Child Sex Tourism - WHAT is being done?!?!

I wrote on the issue of child sex tourism (CST) a while back (CST in Sri Lanka) and was reminded of that again by a comment left there by Brandix a few days ago...which got me thinking. Before I returned to Sri Lanka, I was under the impression that CST had suddenly, at last, become a “problem”. There was some kind of child empowerment ad released, etc to not only empower kids to say no, but also to create more awareness of the issue within society. Yet, since I’ve been back, I find that nothing seems to have changed. People are still, on the whole, unaware of the problem or are happy to look sad to 2 seconds when the topic comes up before moving on to “let’s talk how to resolve the national problem”. A problem that continues to traumatize and destroy whole future generations is not an issue that is national enough?

What bothers me is the fact that I can’t see anything that’s being done – by anybody. I’ve not even seen so much as an ad – to empower or just simply to create awareness/ eliminate its ‘taboo’ tag. WHY IS THAT?? Where is the NCPA? Whose children do they protect? Do people really not care? Have we stopped caring and have started to rationalize so much to the extreme extent that we’re afraid of at least trying to do something today for fear of it not achieving all that we expected tomorrow?

When I talk of CST, even in passing reference, the reactions I’ve seen makes me think people are generally divided into 3 categories on the issue:

1. Those that just don’t care - the kind who think “it’s not my problem”. These types of people are not worth anyone’s time or space so I’ll not waste my blog space on them.

2. Those that care. They say “oh yes, sad thing, no?” and/ or “something must be done about this”, but think they themselves are not capable of “doing anything” and so they don’t. Or they find it sad, etc, but the subject is still kind of too “taboo” to be really talked about. These people are the most important from an activists' perspective simply because they can be used to the advantage of the issue just the way a floating vote is used (exploited?) by a politician. If they are shown/ told how to make a change, if they are made aware that taboo-ing it and sweeping it under the carpet helps no one, there is always hope for change.

3. Those that reason and rationalize, sitting on cushioned arm chairs – literally or metaphorically. Those who belong to this group are generally “high up” types who carry some clout socially or politically, etc. There are two types within this group, those who listen patiently and then (very logically) reason “they are all good ideas, but where’s the money for all this?” The second type who rationalizes “…but I don’t think ‘solution x’ will work” before moving on to ponder ideas which will work such as a military solution/ peace talks to the conflict.These type of people actually have the contacts and experience to at least try to implement mechanisms to make a change...so why don't they?

And for me, being the tiny individual that I am right now, it’s doubly frustrating that not only do I have to put up with such shocking reactions, but there doesn't seem to be anything to get involved in to at least try to make a change..and it makes me feel like I, too, can’t to do anything about this at all..except for ranting about it every once in a while :(

Frozen Tear

I picked an Araliya off the mounds
That lay at my feet scattered around
The soft yellow white violently creased
You turned away scowling, quite displeased
For in that bloom you only saw
Its “fall from grace” to sands below

You don't see the defenselessness
Of crushed petals in that browning mess
You point only to the disapproved
Ignoring lost moments, almost unmoved
By the childish fragrance openly stripped
By the smiling face of a nondescript

You tell me not to overreact
But were not the blooms cruelly hacked?
And while the sun chooses to turn away
Will not the bud forced to flower early today
Be judged tomorrow eons before birth
Like an illegitimate child by the mother’s girth?

You see no debris; but only taboo;
Proffering reason to think things through
You crush the helpless, unaware,
You advise blindness of their despair
If your reasoning is what you don’t feel;
Is my frozen tear, their sole appeal?

Living for the moment

We always look for an end, a goal, a conclusion that sometimes the means to that end is forgotten, and perhaps left unenjoyed. But what if there was no end? Would we enjoy the traveling more? Would we still be as enthusiastic about every step, every skip, every tumble?

Sometimes when we meet someone, we look, even unconsciously, for a conclusion. A conclusion in the form of a good business deal, a special favour, a perfect friendship, the soulmate. When we meet people, or are catapulted in to situations, then that initially imagined goal becomes a series of stepping stones – profit, happy relationships, growing old together while the gold bands on each other’s fingers slowly grow dull with time. But if that end could not be, does it make the path any more rugged? Does it make the traveling any less sweeter? Isn’t it by looking for that almost ready-made conclusion that the sweet is embittered? When the conclusion is not as glossy as it seemed in the catalogue in which we’d imagined it?

