Kindness

((We did acrostics in English class quite long ago. I picked Kindness as my theme. As my regulars know, I prefer to be more ... revolutionary, than conventional. In a better tone you could say I prefer to find a more creative way of doing things. Ergo, since psychologically everyone should be writing something extremely positive (given the 3 allowed themes - Kindness, Love, Friendship), I opted for something really nihilistic. Behold, the truth behind Kindness's facade.))

K indness
I s 
N ever
D one justice
N ever
E ver
S uccumb to
S ympathy

((There, easy and simple. The rest of the allotted time for the assignment was spent on decorating the card I was writing my poem on. I drew snowflakes, linear patterns and spammed snow with Helena, my correction fluid. I kinda like the atmosphere and mood that the card sets in for readers - the card is already a faint blue to begin with. I am hoping that it will make up for the marks I lost with the unfinished essay the other day.))

Tracks

((Wrote this for my Commonwealth this year ;)))

Tracks
by Williew (officially using this pen name from now onwards)

  Life is a state that distinguishes the living from the dead. In actuality however, it is not that simple. One way of defining it is that Life is an intricate and vast network of running tracks. In the first few years of one’s life, their running track is straight and frank. As they age, junctions emerge, and they are forced to choose the track they prefer. Making the correct decision is vital, as certain tracks may lead to dead ends – in other words, Death. Death is the harbinger of everything’s end – the severing of one’s ties with the living, or their even just their mentality. Even in their teenage years, humanity is already plagued with a multitude of decisions to make. If teenagers aren’t pulled down by the weight of decisions, they are pulled down by other things that can be paralleled to that of running tracks. Allow me to opine more about life’s tracks.

  Attaining one's dream requires a stern will and unfailing determination. It is of no oddity for teenage people to bear huge dreams; such as getting their dream occupation, getting the Nobel Prize or even marrying their life partner of choice. It is much more common to see them fail mid-way; as they are either unable to keep up with their ambitions, or they were intercepted while they jogged through their track. Among my circle of associates, the latter obstacle is more common. One would have been running on a track headed towards a future as lawyer, but suddenly one’s parents would run past him, and construct a wholly different track for the poor child after placing a ‘No Entry’ sign on the original track. Some have parents who were initially supportive, then alternated alliances. It is as if a runner having his designer running shoes wearing out before even reaching the finish line. Though some teenagers may hold the rare and profound inextinguishable spirit and manages to reach the finish line of their desired track, the outcome could still be tragic. They would be cursed and befouled and shunned for being traitorous children by the community, others by their own parents; giving them no real sense of achievement at all. As Bilal Said said, “Life is a bad game, imperfect and unfair. Let us play it well.” It is of personal recommendation that when one faces such turmoil in life, one shouldn’t just ignore the signs and additional tracks others construct and resume running or even turn around to skedaddle, but instead try to take down the signs and demolish the new tracks. When the running shoes wear out, it heralds that it’s time for the runner to assume the role of cobbler. One of life’s greatest blessings is the freedom to pursue one’s goal, but it is up to us to maximize utilization of that freedom.

  The silent voice within one’s heart whispers the most profound wisdom. Only we ourselves know who we truly are and what we really want. There are certain times when we arrive at a certain T-junction that is quite unique while on our individual running tracks. We come from the bottom end of the ‘T’, and we need to choose between two separate tracks to run on. And these tracks are of nigh no return, tracks that will crumble as we step onwards. It is at this T-junction that we choose whether to accept and be ourselves or assemble a whole new identity to adjust to the likings of the self or others. For us teens, we may not like a certain piece of attire, but we strut through our tracks with it, just because it is the latest trend. We approach a person with a persona that disgusts us, only to be able to brag about having a popular friend. We may not have the slightest intention to inherit the family business, but we do so because we think it is our duty. It requires great courage to look at oneself honestly and forge one’s own path. Care not about the needs to bend our true selves. It is a fatal error to doubt ourselves. Only courage in face of doubt can lead one to the answer. Cowardice will only lead to despair and an eternal fracture on one’s track. By the time regret catches up to the runner, it is all but too late. The opportunity of renewal only lies before the face of disaster, so retrace before going too far.

