Broken Altars, Forgotten God

Broken altars, scattered stones,

Crumbled fragments and a forgotten God

Indistinguishable heaps of rubbish

Desolate shrine

Pathetic momentoes of a Forsaken Love.

Of broken covenants and dead worship

Of polluted and missing sacrifices

Of faded loyalties and stifled visions,

Also of a llonging, hurting God.

O, to have known You and loved You

And then to fade away

Into disloyalty and spiritual decay;

Or worse, into deep darkness and degradation.

It’s not only to lose life’s highest incentives

Or heaven’s holiest spell

But also to lose life altogether.

No wonder – ‘There was no peace to

The one who went out, nor to the one who came in,

But great turmoil was on all the inhabitants of the lands,

So nation was destroyed by nation,

And city by city, for God troubled them

With every adversity’ (2 Chro 15: 5,6).

So said the prophet Azariah.

Though spoken thousands of years ago

There is still relevance in the prophet’s words

At this hour of universal darkness.

Where earthquakes and tsunamis, hurricanes and typhoons

Sicknesses, diseases and terror acts

Deluge us almost daily, with meaningless deaths in every land,

There is no true peace and rest, Lord

Within the heart of every human being.

So raise up, O God, Elijah-type of men.

The remnant is calling for their soon release.

Let the intensity of our prayers cause a Divine Stir

For their soon release, to stand strong in every land.

Come Elijahs, come! We have been waiting long.

Come, gathered those scattered, broken, disorderly stones,

Come, rebuild God’s altars; raise up the shrines

Establish God’s honor once again, and lay the sacrifices on.

Then call for holy fire – the one that comes from above

The fire that consumes carnality and checks evil from within.

For we want no other, for others have left us, O, so dry

We seek the one from above, for only this one will satisfy.

by Susan Tang

Tolerance, Hurt, and Plain Randomness

I have no idea what I'm doing writing something perfectly random in this blog. I'm supposed to be writing something else but I just couldn't. I want to write this instead but I still couldn't bring myself to express the words that this hyperventilating heart wants to say. As much as I want to write about a multitude of things, I am the most problematic when it comes to organizing my thoughts. If only my mind were a room, you'd find eggs half-cracked and flying, and dancing light bulbs that sing at the same time. I am weird and I want to write about this weirdness' consequences but it's just too hard.

My heart is, let's just say, aching. And that's an understatement. Thank you, weird me.
I know this has something to do with my hamartia: feelings. As confusing as it sounds I did read that thing again. I know! I think I might just have become a masochist over the summer. Yes, I read it over and over again even though it never stopped hurting me, and even though it always brought me to tears at first because of bitterness, but eventually because I knew I could never do anything to bring back what was lost. It was my fault. It was because I haven't learned to put a muzzle on my mouth and thumbs (when I text, of course). And I read it when I feel like it because I know it spoke the truth. That it truly was my fault. I thought I'd get over it, but somehow something's holding me back, taunting me.

Hello, reader. I know you have no idea what I'm rambling about, and I do not expect you to understand, much less finish reading this. But girls like me just have to write, you know. I realized, I've been short of friends I could truly trust this summer, being a loner at home, and this blog is the closest I could get to having my best friend beside me. And I just realized, every single time I read a novel, I find myself conforming to some of the protagonist's unusual habits and thinking patterns. I'm currently reading The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, and here I am, writing on this blog that Anne would have called Kitty to match the diary she had kept for years.


Remember how I said I have problems organizing my thoughts? Yeah, well, I actually started writing this without knowing how to end it. Now that I want to close this post ASAP (because I'm getting tired), I have no idea how to do it. See, that's my weirdness and randomness working, my friends. Wait, wasn't I just talking about how hurt I am? Haha. Gah, I think I have a bipolar disorder. :/ But I'm hoping this would be a good sign - that I really couldn't hold on to bitterness for too long.

*insert a paragraph to close this post*

K, awkward abrupt goodbye here. Until my next much more decent post. :)

Review: The Fault in Our Stars (John Green)

So far, I've read about three new novels since summer. Right, I know that's a pretty slow pace but hey, it's summer and people are supposed to be frolicking under the sun going from one beach to the next. I didn't have too much time to sit down and read a book in one sitting (which I always did until summer when I had no choice but to settle for the electronic books that always were interrupted by rotating black outs). I've read a series of amazing books, this time. And this, I must say, is a huge improvement on my part as I often had read shallow novels that I only managed to scavenge from Booksale, the only decent (not really, even) bookstore Iligan City is probably going to get for the next several decades. Sad, but true.


