stared out at the sight that lay before me. An implicit V-shaped formed by the green canopy of the coniferous trees on the left, and the cliff face of the mountain on the right, while a little red hut standing atop the cliff added a sharp colour contrast to the entire scene, as layers and layers of snow-covered mountains stretched out beyond and into the horizon through the visual-valley between. 

I have always liked mountain-top views, but this was nothing less than a perfect sight of Zen; a view befitting on of the famous mountain-temples in Japan.  

Slice of Zen on the Mountain Top

In fact, the name "Yamadera" itself simply translates directly to "Mountain Temple", probably hinting at its iconic status in the region. An age-old Buddhist temple, Yamadera was built atop and into a mountain, with the temple compound starting at the base of the mountain and stretching all the way to the top - with a view to die for, and a whole lot of Zen to gain - separated by an arduous 1,015 stone steps. It is said that the view that awaits at the end of these 1,015 steps at Godai-dou will make climbers forget about their weary feet, a visual-Nirvana I was determined to verify, as I looked up at the pavilion and knew that I only had a fraction of the ascension left to complete before I attained.

Upper Temple - The Holy Air Up There

There was just one thing left to do before making my final ascent to the peak, and that was to look for my travelling companion, however un-apt the word was for the day thus far. Visually combing the area that lay around me, I finally found her at the opposite end of a winding snow-covered walkway across me, as I saw her walking slowly in my direction. 

Winding Pathway of Death

The ascension had been a torturous one, partially physically - as I willed my feet to go on, one step at a time, watching the scenery around change from a quiet little temple at the bottom, to a quiet snow-covered path through the trees sprinkled with sacred temple monuments and statues, before arriving at the upper temple area, with the structures built into and atop the mountain, with views that would bring a Zen-tear to one's eye.

Yet, the physical toll was the least of my worries, as silence fell between us through the climb, oftentimes with her walking a good distance ahead, and me deliberately slowing down and to keep a sizeable distance between us, but still being able to keep an eye on her.

It was one of those tantrum-days, perhaps where traveller's-fatigue had already set in, and she was at best, non-conversational, and at worst, angry. They say that travelling together is potentially hazardous to a relationship, as arguments are bound to surface, and I guess I could see why.

As she made her way across the winding path towards me one step at a time, her body language indicated something was wrong, as I noticed that her steps were getting increasingly careful, and her arms were spreading out more. I stepped out onto the winding path towards her, hoping to meet her halfway, when I sensed that there was very little traction between my shoes and the snowy path, that almost had an icy-finish atop it.

As I approached her and entered within the radius of her reach, she fell into my arms, body shivering as tears rolled down her face; tears of fear and tears of foolishness - tears that were a result of the fear felt from her imagining herself slipping off the icy path and down the mountain side, perhaps tumbling to her doom. She's always had a more than vivid child-like imagination, and while I was holding her tight and comforting her, at the same time, I was secretly glad that that very same imagination broke the icy silence that fell between us for the last 2 hours of so.

They also say that travelling can help to bring 2 people closer together and strengthen a relationship; and perhaps in this almost-typical scenario of emotional support and dependency, I could see why.  I took her hand, as we walked slowly across the icy path to the base of the wooden pavilion; readying ourselves to scale the final flights of wooden steps to the view that awaited us on top.

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Soba in the Little Town Below

Best.Soba.Ever.

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Sendai: Starlight Pageant

Piece of Japan: Day 9 - Time in a Coffee Cup

27th December 2009

Sapporo, Hokkaido, Japan

I looked down into the darkness within the uniquely-shaped Coffee Cup, swirling it gently while gripping it by its handle, and watching the chocolate drink within ripple with my gentle movements.

I raised the cup to my lips to sip the rich, chocolate drink within; bringing a sense of warmth physically and emotionally, as I imagined the endorphins within my mind to be released as an after-effect of the consumption of all things chocolate.

I placed the cup down slowly on the table - hearing the soft clattering against the saucer resonate through the foreign-chatter that surrounded us, save for a table not too far off with an accent too familiar for comfort.

I remained silent, peering out of the window at a large field of white snow, stretching to a range of snow-capped mountains not too far off into the distance. Snow fell gently down, as with the few days before, but that made the cosiness of the indoor cafe all-the-more inviting.

She was fiddling with her camera as usual at the corner of my eye, as I continued to peer out into the distance, reminiscing before I had even left.