  To find the one true path, one must seek guidance amidst uncertainty. That guidance of ours usually manifest in the form of other individuals who link their running tracks with ours. There is both joy and wonder in understanding another. However there exists people, teenagers especially, who are somehow so deeply traumatized by events such as rape, betrayal or even witnessing one’s own family crumble to dust that they start building walls on both sides of their own track. They no longer harbor the least bit of trust for others, and will sever all their ties with others’ tracks. Still, everyone’s track will have bumps here and there, and sometimes the dreaded dead ends. It is impossible to make it through one’s own track alone. If there are such walls around one’s track, one should get up on their feet and tear down those walls, then put up signs saying “Relay Race Participants Needed” or something along the lines of that. Then there will be others to pass the baton to. The weight of dilemmas will always weigh down the runner, but when shared expect the runner to execute a sudden sprint of glee and relief from feeling the lack of mental luggage that had been with them. To be asocial is to err in running the tracks of life. Embracing sociality instead is the shortcut through life’s tracks. Perhaps the weather in the area one runs in will also change from rainy to sunny with such a positive change. Only with strength can one endure suffering and torment. This strength comes from forming social links with other runners, and those troubling pasts came be buried forever before the bonds of friendship. There is nothing to be gained by looking back. There is only something to be gained by moving onward.

  Alongside time exists fate, the bearer of cruelty. Beyond the beaten path lies the absolute end. It matters not who you are, Death awaits you. The tracks of life are parallel to the Midgardsomr – otherworldly long, but have an inevitable end. Tadashi Kawashima once said, “To hope is to defy reality.” Even by hoping, praying or wishing; Death will not stray from your track. So celebrate life’s grandeur – its brilliance, its magnificence. By the time we manage to catch a glimpse of the argent gleam of Death’s scythe, we would’ve been thinking just like Friedrich Nietzsche, “Is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves?” Life per se is meaningless – it is us who gives it meaning. It is the same case with running tracks. They would have been bare without runners running on them. Let us run our track of life wih glory and pride. Gabriel Espinosa may have questioned, “Why are we running to live, if we’re living just to die?” Such negative thoughts should be avoided. We run to live, because we are alive.

The Entity

The Entity
By Wilson Liew

  Once, I was a freelance journalist. There was this one particular job I received from an occult magazine that heralded the end of my career. Yes. The infamous investigation on Bloody Rose High.

  It was November, 1992. A blizzard of a hail was assaulting New Hampshire from the heavens. The mighty tempest accompanying it confined all within the warm shelter of their homes. However, even such weather proved to be of no avail against a journalist’s invincible willpower and thirst for information.

  George Maxwell was the multi-billionaire glitzy editor of the ever-successful occult magazine – The Dark Realms; published weekly since a decade before the incident I’m about to relate. Along with a few other freelancers, I was to investigate the rumored Seven Wonders of Bloody Rose High, an abandoned, godforsaken girls’ boarding high school located in the outskirts of the metropolis for a hefty amount of cash.

  My crimson Miata careened through heaps of snow covering the highway, the white of it invading my tires’ black. Gradually, the school came into my field of vision. It may not be so for many, but I spotted it with ease. Hence, others often call me as “Hawkeye Collins”. Despite what they say about the place being godforsaken, it seems to have seen better days, and I bet it would have been a grandeur; what with a large garden, a lake, a tower et cetera. I rolled my baby into what seemed to once be a parking lot; its engine steaming. I exhaled white clouds of carbon dioxide, clouding the mirrors. I grabbed my backpack from the dashboard, unzipped the Velcro and took out an argent grey thermos, followed with a few rapid sips of hot cocoa. The surge of heat pouring into my body quickly revitalized my conscience; instilling exuberance. Hastening, I slung the backpack over my shoulders and escaped from the confines of my car the moment I turned off the ignition.

