Tuesday, March 11, 2014
This post is intentionally delayed for eleven days out of respect to my beloved brother Bruno. I hope my fellow ardent readers and visitors would understand. It was a difficult time and is still a challenging time for my family to go through this lost, albeit expected. Goes without saying that if given time immemorial, we would have held onto the concept of invincibility if it can. We would like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts - to those who gave us words of encouragement and wishes of condolences. Put it in a prose manner, they were wonderfully phrased and sensitively constructed with an in-depth consideration of the difficulties that we are now going through. Tears still flow intermittently every now and then. Flashes of memories still zap by occasionally. We opted never to forget about our dear Bruno. And in fact, we welcome these thoughts as more than a token of remembrance, we accept it as a way of living in the present and the future.
Climbing down Mt Kinabalu, to the most of the usual group of individuals; both greenhorns and veterans would be in fact one of the simpler methods; if not, faster in many ways considered, than climbing upwards. With one or two walking sticks and ample knee and ankle guards, this wouldn't be much of a hindrance to the able-bodied. It wasn't much of a technical difficulty for me in the first parts of it all trundling down carefully from the peak towards the Sayat-Sayat Hut. Inexplicably enough, there are some other hidden factors that needs consideration. And having lumbered a few hundred meters down, I started to develop a bolt of sharp pain on the medial aspect of my left knee joint. I've always known that my left leg has always given problems. My flat foot condition has spared me no satisfaction throughout my years of insolent inactivities in the early phase of my life. This goes on further to include my decision of starting a more profound physical activity in the last five years. With the troubled foot, my knee had to assume more responsibility for the stabilising of joints so to speak. And in regards to that, to many who fail to understand, it is indeed a challenging way for a flat-footed man to withstand all bouts of ongoing activities involving his lower limbs.
Thus... the pain felt was, in a manner which you could state, not surprising. Scaling the whole distance of hitherto 8 kilometres and then to resume the downward challenge implants the fear into my heart that I might not be able to make it after all. This is the real deal, I thought and who could have faulted me? The inexorable usage and reliance of my leg joints would be tested further and this wasn't going to be a hunky dory descent. You could say that I braced myself with clenched teeth and rigid muscles but that wouldn't even amount to half of the equation solved. And to add to the already insurmountable regard of my flat foot, I have to endure with the additional problem of my left hammertoe, what medical-man would call it hallux valgus. The problem could be attributed as well to the flat feet issue, what with years of pressure having been confined towards the tendrils of muscles and tendons giving rise to the awkward repositioning of the joints. Each down step was as horrid as it already is, sending a sharp, gnawing pain over at the great toe to which those afflicted with gout would come to associate with easily.
The other issue at hand was that the breakfast I had wasn't sufficient to prepare me for the final climb and descent back to Laban Rata. You see, we were lodged in Gunting Lagadan and this was located about a hundred metres or so from the Laban Rata dining lodge. To be rational about it, no one in their right frame of mind would decide to go down to the lodge for the breakfast and then climb back up to the hut for the final ascent. And all of this at the wee hours of 1.20-1.30 AM. It becomes more practical that we could just make do with some bread and jam on the go. Unfortunately, being the amateur as I was and having finished off my chocolate bars the day before, I was in for some hypoglycaemic event that would send shivers down my leg coupled with uncontrollable spasms that many would come to reckon the after-effects of pushing too hard in the gym.
All set and told, we started the descent, initially with a tight-knit group of four. I soon got separated and left all alone to manage the descent from beyond Sayat-Sayat hut a.k.a. the Danger Zone, or what I'm apt to label it as the Death Zone. Such nuances of petulant description or definition should not raise any alarming signs once you come to the understanding of what I have in store for myself. It soon come to the clear knowledge that I have to abseil downwards and that wasn't the major problem. There is a section after the abseiling portion that one has to cling onto the rope that is hook-eyed in intervals alongside the rock face with a minimal pathway set on the ledge, thus allowing only one occupant at a single time to sidle carefully and if I may add, treacherously through the spine-chilling ordeal. Recalling back, I'd say that would probably be the first and the last time I would even think of attempting something like that again.
But all foretold, if that was the only problem throughout the descent of the mountain, many would still encourage me to repeat the feat in the near future. I'm sure that is not to be... the flat feet, the knee pain and the occasional gnawing sensation on my great toe alongside the grumbling tummy did little to avail my sufferings as I trudge downwards the steep incline of the built-in wooden steps and not forgetting the slippery-slopes of the rocks bathed and lathed with the dewdrops and rain from the night before. One mistaken step is all it takes to slide and fall and I had my fair share of those while trundling down back to the breakfast lodge in Laban Rata. It was a painful enough ordeal. Not much of a challenge going up, but coming down took me more than two hours. The latter would be ordinarily much lesser than one hour for anyone who is not only fit but do not have the additional medical problems that I was already afflicted with for so many years. Yet, it has to be the determination that got me through to Laban Rata and subsequently back to the Timpohon Gate. The descent from LR to TG was four hours (the time equivalent for me to hike from TG to LR), which would ordinarily take less than two hours.