What if we were a spider web - the middle enclosure, where we stand, and the strands, the arms we unravel outwards to the world? For all those bugs and beetles scurrying along the wall, those strands lead in to an interesting, unknown centre..along strands some might slide along with gleeful weee!s while others may find them sticky and cumbersome, and exhale their final breath never really having reached the centre.

Yet to us, those who stand in the middle of that web, the strands don’t necessarily lead anywhere. Could it not be that they lead nowhere, but only exist to balance that inner circle more firmly? Then is it realistic to expect each strand to leave us with explosions of realization which, even for a moment, reach grand unexplored epiphanies? But if that explosion, that epiphany was not actively searched out but left to surprise us if be, would we be as happy? For isn’t happiness found in our minds, in our hearts, only when we imagine that explosion and see the beauty of rainbow sparks? Isn’t it the fact that those sparks never exist outside the realm of our minds that leaves us disappointed with people and situations we might have otherwise found perfectly acceptable?

And so if that final goal which we found in the catalogue of our imagination was not looked for, would we not pay closer attention to the strand stretching outward? Appreciate the gentle diamond glisten of dew drops that balance minutely defying gravity? Realize, before it’s too late, the dust which had begun to accumulate along that fine thread till it was a heavy rope which we lugged around unknowingly or complainingly, had silently snapped long ago?

They say that life is a dew drop balanced on the edge of a grass blade. We’ve all lost someone, by distance, by death, by a sudden cool breeze, in the blink of an eye to know that this goes undoubted. One wayward breeze, one careless footstep and that drop of heavenly water ceases to live.

Then in that infinitesimal moment, between balancing on the tip of the blade of grass and being greedily drunk in by the thirsting earth, should we not endeavour to enjoy every diamond, no matter how small, that lies perched on the strands we unravel outward rather than crane our necks, bending over backwards, in the hope of an end that might very well have ultimately been only imagined or presumed?

The Mating Ritual of "Clubbing"

We all know that animals have various forms of mating rituals which are unquestioningly accepted by us “higher animals”. And we also know that us higher animals also have various forms of mating rituals which come in a variety of labels. But this was something I “knew” but didn’t really think about. Till I went clubbing a few weekends ago and “observed” the crowd.

The Onyx experience, being a girls’ night out, started off well enough with a round of Margaritas. It was way too crowded to dance and the girls refused to dance seeing as we'd likely get crushed to death in there. And so while we hung about waiting for the crowd to thin a bit I “observed” a lot. Then a couple of weeks later, at H2O, the boyf was meeting a bunch of friends he was seeing in ages and hence wanted to sit, drink and “talk” (meaning shout at each other) and so I was once again on the couch “observing” (and seriously contemplating trading in the boyf for a younger model who actually liked dancing to “talking”..grrr!). Since this was the first time I’d got a chance to watch the crowd rather than being a part of it, thought I should make some good use of it.

There were bunches of girls/ guys dancing and, more often than not, a few from these groups would glance a few times at a member of the opposite sex who was dancing nearby/ standing at the bar/ getting drunk with friends. And when this glancing succeeded in catching the target’s eye, the former would look away fast, but the grinding seemed to be done with much more enthusiasm than before. Then the glancing, trying to catch his/ her eye would resume till at some point, one approached the other (here, for some reason, it was mostly the girls doing the grinding,and guys the approaching). From then on, I can’t say what happened because my attention would move to another similar ritual happening nearby.

What struck me was that so many people seemed to be “meeting” others for the first time and seemingly “hitting it off” although anything that one communicated to the other had to be purely physical since the blare of various rhythms assured that no two people in there could “talk” to each other. And this is what got me thinking. Mostly because I suddenly made the connection between the couple grinding on the floor and single people I know who go clubbing hoping to meet the right girl/ guy.

Some people seemed to go clubbing not just to dance and have fun, as I had thought at first, but also to either pick up or be picked up (not just for the night, I mean) and come away disappointed when neither happens for some reason or full of hope when “something happened”. Since I've bene back, I've met so many single people who go out hoping to “meet the one”…and I suspect this is also why “just a dance”, a fling, a one-night stand will never do for them...for their goal is only for a longer dance, one that lasts a lifetime, it seems. Then is this not a mating ritual of a kind?