  The others were already there. The first to spot and greet me was Shirley Fennes – ex-reporter. She was remarkably young and cute, in particular. Vaclav Jones, an Albanian gourmand snorted at me while shoving Florentines into his Black Hole of a mouth. Norma Beatty was a sophomore at a private school; self-proclaimed “Number One Fan” of the magazine. Senel Coolidge was a novice freelancer, recently graduated from college, and seemed to have taken on the job to prove the rumor wrong. Realistic, yes. Our group’s scientific geek. Last but not least was Chloe Valens, a lady in her forties. Apparently she was a veteran at researching the occult, so she acted as our group’s leader.

  “Listen here, you rookies. Master Maxwell is extremely strict on information collecting, so you better be serious!” lectured Chloe, who then stole a glance at Vaclav, “Hey, you glutton! Do you even want the job!?” Jones shook his hairy fists. Shirley giggled.
 
  “What is it, girl!?” the hag snapped. Shirley waved her off then whispered to me, “Her eyes bulge,” and I snickered. Apparently, we will be touring the school over seven of its facilities, all with their respective, so-called “Wonders”. According to Valens, the first one is the Illusionary Pool – it is said that the indoor swimming complex sometimes appear to contain water; and sometimes doesn’t when it had already been dried out when I was still a toddler. I was about to ridicule it when Coolidge did it for me; just to be snapped at by Norma. We shuffled orderly through dark corridors. Something made me feel uneasy. I felt that I was perspiring despite the climate being otherworldly freezing. While on the way there, my Doc Martens tripped and I grazed my left knee, and somehow I felt something was warning me.

  Valens kicked wide the complex’s twin doors; its hinges creaking painfully. A whiff of gravely zephyr embraced us. The flooring within the complex was like decayed Wilson Laminart. The pool was easily noticeable, considering the size. Indeed, there was water. The dark abyss of the pool caused profuse perspiration.

  “I told you all. This is silly,” scoffed Senel, and it appeared to be directed for Norma. She bit her petite pale lips. How could they not see!? It surely was dark, but their flashlights could surely have showed the water! Senel approached the edge of the pool haughtily. I wanted to shout, “No!” Sadly, I couldn’t. My voice was entrapped within my body. Shirley shouted it out, a second too late. While facing us, a blood-stained rotten arm grabbed Coolidge’s right calf, and tugged inwards; towards the abysmal pool.

  It all happened in a split-second which seemed like an eternity. It was as if the whole scene was rendered slow-motion. The novice journalist was flung out, and he screamed, mid-air, all the way into the water, penetrating the surface with a gargantuan splash. Chloe covered her mouth. Norma gasped. Vaclav had his eyes bulging. Shirley fell on her knees with a thud and collapsed as burgundy blood rose in puffy clouds on the surface of the water. I cradled Shirley in my arms and ran. Norma quickly dragged Chloe to come, and Jones plodded to catch up. Surprisingly, Vaclav caught up first, the women close behind. Norma reached us safely, but as Chloe was about to join us, the doors closed on her. She banged on it with her bony fists. Vaclav tried to knock it down, assisted by me as Beatty tended to Shirley instead. As she screamed, we saw, through the glass panes on the doors, an ominous shadow rose from behind Valens. It was feminine; humanoid; bipedal. It had crimson hair shielding her, no, its visage. It donned a white girls’ sailor uniform, stained with blood. With inhumane strength she reached out for Valens’ throat, and sunk her claw-like nails into it and smashed Valens continuously onto the door. My vocabulary calls that total pulverization. Chloe ended up with her head a bloody mess. As the entity looked at us instead, we saw deranged, bloodshot eyeballs.

  As it reached for the doors, Vaclav mouthed, “Run.” I did. I wanted to bring him along, but considering his tremendous size, I doubted I could do much trying to carry him. Norma had run on ahead with Shirley in her arms. From behind me, I heard a ghastly wail and felt droplets of glimmering red splattered onto my auburn wool sweater. I closed my eyes as I ran. I knew. I knew about Vaclav’s fate.

