Of Angels, Devils and Monochromatic Vision

10th September 2005 was a tough day. For everyone, and to everyone.

This is a crazy world we live in. Real mad.

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I nearly popped by left shoulder yesterday. I should count myself lucky for escaping with little more than a severe strain on the rotator cuff group of shoulder muscles; my left shoulder is now weak, and my arm's movement range a mocking copy of what it used to be. I count myself lucky, because I haven't lost the use of my left arm completely -- the injury just makes it difficult to perform some tasks, but I can still sleep, eat and type.

Pain. So real, so raw... so funny.

The moment I strained my shoulder was something to remember. A committing dynamic reach for the final tile did the job for my left shoulder. It was a rather reachy move tot he right from the second last tile, not to mention the fact that the route was already pretty-much left-arm biased, as it demanded a leftward traverse before forcing a short-but-savage ascent to the end.

Just in case you're wondering... I was the route-setter -- I was the creator of my own ends in this. How apt.

The movies are right in their showcase of injuries of such nature -- no fancy positions, stunts or blood-curdling sounds. I felt my left shoulder strain to keep my body's balance to the wall as I swung out reach for the last tile, overwhelmed by the confidence that victory was mine this time. Then, just as I reached my destination, my shoulder gave way to a series of clicks, sounding much like what you would expect when a machine of gears comes grinding to a halt. There was no pain as my joint ground and crackled, just an untimely weakness that spread from the shoulder down to my fingertips. Next thing I knew, I was falling, with fingers of my right hand still latched onto the final tile, slipping under my own weight with each passing second.

On the mattress, I was curled up like a fetus, seeking comfort and relief from a dull aching pain and an unfamiliar fear. I couldn't feel my entire left arm. I was sure that I had torn, broken or dislocated something. Struggling to make sense of the injury and recover my grip on reality, I desperately willed my arm to move.

Move, dammit. Move!

Nothing. I was sure, by now, that something must have been dislocated. There was no pain, just a numbing ache that was a fast spreading through my entire body. The closer the ache got to my heart, the more fearful I had become. The very sport that helped me to find myself was now going to teach me a lesson I would not forget. I didn't want to learn that lesson; not now, not when there are still so many other things I have to do!

I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. As if taking my final stand against this chaos and pain now tearing into my mind, I laughed. It was probably one of those psychotic chuckles that would have had been aprropriate in movies like SAW. As I ridiculed my own mess, I tried once again to force my arm back into movement. And it moved this time.

Pain. I was, by then reduced to a storm cloud of sweat, laughter and rumbling grunts.

I have never felt such pain. How ever did You survive your dislocation? You fascinate me to no end... I have never felt so alive, and so relieved that my fight for control had yielded some measure of success. My arm was responding again, though any movement was paid for in a large bill of pain.

Still weak and numb in the fingers, I staggered to my brother and said:" Bro, I think I popped my left shoulder. Ha... Should've seen it coming. You got anything for it?"

Ah, my brother. I do love your support. "Wait ah," came his reply. "Hmmm...," followed his warm strong hands as he surveyed my shoulders for any signs of abnormalities.

"Nope, don't think you popped it. Go clean the shoulder up first, I'll get you something." No fancy words, no reassuring phrases -- my brother really knows how to cut through any fog with his searchlight of calm and humour. Thanks, bro.

And for the rest of the day, pain was a child; its inquisitive hands kneading my mind slowly, searching for signs of inconsistency and pockets where the dull ache had not already spread to. My soul was fast becoming a worn-out tooth brush, raw nerves all splayed out.

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With one and a half-arms, I stepped out of the house, bag slung on my good shoulder. With angels and Devils playing on the discman. How apt. Outside, the clouds were gathering, seemingly in some sort of grey symphathy.

In me, a storm cloud was gathering. They wanted to go drinking in school Such a waste of the precious sands of our weekends -- to be drunk in school and easy with our emotions. I can just hear the rumour mills turning.

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Black or grey?
Black, definitely.

White or grey?
White.

Well then, black, white or grey?
I'm not too much of a grey person...

What element of weather can you identify with the most?
Hmm... I would say that it is rain. Because...

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They say that a picture says a thousand words. Maybe that's why I ask you so many questions. Maybe that's why I'm always playing with words. Maybe that's why I miss our conversations. Maybe that's why the weekends always feel so empty.

Half-full or half-empty? And why?

My answer: half-full. Because I hope to always be able to seach and find; to be the colourful variant in a monochromatic world.

I used to hope that I could dance again when I needed to. I used to hope that you would teach me. I now know, because I feel that you inspire me, and that I am only beginning to understand. If ever you feel that this is unsettling, just remember: I try to dance to your tune, as you do to mine. Perfection then becomes well-coordinated series of actions, and mistakes are but a coincidence of events. I have no doubt that we had our times of perfection, and may have many more of unpolished stones, gems and precious metals.

Until then, let us just dance. =)


JKLM