And it seems the difference between a person who takes part in this ritual and a person who does not is in the purpose/ intention of going clubbing – those who go out to have good night dancing with friends (old and new) and those who go to pick up/ be picked up with long-term hopes.

In these “modern” times, clubs open up, hire a DJ and dole out alcohol and whatever substances they can get away with making money off. And the music, the substances, seem to help move along this ritual.

For some reason, realizing this made me sad at first. But now that I’ve thought about it, there isn’t anything sad about it at all. It’s just another way I suppose of “meeting someone”…albeit having to have your first conversation shouting at each other…but then again, perhaps this sets the tone for the (hoped for) marriage. There doesn’t seem to be any rational reason for being sad about this for if any of these “matings” that happen on numerous dance floors in numerous clubs go the mile, then is it not indeed a perfectly natural ritual?

Why it seemed sad at first I think is perhaps because it reminded me so much of the peacock and its desperate, lonely dance when it would stand alone amidst dry, brown foliage, nose in the air, yet with tail feathers fanned out behind in all their glory. Proud, magnificent, yet desperately hoping someone would notice, stop by to say hello and dance the peacock dance with him.

Grief

I watched a movie recently of which I didn’t think too much…maybe because the entire plot was pretty obvious within the first 2 minutes of the movie and the rest had to be spent suppressing yawns. However, one short scene got me thinking..

Grief

A widow dances.
The empty arms of his shirt
Wrapped about her
As rains wash away the hurt
She dances; smiling,
His old warmth all-embracing

Most of us have been touched by grief, in one way or another. I always wondered how people can say ‘X’s grief is worse/less than Y’s’ and not know that they lie. One’s grief is not relative for one’s pain is not relative. One hurts as deeply as another – not more, not less.

When pain hits you, and darkness starts closing in, the only way back to light is to dance. In the rain where you don’t know if you’re crying, in an embrace that feels as warm today as it had yesterday. But that light is not real; it only tries to relieve the darkness a little. It comes fast, like a lightening streak out of a stormless sky, for it lights up the darkness and then is gone, leaving us gasping, groping, knowing we need to find a longer, stronger light.

That longer light comes with the realization that the arms are now empty, the warmth has left and the rains that came with duty, with friends, has now ceased for it cannot rain forever. Rain only patters about softly for a little while before you must be left alone to find the sunshine again. This light comes like the sun over the horizon – softly and so, so slowly you wonder if it’ll ever rise, if it’ll ever take over the sky.

And then, when the light has risen, the blue sky seems yellow hued again. Yet, a lined hand, a warm touch, the tilt of a head, a scent from childhood in the breeze, a familiar chant…and the darkness beckons once more. And the temptation to give in is strong, to curl up in the darkness, to wait for those around you to forget you were ever there.

Yet we refuse to give in. Is it because we’re afraid of being judged by the rains that will surely surge around us if we were to give up and give in? Or are we afraid of losing our way, of forgetting the path, we’d struggled so hard to find?

How we see others…

If we were to take a palmful of water from a freely flowing river, can we use that palmful to know the river? Does the colourless still water tell us that the river was a dull brown-green? Or do the mini rainbows arching within the water tell one of the silvery sparkles that danced on the surface of the river? Does one ever know how deep and long the river flows?

Isn’t that what we expect and accept when we meet people? We take a word, a phrase, a story they gave us, or we stole, and seek to find the whole person within that one word and one story. Don’t we see that person in a lovely mauve shade or a dull grey only because we ourselves are looking through a mauve or grey shade instead of a clear one?

The palmful of water snatched from the river merely conforms to the contours of our palm. It takes only the hue of our hand and the depth of the crevice between the pads of our palm…

It seems obviously unwise to judge the river by that palmful, yet we don’t hesitate to see and judge a person from one story, one inference, one rumour.

But at the end of the day, maybe it doesn’t really matter. Maybe it doesn’t matter if we judge the river by the palmful or not, for it doesn't change what is real. For that palmful of water will seep slowly through our fingers till there is not a trace left. But the river! The river may continue to still flow green brown and the sparkles may still wink; but all the while, it will continue to run along laughing, laughing for its hidden unknown depths are still masked by what we choose to see in the palmful of water we hold.

Above River Pic by Turtle

Not really being there…

A couple of days ago, I went along to what was meant to be a special day for a friend…and found to my dismay that I was only one of the 2 people who bothered showing up…despite the fact that the invite list was much longer…and this got me thinking..