Sapporo had been kind to us, with her navigate-able grid-like layout, comprehensible transport system and a good amount of English-speaking people all round; the population of one-million to her city size was definitely comfortable without being crowded; especially compared to the Tokyo that we had just came from before that.

The day had been left deliberately free-and-easy for us to explore the city at our own leisurely pace, based on some of the sort-listed locations that we had marked out - allowing us to adjust our schedule ad-hoc-ly to our liking; a sheer pleasure that something more restrictive like a tour package would probably not had been able to provide us.

This freedom landed us in a cafe on the higher floors of the rustic Ishiya Chocolate Factory, sitting by the window panes peering out into the winter landscape if for no other reason than it being cosy, and possibly romantic (if only she would have stopped fiddling around with the flash, hah).

With its rich trademark taste deeply-infused in the signature and somewhat pricey Chocolate Drink, its namesake was well lived up to and proved to be the perfect companion for a cold, winter afternoon. One that was sandwiched within a day well-spent hopping about town searching for the famed Ramen Yokocho, a small-street cramped with 16 or so different ramen stores, for the necessary Hokkaido Ramen fix; and one that would take us to much greater heights atop Mount Moiwa for a breath-taking night view of the city and beyond, with lights that would stretch on for miles into the sea, outlining the unique and rather angular shape of beautiful island of Hokkaido.

Of course, she hardly knew what was in store for her later that evening, as she continued to fiddle with her camera frivolously; unaware of the height that had to be scaled via an odd, snow-tracked bus-like vehicle, and the overwhelming fear of heights that would set in as she approached the ledge to peer out into the distance of the night view.

But that was for later... for now 0 a smile lit upon her face as she brought the cup down from her lips, eyes-widening at the rich taste, and perhaps also from the cosiness of the entire experience.

The clock tower outside of window bustled with activity, as toy soldiers, bears and all manner of cuddly-types made their hourly parade, ushering in the new hour... and the sunset at four - an adjustment that I still hadn't been able to really wrap my head around after so many days in the country.

Everything was two hours faster in Japan, ten felt like noon, sunset was at four, and eight in the evening resonated with the deadness of a typical 10pm vibe. But it always revealed that time was often a matter of perception, and existed in the minds of people more than anything else.

As I brought my coffee cup to my lips and took the time to take another sip of that heavenly taste, I was just glad that I had made time - and it was entirely in my hands for that day.

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Ramen Yokocho: 16-in-1

16 shops through that 1 Tiny Street

The Chef...

...And His Work

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Ishiya Chocolate Factory: Like Disneyland, but Edible

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Mt. Moiwa: The Colour and the Shape

Lights shaped the Island

Not picture: Tears in her Eyes

 Peering into the Past

The Death of Verse and Prose

Verse is dead and our grasp of Prose as we know it is probably slipping through our fingers at a rapidly-accelerating rate.

 

With the introduction of the sms-language, L33T speak, and fuelled by the mother-of-all-literary-evils, Twitter, the place for Verse and Prose grows increasingly sparse in our everyday lives. A hyperbole perhaps, but even in the best case scenario, Verse might not be dead, but probably still dying a a cancerous death, and Prose is undergoing a vile mutation; mutating into something almost undistinguishable from what it used to be prior to the Internet-generation.  

My opinion is that the underlying problem very much lies in the general lack of patience in the youths of today. Spoilt by the instant gratification of regular status updates through Facebook or Twitter - in this case, Twitter being the bigger sinner of the two, simply due to the 160 character limit that forces liberties to be taken with the language - the thought of sitting down to read something remotely close to being labelled as "properly written" becomes more and more remote; bringing to light the bigger point of the mind-set that the very act of "reading", as in actually reading as opposed to browsing or skimming through,  feels more and more deterring to seeds of the future.

More and more bloggers have abandoned ship over the last few months or years, and jumped on the "Instant Update" bandwagon, especially to those who used to blog as a means to updating their friends and keeping them in the loop. After all, why bother to blog an entire paragraph, one day at a time, reporting on your lunch, dinner and mood of the day, when you can now bombard your friends with the same information as and when it happens, right?

But perhaps the bottom-line is, they might have been missing the point all this while anyway. I mean, yes, the blog is a means to the end of informing your friends about your life, and keeping them in the loop and all, but more so than reporting your daily activities, a blog could (and probably should) be something beyond a blow-by-blow account of your battles with your bowl of Bak Chor Mee. It is a soapbox, an expression if you will, of oneself - involving one's thoughts and opinions.

