Recently I discovered an amazing story teller by the name of Yasmin Ahmad.  She was a Malaysian film director who sadly passed away at the young age of 51.  Her work moved me and I think she as a person (although I have never met her) touched me through the writings in her blog.  In one of her entries she wrote, “And the way to start writing isn’t by writing at all, but by living.  It isn’t about creating something from thin air, but about documenting our personal feelings about the things that we see.  Or to put it crudely, how are you going to be a story teller  if you have no story to tell?  Perhaps in the end there are no such things as creative people, there are only sharp  observers with sensitive hearts.”

A long time ago I wrote this piece, created for no other reason than because I was inspired to do so.  Perhaps it was one of those rare moments when life, observation and words crossed path on a junction, giving birth to a story.  I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.



We sat at the edge of the horizon, staring at the bright lights dancing on the surface of the blue sea.

I asked her, “so what made you this way?”  There was a long pause.  She lifted the palm of her hand against the sun and began to watch its light streaming through her fingers.  “You know,” she said, “things are never the way they seem to be.”  She then continued  ” I met an angel once.  He lived in a desolate land, lifeless and barren. He was beautiful.  His presence radiated warmth and his smile would light up the darkness around him.  We met in the desert northern wind and he told me stories of  red, blue and yellow, purple and magenta.  He added rainbow into this clear, invisible glass house I lived in.”

“We spent our days telling each other stories and in the nights we lay down on the cold grass, watching the stars and travelled into each other’s soul.  As much as our stories were shiny and bright, our souls live in this lowly earth, grey and dull.  And we needed something to hold on to, something to hope for, to live for and to die for.  So with each passing second we stitched words together and built ourselves a glorious castle decorated with moments, pieces of songs and dreams.  We thought this castle will redeem us, it will bring our souls out of the depth of darkness into this bright shimmering light of stories that we’ve told ourselves.  And we will be transformed into the beauty that we have believed in.”

There was a moment of silence after she said this.  I saw the clouds gathering at the far end of the sea and I could smell rain in the breeze.  “So what happened next?”  I asked.  She said, “one winter season as we were walking on the snow, he let go of my hand.  He told me that he needed to leave, that he could no longer build this castle with me.  If he were to live in this beautiful paradise we’ve created, he would have to become something that he was not.  He would need to deny the darkness and desolation which was the only world he knew.  If he let go of it, he might as well cease to exist.  Then he left without much fanfare, quietly as he came.”

She then touched the small of her back, where her wings used to be.  She gazed straight towards the sea and said to me “It is not until you have lost everything you have, everything you have ever loved, that you understand how free you are.”

I looked up and the first droplets of rain kissed my face.

Posted in Abstract.

One Comment

  1. Ricardo de Melo June 13, 2013 at 6:56 am #

    Wow… one shot that kill!
    Saya sudah cek foto – fotonya dan memang beberapa menunjukkan kekuatan sebuah story teller… jangan berhenti! teruskan apa yang menjadi ciri khas mbak Cindy…
    Ricardo de Melo

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