This Easter, I Met a Bunny, Only That He Wasn't Happy to Meet Me.

I met a bunny, last Easter-
When I had Easter eggs a-plenty,
and He said to me, he said, he said,
Why don't you take a candy instead?

I shook my head at the Easter Bunny,
probably the last head shake for me,
lo behold, he did, did he? He did!
he bit my head off and sold me for money.

The Bunny Bites Heads - Pauline Wong

And out of a whim comes a brutal little non-poem.

Doesn't even rhyme. And as I told MZ, its commercialism, I use the Bunny more as a metaphor than anything else.

Doesn't even make sense, but then again, in my sick little brain it kind of does. Because in the end of the day, every day that ends ends with me losing several brain chunks and large parts of my gall-bladder.

Everyday that ends feels as if someone sold my liver for a pittance in the grey market (you have white markets and black markets and grey is just the line where illegal meets the ruling coalition, which, in a sense, is not a difference at all).


I had an Evangelical Easter.

I am Catholic, by the way. Not that it makes any difference either; it's the same God we're bugging every Sunday (and other days in between).

Perhaps one day when we all ascend (or descend) to whatever awaits us at the end, we will see God saying 'You buncha humans, give up war already! We're crowded enuff as it is and there isnt' much space everywhere else either. Just worship me and end the self-righteous war already.'

And then maybe we can stop classifying ourselves in religions. Stop pretending that our little followings is an exclusive club.

But let me say this: it was an eye-opening experience for me, not so much that I am gonna rush out and BE and Evangelist (sorry guys, no offence) for I am born Catholic and will die Catholic but enough to let me see that in the end, we're all in it for the same thing:

Divine intervention, Jesus-sponsored favours and perhaps, most importantly, enough faith to keep us going no matter how shitty our lives can get.

Faith, as I say sometimes, is a wonderful, powerful thing. Simply to know that some one, up there, unjudging and unfliching and forgiving, is amazing. You can be utter shit, but He loves you anyway.


I had a Catholic Good Friday.


And as Catholic as one can get, too. Went up to (I think) one of THE oldest churches in Malaysia, St Peter's church, 1710. 1710! Even my great great great great grandpa wasn't born yet!

And every year, as always, we arrive to light offertory candles, attend the Passion of Christ and then onward to the Way of the Cross and the procession of the Body of Christ.

Somehow, the grief, that unexplainable grief that takes your heart and creeps straight into your soul will never be justified in words.

Standing there, with the reminder of what Jesus went through for me, and with the miserable hymns sung in the background (in Hebrew) I truly felt for that few moments what inexplicable sorrow can do to your very spirit.

Its horrid.

To feel sad for no appearant reason, and to want to cry and fall to your knees and repent and perhaps tear out your hair (if one is sinful enough)... I didnt' do any of those but if I had knocked back a couple o'drinks I would have. (Not that I drink anyway)

Jokes (dark and morbid) aside, Good Friday has always held a special meaning for me. Perhaps of a dream I had years and years ago.

I was there, at the bottom of a stair that seemed to stretch on for miles and miles. The stone of the stairs were yellowed, and cracked in some places. I knew I had to go somewhere, but I wanst' sure where.

A grill door, just behind me, a church, I think, thats where I was at.

A church.

I went months after I had the dream to a new church and I recognised the church, though I'd never been there. It wasnt till I was leaving the church when I realised I saw it in this dream.

And I walked slowly up the stairs, and I slowly trudged up.

At the very top, there He was on a cross, dying, bleeding for me.

And in my dream all I did was weep.

I cried for him, and I cried for me, and in my dream I felt sorrow so acute, I remember it even as I type this down. And I remember hearing his voice, I don't remember what he said, but I know I cried harder after he spoke.

And I woke up. I never had that dream again. Once was enough.


I know this post is odd.

I hope this post did not make anyone uncomfortable. I just wanted to share what I don't really share with people-my religion.

I am not religious, you know.

Bt ever so often, I get spells where I feel that I need to remind myself that God is still there waiting for me to get my ass moving and start talking to him again.

I will.

Goodnight, ya'll.