Another dark night. What a wretched life I have!
"Stop all the struggles. Didn't you like this feeling? The senses are all responding, my darling."
Yes indeed. Blood gushed downward, towards the middle body. In the midst of the darkness, strangely he found pleasure, however dark the sin might be.
"You got to pardon me, I know we have been doing it every week, but the feeling hasn't stopped at all. There's still pain between the thigh."
"It's alright, my darling. Ooh... Move your hand here..."
Gently she moved the hands that was defiled by the very act of consummation into the most delicate part of the body. As the physical touch slowly engulfed and gently support the small, well-toned and round chest, of which Solomon the King may have likewise obsessed himself with in the days of his reign - which probably led to his destruction towards the end of the empire.
Ah, Solomon, that's right. How much descent can you probably imagine - from the height of praise of many neighbouring empire that come visit. Queen of Sheba, a prominent ruler with worldly wisdom, probably at the height of the Yemen and Ethiopian reign - thought of this gentleman king as the anointed King from the God. With all the gifts, an acknowledgment from those of the world - perhaps that gift may have turned into a knife easily penetrating through the wall of thinning willpower. The power at will to stop those that may have contaminated the soul.
And here I am, in the middle of the night, consummated with the love act with someone that I no longer see possible to begin a family with. The only reason I would see perhaps is her beauty and her kindness towards me. And it is her beauty that allowed this consummation to slip into a terrible dream... of occasional corrosion.
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"What is it, my dear? You don't look too good."
Walls of birch colour, aged by the furniture and all the books around. Tilting to the left, the good ol' bass guitar laid left, as if unwanted, besides the books and all the oak-taint shelves. These books looked abandoned, in my thought, just like my guitar. And the epiphany came. All the things on the left seems unwanted, left behind. Is that the reason why I am on the left side of the bed?
"Do you want some tea dear? You seem quite quaint with the surrounding."
To my right, everything seems right. Brighter side of the room, perhaps. Also, more relics of collection from various parts of my current girlfriend's life. My current girlfriend, with that jovial look, as usual - and a little dose of teenage cuteness akin to those that enjoyed the company of High School Musical dream. I took a quick peak at the shirt that she is wearing - one that I bought awhile back during my personal visit to a friend in Kuala Lumpur. "Mistakes are the reason why we should not stop trying", a graffiti replica drawn on a sunny orange, reminding me that everything will be made right in its time. Her looks tell me the same too - bright smiles and gentle eyes - the dark brown eyes that reminded me of the trunk of a Christmas tree.
What a beautiful sight - one that I remembered vividly as a young boy at the porch of my parents' house back in Malaysia. The only western connection that I had back then wasn't my education in English, nor my enthusiasm in superheroes like Batman (one that I loved a lot since a kid) - but the Christmas tree. More like because that is the first nature that responded to me when I was crying after a terrible scolding from my dad for not giving in to my sister when it comes to having my favourite bag to school. Though just entering 3rd grade, that bag meant to me like how a guitar meant to a guitarist - an identity as a student, one that I took pride in. I wasn't an excellent student in grades, but I loved the life of being able to hide in school, away from the emotional hurt I was experiencing. Surprisingly, it was that one day, in the early morning when I was getting ready to school - of which one of the Christmas tree nearest to the gate actually responded to me by tilting the top downward, as if it felt overcast by the moody night before. Not even the next one felt the same. Though eventually I grew to understand the reason behind the nodding tree (a squirrel happened to pass on this tree - and it was only that day - though I would not discount the coincidence as an act of fate of empathy), I missed the naive part of myself - that small kid who sees the world as part of God's plan for something eventually.
"It's alright dear. I can get the drink myself. I am pretty much tired with the work and all. Do you mind if I nap a while on your bed?"
"Haha, dear, of course you can. Just get yourself comfortable at home, alright?" Her assuring words, oh how gentle they are. She is so much different from my past. And why is it that I can't let go of my past? Why?
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I often wondered, when I wandered, with my eyes, on the settings around me, that my past will always come flooding me. They are very much a hindrance sometimes. Like there's once, when I finished talking to my spiritual mentor about the new revelation from the result of my contemplation, the dishonourable images of the past that set its foothold since the night of consummation kept creeping in, as if to remind me that the past can never be forgotten. No matter how much I tried redeeming the thought with revelation of God's eventual purposes, I can't help but remembering two extremely conflicting post-reflection. One: the fact that I have hurt a woman, who imagine that I would be with her till the end of days, turned out to be that I actually don't like the fact that she played on me once and I found it hard to trust in her. The betrayal took a deep seeded edge of me, and I start to distrust her when at the last few days of our acquaintance (even after breaking up for a year or so), that she promised to change for me. Ol' saying, "Once bitten, twice shy." I remembered the night after consummation, she answered a call angrily at her ex to say not to call and the relationship was over - and immediately on the next week, I chanced upon the SMS of the correspondence between them betraying the content of the call that I heard the week before. It took me a lot of courage (though now I thought of them as self-deceitful courage) to think that she would change - only to know few months later, she called for a break up. Just when I thought and struggle to reconcile for a year - she had a different point of view and maintained that we were together, but she wanted more liberty for her own. Such a screwed up perspective of relationship, so much so that when the time draws near for me to eventually say goodbye and found someone new, her aggression towards attracting me confused me. All the confrontation that night, surprisingly, didn't put too much emphasis to my nightmare except the consummation of love making, one forbidden fruit that I have taken, and since regretting each night.
