All around are tender barks and old dark woods, dead silence waiting to be broken yet hindered by stiffness of air, creepy creepy little creatures and bulky giants are just reminiscence of an artistic naturalist`s canvas painting on the wall. But there are no walls here, there are no walls to reveberate any audible waves that are in dread need of being heard. Suddenly the sky turns dark and thunder roars, down comes the rain from heaven. Alone in the rain, he stands, breathes, sees and hears, making sure that he is still in one fine piece. Rain keeps pouring down on the massive grounds full of lively unassorted herbs, passing minerals down to the buttress and adventitious roots for ressurection in later day in a phototropic way. Rain, wets his silky thick brown hair, combing its way down from fringes, onto forehead, sliding along contour of his nose, as if accidentally, it slips and then falls onto the ground joining the rest of the rain drops. None of these crack a nerve in him and he holds his ground firmly eventhough rain has recklessly been sipped into the back of his right arm where bleeding persists. There are several tiny chunks of flesh as if ripped out from the back of his sleek muscular right arm. Blood triming down faster and faster, staining his woolen sleeve and then the ground that has turned into muddy and swampy surface, but still, he sways not. Alone in the dark secretive forest, his clear-cut handsome figure stands out.
No swaying. He must dignify his capabilities and make them worthy of honor. The ground where he is standing is now gathering all wetness of the rain, softening the ground surrounding his ankles, pulling his feet down deeper into the muddy land where he has been, slowly covering the whole of his feet as he now tries to throw himself out of the deadly mud trap. A forward tilt of his lean muscular body, his injured right arm thrusted in same way as his entire body. But the nerve-wrecking pain in his right arm is slowing down his pace. Another thrust from his left arm forcefully succeeds in bringing his left foot a shoulder-length stride, making him a step closer to being on firm ground. He must not hurry his chances or else he would lose them all in vain while trying to grab hold of the firm, secure ground. In his mind, he knows the only way to save himself from the worst is to stay as close to that piece of firm and dozens feet-away ground as possible. Then a harsh and staggering move sets his almost senseless right arm and heavy right foot another length of distance forward. Then the left and then the right, he groans, not because of the pain, but because of the light in his heart, because he knows he is closer and closer to the safer ground yet obscured by his poor sights due to this silvery lines of rains. One more thrust, he almost loses balance from chamber where his medulla oblongata resides, he holds back his body instantly with all his strength, he must breathes before his breath runs out, he must not fall now that the muddy ground has wanted to take his honor by submerging half of his legs down to the knees.
There is a log of barren, fallen dark wood by the bank of the muddy ground. However close or afar he is from that delightful site, he knows not because the heart-breaking rain has dimmed his normal eyesights. He can only counts on whatever his fate shall have for him. Yet he lingers not, falters not, he summons all his mortal strength into that of the immortals, he rubs his eyes to instigate and reassemble his visions back to normal perspective. Rain has grown stronger and heavier as he hesitates not to regain his visual senses. Still veiled by the thick downpour of rain, he stumbles aimlessly and almost helplessly. No matter what, he must reach out or he will be suffocated inside this muds of dirts. When this happens, he would not be able to escape from his death. As he stumbles, his weary body bends forward and then upright, in this way, faster and faster. Against the railroad of time, he must claim victory. Without victory, losing would be such a cheer for his enemy and life would be such a childish play for him. No, he does not want to fall victim to such a life, such a meaningless life. To live, to survive, to claim survival is the only thing he wants.
Now that he can no longer sees clearly with his eyes, he can only hope for his good natural instinct witlessly. This must get him out of that muddy trap that seemed to be infested with all kinds of unseen dangers. Another muddy stride hurl his entire body forward in full momentum and towards the dark wooden log and lifts his feet almost 2 inches off the muds within time-frame of an blinking eye. With that leap, half of his body now lie under the dark brown earth which adds weight to normal gravity. Thanks to his good instinct, his bloody right hand is now clinging onto the dark log of wood. And then his left hand almost as if he were swiming, he shafts his way through the muds that is now all over his body after he has witlessly tried out his instinct fully. As he thrusts his entire body toward the dark barren piece of wood, whose bark settles no mushrooms no fungi no nothing, his left hand reaches far-out trying to grab hold of it, it slips and scratches small bits of olden barks and falls back into the muds. He tries again and again, forgetting everything, including how he got into this situation in the first place. He must not look back just in case he might miss his hold. Until finally, he got hold of the log of wood with both hands. Now, all senses have come back to him. All he needs to do now is to pull his heavy body out of that muddy ground. Get to the safer ground, get to that point, he must make it there somehow, no matter what. He keeps his calm and cool, careful not to mistake chances as final judgement. The chance is in his hands now. He gathers all his wits, carefully inches himself closer and closer to the firm land with his tight grip on the huge log of wood. When he has finally been able to supports his whole weight with both his hands on the firm ground by the bank, he wrestles with all his physical strengths, weak and strong, carefully pulling himself out of the muds that has now gathered several ponds of rain water. The wetter it gets, the harder it is to come out of the mud. Fortunately, he is able to conquer his own fate, he gives himself one final try, he casts himself out of the mud, out of the muds he comes, he feels the pain in his right arm again, he knows now he is on the safer ground.
