Time has passed; the end is near, my destination is here.

A stroll down the East End is like a journey manifested by symbols; by signs that give directions - each step, a step closer to you. Eyes meet; the heart bleeds. And our gaze never wavers, not flickering in the breeze. You - and I - are not the same, and yet the feelings are. Some things can be immortalised; did Time not wipe us clean?

Should I give up or should I just keep on chasing pavements, even if it leads nowhere. Or would it be a waste; even if I knew my place. Should I leave it there; even if it leads nowhere?

For I have been there with you. And I will not cry no more.

This blog may disintegrate into the ashes of oblivion. I understand that my paltry excuses can no longer sustain its life.

This space initially started because I had to rant about a teen’s first-love and A-Level frustrations. It then became a way to keep in touch whilst overseas, to muse about cultures and societal expectations; to bridge the gap between my past and present. More recently, it became a way for me to keep my sanity when I truly did fall for someone, swimming against the tides as my barrier exams opposed the emotional suffrage; cut into half, split into two. My heart and mind were in pieces.

But it came together. And it doesn’t mean that I now live without drama, not without fodder nor reason to commit; I just don’t feel that my life has to be written as often now.

Which is why my posts have been far too few in between, their content not quite tied down by a common theme. I don’t want this to resort to a page that pens down the inconsequentialities of routine. Nor am I ready yet to let go.

So, to the (roughly) five people who read my blog still, here are my apologies should you did come by long before, only to be graced with the same stalwart absence.

This post should count as an update; an indication that I am still living life.

I don’t know what purpose lies behind me writing this. I am not so easily hooked by hype, and yet, Michael’s death has intrigued me. I suppose it’s the wonderment at how someone so great, and so good, could fall victim to the powers that made him, and then broke him.

I was one of those that woke up early in the morning - 3am Central Australian time - to catch the most poignant farewell on TV. It was a tasteful affair, despite the strategic positioning of his extravagant gold-plated coffin by the stage. Moments that held me were: Stevie Wonder’s moving performance, Paris’ heart-wrenching teary goodbye and Rev Al Sharpton’s proclamation: ‘What nothin’ strange about your Daddy, it was strange what your Daddy had to deal with.’

I was brought up to find the good in another, it was part of the spiritual notions my parents imparted to me. I would severely be dealt with when I spoke ill; I was constantly reminded that the flames of Hell would lick my angry wounds. Although that trait can at times be my strength, it is also perceived to be one of my greatest flaws. Michael seemed to be at the extreme end; his unending message of unconditional love is so beautiful and humbling, and yet so destructive because people are like that, they want to victimise, ostracise and humiliate those who spoke of ideals - hate is the ingredient found in war, genocide and racial discourse. Many tributes lauded Michael’s gift of teaching how to love, but it’s not a new idea, it was just personifed by a public figure. And it’s this I don’t understand: how can people ridicule him the week before, and now paint him like the hero he had always been?

I don’t think his death silenced his critics, they tooted a different tune instead because of the Herd Mentality; it would be insensitive for them to say otherwise. The masses had to see him fall to fatality before it hits them that he is just as human, just as fallible as we all are.

I can’t imagine what it is like to grow up without a parent, and it’s in this that my heart goes out to his children. My family created such a loving, supportive environment for me; ironic even that Michael’s music formed a significant part of my healthy childhood.

I had an interesting digression with a Consultant in my one-to-one tutorial (for one can talk about anaesthetic workups for yay minutes) and we talked of how different personas of Michael had captured our imagination. She remembered him as the black boy, an inspiration for a primary school choir performance of ‘I Want You Back’ - in spontaneous fashion, she had actually stood up to perform the chorus. I told her my Michael is ‘white’; Black and White was the video that I had imitated the most; ‘Remember the Time’ was when he was at his most handsome.

I was pensieve this morning; I could not sleep after the memorial service and so I drove to the hospital early to enjoy a morning cuppa at the cafeteria. I don’t understand why Man has to destroy himself to finally see the light; I can’t see why it takes tragedy to create triumph.

But who am I to say? For I’m just another (wo)man in the mirror.