That point brings me to the second thought: no matter how much I tried to put a label of regret towards the consummation - of losing the innocence of something to be enjoyed within the covenant of marriage, I still couldn't forget the fleshly pleasure I felt in that consummation - and have experimented finding someone with the same body built (if not the facial similarity), just to feel the same attachment and same technique that my past exhibited. The delicate touch at the tip of the manhood felt the pleasure akin to the forbidden enjoyment of tasting thick chocolate fondue all day all night - that had never gone away. I tried with an escort - and I remembered the expression that she had, the same face I remembered seeing my first ex-girlfriend, who upon the first time I had the experience with her, showed the look of contempt and disgust, the feeling of being violated. It was at that time that I truly understood the meaning of why Paul exhorted the Corinthians to think of the body as the temple of God, and such fornication with prostitutes are like violating the sacred. Imagining the temple of God being violated with blasphemy is one thing; being degraded by the defecation of unclean animals and ungodly slaying of priests at the altar of God - that image came into me the moment I saw this poor lady. I told myself never again, but for how long?
The demonisation of this image - of the pleasure that I experienced with my past, the one after my first ex-girlfriend, had since become the harbinger of my own destruction, perhaps into the depths of sexual promiscuity. I struggled hard to find redemption, and though as of now, me and my current girlfriend abstained this act (purposes in sexual intercourse that can only be found in marriage become what we eventually found agreement in). However, every night, I couldn't differentiate between nightmare and pleasant dream anymore on this mental images, like a rewinding VCR - with the analog tape slowly degraded by the continual corroding magnetic gap. Greenish image perhaps, but what about the character? Would we age? Would the still shot of the lady on top of me continue to become a idol-worship that comes to me every night imagining the act of consummation?
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I wrote something like a confessional, of which I gave to my counsellor, related to this, but not on a great length. But the confession somehow summarised the feeling that I have about this episode, something that came out from a wrong decision made by self-will. The good out of the incident, though, reminded that we have freewill given, and there are good and bad decisions. Whatever road that was carved beyond depends on the road we travel.
In that journey when I passed on this confessional journal (handwritten) to my counsellor, a mental image came to me, something that I wasn't expecting. The demonisation of my thought may have eroded my sense, but surprisingly I became more aware of the artistic side of me - the one that writes and speaks. And all along I have thought (with the affirmation of my cell group mates) that I couldn't write or articulate or describe things well, that I am better off just stick to what I have been conditioned to know best - the sound engineering. In that mental images, flicking almost like still shot with narrations running along those slides - I see the potential of telling these stories in snippets, making them novels and writing to people to let them find a connection. Somehow, pictures of my first girlfriend, my second girlfriend (she has since found a husband and expecting their first child - someone close to both of us told me about it, I have not been able to link up with her because we chose to sever the ties) and my third and current girlfriend came in, with bits and pieces of stories that are interwoven to allow this articulative mind to weave them in series of blogs and conversations - ironically a means to find healing and eventually reasons in them. Though rather difficult to reproduce these reflections in papers (or e-paper, for instance in this blog), somehow they drew me closer to God. Strangely, first girlfriend taught me the meaning of community and accountability, that I never walked alone in the struggles. The second girlfriend taught me the meaning of walking in solitude with God and coming back to Him, in torn and broken tunic once beautifully dressed by those who sewn for me during the recovery after my first girlfriend - just like the prodigal Son. I often wondered what is left for the third - and in the reflection during my retreat, I found that the journey not only meant for the prodigal Son, but the beckoning of the elder son to come forward and receive him too. Incidentally she is raised a Catholic - and she is on a journey to understand her faith too - something that is perhaps part of my responsibility to guide her.
Every night, after waking up from the dream of consummation, I often wondered where is left for my soul to hide. When I looked out of the window, I saw the reflection of myself, the dirty face with scars of regrets and wrongdoings that I had been trying to redeem myself. Perhaps the strange timing of breaking dawn did the trick on the face that I saw on the window, but it was always the right side of the face that I saw reflecting back from the window, with the glowing sun rays laying rest upon the pimple-scars on my right cheek. It might have meant little to others, but I thought the image to be rather emblematic - resembling the face of God - shattered and brutalised, with blood stained on the cheek, the same cheek that Judas may have kissed as a token of betrayal. That face, perhaps, above all - is the face most likely speaks of the heart of God when He sees humanity in this state of bewildered though deliberate corruption - utter sorrow and sorry that he made humanity. But in the sadness of God, He didn't choose to see us as condemned, but as a potential work of salvation, and when the little strings of sun ray leaked on the forehead as I looked towards the window reflection - that it came to me - Jesus allowed humiliation as part of the redemption in a form of wearing the worldly crown, with thorns and bushes - which initially was meant for mockery - to let us see the utter deceit of chasing the dream that we tried to build, like what C. S. Lewis mentioned, paraphrased, "God is willing to give us the pleasures and gifts of heaven, and we are stuck in enjoying playing in the pool of mud."
Perhaps this dream of mine, of finding this same pleasure that I first built with my second girlfriend, is the sick crown I have been seeking to find, but this image becomes emblematic for me as a proclamation against sexual immorality. Perhaps, and for a long time, I wished I could cry the tears of desolation. Desolation of self, of how pathetic I have become, and wishing that one day, this demonisation will eventually not take any effect to me anymore, such that when the image comes back in a distant future, it has no foothold on me any longer. Perhaps. But when will that be, that remains a question I suppose. For now, I probably should start with a prayer... right?