As he finally drags himself out of the miserable muddy situation, all around him the world seems to turn upside down. The silvery rain stops, the woods with no language of its own grows darker and deeper, the sky shed no blue or white, everything is just so dark and grey. He looks up into heaven, the awesome greyness of the sky seems to radiate upon a fearful countenance of his. His bright brown eyes shine through into the firmament, his eyes see something. Something intimidating is coming his way, something whose enigma is called formidable. He sees his enemy is coming for him, he sees as if he has met something totally out of this world. He tries to get up and take his flight right away but his will is defiled by short of physical strength. He tries to escape and not making this place his last resort. He has to get out of here before his enemy comes near him. He tries to pick himself up… …
08:00 in the morning– display of my alarm clock. Stretches to reach for it, the ringing stops. My eyes open to welcome the surrounding that is familiar to me, setting myself physically far away from the dreamy image in the back of my achy head. Putting aside my blanket as I sit myself on the wooden bedside. I stay on that upright position for a while before starting my day with a brush and a nice cleanse of my face. I must have been dreaming all night long because the tension built inside my cranial head is giving me some achy mental touch here. Have been dreaming all sorts of things in my lifetime. Most I cannot recall more than just a tiny moment of ghostly apparitions from some distant memory ward. Others are just regular encounters that can be traced back to earthly origins, those related to day-to-day life basis. Either way, the sanity of our mentality would always prefer a time when we could all be saved. Whether be saved from daily reality or from some fantasized danger in our lifetime, there is a time when we all need such a self-portrayed-induced human-normal circumstance for us to realise just how fragile we are. The one that could lead each of us in such self-portrayed-induced circumstance is none other than the one we call hero. And hero comes to our dream when we need them, but when they don`t come, we would seek them.
In a time when life seems to be going nowhere and coming from nowhere, when nothing is ever wanted or needed, when feelings can no longer be held as true or fake. A time when nothing can be resolved in a practical way is when the hero in the back of our head becomes a virtual reality. Each of us has a figure of its own kind of hero, seldom do we realize it as time mends all broken moments without our knowlegde. We have all dreamt of being saved by a hero sometime during our lifetime. We are always waiting, waiting, and waiting for someone to reach out for us, for we are the weak ones, only the heroes are able to lead us out. The kind of hero within me changes constantly. It doesn`t mind, though. Sometimes it becomes a superhero with flight capability, sometimes it becomes one of the 50 most beautiful people in the cover of the magazine, sometimes it is Fox Mulder agent as the truth-seeker, Odysseus who battles with the cyclop and who is protected by the ancient Greek Gods, Edith Piaf who sings her notes and with them the soul full of emotions like the flowing of a river, a school teacher who teaches poems and rhythms under the bright sunny firmament and many other forms of beings. My hero faces all kinds of predicaments, the level of plights can be parallel to my own circumstances in real life.
It`s not always clear of what kind of role I`m being portrayed in such human-normal phenomena, but what is sure is that I`m always in the centre of all the circumstances. And when that happens, I`d have noone else to call for but only the one whom I`ve been seeking for to help me get out of such plight, any plight. And when my own level of plight is at the highest in real life, even the one whom I seek can be in his or her own hard ordeal. It doesn`t matter, that one will always come to the rescue because he is and will always be the survivor, always. Even if he had to die, I would never let him die before my eyes. He would have to die without anyone knowing, he would die in great dignity after all his great deeds, even his white bones have to be giving for all lives in the soil where he last rested. Because hero, never dies.