A place for your friends, people who not only care about what you do, but also about what you think, to hear from and in the process, better understand you. To quote Descartes as and when I have the chance to, simply to make myself look more intellectual, "[we] think therefore [we are]", and a blog can be an avenue for people to know your inner workings, beyond your outer engagements; but in the best case scenario, to show a keen interest in both.

Whatever the case however, whether there will be a sudden realisation of the time and place for Verse and Prose following the maturity of the Internet-generation - the need to keep our literary skills honed and in a larger sense, to continued to be worthy of the term of being classified as "literate", amidst all the abbrevations, emoticons, shorthands and whatnot - still remains very much up in the air (though the cynic in me has a bag-and-a-half full of reservations).

In the meantime, for an old soul like myself, who still believes in the "olden tongue", I can only continue to write my "walls of text" as the rest of the generation passes me by. Oh, and just for the record, I still don't have a Twitter account.

Pieces of Japan: Day 8 - Rush

26th December 2009
Niseko, Hokkaido, Japan

The additional weight anchored on one of my feet was still something that I had hardly gotten used to. With the increased elevation, the pull of gravity grew more literal as the weight attached to the foot felt heavier and heavier.

Looking down, a scene of snow-covered pines flanked the lift from both ends. Not taking more of nature than necessary, the ski-lift was built through the centre of the pine-filled slope. In a distance, skillful skiers and boarders were sliding and slaloming down the steep slope, performing perfect turns and drawing perfect curves along the snow-filled slopes. 

Hardly being able to speaking the same vocabulary as those who made it look so easy and graceful, at the very least, the mastery that I had gained over the course of the day had allowed me to draw a bond with them on the level of the understanding of the rush - the adrenaline that came with the wind blowing at and through you; the fresh, white powder parting under one's feet from the speed and pressure of the board; the level of mental awareness required for that perfect balancing point to stay upright; and the satisfaction of conquering Nature's challenge through coordination and control of the human body - regardless of how relatively shallow the challenge was considering my level of mastery, or lack thereof.    

Looking up, it was just starting to snow again, as specks of snow slowly descended upon those who were making their ascent, firmly mounted onto the chairs and biding their time to make it to the top, prepping for the rush. Perhaps adding to the climax of the burst of adrenaline through the pacing of the quiet ride up,  the madness that was the ride down was tended to be a moment in itself.

Placing my fingers on my ribs, the painful sting still ran through my body upon the placing of pressure due to the debacle that had ensued earlier in the day...

Trying to board the same 2-seat ski-lift is a bad idea for first-time snowboarders, period. Requiring you to take an awkward sideways position when the lift came up from behind you, we thought that taking the same lift up would be an interesting and potentially romantic experience, in a rather remote sense.

The lift came up from behind us as we tried to find what we thought would be a good position to try to sit down on it. Perhaps it was the anxiety of trying to plant our butts firmly on a moving target - but more likely due to our inherent rawness to the entire scenario - in the chaos of the moment, I remember seeing her tripping over herself and falling to the ground, as I let out a huge gasp and my body locked up, unable to decide on trying to help her up or not.

The ski-lift swept me from behind my knees, toppling my unstable, sidewards-facing body over, as I felt myself trip over myself and moving increasingly fast towards the ground, my descent was rudely interrupted with a huge impact on my rib-area, from what felt like the side rail of the ski-lift chair. I vaguely remember  snow bouncing off my face and sensing something passing by overhead.

When I opened my eyes, the ski-lift had stopped as I lay there motionless for a few seconds, as I tried to get back on my feet. Those seconds felt like a  few hours' worth of humiliation, from receiving the collective stares of bemusement and shock from the snaking crowd that had formed behind us.

That particular first-ride up felt especially long, as a lingering sense of being pointed at by the people riding behind us marked the silence between us; extremely sensitive to any laughter heard believed to be at our expense - and it sure didn't help that I could hardly understand a single word they were saying.. Physically-wounded definitely; but more so psychologically, through the bruising of the ego. 

The lift was approaching the end as I lowered my feet, prepping to slide off the lift as previously instructed. The board met the smooth surface of the little snowy hump, as I tried to find my balancing point. A mere number of meters away from the slope, and I was already on my butt - something I just couldn't get right no matter how many times I tried, the whole getting-off-the-lift thing.

But as I sat there and strapped up, that slowly faded into the recesses of my consciousness, overtaken by the familiar feeling of adrenaline rising from the anticipation of the imminent rush that was about to ensue.

It was the last run, and I was determined to make it a perfect run...

