The last time i posted something, anything on this page was the day before Christmas last year. I never once had a large following on my blog. And now with this 6 month hiatus, I know I would have lost whatever 'fans' I used to have. Oh! the Liberty! But, I would be a greater idiot and a fool at that too if I were to say nothing transpired, nothing changed since that last day of my posting. In fact, so much has happened that perhaps writing a blog entry seemed to have lost its thrills and youthful eagerness. Thus today with both these reasons firmly placed at the back of my mind, I write for a reason, a purpose.

I woke up this morning, having only slept a meagre 6 hours the night before, feeling emotionally empty; no, I was emotionally confused to the point of not knowing what and how to feel emotionally. The phrase "being torn" has been used countless times in my youthful days of blind pursuits of an elusive love that sought only to please the people around me just so that to them, I could be 'normal'; hence my refusal to use the term here. But today, I am torn now.

No, it's nothing to do with girls and it's definitely got nothing to do with boys. It's a personal issue of responsibility and the love for the ministry and oh, the desire to see it grow and mature and blossom to something far greater than where we are today, of course all this by faith. I am torn.

I once heard of this account of a boy struggling to be with the one he 'loves'. He took a lift up to the 11th floor, the highest floor of the housing estate and trudged down the corridor with tears only beginning to well up in his eyes. With every step he took, he took it with his greatest strength, but also with greatest pain. After pulling the dead weight that was chained to his feet for a mere ten metres, he stood with fear and trepidation in his heart before a wooden door. By then his eye sockets like a swimming pool could no longer hold the sea of tears quickly crashing against his eyelids; it finally rolled down his pale face that once burned red under the scorching sun of his athletic days. As his tears found freedom, his heart was bound and his feet still sore from the pulling of the weight. He turned his body around and looked into the distance, walked towards the chest-high wall and grabbed the bar set firmly on it. He would have fallen through if not for that solid, firm wall, plummeting eleven stories down into the cars below him. Memories, oh the sweet sweet memories came flooding back into his already fatigued mind and as if they materialised, the tears came like a mighty flood and washed his face clean. He wanted so much to cry out, scream even, but could not, in fear that the people in the house behind him would hear him. He wanted to so much to tell the world, and God, how burdened he was but yet like a man gone suddenly mute in the world, he bottled his sour wine inside that burned with acidic pain. He was tormented. And it must have brought much glee to his tormentors as he finally succumbed to the pain and went crashing down on his knees, with hands firmly wrapped around that solid bar set upon that solid, firm wall. In a voice loud enough for God to hear, but perhaps soft enough to leave his devils to their own sick celebratory parties, he murmurred with tears choking him, "Which 16 year old have to go through this?" With that, he bowed his head in submission and still knew not what to do.

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Today, I ask myself that same question "Which 22 year old have to go through this?"