I'm thinking about my safehouse now. I can almost see that carpet underneath me. Grey, I think it is. And I'm knelt, bowing before the Lord, completely abandoning all sense of my 'self' before Him. I don't care. There's a whole room full of people who don't care just as much (if not more) as I do. We're all lifting our voices and singing. Piece by piece, atom by atom, I'm disappearing.

I miss the tabernacle at The Vine church in Hong Kong.

I remember what a shelter it was for me during the summer. A time of the most intense spiritual battle I have ever encountered in my lifetime so far. I remember those long pilgrimages I took from my house in Tai Mei Tuk all the way on the 307 to Central. All the while, on the bus, and with memories, flickering. Threatening. Everything blew up and came up on me as if by storm. All at once. It's not only having the carpet taken out from underneath you but having your whole house decimated. Not taken up by the storm to arrive in Oz, but to have your entire life pared down to its bottom limits.

And I would sit, on the bus. A book in my hand, and having the comfort of being amongst strangers to console me. It was hot, and I'd walk from the bus station. It would set me down in front of the HSBC building. I remember each step. How solid the ground was, I felt it and then I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry but I wouldn't cry. I did too much of it at home. I'd walk. Over to IFC.

The steps grew to be so familiar. By that time of the week, I would be physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted. I cried out to God daily, wailing my call for aid. God! Help me!

And then I walk in, either to Elim or at the Vine. There's a sea of friendly faces, and I sit down. I listen, I respond. God just speaks out to me in amidst my desperation. It's difficult, even now, to think of that time and bring myself back into that place. Blubbering over the phone to the people that I knew I could lean on. I'm still amazed at the kindness that was shown to me at that time. When Mrs. Sarchet-Waller told me that I needn't worry about somewhere to stay if I really got kicked out of my house. It still pinches at my heart. I'm so overwhelmed by the goodness of God and His children.

So I'm back in the tabernacle. I walk in and I sit down. We worship, all caution to the wind. There's people jumping, shouting, giving their all and very best to the Lord, the highest and most worthy of praise. I'm back in there, and on my knees.

And I feel so safe. So completely sheltered from the world, as if I had gone beyond it. I'm there with my head on the ground, and all the things that plagued me, would just not exist there at all. Not that they had gone away, but that I was in a place where they didn't exist and did not matter at all. Where I can be peaceful and quiet, for what feels like eternity. What finally feels like enough.

I thirst for that right now. I want enough. I want peace and quiet. All this drama needs to die a silent death!

There are times, when God brings me to this beautiful place and I feel so meek. It's a wonderful stillness and silence.
I feel so creative in this space, wherein I fall into a world where nobody else exists. To think that this was once a usual occurrence in highschool seems incredulous. When it is so rarely afforded now, I once had it so whimsically then.

In a world where the pressure not to be alone is so apparent, my needs and desires diverge. I know I need to be alone, whereas I've taken on the desires of the world and hence weighted myself with a load. I've worn the thorns around my neck and now am complaining of its discomfort.

I feel a pressure to be myself. Not only 'myself' in the present, but also to embody 'all of myself'. All that is me. And in this, discern what really is 'me'. I don't know what is more frightening, to be unable to define yourself and hence feel the sensation of confusion, or to be able to define yourself fully and realise that you're not so complex afterall. In this, I stand firmly on the fence.

I am torn in between this dichotomy. I want to know, and yet I don't want to know. It's perhaps never been so equal in measure. I want to be with people, and I equally want to be alone. Or, worse yet, I would want to be alone and then the epiphanies that emerge prompt me to want to share it with someone. I turn back, I look, and I search. There is no one to be found.

I ask myself: whose eyes are you living for? Milan Kundera dedicates a chapter of his magnum opus 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' to one of his characters who lives and acts out his life in accordance to these invisible eyes. The eyes of an ex-lover. Perhaps one of the most piercing gazes that one could ever experience. They see you in the state of hidden forms, like light that sends a shock through a long shuttered room. The light's presence lingers, and is irrevocable. And through them, through their eyes, you may see yourself as well. To see surprising new things that you didn't think existed in you. The ordeal is zippered up through time and space. Then they remove those eyes, never to be lent to you again. You miss.

You miss seeing yourself through those other eyes. You cannot purchase them.

But the other eyes, eyes of God. They stay. And what does that mean? How would you look if you were to see yourself through His eyes? To live for His eyes? I question my sincerity at times, when I am aware of His eyes. Am I really being myself? Or is this just an act to please God? But we're always pleasing someone. We're a shared commodity, more so than we think. A spark of agency appears, which we unwittingly loathe to cherish. Then it's gone. You can no longer tell it from its siblings.

At times, I fear the eyes of people more so than I do the eyes of God. In the safety and knowledge that God is patient and merciful, I take advantage of it. I'm not proud of that. But I fear the gracelessness of people. Believing that they are like a board of examiners, I envisage a 'Flashdance' scene. Constantly auditioning, constantly failing and having to start again, enduring the snarls and dissatisfaction that I feel so rampant in my audience. Are people more gracious than I think? Or, is it, as I gradually realise, a non-issue? People are usually more engrossed in themselves than they are of others' flaws. And even if they are so concerned with the behaviour of others, there is far more wrath exerted on the public idols than subjects of our personal grievances. Especially if they're small grievances.

This is for the in-between. Those who aren't strictly offensive, and yet are pungent enough on occasion to leave a bad taste.

All that I can be, all that I can aim to be, is inherently myself in every moment. The greatest crime is for you not to be yourself and, in that state, do something worth regretting. You can neither change that person nor grasp hold of it. It was a spirit, and you're unsure of whether it will return. Being authentic provides a way of hope. Where one can fall and fail, but actual changes can be made for the security of a 'better future'. It is not a ghost house, but a real structure that you are building.

And in doing so, all your failings expose.