Goes without saying that seeing the shingled roof of Gunting Lagadan was perhaps one of the most welcoming sight as I make my slow descend, pacing individually each small step to whatever my joints would allow. It was a matter of looking forward rather than to keep droning on the problems that I am facing. Slip and fall, pain and gnaw, slow and lagging behind - I have to admit were problems that I have to constantly face with. And it wasn't easy to brush it all aside. Thankfully, the weather was cooling, for had it been warmer than that, I would have given up out of exhaustion and forgo further efforts in descending the great mountain. The modicum of hope soon became a large blessing as I finally helped myself to two platefuls of hearty American breakfast. I quaffed four cupfuls of cold water without hesitation and gobble up the sausages, potato wedges, fried eggs and scrambled eggs in an impersonal manner that whoever must have seen me doing it, must have thought that I was waging war against calories. I could assure you'd do the same after spending four hours and fifteen minutes up and down the peak negating subsistence not for the sake of implementing a bravado facade but just plainly due to the foolishness without bringing any in the first place. Yes, you could say that I was quite a silly chap, but I'd like to attribute it to the aloofness that so often surrounds me with a shroud so impenetrable that things are best kept to myself rather than to question for help.
Thus... the lesson learnt was a painful one... make sure you get yourself some chocolate bars if your breakfast has only been light. Do not assume yourself to be strong or compare your physical situation to that of your fellow climbers despite having been able to reach as fast as them to LR. Know that they have made the attempt several times beforehand prior to venturing into sharing their physical experience. Some sense of camaraderie can often be formed within rest areas, but not when ascending or descending the mountain for I find myself mostly left alone in between the climbers of our group. That was quite disheartening, but nevertheless, my suspicions took the better part of me. I was nonplussed with the attitude of other climbers as I took it in my keenness of wanting to drown myself in the prospect of endless adventure. And in Mt Kinabalu, I am treated to an interminable amount of them, that would be for certain.
Climbing down form LR back to TG was another 5.5 kilometres of disconcerting presupposition. And it wasn't that much of a presupposition to that fact as whatever forethought I may have with regards to the misery were soon reaffirmed. The pain was unbearable to that extent that I have to commit, but thankfully it was only the left leg. For each downward step that I took, I planted my walking stick firmly first onto the ground before letting my right leg down prior to giving way to my left. Each of these process was repeated thousands of time up till the very occasion when I finally see the base camp. At times, these manoeuvres were conveniently forgotten plainly out of exhaustion or mainly out of false beliefs that these pain were just ephemeral. Well, the bolt of nails the size of a finger was there to remind me that it wasn't so. And that was by far the fastest lesson that I would learn out of all the challenges in my life.
Sparing you the infinite detail of the ongoing cramps and back pain that come alongside the awkward manoeuvre that I prescribe to descending the mountain, it would just be fair to end it on a sweet note. Mount Kinabalu is a perfectly admirable location for a hike - both to the adventurous as well as to the juniors - and you shouldn't let anyone forbid or deter your determination or encouragement in participating in such an arduous task. The satisfaction clinched towards the very top of the mountainous height as well as the safe return to the base camp would be second to none; unless of course you have done tougher climbs or have done this so often that it has lost all sense of excitement in you. In the latter two case - then you may select other adventurous details the National Park have for you such as that of the via Ferrata route or maybe scaling other peaks aside from Low's Peak. There is also a Gurkha Hut in one of the peaks nearby where one can stay for as long as it is needed to accomplish all of these feat. And for the more well prepared, the veteran of all climbers or canyoneers, you may want to try out the Low's Gully - namely the one and only most inhospitable place on earth.
But whatever there is to offer, it will always be an overwhelming awe acquired from the virgin experience of having scaled Mount Kinabalu, at least once in your lifetime. And if you've done that, then you would know the amorphous sensation that fills you up, never wanting to let go.
Monday, March 10, 2014
My mom created this wonderfully written note when Bruno departed the Chiam's Family for Heaven on the Fourth of March 2013. The photo taken of Bruno was by yours truly and I still remember taking it then. The old Kodak reminds our family how long Bruno has been in our family and how youthful he was back then. This photo was snapped all the way back in 2002 when he was five.
My mom messaged me in Whatsapp today and told me that it has been a week since Bruno left and that based on the Chinese beliefs, the soul of the deceased would return to their home to visit the earthly beings who have been once their family. My mom is eager and hopeful that Bruno would find his way home. She could still sense his presence even up till now. I know I could still do so, despite living more than two thousand kilometres away from home.
I told my mom that Bruno has never actually left, technically yes, physically yes, but never spiritually. I want to believe that he has always left a tad bit of him in our home so that we can still hold on to him no matter how long it has been.
Bruno... you're forever missed...