Why do we expect people to be there for us, to stay loyal and true to us… Is it to fool ourselves into staying happy? Feeling cared for? Loved? Is it not our own vanity that makes us think that friends, family and other loved ones will always be around us, in days full of light as well as those in darkness?

If you take a minute you’d notice that perhaps we don’t always think about it, but our shadow seems to always be around. It seems that the shadow never leaves the heels of our feet, but walks along with us, indiscriminate of how we feel and who we are. But this is only an illusion we hang on to as we plod along because we don’t bother to really notice that shadow…instead, we leave it to sway in the periphery of our vision…and only see it when it’s not there, or when we need to see it to dispel the loneliness.

In reality, the shadow clings to our heels so loyally only in the light. Depending on the light and its angle, the shadow grows and recedes. It dances to a rhythm we can’t control for it listens and knows only the music of light. But we always find that when there is darkness, the shadow is no more…for when the music vanishes, when the notes are tuneless, the shadow knows not the steps anymore.

If even our own shadows cling to us only in times of light, why is it that we expect people to be with us, for us, in our times of darkness? Why do we expect people to materialize out of nowhere for even a short waltz that’ll help us smile for a few minutes a day, when those who are closest to us hears the music no more?

Going home - the scary and the hope :o)

Tonight I go back home to Sri Lanka and I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit this week. There are things I look forward to, but there are lots of things that also scare me. This fear, I think, is rooted in the fact that I have come to realize that I don’t really know Sri Lanka. I grew up in Colombo, and I don’t think I knew the real Sri Lanka except in glimpses here and there. It is as Arthur Jarvis said, in Alan Paton's Cry, The Beloved Country, of growing up in South Africa:

“One can ride, as I rode when I was a boy, over green hills and into great valleys. One can see, as I saw when I was a boy, the reserves of the Bantu people and see nothing of what was happening there at all… One can read, as I read when I was a boy, the brochures about lovely South Africa, that land of sun and beauty sheltered from the storms of the world, and feel pride in it and love for it, and yet know nothing about it at all. It is only as one grows up that one learns of the hates and fears of our country. It is only then that one’s love grows deep and passionate, as a man may love a woman who is true, false, cold, loving, cruel and afraid.”

What I know of the real Sri Lanka is so little because as a teenager growing up, one lives (at least I did) in a bubble where there’s so much going on – school, exams, sport, emotional roller-coasters – that you don’t let yourself really open your eyes and look around you…except for a brief cursory glance. It really is when you start growing up that you learn of the real storms thundering around you. But I did that growing up elsewhere, outside of Sri Lanka. I saw bits of Sri Lanka through these new “grown up” eyes during holidays – but that’s really what they were in the end – holidays in which I saw things, heard things, but left behind at the end of the month.

I did my growing up and the real seeing and hearing in Melbourne. I did find a lot of 'good' here, but in end, I can’t reconcile myself to accept the pile of bad no matter how sparkly the pile of good glitters. Men arrive on these shores with only the clothes on their back, for fear of their lives, and are locked up like common criminals; and families which were victimised and broken apart by fundamentalists elsewhere are once again victimised and broken apart by liberals here – again and again. There's nothing as painful as watching a grown man cry for his wife, for his children; there's nothing as uplifting as promising him you'd find a way; and there's nothing to compare to the fear that keeps you awake night after night afraid of other men's policies that'll make your words drown in nothingness. In some ways, I'm leaving because I know I don't want to stay.

When I return to Sri Lanka, I return to what I'd seen only in glimpses here and there over the last couple of decades. But also buried deep within those slightly thundery unsure images and the “golden beaches” of brochures and postcards, I also carry a few special images; rare glimpses of real radiance like the complete untouched beauty of the morning fog over Lokgaloya. I found that unexpectedly, the breath caught in my throat, as I passed through on the way elsewhere.

So I leave behind the country I could not really connect with, the country that destroyed my faith in simple humanity. I know I will never return to Melbourne. For me, that golden ball of fire in the sky here is a hypocrite; lighting the blue skies whilst a dark thundery cloud lies hidden on the horizon; firing mundane trees to blanket whole areas in thick grey fog.

Yes, it's inevitable that I’ll see such dark clouds in the blue skies of Sri Lanka too. Yet that is MY country and right now, that seems to make all the difference. And so here's hoping for real love for Sri Lanka in the coming months and years. And maybe, just maybe, even real and dramatic enough to be “deep and passionate, as a man may love a woman who is true, false, cold, loving, cruel and afraid.”