  I was approaching a door when Shirley liberated herself from it, into my arms.
“What? What is it?” I inclined. She was shaking. Her index finger pointing to the room. There was a shaft of solemn light from the wide opening Shirley made. Slowly, nervously I made my way in. Shirley asked me not to. However, my instincts were prioritized. I smothered the light. Inside, there was Norma, lying on the cement, lifeless as a marionette. Her throat was slit. The entity was beside her, making its way to gnaw at Beatty’s flesh. I hinted Shirley to run. I started running soon after.

  We made our way to the cars. Her station wagon was nearer, so we headed for it. I heard the entity’s moaning. I tossed myself into the car after looking back to see how close the entity is. About a stone’s throw from me, yes. Shirley jammed in the ignition key and drove off in a burst of speed. I was about to sigh when I saw the entity on the back seat through the rearview mirror; and partially, through the semi-clear reflection on the power window.
“Shirley!”

  I watched in horror as the entity gored Shirley with a chainsaw as she drove. She was whimpering as she was sliced in half from the crotch; upwards. Her guts were sent flying throughout the ride. In a blurry, dazed mixed nausea of fear and fury, I grabbed the steering wheel and with some acrobatics I got my right leg over to the driver’s side and stamped on the accelerator – all the way into an incoming petroleum tanker. I steered and skidded sideways into it, smashing the side of Shirley and the entity’s, crushing my right leg along with it. The entity slithered up; and while preparing to decapitate my unfortunate body parts, the tanker exploded.
I was handicapped after five months comatose, with scars and burns and one missing leg. George Maxwell paid my treatment fees and insurance, just to be never heard of again. I was strapped up in a straitjacket after relating the events to the police and my doctor. To forever spend my life writhing in a rubber room. Anyhow, I still know that the entity still exists. Where? Behind you!

Let Us Soar

((This will be the first song I post here! I wrote this song when I was in 5th grade ... basically, in 2005. You can also find it in my website, Funtastic Fantasia that I created also on 2005. It's lifespan was one year. I doubt I'll update it anymore, after I found out that free users have limited number of posts per sections. Then this year I found LGI and MKBK. Yay.))

I want to soar
I want to fly in the sky
I want to be free
With the birds, clouds, and rainbows
My dream to fly
To soar in the sky.........

Chorus

Let us soar

Let us soar

Let us soar in the sky
Let us fly in the sky, with birds and alike
Under the guidance of the sun....
The dazzling and shiny sun

Let us be free

Let us soar with our dreams, oh blue lore

Lord of the skies, let us fly
Fly in the skies
Soar in the skies
We don't wanna fly in a plane
cos' we'll never be free

Let us fly with freedom
Let us soar with our dreams
Let us glide with hope

Oh, blue lore

Let usx2......
Soar.....................

(Repeat chorus x2)

((I made up the tune for it myself, and used to hum it to myself ... then it grew old ... and my site was desolate ... so basically I've entirely forgot about it.))

Peccata, Mea Obliviscre

Peccata, Mea Obliviscre
By Wilson Liew

((Um … the title is Latin for “Sin, My Oblivion”. Either that or “Sin, I Forget”. This is my first psychological thriller. It may seem like horror, but really, it’s psychological thriller. Sorry on the lack of emphasis. It was schoolwork, with yet an agonizing word limit. Sheesh.))

1980 London

“Hi Mary. What are we gonna play today?” asked John Farwell just in time before 12-years-old Mary Farwell smashed her little brother’s petite visage with her dearest daddy’s no-Mary-no-you-can’t-drink-this-Mary bottle. Mary, blankly staring, was oblivious of the pungent smell of blood and alcohol. Little Johnny’s jaw was twisted into a grotesque angle; still grinning his innocent; unknowing grin. Blood and liquor gushed across the cedar flooring, fragmented glass tinkling. Johnny’s clear, azure eyes mirrored Bloody Mary in her sleeping gown. Bloody Mary was not pleased. And so she went stab, stab, stab. Stab, stab, stab. Tainting her apparel with more blood.

Bloody Mary was still unsatisfied, and went on with the carnage. But neither was Little Johnny pleased.

