A thought provoking day

The the catchy tune of "low" permeated the stands and tempted my feet to tap to the beat,
I was painfully aware that I had never heard the song in such low spirits as did occupy me at that point in time.

The victory songs that blasted through the air, resonating with the cheers from the MJ stands,
the raucous party just metres away at the other end of the stadium and its stark contrast to the subdued emotions of the wall of people behind me.

A cacophony of bursting clappers sounded like happy fireworks punctuated periodically by an aggravatingly demagogical emcee-voice emanating from a loud amplifier. All these seem to rudely trespass the almost sanctified stupor that half the stadium remained suspended in.

Perfect. The perfect victory scene.
Just that the winner isn't VJ this time.
Looking at the disappointed (which is an understatement) faces of the yellow shirts on the field, I could feel their anguish. An anguish I shared. An anguish so thick and tangible in the air, I could almost pluck a handful out of it, and taste its bitter-sour on my lips.
Looking at the red shirts just in front of me, I could distinctly remember how it felt like last year, after the match against RJC in CCAB. Voices spent, emotions wrangled, but with the same dogged determination to maintain a face of optimism and spirit. "Chins up" indeed. Well said, Daniel.
The band-aids that litter the floor, the bold red Chinese drum that now lay subdued and quietened.
All around, I could sense the pulse of life. A rhythm I know too well.

The questions came fast and furious.
"Let not our will but Yours be done. Is this Your will Lord?"
"Why should it end this way?"
While these were running amok through my mind, I couldn't help but notice the parodox of victory and defeat juxtaposed side by side. How would it have been different if VJ had been the champions?
Surely the very same songs, so clearly hand-picked beforehand, would have filled the stadium with the same joyous tone of congratulations for the champions and the same rude and jarring clash with the sombre atmosphere on the side of the losers.

VJ could have won, VJ lost.
MJ could have lost, MJ won.

To what, did they owe the honour?
And haven't our players trained hard, prayed hard and played hard too?
It could have been our victory for the very same reasons it is now theirs.
And yet what did it matter?
It has happened - the concluding piece layed down as real as real can be upon the shrill cry of the final whistle we began to fear, when we approached the final minutes.

"Is this life?"
I found my inner voice inquire.
And almost immediately, as if the answer came at once from a realisation I had already reached subconsciously,
"Yes it is."

Reality. As real as real can be.
That we may endeavour, but hard work does not guarantee anything.
That we can hope and pray, but miracles don't always happen when we do.
Yes, go on, work hard, play hard and pray hard, but nothing is set in stone.
Even the best falls down sometimes.

As I stumbled upon this path of reconciliation with reality,
I began to see that perhaps the greater victory lies with the VJ boys too,
that in this defeat lay hidden (like a thimble in the pudding)
a precious and valuable firsthand insight into a hard truth of life that they will be able to appreciate more, despite going home with a silver medal.

It's been such a long time since I last blogged.
Well, I decided moments ago that one month is long enough a time to have not been blogging.
So here I am, at it again.

Things have been so different.
If anything, I wasn't for the want of blog-worthy posts, but for the time to blog about them.

I'm confronted by the idea that the past owes me its continued existence.
That the comfort and ease, rudely taken away wth the simple passage of time should naturally incur my indignation.
That every failure should be greeted with the blame that I have been displaced from my past.
That I am still adapting, still getting use to things...

And yet I know better.
The truth, rude and raw,
is that the past can not and will not hide me from my present inadequacies.
That my life will not be determined by a single failure, nor a solidary success.

What little past rights I can lay claim to will scarcely hold, because what matters is the now.
If there is to be a moment of maturity, it will be when I grasp the crude reality of things, and embrace my responsibility in its unfolding.

If there is a stage at which an individual life becomes truly adult, it must be when one grasps the irony in its unfolding and accepts responsibility for a life lived in the midst of such paradox.

And perhaps most tragically, time will not wait.
There will be a day we jerk awake from our labour's slumber.
So what?
More primarily, when will that happen?

I worry everyday, that when it finally comes, it'll be too little too late.

There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions. You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of a leaning into the light