You're (not) Alone. (Not).

The snow falls.

Each flake seems to descend gently, yet forlornly upon his lonely figure. He walked, and walked, trudging through the snow, meandering across the bleak white fields of cold, hard sleet.

He falls, then picks himself up, and he falls again. With each fall a new bruise appears on his legs, his hands, his face. He looks at the sleet as it reflects the distorted image back, each injury mocking him, laughing at him, reminders the hopes he once had, hopes he once placed. Hopes found, then lost. Then there were hopes that were never ever discovered, little lies, however, unintended, formed through the careless words of folk who knew little of its consequences, some of whom genuinely believed it would have helped. Even as he moves towards the hills, their silhouettes barely visible against the harsh winds reprimanding him for his follies, he could almost feel the warmth, then it fades away teasingly, like a fleeting mirage that he thought was real, but never did materialise.

And then they were suddenly upon him. Dark, hooded figures, cloaked in black. Standing atop the hills with two to one. They stood there, motionless, as though they themselves were nothing more than figments of his imagination and they too, shall pass and fade back into the shadows.

But they endured. Endured the biting gales and the lashings of his stinging pragmatism. 

He had found Them.

It should have been a feeling of triumph, but somehow he could feel nothing but emptiness and a resigned acceptance. He was the reluctant hero-No, that would not be appropriate to describe him at all. Traveler, or a Adventurer might sound a little more apt.

Then voices rang out in his mind. Called out to him, reminding him of the warmth they had emitted, reminding him of the promises they held, the hope they gave him. Then a steely cold one reminded him of the failings in believing, in hoping, in thinking that things will always become better. That things are going to happen soon enough. That after so many years, the people would finally start noticing him more and befriend him, get to know him in a deeper manner in spite of the aura he emits, the actions he does, the lousy jokes he cracked.

He struggles. Roars. Screams. Then whimpers as he took the first step towards Them. He knew...He knew that They were like him, and he was only a few steps away from becoming part of Them.

But behind him, the winds seem to die down and the snow starts to thaw. One feet in each realm. One mind with two intentions.

It was going to be another long, hard battle.

And he was once again, alone.

Nice Guys Finish Last

To be honest, this isn't entirely original since I'll be basing my post off this interesting video I saw sometime back.

As the saying goes, "Nice guys finish last." Going by that logic, it would seem that the bad boys are the ones who get the girl(s). They are the talented, smart, rich, popular dudes in school/campus that have a 'badass' attitude. Throw in some arrogance, maybe a little narcissism, and also this air of superiority and streak of rebelliousness, and there you have the stereotypical 'bad boys'.

All those stereotypes and quotes have been used to death, though, and that isn't what piqued my interest.

What REALLY did pique my interest is the ending of the video itself (All three versions, actually) that nice guys DO finish last.

Or rather, should I say, nice guys are the ones who finish it, and are the last ones standing.

Deep down, there are plenty of average guys out there who want to be noticed by the girl they like. Therefore, they decided to follow the example of the bad boy who always seem to attract the attention of girls, especially the only one he has eyes for.

Thus comes makeovers, both within and without. Looks change, attitudes warp, and they attempt to be another person through buying clothes with skulls, piercing their ears, listening to some dating advice that always reiterates the idea that being a 'bad boy' will draw the girl(s) to you.

Unfortunately, bad boys aren't a long term thing.

In a sense, girls who actually prefer nice guys who are more sensitive, romantic, familial and responsible are the ones who are far-sighted and take note of their future, as compared to those who simply prefer traits that characterise a bad boy.

Not to say all of the girls in the latter category are near-sighted, shallow and silly, because sometimes they mistake attraction for romantic feelings, as some of them later go on to mistake sex for love, resulting in unsavory social consequences for themselves and the society. It's worse if a young life is extinguished in the process. Inhumane, even.

But at a certain age, say about the time where one can be considered an adult, albeit a young one, that's the time the female ought to start thinking properly about the future instead of always partying and looking for the 'fun-loving guys with good looks, good bod and always make me laugh.' (Not that humor is a bad thing, but looking out for the more concrete traits is much more...sensible and the smart thing to do.)

Neither is looking for the perfect one that 'looks like this Korean idol or that Taiwanese hunk of an actor' realistic, not especially if you are in your twenties already. Grow up.

To be fair, guys should also stop trying to always learn things that are popular and stop being themselves in the process. It's unhealthy and can cause identity confusion. Are you the nice guy who's holding back whenever you feel like doing a bad boy thing, or are you a bad boy who isn't quite that...well, badass?