2000 Miami

“Hi Mary. What are we gonna play today?” Mary Farwell, 32, jolted up from bed, panting; perspiring. Her eyeballs scanned her surroundings. The grandfather clock. The music box. The mélange gray sweater knitted for Greg. And Greg. Greg snored beside her. She sighed, relieved. It was the 23rd of June. 6 a.m.

Mary’s mind and body were in utter comfort as she relaxed in a paradise of hot water and soap bubbles, away from the purgatory of nightmares. She rose majestically from the bathtub, wrapped herself up like a cocoon with a maroon towel, pacing for the washstand. As she applied Procter & Gamble toothpaste onto her recently-purchased toothbrush, she came face-to-face with blood-smeared Little Johnny in his pajamas. She flung her toothbrush into the fragile mirror with force fueled with so much guilt and fear that it inflicted severe cracks on the mirror.

“Arhhhhh!!!!” The screaming was so intense Greg was shaken awake.

“What’s the matter!?” yelled a yawning Greg, shuffling towards the bathroom in his slippers. He cradled his wife soothingly as she stammered “Johnny” endlessly. Naked, she went into another series of shrieks and finally ended it with a depressed whimper.
“Honey, what happened? Who’s Johnny?” In all the years Greg Halworth was married to Mary Farwell, never had he seen his wife like this, nor had he heard about this Johnny guy. Our son’s name is Tony, Greg reminded himself. While the name of Johnny still meddled with his mind, Mary asked for help, trembling. Greg wrapped Mary back in her towel and wiped off her tears. He inclined about the Johnny Mary had been repeating. Mary was panicked. Johnny had partly ruined her mentality, and now he’s trying to demolish her family? No way, she thought. No way. As a last resort, she changed the subject instead.

“Ah … never mind that. Greg, I’m sorry but I have to send Tony to school now. I’ve prepared toast with blueberry jam on the dining table. Do keep in mind that you have an appointment with Dr Miller at 9 a.m.! See you tonight, dear!” And before Greg got to say another word, Mary had rushed off to dress and wake her 9-years-old son up.

23rd June 2000, 8:15 a.m.

“Dang it – the morning rush hour. Tony, must you take an hour-long bath all the time!?” shouted Mary at Tony in her shiny Ford.

“But mummy – I need to bath, brush my teeth, wash my face AND play with Donald and Daisy!” That’s when Mary Farwell regretted introducing Disney cartoons to her son and buying rubber ducks.

“Tony, listen. Playing with Donald and Daisy is optional. And you’re 9, for god’s sake! Who still plays with rubber ducks!?”

“Well, Kevin and Helen do.” Mary slapped her forehead and drove on. Only about 25 minutes later did she get to drop her son off. She snatched her cell phone from her Chanel limited-edition leather handbag and punched in some numbers.

“Eleanor? You there? I’m going over to your house so don’t go anywhere.” Eleanor Jennings was Mary’s best pal from London, and her brother was to be wed that very night. Eleanor said she was alone and could use some company. Mary then jammed her Motorola back into her handbag as the traffic lights turned green. Driving at a slow pace, she began humming to the music from the MP3 she brought along – “Tom Dooley”, and turned to glance at the rearview mirror for quite a shock. Little Johnny in his crimson PJs.

“Hi Mary. What are we gonna play today?” Stunned with fear, Mary was snapped back into reality just when a truck approached and she swerved. What next was a crescendo of crunching metal, followed with a chorus of skidding rubber and shattering glass. Then oblivion.

23rd June 2000, 1:45 p.m.

Mary miraculously survived unscathed – only the rear end of the car came in impact with the truck. But the whole incident was terrorizing enough to render Mary mute till her husband arrived. Greg helped his wife to answer a police officer’s inquiries. After the officer retrieved belongings of Mary’s from his panda car, Greg drove Mary home. Throughout the journey home Mary was asked a multitude of times whether she was okay, and she just kept nodding solemnly; tear-stained. Several times did she whisper, “Johnny wants to have revenge. He wants to kill me…” while biting her fingernails. Her husband, though concerned, was unable to mutter even a syllable.