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Niseko By Night: Snowblind

A Quiet Walk by Night

Grand Hirafu by Night

Walking through the Storm

Warm Lights of Home

BLU @ Shangri-La Hotel: 3rd Year Anniversary - The Experience

14th September 2010

"Any champagne to start the night, sir?" The waitress asked promptly, after we were firmly rested in our comfortable red seats.

"Two glasses, please," I replied, without batting an eyelid; and more detrimentally, without the slightest clue about the price.

Indeed, the mood of the night was set with that exemplary opening gesture - a night or pure indulgence and bliss, on a sensory and, more significantly, emotional level - as I reached out for her hand.

It all felt so natural by now - and it should afterall; considering that it has been exactly three years since I placed her hand firmly in mine, remembering the caption and the phrase of "holding happiness", from our initial and discreet hand-holding moment immortalized on film.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" The waitress asked politely, as I rested the base of the long champagne glass on the white table cloth, the bitter aftertaste that tore through the sweetness still lingering in my mouth - a delightful sensation. 

"We'll have 'The Experience Menu", I told the waitress. 

"The Experience Menu" - a more than apt word to sum up the dining encounter we had at the Shangri-La as we marked our landmark celebration. 

I've always believed dining to be an art in itself, and more importantly and more essentially, an 'experience' (for the lack of a more suitable word). "The Experience Menu" at the Shangri-La not only reinforces, but utterly validates my point.

Led by Chef Kevin Cherkas, with footprints imprinted on some of the globe's Michelin's Restaurant, his creativity and culinary abilities shone through as we were introduced to the concept of "progressive dining"; which was not only a feast for the stomach, but also one for the eyes and the mind, as we left the restaurant in full appreciation of not only his skills, but also his creative talent and hospitality.

"Foie gras is a must, lobster, beef and if possible, oysters." I recited to the waitress, as she noted my preferences down.

"The Experience Menu" at BLU is a special menu where patrons are asked for specific food preferences, allergies and the like; which is then reported to the chef, who will set customise a menu for the patron based on the patron's preferences, and maybe, a little bit based on the chef's mood on that day. Akin to a degustation menu, except that it is a two-way deal between chef and patron rather than a one-sided affair.

For us, even though the menu was recited to us, the names themselves were inventive and at the same time abstract, sometimes being a little bit difficult to visualize, leaving plenty of room for the chef to surprise us, and indeed, he did with one dish after another.

Looking out of the tall glass window over a quiet stretch that would eventually meander to the much busier Orchard Road, she spoke of how it reminded her of Otaru, or in general, Japan... again. Some things in life probably leave a deep imprint on one's soul, and travelling on a magical getaway is probably one that still thugs at her heartstrings ever so often. Nostalgia is sweet in itself, but perhaps more so for me than her, the memory of sharing special travelling moments with a loved one is more than the icing on the cake, it is the very essence of the Experience; one that can only be fostered over a period of a compromise between a passionate love and a comfortable trust built over a course of time.

Mushroom Bubble

A spoon with an odd-looking bubble-shaped object was placed in front of us, as we were instructed on how to consume it. Placing it on my tongue, I applied pressure from the top of my mouth onto the bubble, causing it to burst and releasing a potpourri of flavours, dominated by those of mushroom and an after-tinge of cranberry sauce.

Analogous to drinking of the potion in Alice in Wonderland, this little bubble only served as our entry point to the more fascinating things to come further down the rabbit hole.

Lobster "Thermidor"

Washing up onto the shores of our journey-towards-gourment-excellence next was the Lobster "Thermidor." A rich dish that served the most succulent bits of the Lobster coupled with a rich lobster-based broth that had roe floating on the surface, pieces that I almost missed completely in my blindness and negligence. The combination of the succulent meat with the mixture of the rich and thick lobster broth brought back memories and inevitable comparisons of the lobsters I had in Boston. 

Memories of a time of difficulty and a time of need, as I remember the lazy Sunday afternoons that I would be sitting in front of the laptop in my dorm room, literally reaching out to touch the face I saw on the monitor in hope of getting just that little bit closer to her, despite knowing an inch wouldn't make a difference to the miles apart, but still did so regardless. 

Stealing more than a Glance

That familiar smell, that beckoning texture; stood right before our eyes, as I uncontrollably used the knife to spread over the top of the slab, just to attest its texture and its firmness. Expectations rose by the millisecond as I dug my knife gently into it, watching it crumble softly, as I raised it to my mouth and pressed my lips tightly closed after putting it in my mouth.

