Meeting the Old Flame

Klin Cheng

July, 1988 written

Sep 2011 typed out

In February 1985, after seven and half a year in the profession, a psychology major converted translator decided not to take language switch as a way of living again. He preferred to be a cook. The degradation surprised almost all. They couldn’t understand why a college graduate who had spent eight years in two different campuses would be so humble as to do the job of a laborer. After all, if a pan is all that is required, why need a pen? Confronted with the question, he was at a loss to give the answer. As  a coolie so mean in social status, he found it’s too silly to say that the pen is kept for a noble aim. He must be careful so as not to fall victim to snobbery. Thus, silence became the only alternative. He made no other choice but taking the disgrace.

The self-devaluation marked the beginning of an endless struggle for salvation. Longings for understanding and respect are helplessly tumultuous in his heart despite the ostensibly peaceful outlook. He had to air out his grievances and be released from the mental prison formed through his acute sense of obscurity. Writing was the way out. He liked it because in creating something that belongs to his particular fate he got strength. Yet the power must be accumulated bit by bit until one day he is strong enough to come to his own.

Thus, pan in left hand and pen in right, he began to toil through his life-long aim. In the kitchen he labored for guarantee of a carefree livelihood for the family and a privilege to persist in the unprofitable venture of his own. In the study he racked his brain for promise of an agonized soul and publicity of a subdued personality. The material purpose was met quickly. The spiritual one stumbled all along. As the self-negation sprouted often, he sensed the crisis of stagnant growth. If he could meet the beauty that is pleasing and attentive, he might be helped by the driving force aspired. Yet, instead of getting the emotional lift expected, he tasted the bitterness. Congeniality as he found it was something like a mirage, if not a dream. He had to be alone and accustomed to the solitude.

That’s the plight of his pursuit. In playing the dangerous game of degrading himself, he risked plunging himself into complete oblivion. In craving for a platonic relationship, he was guilty of a sin that is torturing his soul. So, at time when void fell, he couldn’t even take refuge in the masterpieces of the great minds. He needed an outlet for his imperious animality, which kept devouring his sense of dignity as a human being.  

Entrapped in the maze designed by himself, he felt sorry for his frustrated encounter with life. As a man that is not sociable and easily accessible, he needs all the encouragements to put out what came to his mind. They are things of the majestic, of the world that is magnificent and aesthetic. Given a pious listener, he would readily reveal his inner secrets to show his utmost sincerity. But, who could understand his determination? And who would offer the feedback he is seeking? In trying to sublimate his libidos, he just needed someone sympathetic to his cause to take all this. That reminded him of his first love, his infatuation with the girl endearing to him in his childhood. And he was almost carried away by the nostalgia. After all, it was a sad story that left him much regret. 

At the age of 40, he was still bound by the doomed adventure. Maybe, it was a wound that won’t be cured until he added some sacred touch to it. So, in an effort to rekindle the romance, he wrote: 

You are a memory of mine

To be recollected from time to time

As a worshipper of the holy

I wish I could enshrine you in my mind

To make my dedication a rite

But I don’t know if I am right

In making this sublime 

I only hope that

In a fate never

The heart is forever