Likewise, looking for the perfect girl is absolutely out of question. To do so is to indulge in the fantasies of a teenage boy with little experience in society and has hardly any concept of common sense. If you're still thinking like that, GROW UP.

Not to say I can sit on my high horse and judge others, but it's simply a reflection of what I've seen and experienced. In a sense you can say that I'm screwing myself over as well. XD

Most people have been through that phase. Many are going through it now as teenagers, while others are still trapped in their own little fantasy bubble even as adults, still dreaming of their perfect Prince Charming or ideal Belle of the Ball. Then there are those who simply party away until they are too old and then start facing the consequences of problematic relationships that built their foundation on the sand of Fun instead of the rocky foundation of Stability.

Nice Guys do finish last.

Bad Boys don't even finish at all. Lest they turn to being nice guys.

Now, that would be nice.

Imprudence

The thought came to me as I walked down the road after collecting my new pair of specs (As expected, no one except my mom and bro commented on them).

There was this group of secondary school kids. All in shorts, chatting, laughing, maybe making fun of a geeky classmate. They were occupying the entire width of the path, forcing people walking in the opposite direction to step into the glass patches or uneven terrain at the sides to get past them, and they hadn't noticed that.

As a habit, I usually give way to elderly people, peers, cyclists, families, pregnant women and people who are in a rush. The only other times I veer away from the path is to overtake people who aren't used to walking faster.

So I kept to the path, but obviously stuck to the side. It was the least I could do, since it felt sensible and logical instead of cutting through the group.

To my surprise and indignation, the few kids nearer to me suddenly stuck his head and looked up and kept to their path. I barely sidestepped them, somehow retaining my balance and direction on the path.

It irritated me, of course (as evident by the adjectives used). But it also got me thinking. That slight show of defiance, that "imprudence", as I would call it, was interesting.

Perhaps when we get older, we tend to forget were were once like that - seemingly fearless until the storm clouds appear over the Discipline Master's or our parents' faces, always wanting to show the world what we can do, always looking for a chance to go against the system.

In a sense, I find it strangely commendable, except in cases that are pretty insensible and honestly speaking, silly. Like the one I experienced. What if 'I' was a thug or a bully? What if 'I' hated kids like that and gave them a good one? What if, on a whim, I decided it was fun to take my frustration out on them?

Of course, as a disclaimer, I WON'T DO THOSE THINGS.

One might think I'm brewing a storm in a teacup, but look at it this way - It's the small things that accumulate to become big ones. Don't despise the humble beginnings, the Bible says. Likewise, it's the foxes that steal the grapes, not tigers or lions.

Imprudence in measured amounts is good. Imprudence against the system in order to fulfill a lofty dream or even better - a GOD dream is extremely commendable. Without flouting the right rules that cause you to compromise your character and values, of course.

And maybe, just maybe, there's something there that we as adults can learn. To start being defiant again against the odds, against the inequities of the system and environment that threatens to shut down our dreams, scribble on them, crumple it then toss it away in a wastepaper basket while laughing mockingly.

Though once again, let's be "imprudent" about the right thing.

Boxing Match

You're in a boxing ring, in a boxing match of 10 rounds. You can feel the sweat pouring down your face in torrents as you struggle to focus, your senses conflicted by the smell of sweat, blood and of an unidentifiable odour, the excited crowd cheering the fighters on and the disapproving voice of the referee as one of you attempts to foul the other.

As the man in charge separates you and the bell rings, you focused on your opponent. That daunting Fighter S, who has scored countless downs against you approaches ominously, menacingly once more, his silhouette seemingly a great giant of darkness that threatened to consume the sliver of light that is the hope in victory. Your victory.

He taunts you, calls you stupid. Makes you wonder why you are even here, why you were even born. He remembers those days where you slipped and fell at the punching bags, where you failed to listen to instruction and forfeited a match, bringing embarrassment and shame to your gym and trainers, where you felt guilty for being unable to keep to an acceptable weight for your next upcoming match. He sees it. He knows it.

And he uses it against you.

Previously, you had moped. Got depressed over it. Felt as though the guilt was gnawing a large hole in your heart and through your chest. Every moment you have felt something like that, Fighter S deals a punch gleefully. A roundhouse. An uppercut. A Dempsey roll. Every time it happens, you only remembered blacking out momentarily, then gazing up at the unforgiving spotlights high up in the ceiling, casting you as the protagonist of what looked like a comedy or a thrashing as Fighter S's supporters, the infamous D Spitfire Fan Group jeered, laughed and repeated S's insults.