Typical of those of the higher grades, the piece melted slowly in my mouth, emitting an assortment of flavours within my mouth; a tinge of saltiness, the familiar taste and an additional spruce of nuttiness thrown in for good measure, Foiegras@fruits.com (yes, the official name of the dish) quickly rocketed to the top of both our Foie Gras favourites list, sitting very closely to that of Le Saint Julien's, and playing hosts to a whole deluge of memories.

Foiegras@fruits.com (no, you can't click that)

Memories of the different times we shared Foie Gras. Perhaps a mark of luxury and celebration on our part, most major celebrations in our history is somehow always graced with a platter of Foie Gras at the table; and through these different occasions, I think it is safe to say that we have jointly established it as our favourite couple-dish. Mainly because of the taste, but partially for the memories, the numerous candlelights and romantic-slow-burn dinners we've had over the major occasions in the last 3 years closely associated to the taste of the dish.... the smiles, the tears; the birthdays and the kisses.

The Egg Came First, or so states Chef Kevin's witty answer to the age-old question. My retort: it doesn't matter which came first when the egg tastes THIS good. Cutting down the middle to allow for the yolk to soak in and through the thick onion broth, the combination of the inherent sweetness and saltiness from the egg combined with the sting of the onion in its broth was only made more heavenly with the sprinkle of bread crumbs that littered the top of the dish.

The Egg Came First

A refreshing refresher of grape yogurt and soda-infused grape later, our main courses were served. A fresh snapper with vanilla-scented paella for the Lady, simply entitled "Catch", and the manly Wagyu Beef Mustard for the Gentleman.

"Catch"

Well-coloured and even more well garnished, with the brown sauce taking the shape of a perfect diamond, the Wagyu Beef Mustard melted slowly in my mouth, rivalling the texture of the Kobe Beef that I had savoured in Japan a good while back, before the sting of the mustard kicked in to give the meat a sensational after-taste. Passing her a piece, I saw a similar reaction in her eyes as she savoured the meat through the consumption process.

Wagyu Beef Mustard - A Perfect Diamond

My personal belief is that a good relationship changes a person, ideally for the better; as we work towards the notion of becoming more "complete" through our partners. It wasn't too long ago at Morton's that I instigated and tempted her to break her abstinence from beef, never to look back. And while this is highly debateable on whether it is a change for the better or not (in my books, more than definitely), over the months and the years, I can safely say that we've both changed one another.

No more is she the wide-eyed gal with an infinite sense of wonderment, but blossoming into a butterfly of confidence and an opinion to back it up; and no more am I the impatient, self-centred jerk that I used to be, but blossoming into an impatient, and slightly less self-centred jerk now upgraded with enough room for two in my mind, trying my best to consider her thoughts and her feelings along the way alot more (ok, maybe I didn't change THAT much).

"It was still swimming yesterday, so that's super, super, super, SUPER fresh," he said, pointing to the fish. "Not that it makes it any more appetizing, but it makes it a lot healthier."    

A rarity to see the chef outside the kitchen, but yet Chef Kevin made it a point to make personal trips out of the kitchen over the course of the night to play host and explain his creations to the patrons in the small, cosy 40-to-50-seater lined with a traditional, but nonetheless, elegant decor of velvety reds and soft-wooden browns.

The candlelight continued flickering as her unsteady hand tried to capture a shot of our dessert. The Egg proved to be a highly innovative dessert, shaped convincingly like an egg, but tasting nothing like one - but instead, with a mango centre, and coconut white and finished with passion fruit sorbet at the bottom, the combination of flavours was fruity and refreshing, and served as an excellent finish (almost) to our "experience".

Candlelight is perhaps another one of the totems of our relationships, simply because the abundance of candles in the places we've graced, and when you have a predominant-couple-activity of (fine) dining, it is not hard to find the association.

More symbolically, and perhaps more exaggeratingly though, is that this love has indeed proven to be my Light-in-the-dark cliche. But as much as I hate to conform to such, the truth is that, no matter how frivolous and non-committal we wanted to establish it to be at the start, at many a time of darkness and gloom cast upon my career over the last three years, the romantic candle has often remained my source of strength, simply by the virtue of it's presence beside me, and perhaps to much (of her) chagrin, the listening ear to my neverending moping and the little haven for my perpetual brooding.

Customarily, I wrapped up the bill and passed it to her after paying for the dinner, as she picked up the hand-written menu based on our "Experience".