“Honey? Do you think you can still manage to attend Dean’s wedding party later?” asked Greg. Mary, trying to masquerade a smile, said she could very much do so.

23rd June 2000. 8:50 p.m.

“I now pronounce you, Dean and Rebecca!” Thunderous claps boomed. Over-excited cheers roared. Mary Farwell clapped and cheered too. But not one bit of her heart actually cared about the wedding. She was haunted by images of her younger sibling. When Greg brought her a glass of Bloody Mary, she was even more distressed. She remembered herself stained with Johnny’s gleaming red blood. “Johnny…”

She excused herself and took hurried steps to the toilet and inspected herself in the mirror. Her visage was shot with premature wrinkles, and her eyes burdened with reflected great guilt, misery and fear.

“Oh, Johnny … do forgive me. I didn’t mean to kill you, really! I … never …” She started screaming at her own reflection. Then her face twitched, and grinned maniacally.

“But it’s your fault, Johnny. You took Teddy away from me. You took daddy and mummy’s love away from me. You took my friends away from me. You mugged all the happiness from my childhood, John Farwell! All of it!!! Everything!” When she looked into the mirror again, she saw him once more – Little Bloody Johnny with glass bits sunk into the skin. “NO!!!!!”

Mary slid slowly down to the floor. She saw a puddle of blood before her and squirmed backwards, too frightened to say anything. She then sighed of minimal relief seconds later. Not Johnny’s blood, thanks goodness. However the fact that it was blood’s undeniable. It was menstrual blood though. As she went back to the dinner hall, she spotted Eleanor hugging Greg intimately. Influenced by what occurred in the washroom earlier, she half-purposefully instilled herself with infernal fury.

23rd June 2000, 10:05 p.m.

“I don’t have any special relationship with Eleanor at all!” argued Greg.

“You foul liar! I know you do!”

“The hug was as a consolation! Do you not know how worried I am because of everything that happened to you today!? She was just telling me things will be okay!”

“I’m sick of your lies!” Mary’s face was puce with twisted wrath. Snarling, she swiped at Greg’s cheek with her fingernails. Bright crimson blood trickled down Greg’s face. He slapped her without hesitation.

“You slapped me, Greg Halworth! You do have an affair with the whore, didn’t you? I knew it! The fact is so lucid!”

“No, I don’t! I have had enough of your redundant accusations, Mary Farwell! That and all of your abnormalities! Constant screaming! Irregular trances! I’m sick of it! That’s it. I’m going to file a divorce tomorrow and I mean it. And Tony’s mine. I won’t let him to be under an insane mother’s care.”

“You animal!!!” Mary slapped Greg across the face with all the force she could summon. Severely angered, Greg grabbed a wine bottle from the Formica counter behind him and brought it down with supreme might unto Mary’s skull.

“Hi Mary. What are we gonna play today?” Johnny’s got his revenge, Mary thought. I’m sorry, she whispered. Really sorry.

24th June 2000, 9:00 a.m.

Little Tony Halworth had little knowledge of what was in store for him. He rose from his bed, rubbing his eyes. At first it was another ordinary morning at the Ebony Mountains condominiums. Slowly, he revolved the doorknob, jus to be greeted by classic phonograph music, a verse from “Tom Dooley”:

“I met her on the mountains
There I took her life
Met her on the mountains
Stabbed her with my knife”

Along with that, Tony Halworth, 9, was the first to witness Mary Farwell with the remains of a wine bottle pierced into her torso and Greg Halworth hanging from a ceiling fan like Tom Dooley did on a white oak tree. He trotted, while staring blankly, over to his mother’s lifeless corpse to examine the message she left behind with her blood.

The doorbell rang. Emotionless, Tony walked over to open it, revealing Eleanor Jennings who gasped at the bloody sight. She hugged Tony, trying to comfort him and keeping him away from the awful, traumatic scenario. Mary’s dying message had instilled Johnny’s spirit of vengeance into Tony, severely scarring his innocence.