Painting: Monet's Red Kerchief

Do I really want to be a lawyer?!?

Next Tuesday I sit for (hopefully) my final exam and so this is probably not the time to question the point of the last four years…yet, now that I’m almost at the end, I do question it. I wanted to read and write, write and read all my life, yet law was tempting and when it knocked, I gave in and bid it welcome. And now that I have to decide on a career path and find a job, I really do wonder at it. At the choice I made. And more at the choice I might have let slip past.

There’s a path before you, a path that ends at a cliff, a path you have not walked before. Once you start walking it, you know there can be no returning, not to what you leave behind. So you make a decision to walk, you find someone who makes the sunshine a little bit brighter around you and put one foot in front of the other.

You take their hand and walk, the sweet scent of the world wafting around you. Little stones prick the soft soles, boulders lie across the path, flowers bloom prettily while thorns run down their green stalks. You choose to walk around the boulders, furtively wipe the blood off your fingers and ignore the pricks of pain for if you did not, that path would be walked alone. Alone, in the dark of night when pain is unseen, in the monsoons when tears invisible.

At the end of the path lies the cliff, with the ocean below, yet out of sight. And you don’t know if the waves roll in softly or thunder against the rock. You don’t know if the water is warm and light-dappled or icy and deep. Without the safety of knowing, you need to jump. For you said you would. You took a foot off that cliff, that promising hand in your clammy one, and know now it’s too late to refuse. Too late to run to the footsteps you now suddenly hear behind you. The foot prints you had not stopped to examine before. But it’s too late to run back now for you have committed yourself too much.

If a drowning man clutches at straws, a falling man grabs at anything that floats past. And when you take that jump, what else do you hang on to but optimism? But optimism can be reality’s worst nightmare for it creates hope. It’s the softly fading rainbow of the man losing sight. It makes you search the vacant air for a stray parachute. It keeps the water warm, the sand soft below. And hope never dies. Not till the icy water numbs the pain and you lie on the rocks below, your head splintered, unseeing eyes staring at the empty blue of the sky arching above. Only then, only then, will hope die its silently shattered death.

But who’s to say the parachute will not come?

Now back to the studying...ack!

Hope on the Edge

When you’re a kid, there’s this game some adults play with you. They hold out a fist to you and ask you to guess what they hold within. So you guess – a chocolate! a marble! And some adults give you whatever it is they brought. But there were others. Others who made you peel back their fingers, one by one, till you can see the treasure they hold, till you can grasp it within your own small fist.

Life is like this I think. A fist held out to you, fingers to be peeled back one by one. Yet the difference is you’re no longer a child. You hope for the chocolate, the coloured marble, but somewhere in the back of your mind you know there could be something nasty, something sick. Yet, since hope is a funny thing, you peel back the fingers anyway.

Some are fast enough to find a glittery treasure within a few minutes, whilst others spend their whole life without once catching sight of anything beautiful. Some catch sight of a pretty shade and grasp it only to find that the colour fades too soon. Some peel back the fingers to find that the fist held nothing at all.

However, there are lucky ones among us. The ones who find the marble. The marble with the stripe of colours held tight within the glass. In this marble of life, that stripe is a Mobius strip – one-sided, one edged. Bits of it we walk the right way up, bits of upside down, but all of it on the same path. There’s only one very small challenge in walking through this colourfully marbled world. Whether one breaks into dance on the right-way-up bits or gets too dizzy on the upside-down bits, we need to stay away from the edge.

For beyond that edge, hope does not exist. And fists will never be extended again.

Who is "mad" - me or she??

Last week I visited a friend who introduced me to her grandmother who was apparently "not quite right". She certainly seemed all right to me, but apparently she wasn't. Since I didn't know the grandaughter too well, I couldn't really question her, so while coffee was being made, I talked to the "not quite right" grandma. Or rather, she talked to me.

The news was on and there was a man talking about the failure of the war in Iraq, to which the grandma listened quite patiently beofre suddenly sayin - we don't realize that everything we do, we do only for ourself. Even when we help someone, we help them only because it gives us the satsifaction of having done some good. And only God does things for others without looking for personal happiness. Not exactly how I see the war in Iraq (!!) or God for that matter, so was this what made her "not quite right"?