No more! As anger at the humiliation builds up each time you get back up, the boiling point is reached and you rushed him. This time, a smirk, a whispered threat and a sneer are all you see before the pain spreads throughout your brain and you fall flat again onto the seemingly comfortable mat.

Your eyes close. Your senses are dulled and suddenly you feel like you should be sleeping here. After all, Fighter S was so much stronger. His suggestion to give up did seem plausible. You are nothing but a common fighter, destined to stop at the lower rungs of the sport. Why try so hard? Why do it when you know your gym mate would betray you? Why fight when The Fighter Os and Ds and Ss are always there to knock you down? Might as well give up, right?

Get up! Somehow, you managed to hear a voice and you get up just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the round. Saved by the bell. You return to your corner, dejected, head hung so low it would have touched your stomach. The chair is held out for you, and you slump into it, simply relieved the round is over. You are on the verge of tears, feeling as though the whole crowd had abandoned you and your team are but silent undertakers, ready to receive another corpse, dead of hope, bereft of life.

But the chair feels surprisingly soft. A deafening silence falls over the crowd, drowning out the cacophony the D Spitfires have caused to deal more mental damage to you. Something seems to flow into you, through you as you sit. You look up in disbelief, and see a familiar face.

It's Daddy G, and as He smiles, the tears you have defiantly held back finally broke down the resistance you've put up and began to flood your cheeks, flowing down your face and washing away the tough facade you've planted in.

Memories start coming back, and somehow it feels as though Daddy G was the trainer you had first left for a  'greater, bigger, better gym with more well-off trainers', or He was the one you had never listened to. in any case, He is here, and the feeling of shame still stayed.

It is all right, son. He puts a kindly hand on your shoulder and holds out the bottle. Drink, He says, and though you struggle, this time you do as you are told and the wonderful liquid quenches your thirst and stills your nerves.

Next, He holds out the towel and you reach out. To your surprise, he wipes the sweat off your face and drabs at the wounds with antiseptic and cotton. Miraculously, as you allowed Him to do so, they close up and you feel as good as new.

You feel ready as He speaks words of encouragement, of affirmation to you. As you listen, you realise strength has returned. You realise that the crowd - the A Faithful Fan Group are cheering, singing, encouraging you. You get up as the last words left the lips of Daddy G, and you step back into the ring as the bell sounds.

You lock eyes with Fighter S, and his mocking gaze nearly causes you to snap as you stalk forward, ready to give him a beating.

A hand sticks out from the man in charge and to your surprise, it is Daddy G again! Wait, He says. Wait.


But he's just there! I'm ready to go at him, Ref! I'm ready to fight him! Come on, lemme at 'im!

He smiles. Wait. Though the hand stays there and could easily be batted aside, the voice is firm but warm. You decide to listen again and wait, slowing your breathing until you feel yourself calm down. In and out your breath goes, until the cloud of confusion over your mind is dispersed.

As you open your eyes, suddenly there seems to be no shadow. Suddenly there seems to be no ominous figure in front of you, but a babbling, weak fool who had probably lied his way to so many victories he had notched up. Suddenly the D Spitfires are covered by silence, a blanket of tentativeness mixed with realisation and fear of that one truth that is unavoidable.

Fighter S can't win. Not when you are in this state.

Not when You have Daddy G as your second, encouraging you, stirring you up till the A Faithful are encouraged themselves to cheer you on.

Not when Daddy G is the referee who stops you and ensures you are ready before plunging into another brawl with S.

The bell rings, and you move forward, arms at ready in the peek-a-boo style, eyes focused and determined. With each step, Fighter S seems to shrink and retreat. His words bounces off your mind uselessly as you smile confidently.

You lunge with fists raised, knowing that as they fell, the belt is yours for the taking.

------------------------------------


Just a quaint little idea I thought up of as Daddy G spoke to me about being empowered and being prepared.

Even as we are empowered, sometimes we get a little too impetuous and lunge back into a fight that has knocked us down countless times.

But you see, Daddy G reminds me that He is the second and the referee to my match, though even as that is a given, I still needed to make the choice to accept His decisions and advice. I needed to obey.


And perhaps this little story might help you on the path to doing so as well...And finally truly help you achieve the victory that has already been given to you.


Peace out.