There was a time during my childhood when the only books I was willing to read were those written by Enid Blyton. I would look forward to once-monthly trips to the old “Popular” bookstore in Havelock then. Once-monthly, because that was how often my dad got paid. I remember that the moment I stepped into the air-conditioned store (a rarity for stores in those days), I would drop my parents’ hands and like an arrow that was finally released from its bow, head for the children’s section to read as many Enid Blyton stories as I was able to. Hours would pass as I sat in the bookstore aisles, reading and re-reading the adventures of pretty dolls, nasty golliwogs, mischievous pixies and bad-tempered gnomes. I would imagine what Moonface who lived up in the fascinating Faraway Tree looked like, and cheer for Scamper the cocker spaniel and the other six members of the Secret Seven in their solved mysteries. On those trips, it would take numerous urgings from my bored parents and an exasperated sister before I would finally choose my purchase for that month.

One of those choices was entitled “The adventures of the wishing-chair”. I remember how fascinated I was by the escapades the wishing-chair would bring Peter, Mollie and Chinky on, and how the enchanted flying chair would always be there to get the trio out of scraps with incensed sorcerers and cruel ogres in the nick of time. I remember wishing I had a similar chair that would get me out of difficult exams and away from strict teachers.

I recently ran into an old friend with whom I had lost contact with for 16 years. 16 years is a long time. People change. I was therefore pleasantly surprised to find that we easily picked up from where we left off 16 years ago. Then a recent chance encounter led me to realise that this person had been keeping certain critical information from me and that affected my opinion of this person’s character. To put it bluntly, I had swallowed a pack of lies. How silly of me. I had naively thought it was possible for some things to remain constant in this world.  I should have known better. After all, it would hardly be the first time I had been fed similar lies.

You know what they say about how it never rains but pours? A few days after the above incident, I was stood up. Not once, not twice, but thrice. In a span of three days, three friends flaked out on me separately for breakfast, lunch and tea. And these people didn’t even know each other! They couldn’t have conspired on some heinous plan even if they badly wanted to. It was as if the stars and planets had aligned themselves against me to send me a message. I suppose I should be thankful it didn’t happen a fourth time in that weekend. (Anyone wants to stand me up for dinner? Drop me a line!) These people didn’t bother informing me that they wouldn’t be able to make the appointment(s), until after the appointed time. Was I worth no more than an after-thought? I was miffed.

These events came hot on the trail of other challenges I had been facing in various areas: mainly related to changes at work and people in various spheres. I don’t know which step to take next so I had been standing in the same spot.

I actually began writing yesterday’s blog entry in response to these recent events. When I am confused, I turn to writing as a form of therapy to loosen the knots in my mind. That is usually where my problems begin: in my mind. Writing forces me to confront the tangles in my thread of thoughts, unravel, and finally organise them. For someone whose words usually flow easily (at least in writing), it took me triple the usual time needed to write yesterday’s entry. I wrote and deleted. I rewrote and edited, and then deleted some more. It is yet another indication of the amount of gunk that needs to be cleared from my mind. The final copy turned out totally different from what I had originally intended.

While it may not be apparent in yesterday’s post, the process of writing yesterday’s entry reminded me that I am not a victim. I can’t prevent people from “doing things to me”, but I do have a choice in how I think, how I perceive things and how I react to them. Yet, however therapeutic it had been, yesterday’s writing process failed to lift the haze of confusion befuddling my mind. I still have no inkling how to move forward. In times like these, I will recall my childhood wish for a wishing-chair that would arrive in the nick of time to deliver me out of my scraps.

Then again, perhaps I do have one.

Some of you have already heard about my favourite bench. It is a wooden bench at the reservoir opposite my house. I would sit on that bench after every run, just to watch the world go by. While it can comfortably seat two and snugly fit three, I would singly hog the entire bench. The weather-beaten bench looks much older than it really is because of the abuse it had taken from people. Graffiti, knife carvings and dubious stains mar its beautiful wooden grain. In spite of its humble appearance, it is in my opinion, an enchanted place. It is a place where I gain inspiration, obtain guidance, receive comfort and attain counsel. Time seems to stop when I am on that bench. It is there that I often get flashbacks on past events that have made me who I am; it is there that I get occasional glimpses of the future. Some of the most meaningful conversations I have ever had in this lifetime were held there. In a world echoing with the voices of deceit, Truth meets with me there.

Azza had been nagging at me to get back there. (I suppose there is a limit to how much whining and complaining a man can take after all.) :p  After testing the limits of what yesterday’s writing process, I know I need to spend some time on that bench again. When every arena seems to be falling apart, I know one who can hold it all together. And I know I’ll find Him there – He’s someone whom I know will never stand me up.

You see, wishes do come true. I have my own version of a wishing-chair after all. And it is a magical place.

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