And as we walked out of the doors of the restaurant with happy bellies, I knew deep in my heart, that there was more to the night than that. More so than a Celebration of a Milestone, a Celebration of a Record, a Celebration of History, a Celebration of the Future, a Celebration of Memories, or a Celebration of Love - it was a Celebration of an Experience.

ex·pe·ri·ence (k-spîr-ns)

n.

c.  the totality of a person's perceptions, feelings, and memories



Dark Metamorphosis: Stage I - The Over-Achiever

met·a·mor·pho·sis   /ˌmɛtəˈmɔrfəsɪs/

1. Biology . a profound change in form from one stage to the next in the life history of an organism, as from the caterpillar to the pupa and from the pupa to the adult butterfly. Compare complete metamorphosis.

2. a complete change of form, structure, or substance, as transformation by magic or witchcraft.

3. any complete change in appearance, character, circumstances, etc.

 

Metamorphosis. Caterpillars to butterflies.

 

"Profound" is definitely the ideal word here to describe the process of change from a wormy green caterpillar to a dazzlingly beautiful butterfly. 4 different stages to become a butterfly, and as a striking parallel, so too can my life be divided into 4 different stages before the Immortal Vampire of today took his Flight of Darkness.

 
 As with all things, it all starts with an egg; and in me, deeply implanted was an egg of ambition...
 
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The class gathered round and waited with bated breath as she held the stack in her hands. The warm afternoon sun peered in through the open windows, as sweat from most of our bodies had visibly penetrated and soaked through some portions of our uniforms - uniforms that we would wear for the very last time, but at that moment, none of us really made a conscious effort to realise or remember, as all our gazes were fixated on the stack.

 

She reached down into the stack, and drew the first sheet out, announcing the top score, and a name - my name. 

 

Shock, awe, joy, fulfilment; all came rushing in at the same time. Applause from all around, as the friends around me patted me on the shoulder and the back. My (then) best friend and closest rival held my neck, wanting to drive my head into the table; partially in jest, but perhaps partially as an outlet to vent his frustrations on the eventual outcome.

 

I had left as I had came, marking the first and the last years being at the top of the class - the cohort in fact; and at the moment, all the years in between where I had "fallen" started to fade away from my mind - all the tears I shed, the disappointment I endured, and the envy in my eye as I saw my peers race ahead in front of me; all just dissipated with that One Moment of Glory.

 

That was my world; that was when it mattered - when it mattered more than anything else. Means never mattered, only the Ends did; Results over Process. That was me, implanted deeply with the eggs of ambition, wanting to be the best at everything I did, of worse, at everything period.

 

The role-model student on the stage reciting the pledge - that was me. The group leader and overall in-charge of the boy scouts - that was me. The class monitor who gained the trust of the teachers - that was me. The swimmer who raced towards the finish line during the weekly swimming lessons - that was me. The one who stood out as the natural leader among my peers - that was me.   

 

I had my hands in many different cookie jars simultaneously, and in each cookie jar, I wanted nothing but the best cookies. It was often about the competition, but it was always about the victory. Rivalries abound in everything that we did, finding any form or basis for comparison. Victories were always sweet, but defeats were all the more bitter, often too bitter to stomach.

 

I remember the first time that I had fallen from grace, and fell to a rank of sixth from first, tears ran down my face with no restraint, as the reality sank in and my peers watched on as I took it in, as I took it all in. My (then) best friend still tells me this day that he never forgot that sight, and even felt bad for actually doing better than me, when in retrospect, it was my fault firstly, and secondly, and more importantly, it doesn't matter anymore when you look back at it now.

 

But yet, that was me; and that was my world then. I thought the world to be my oyster, and myopically, I believed that I had the world in my hands to shape; a world full of ambition, a world full of ideals, a world full of hope, a world full of confidence, and a world that was about to be shaken drastically in the years to come...

 

I sprinted across the familiar fields in exhilaration and joy, wanting to rush home the soonest possible to share the good news with those I loved. The uniformed onlookers muttered words like "crazy" under their breath through the weird stares they gave as I whizzed by. But it didn't seem to matter, I was the King of the World at that moment, and more importantly, I was definitely going at a pace too fast for any of them.

 

Perhaps I ran a little too fast that day, too fast for myself even, as in my mad dash ahead, I seemed to have left something behind on the green grassy fields that very day; I left a part of me behind that was never to be found again...

 

 

Delusions of Greatness-to-Come

Many Different Seeds