“Hi Missus Eleanor. What are we gonna play today?”

((BTW, if you find words within double brackets like this within posts with a work of mine within, it means I'm typing something OOC, that is unrelated to the writing. Anyways, forgive me if certain parts of this tale sounds lame ... I wrote it last year.))

Talk

Yes, this post's title has its own reference, though it does bear a thin thread of relativity to this post's content. Anyhow, I've created a chatbox 
(MutsukaLounge) for readers to... well, chat.
However, if you would like to share your opinion on a particular piece of writing,
please comment the post, not via MutsukaLounge. 
Your cooperation is much appreciated. Domo.

Daddy

- Daddy -

By Wilson Liew

Nature flourished as spring showered its gift of life
Summer scorched the earth and made everyone yearn for a dive
Leaves scatter in autumn’s cradle
Yet still there is no hope coming from winter’s saddle.

I always see them
Fathers reaching out for their children without feelings of sham.

I’ve seen it
Fathers lending their children their ears without throwing a fit.

I’ve always known
That instead of bad ones good fathers have good qualities shown.

I am so sick
Of that abusive prick
Within that fear-filled dome
Of a home.

I loathe, I hate
Seeing other’s with their fathers, as close as the threads of fate
I cry, I envy
Seeing their parents together, all lovey-dovey.

I had been observing
Noticing and keeping in mind of everything.

You sure are a good husband
Helping your partner to carry her luggage like she’s your diamond
Unlike my father
To him she is no more than trash, my mother.

You sure are a good dad
For your child’s comfort and safety, onto your car seat a child’s seat you add
Unlike mine
Although I am quite fine.

I try so hard so that you will notice me
Yet I only ebb and flow in your eyes, like the sea.

I hate myself for being pathetic
Unable to even greet you, I must seem apathetic
I want to apologise, but as they say,” Say sorry,
Off it goes on a lorry.”

I swear on my life
To be of some value to you, I will strive
So that I can be like Sherry, Sue and Eddy
To have a figure I can call ‘Daddy’.

Interpretation

1st Verse
I’ve waited for over a year, all 4 seasons have passed.

2nd Verse
I always see fathers who don’t prioritize their pride but instead their children.

3rd Verse
I always see fathers who would spare time to listen to their child’s woes and try their best to comprehend without treating everything in such a hostile manner.

4th Verse
Others have civilised fathers who are polite, courteous and self-conscious.

5th Verse
I really hate my abusive father and my home.

6th Verse
I loathe, hate and ridicule myself out of envy towards others who have loving and caring fathers.

7th Verse
I’ve always been keeping an eye on you, keeping note of every good quality he can pull off.

8th Verse
He really is but a good husband, helping his wife out whenever she needs him. Unlike my father, with whom his wife is only a mere slave, a doll.

9th Verse
He really is a good father as well; he even added a special seat for toddlers in his car, unlike my father who only tries to buy my feelings with expensive insincere gifts. Even so, I am mature enough to not be bothered anymore. It’s more of a nuisance now.

10th Verse
I strived so hard to impress him, but failed miserably all the time.

11th Verse
I hate myself for being such a sissy, a coward. I can’t even greet him. Darn, he must have thought of me as apathetic. I wish I could apologise, but as people say, saying sorry is just plain cheap. Doesn’t recover your status or change the impression you have made.

12th Verse
I resolve that one day I am of equal value as a son to him, and I will try even harder to achieve that. Hopefully I can call him Daddy one day, just like how Sharon, Susan and Edbert call their fathers.

Imagery
[Credits to Tallgeese from GFAQs for ripping the images off the video game Persona 3]
4th of the Major Arcana in Tarot, The Emperor – he symbolizes fathering, discipline, authority and control in my life.

17th of the Major Arcana in Tarot, The Star – he also symbolizes hope for me. It is in him that I embed the hope of one day having a real father.

19th of the Major Arcana in Tarot, The Sun – consequently with the hope he provides, it also instills optimism, enthusiasm, assurance and vitality in me, resulting in personal power.