Getting Used To Luxury

Sure, you may say. Many people believe that living luxurious lives, and getting used to it, is a symbol of authority and wealth. In my eyes, these people are like horses that are wearing blinkers, or as in the old Chinese proverb, looking at a leopard through a narrow tube（管中窺豹）, or to miss the big picture. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, read on.

A millionaire is living in a huge house in London. He has twenty servants serving him at any time and he never has to worry about money. Suddenly his company goes bankrupt because of the local economy. He fires all his servants and sells his house and starts all over again. He realizes that he doesn’t even know how to do the simplest things that even a six year old child would know, like doing the laundry, or even running the bath. He feels exasperated. You might laugh. You might cry. But don’t you see that this man has completely bathed in luxury? Let’s compare this with another case. A poor couple is living in a little shack in the east end of London. They don’t have money, but they’re really happy. Both of them are used to hard work and embrace it in their arms. Don’t you think that one would rather be the poor couple?

In another sense, being unused to good things that happen is being grateful. The reason why people label rich kids as “snobby” is because they have very high expectations of people around them to serve and to respect them. They are never thankful and will never be content with what they have. In short, they will never be happy.

So would you rather be that wretched millionaire, or that happy hardworking couple? It’s your choice; weigh the chances against each other, and make that decision. JC

Waiting for Mum

A lost soul, forgotten. That was when the melancholy piece of film music, “Forgotten”, came in. It created a beautiful slideshow in my head, leaving me yearning for more. Diving deep into my imagination, I take the movie and uncover the dirt on a touching story.

The violin produces a series of low, soft tunes, matching beautifully with the piano, adding a lighter tone of chords and whispering that he was loved. The calming music soothed his heart, comforted him. I could see his silent hidden tears, and his heart-wracking sobs subsiding. How the tone of the music lifted, arose and dipped again. But then it changes. The tone and his emotions fell. How the music had whispered to him, hugged him. But all was lost. The music hinted of despair, abandoning this lost soul and dove. Every high, calling note in the bar, every thump and turn of the beat, seemed like red hot needles pricking into his heart, reminding him that he had lost his portion of motherly love in his childhood, and for all he knew, eternity.

I could picture him crying on the ragged mattress, crying himself to sleep, numbing himself from the pain. The violin, soft in the background, with each quivering, lingering note hanging in the air, granted him enough strength to gradually restart his life. It grew fainter and slowly gave way to a new day.

And then, in my mind, he wakes up to find the dawn, thesun’s radiant beam pulling open the rags and bequeathing upon his innocent face. The violin was lightly repeating a sharp chord. Oh it was of glamour, of victory, of care and tenderness. It gave him hope, concealed deep in his heart. And that very day, they came, the allied RAF bombers, and announced the three words he had been waiting for in a very, very, long time: You are free! I could see his glowing face, swiftly gaining colour, matching with the marching tune of the piano.

Pause. The music fades out, only to be replaced by a tune of harmony. Each high note accompanied by a low note, giving me a sense of family. Yes he pulled through. His mum had come running through the gates for him. Finally he was bathed in the motherly he had yearned for such a long time, and the piano’s tune grew to one of ascending scale like his emotions.

The lark poured out its soul into the song and the high, wavering notes, just as the boy had poured out its soul to his mother. The music ends, peacefully, with the lark. It brought high, stirring notes that slowly faded into the blue, singing, still singing, singing for him and his mother, singing for harmony, singing for peace.

“Forgotten” inspires me to dare to dream and strive to succeed. Every time this familiar melody rings in my ears I think of this poor little boy and I know how lucky I am, unforgotten, and finding my way on in life.

The music referred to in this text is given in the following Youtube link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svP7soh2kTQ

~Dancing in the Rain~

It has always been there, that tree. It had been there since I remember, way back before I left. We planted it then, with our hands linked together. I wanted it to grow up and become big and strong, so we would have a tree of our own when we were both 50. I was wrong.

Going back in the vista of memories, I can remember how we planted it, how we danced around it, chanting songs. I was this little kid of two then, or perhaps even younger. Our childish voices echoed across the street.

Then we started school. Every day’s homework was done under the little tree; it had grown to become as high as I had been. Homework used to be a pain for other kids; for me and for her, homework is merely an excuse for us to be together, together with each other, together with the tree.

As the calendar pages flips and changes, I can now picture myself as a teenager, a gawky thin girl with so much freckles. She was this amazingly blonde symbol of femininity; so many boys wanted her. But she didn’t care. Oh no, not at all. We still hung out together. The excitement of having a very first job was shared under the tree back-to-back – our tree listened, and remembered; the thrill of having a very first kiss was whispered high in the branches – our tree listened, and remembered; the mixed feelings of having to go to the UK for further studies was revealed at the top of the canopy – our tree, of course, listened, and remembered too. But then I left, bringing everything with me, except for a longing for home, a yearning for my parents, and a dull ache deep inside me for her. We had been crying on each other’s shoulders and our parents had to pull us apart. She engraved our names on the bark of the tree and we vowed to see each other, under this very tree, in 50 years time.

A cool breeze takes me from my memories. As I lightly caress the smooth bark of the tree, I think of my angel, watching over me in the blue skies for eternity. I choose a leaf from the uppermost branches of the bough and inscribe: My friend, let us pine for the days, when I can take your delicate fingers in my hand and dance in the rain... I watch the leaf go fluttering up to the never-ending skies.

Almost instantly, a light drizzle comes raining on me, soothing my hungry heart. As if it was her saying: Let us feel the rain on our shoulders and dance here, right here next to our tree…