I haven't been writing as much lately too and I figured writing reviews of the books that I've read would keep me from being entirely unproductive as I had not been taking summer classes anyway. I do not know whether or not I should have a separate blog for this, but I think it would be safer to stick to this blog for the mean time. Tell me if I should.

I am supposed to be reading The Diary of A Young Girl by Anne Frank right now, but I didn't want my high for The Fault in Our Stars by John Green to wear off until I finished writing about it, so here I am, fingers ready for this "review". The word "inspiration" couldn't have been more meaningful to anybody than to writers who struggle oftentimes for creative juices. Get what I mean?

This is a story of Hazel Grace Lancaster, a sixteen year-old cancer-stricken girl, and how she faces subtle realities only she seems to care about. Except for Augustus Waters, of course, that one person (also has cancer, unfortunately) who randomly shows up one day at Support Group and changes her in ways I couldn't even put into words. It was beautiful, their story.

Honestly, I didn't always notice cancer patients the way most people in the world wide web would. They were almost everywhere, I thought, that my mind didn't really sympathize like the rest as much as I sympathized with those people from the third world who had AIDS, or polio, or any incurable disease for that matter.

Maybe this was the first time I have had a glimpse of what it would be like to be there, in a way helpless. Even if you do act tough and even when you think you could get through it, escaping by numbing from the pain, you just couldn't. That's the thing about pain...it demands to be felt, Augustus had said. All you do everyday then, even with cancer written all over your body, is just convince yourself you're better than yesterday when in fact every part of you is dragging you closer to your funeral. The saddest part is, you couldn't do anything about it. Not even with medical help.

It was too painful, even for me. Augustus and Hazel were so real, I almost believed they exist somewhere, waiting for me to fly to wherever they are. But of course, fiction tends to disappoint you at some point. After you read every word of the story and after you close the book, shedding a few tears, you realize none of it had been real, none of it is real, and it was just that, fiction.


I didn't really like Hazel, to be honest. She cusses too much and is way too skeptical for my liking. She's a deep thinker. That I admire. Plus she reminds me a lot of my serious self. She doesn't believe in God though, and she's too cynical towards almost everyone around her. She thinks nobody really cares, and all they do is show up at your funeral and remark on how "great" you have been. It sickens her. She does have a point, but sometimes I think her thoughts are too much, she might need a few lessons on being appreciative.


“I'm in love with you," he said quietly.

"Augustus," I said.

"I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.” 

This is what Augustus is like. He has a way with words and I, although not Hazel, found myself falling for his character. Yes, I'm pathetic like that, temporarily falling for a fictional character. It was his charm and wit that didn't let me get off the book, really. And his name. There was something about Augustus and Waters that created that tingling feeling in the pit of my stomach like it just knew he would be my fictional soul mate.


Overall, I find the plot okay and not really extraordinary. With its witty humor, I laughed a good couple of times, yes. And although I did cry towards the end of the story, I'm kind of wondering now if it had something to do with the pressure of being moved by it as most of the readers I knew did say it did move them. Unlike the other excellent novels I had read, The Fault in Our Stars didn't really have the activity that I had expected. It was like a birthday present, wrapper ripped slowly in a sentimental manner enough to make you wonder about the 'truth' it offers and enough to stir your emotions. It was never the plot but the genuine characters and the art of putting the right words together that made the novel gripping and yes, beautiful.




Overall Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

I could've just rated it an easy 3 stars had I been too critical about it. However, you couldn't really rate a book without including your own feelings, so, because I was moved (and I admire how Green could create such endearing characters) and it managed to purge out those tears that weren't really that hard to do, I decided it deserves one more star.

Will I recommend this book?

Why not? If you love to read, then go ahead. I have to warn you, however, that there are philosophies thrown by Hazel, especially, that might push you from the track if you aren't strong enough. I, however, did not mind reading over them because as I've mentioned earlier, I didn't like her (and most of her ideas) as much as I liked Augustus (who, by the way, is more optimistic than she is).


_________

I almost didn't write this review because I felt like I was pressured to write with so much passion and logic to match the other good The Fault in Our Stars reviews I had read earlier. But I already told someone I'd do this and I didn't want my yes be no, so here you go, Ruth! Haha. Now off to my next book. :)