where God is not glorified / late at night
And that place is at home.
I've been very frustrated the last couple of weeks. I never quite used to return home so early before to meet with such annoyance, but with my new job, it's far more frequent. Have you ever encountered neighbours who inconsiderately blast their rock music as though there's no one else in the neighbourhood? If you thought that was being irritating, try visiting my home. At almost every corner and turn which my mom would walk by, there would be some form of radio or audio device switched on to the maximum volume, to some chant of some sort. Mind you, every device plays different things. You know, it's nothing to do with the fact that I'm Christian and she's Buddhist. It's everything to the fact that it's extremely loud and chaotic, and excruciatingly frustrating. I don't understand how anybody could live with that amount of noise!
And needless to say, I get very upset and horribly impatient. I can't do anything in peace (literally) and it's so loud, it hurts the ears.
I wonder why none of my neighbours have called to complain yet.
So the problem is this. I know I haven't been at my very best at home. It's so difficult to be as God wants me to be, when the circumstance just throws you into a dark corner the way it's doing to me. I know I shouldn't be rude or resent my mother. How displeasing that is to God! But by my own strength, I can only anger God more.
Father, please forgive me. Teach me. Guide me. Give me your strength to carry on.
Perhaps it just gets all the more difficult, when I have to deal with a mother who was never happy with anything I ever did, who always believed that everything that went wrong in the house would have been my fault, who was always ready to yell at me, who was never with me nor realised how much I needed her when I really did.
But I know it's no excuse for me to be angry with her and to dishonour her. And yes, I'm just grumbling, whining, and being self-piteous when I know I shouldn't.
I make a dreadful daughter.
If you have a great relationship with your mother, please count it as a blessing -- because it truly is one.
Okay, apart from all that mess at home. I'm also half wondering if I'm just so weak or if I'm just about to die soon. I feel sick, yet I'm not so sick. My throat is scratchy, yet not horrid enough to warrant a day's MC. My mind's a whirl and I want to sleep. But when I do, I get bad dreams and end up more tired than before.
This must be one of those clumsy periods of life when everything that can go wrong, goes wrong. I want to sulk so badly, I think I need to be in prayers.
Sorry if I abandoned any conversations with you prematurely today. I'm just so out of sync with myself. I don't know what I'm talking about.
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And in absolutely no relation to the above post whatsoever,"After Dark," Murakami's latest novel, is a streamlined, hushed ensemble piece built on the notion that very late at night, after the lamps of logic have been snuffed and rationality has shut its eyes, life on earth becomes boundariless and blurred. Individuals who were separate during the day begin to lose uniqueness, to leak distinctiveness, melting into a soft psychic collective. As the hands of the clock slice deeper into the shadows, physics weakens, yielding to metaphysics, and the rigid you and I of things breaks down. During the wee hours, we're all in this together, our spirits spooned like lovers' bodies. It's funny how I feel like it's late into the night already, when it's barely 1030pm. Anyhoooooows. The above review is an excerpt from the NY Times about a book I recently finished reading. Zong Ren gave it to me for recent my trip to Thailand -- much to my delight, I would think that I'd have been so bored without it. Yes, I had quite a bit of spare time in Mae Salit and I finished about 80% of whilst I was there.
The book is awesome -- as every Murakami is. But I recall how I was trying to explain why I like Murakami so much to Yahui, and found myself quite stumped for words. His books hardly have a story worth retelling in my own words. I mean, if I told you the plot -- you'd think the book was ridiculous. It is in fact, the way he crafts his language that makes everything worth reading. Then again, you may laugh at me for saying that because Murakami writes in Japanese so the beautiful language is the work of the translator.
So I was stumped. But I don't care. I'm really hooked on Murakami -- whether or not I can explain why. You know, love doesn't need a reason nor a justification. Love comes. Love goes. Love just is.Labels: family, reflections
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