In Continuum.

Of the Tin Man



There are a dozen ways people use to rid themselves of troubled thoughts. Some people choose the path of self-mutilations, while others might choose to cry about it in the middle of the night. I am a little more productive than that I guess, I do household chores. Isn't that a rarity? I mean, how many guys do you know, gets up and do housework when he is depressed? Hire me when I am upset and you might just get a house looking as good as new after half a day of work. At least that is what I do anyway, and it works for me. It gets my mind off things, and no matter what you might think - be it an act of escapism or whatever - frankly, I don't give a damn.

In the act of clearing my room, I found an old checkered notebook my mother stuffed into my bag one night before book in. It was almost two years ago, in my first months of NS I believe, and I was already in Keat Hong Camp by then. I remember asking her about it, as to why she placed it in my bag. She wanted me to write in it, any thoughts or little quotes that I might hear or remember. 'Just so you won't forget', she said to me. So I took that notebook with me for a while, and for a couple of days I stared into the blank pages of the book, spun the pen in my hands and nothing came. Nothing...just nothing. Writer's blocks are a bitch.

It was a Monday I remember, when something hit me in the early hours of the morning. I was lying on the ground, with a pillow and a duffel bag under my head, because sleeping on beds was forbidden, believe it or not. So behind my back was the cold hard ground of the bunk, and that morning it was raining like crazy. I don't think that rain ended anytime soon when I finally wrote this entry in my notebook two years ago. The thoughts just came flowing back, and it was probably due to the emotional outburst that I had in the car the night before.

And strangely, this weird feeling that I have been feeling the whole day, was reflected in that same entry I wrote nearly two years ago. Like reading my other older entries, it is always interesting to look back and discover that you haven't actually changed very much over a period of time, because in essence you are still yourself, just the change in the very superficial level. So here is the entry that I wrote in that notebook, the entry that I found while clearing up my room. I wasn't in a very emotionally stable state, but it is not like I am in one right now. I still need a safe place to collapse, but at least the thought of myself feeling the same way two years ago, comforts me. Even if it is for that little spark of warmth inside, it is worth it.

*

A Tin Man has no heart. A talking spirit encased in tin foils and cans. That is one of Dorothy's companions alongside the talking lion and the scarecrow, as they journeyed down the Yellow Brick Road. An empty tin can without a heart, setting out on a journey in search of one. To say that the Tin Man has no emotions wouldn't make much sense at all. Think about it, if Tin Man has no emotions, why would he bother to search for one in the first place? Perhaps he does have emotions. An emptiness or sadness, and such emotions for one reason: He is emotionless. I understand the Tin Man totally, and only now do I realize it. The life of the Tin Man in a world of 'emotionlessness'.

It rained the whole day, and the platoon woke up to the constant sound of rain hitting the windows. The welcoming melody of nature, which meant that SOC will be canceled. And it was, as the rain gained strength and poured down over the camp, and without a doubt the rest of the island as well. We didn't do much for the whole day, since the options were pretty limited anyway. As for myself, I spent the whole day reading comics, sleeping on the floor with the pillow and the daffel bag under my head. The rain got heavier, and the sound reminded me of those peaceful days when I used to sit at my balcony and idle at the great gray world before me. Haven't been doing so, I realized, and amongst a whole lot of other things as well.

My last blog entry was three full months ago. When was the last time my home phone rang and asked for me? Or the days spent with her right before the dreadful As in the library till the school closed? Thinking back, there are so many things I want to say to certain people, I just haven't the courage to do so. I want to tell Mom how much I love her, how her words always pull me back up when I am down in the dirt. Always reducing me to tears of warmth in my eyes. How much I love my sister as well, with her cheeky laughters and lame jokes, though however irritating, never fails to bring a smile back to my face after a long weary week. Dad's not around most of the time, still helping out in uncle's company. He calls, and I can tell that he cares, but I don't know why I am so cold to him sometimes. I guess it's due to the fact that he's away most of the time, and stays with us so briefly whenever he returns. But I still love him, I really do.

On the way to camp last Sunday was an emotional rollercoaster for me. I didn't speak much really, and was silent most of the time. Mom asked me for my problems, and I still kept quiet. I didn't know what to say; or rather I didn't know how to put it in words. It was a feeling, and nothing more. I told her about it, though however vague. It was me, and my interests. I love to be and I want to be an author or a writer someday, but being in the military has deprived me of those dreams. I have pens and I have papers, but nothing comes to mind when I place the pen down on the plain white paper. I just watch as the ink slowly spread outwards from the tip, and nothing followed after. Then, you start to realize that you are incapable of writing anymore. I go home every time and log on to my blog. The blank space stares back at me as if it is mocking at me. I have nothing to offer to my blog, nothing worth writing. Nothing comes, and for the first time I realized what the military took away from me.

A line in the film "The Shawshank Redemption" struck me, though I don't remember the exact words. But after he was placed in "The Hole", where prisoners are brought to due to misconduct,, he miraculously survived the mental torture which was thought by other inmates to be fatal. He came out, and had dinner just as usual with his friends. When asked how he managed those days in there, he said,"They can take away freedom, but they cannot take away what's here (His head) and here (His heart)."

They can take away all that I have, but I still have my fingers and my guitar. Nobody can take that passion away from me. I know I am a Tin Man, I know I haven't a heart to feel emotions right now. I don't have a Yellow Brick Road to lead me to my destination. But soon enough, I shall break away from these walls one day and call the world my own.