Thanks for talking!

Dear readers,

tkwek finally brings us an update after a week's hiatus. This week has been exceptionally busy for tkwek, with RI Open House, Daniel Hope concert, geog project, misc homework and above all, preperation for the WSC '08!!

Here tkwek brings two works, neither of which he feels are very good, but both of which are from the heart. as always, one is an essay while the other, a poem. ENjoy!

Core Meltdown.
The Straight Times Editor

Thanks for Talking

I’ve never thought myself to be a good counselor.

Whenever others confide in me about things, I always get the feeling that I’ll say the wrong thing. After all, I’ve never been known as one who can bridle the tongue exceptionally well. There’s always that not-so-Freudian slip that can reveal one’s terrible inadequacy of empathy, or that blurted-out semi-insult that disproves my ability to think faster than my tongue. A general heaviness of heart fills me when others tell me their troubles, partly from the pain which I feel for them, and partly for the sympathy that I find myself lacking when those around me need it most.

Being a listening ear is even tougher in today’s world, where three-quarters of our communication is done on those rectangular keyboards of small regular buttons, which keep us mysteriously connected to the world outside. Not just for me – confiding and comforting has become a sensitive issue for both the counselor and the counseled. Through that window of conversation, one tries to discern the other’s trustworthiness while the other tries to project his own opinions without coming across as harsh. Mankind, having surpassed the gaps of space and time between any two people anywhere around the globe, is now attempting to transcend the limits of the body and send emotion through plain words.

Recently I was just talking to a number of people – over the dreadfully user-friendly, black-and-white invention of MSN messenger. It being a weekend evening, the ‘online’ list was exceptionally populated till late, and conversation flowed like Ribena. Among the trickles of seemingly incoherent conversations that sprang from the general online community, three stood out that especially caught my eye – and virtual ear. They were confidential conversations, conversations that, unlike the other mundane questions – ‘are you going for CCA tomorrow’ and ‘what time is YO this Thursday?’ – sprang from the heart.

In these bubbles of life and philosophy we talked about jealousy, love, puzzlement, difficulty and commitments. I bade farewell to a friend flying off to compete in America, compared the relationships between musical notes and chords to those between people, and waxed lyrical with another troubled buddy over his emotional discomfort. At first, as when I usually opened my heart to talk to people, the words came out rough and ragged, not the least bit comfortable. But as we went on talking, I realized that much of what my friends faced rang a bell in my life as well, and the talking became much easier, while giving my opinions about others’ problems never seemed so natural.

It grew late, and we bade farewell to each other before leaving the great conference hall in the stars. As each light winked from ‘online’ to ‘away’, ‘away’ to ‘idle’ and ‘idle’ to ‘offline’, we did something that I doubt any from other generations would have done – we thanked each other for talking. Because we knew, deep down, that besides voicing our concern and support for our friends within that short time; our friends, in telling us their deepest darkest secrets, had given us their trust, made us useful beings as active listeners, and sealed another layer of friendship.



This tale i tell

I tell a tale of fish and foam,
A tale of lands I’ve seen and roamed –
How this young man, with pitch and tone,
Searched round the world for a place to own.

I sat at the top of Old Trafford’s dome,
Met up with great Mr. Indiana Jones,
I’ve seen the sights, I’ve read the tomes,
And yes, I’ve seen pi palindromed…

About the clouds I’ve flew and flown,
Met people – fair, pale, dark and roan,
Yet no-one came from where I’d grown,
Or saw the places I’d always known.

“Kind sir, have you heard of the red box-phone,
Where I once hid, to childishly moan?
Or have you heard Dad’s delightful drone,
Or my tearful laugh – or my happy groan?”

I guess no matter how hard those scientists clone,
Though they’ve made my Telly, my mobile phone,
The printer and oh yes, the gramophone…
They’ll never-ever create this place, my throne!

Now that I’m back in my own time-zone,
And look back at this house – it isn’t just stone!
I’ve learnt my lesson, roads lead to Rome,
But my dirt-track heart – oh! – will bring me home.