No, 'course not cos when the chick came back with coffee she decided to show me just how "not quite right" her grandma was. She proceeded to ask her grandmother a series of questions. What year is this? After much thought the answer came back - 1982. How old was she? 55 (she was actually 79). How old was the granddaughter? 'you graduated last year. 24' (correct). Where did she live? An address so far out in the suburbs I had not heard of the place (though they actually lived very close to the city). Where was grandpa? Glancing at the clock on the wall, 'at work' (he had died about 20 years ago I think) and so on.

Throughout this questioning, this chick found these answers hilarious. And the questions got wackier till I told her I didn't find it funny. I don't know what exactly the grandma had for she remembered some things quite correctly and other things so very incorrectly..but what disconcerted me was not the errors the grandma made, but the fact that this girl I had thought was quite "normal" was so entertained by her grandmother's "madness". Wasn't that a much worse madness than whatever the old lady had?? And is the fact that I find the girl "mad" and not at all hilarious mean that I myself is afflicted with some sort of "madness"?

Why is it that we are so quick to see madness in others but not in ourselves? Why is it that we must always point to that mad person and not to this mad person in the mirror? Is it because if we start seeing our own madness, we can never surface from the dark labyrinth we are dragged into? Is it because we start seeing people in the dark alleyways that hitherto ran empty in solitude within us? Maybe it's because when we start seeing those that hover in the twilight of our hearts, we expect others to see them and we want others to see them. When they cannot, we are disappointed. Maybe it is to shield ourselves, from this disappointment, from that feeling of utter aloneness we feel when we realize that we are alone among those ghosts within us, that we refuse to see the madness within us and are quite happy to pass judgment on others.

With my own two hands..

I can change the world
With my own two hands
Make a better place
With my own two hands
Make a kinder place
With my own two hands
With my own,
With my own two hands

I can reach out to you
With my own two hands
With my own,
With my own two hands

I can hold you
With my own two hands
I can comfort you
With my own two hands
But you got to use

Use your own two hands
Use your own
Use your own two hands

With our own
With our own two hands

With My Own Two Hands - Ben Harper (Diamonds on the Inside)

Yellow to Red to Orange

It's weird how you wake up in the morning and go about your day not knowing that you're going to meet someone and when you meet him, he'll say something to you and BOOM! your life will change.

This is what happened last Friday.

And when you wake up the next day you realize that everything in your life has been stupid, stupid, stupid

It's like life barrells down in yellows and then someone comes along and leaks a bit of red into it and it all turns orange and there's nothing you can do about it except see everything else for the rest of your life through that orange, orange haze

And I have finally understood most of the song Misere (Cat Empire):

/Do you ever look around/ turn your ear to the ground/ show your face to the sky/ on a night when the skies echo sounds/ from inside of your mind/ on the stage that you shone/ where the sun did become you/ and move with your thoughts/ through the sighs and the scenes/ of the worlds you have seen/ and the sights that have been/ your reflection in shadows and dreams?/

Did you ever see a man/ who did walk down the street/ white robe with no shoes on his feet/ and on top of his head place a box/ with two slits/ and the sign from his neck said/ ‘I do not exist’/ or a woman who could not remember/ her name/ did stutter and stutter/ again and again/ and saw you and called you her son/ her eyes said/ ‘my being is gone/ but still I’m not dead’?/

/Miserere/

/Have you ever seen a sound/ have you listened to an image/.../ have you ever told a lie/ that was true more than truth/ because truth it had lied/ all its life when it spoke to you?/ And what did it say/ it is that it is this/ this goes here here is there/ it is not yes it is/ it was dulling your senses/ your eyes they were bound/ have you ever my friends/ been looking around?/

/And the other replies/ with a wave of a hand/ I am already here/ in this promised land/ but not by a god and not by a king/ and not by a spirit/ deep from within/ I am here/ because a miracle’s a whim/ it’s a flash of glory/ it’s an empty tin/ and maybe might lets you in/ not to save you/ but to keep on looking/

/Miserere/

/Do you ever look around/ and find what is yet to be found?/

And so henceforth, through this newly acquired orange haze I will notice the man who does not exist, the woman who exists without a being, the truth that has (so badly) dulled my senses cos a miracle is indeed a (very) empty tin and I've now realized that it's there not to save you but to only make you keep looking.

And hopefully everytime I want more I'll remember to stop to look around; to see that which I am looking for.