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Life is a funny thing... It begins during the consummation of marriage when the physiological aspects of it then takes its course. Through the magical creation of a sentient being up to the point it breathes its very last, many things would happen in between. Some may say that this in-between phases of life and death is fated and believes firmly that this is due to their destiny, while some may argue and debate that the point in life where it occurs is just how it is supposed to be; taken into context at face value. And that is talking in a matter-of-factly way.
It has been five days since I grieved my loss and slowly but surely, I can begin to understand that this is something real. Inescapable and intangible. How I would bargain for anything... anything at all to be encumbered by Bruno's love and loyalty without a single ounce of wince.
He ain't heavy baby... he's my brother...
And so he shall be and forever will be. But I digress... the point to moot upon is the question of death. We all go through phases of oddities in life and some, if not most of us, go through the phase of teenage years and young adulthood believing that we are invincible. That we are incapable of going through the developmental phase of middle age crisis and the unavoidable golden years. And I don't blame you... why should I? With the vigour, strength and vivaciousness that paints brightly around your aura, it would be a fact that we won't want to cast our attentions to. Let's shelve it up and beyond the dresser for later referencing, we say. And I'm certain, quite enough to be sufficient, that that's particularly what most of us would eagerly accept.
And with the ongoing youthful years of being in the late teens up till middle adulthood, with so much years of strength and stamina in it (dwindling so slowly by that you could almost always negate its credible presence inching towards your physical body), there is no doubt that one would be encouraged by the reinforceable matter that we will be invincible. That old age, and those golden years spent mostly at home or at the nearby picnic garden or park; is reserved for those not as special as the individual in context. We all go through that phase of certainty, almost all of us, until we forget about growing old. Just flip open the newspapers and the magazines or surf the Internet and your doubts would immediately dissolve. What you see is what you can't achieve or even if you can, how long could you drink from that fountain of youth and remain young for an interminable amount of time?
But most of us do forget, or remember but wanting not to remember. We want invincibility, beauty and youthfulness so dearly and perversely that we allow the false precept and context of the advertisements to pervade our being - physical, spiritual and emotional; in a wholesome manner that we bathe in it. Heck, lust in it would be a better adjective! But is it sinful to be obnoxious? To have the individual sanctity of vaingloriousness? In a way, depending on your own religions that you adopt, it may be so if done in an excessive manner with humongous pride. But time is youth's worse enemy if it hasn't been said so, then let it be known. We will never forever be young... we will never forever be youthful. It is just an ephemeral sense of shortness, of briefness that we expansively experience before it robs us off our supposition that we be young forever. Yet... we remain obstinate by distracting ourselves and allowing the modernisation culture to draw us to the fountain of youth - that is by now, if you have yet to fathom, amounts to nought.
Perhaps, one can reflect it in another way. That the sub-conscience in us keeps prodding our ego that there is that inescapable truth that one day we will creep towards the arch of golden years and then go beyond it without having the chance to retrace our steps back. This complicated yet simple truth can be uncovered by simply looking at how certain youthful products can beget our whole being into obsession. We remain adamant towards the real deal of ageing and forgo the mootness in point of question to argue about getting old, up to a certain extent that some may even possess the temerity to quote the novel/movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Yes, but even then, he has to face death in a topsy-turvy life event.
The Bible tells us beings that we come from the earth, and so shall we one day return to earth without leaving any exceptions. Bodies are but a vessel where the soul and the spirit reside and when one passes on, its inescapable truth would be revealed - that the physical self ceases to function while the spirit eddies itself out to the ethereal realm. I was humbled by this very potent fact when I looked at how weak and exposed Bruno was when he breathed his last, and that facade of his will forever remain etched in my memory till the day I meet him again...
No one wants to get old and as much as we can bear, never want to even listen to the fact that we shall one day depart this physical complement to our sentient being. Thus, when we are young and silly (yes, and so it seems, to some it may be immature), we savour the moment of life to its extreme with no animosity. We laugh animatedly, live jovially and sometimes in jeopardy, take risks in most, if not all aspects of our life, succeed triumphantly and fail epic-ly and do all sorts of crazy things that we would never recollect as we age. It is that phase of life that I do hope that most of us are still at and that age is never a barrier to us all... but of course, limitations are always in order. With arthritis, blood pressure problems and cataracts to name a few taking a toll on us, our system would inevitably slow down and could I be right if I insist that we can still have a lot of fun?
Maybe... maybe not...
The question of life and death and the sanctity of staying alive forever in the middle portion of our limited lifespan will never be put to rest when all about and around us go through these phases of life in any passing moment. News of it reverberates throughout the world daily that it is impossible to not acknowledge them...
Yet... the memories are still so strong... all those youthful years...
You could have seen us... Bruno and me when we were at our height of pink health. Both of us running like mad inside the house, usually with him chasing after me when he loves a good run or an exercise, or just to chip in the fun that we are both having. I would roll down on the floor and he would pounce on me licking my face when he caught up with me. I would sometimes hide his toy bone somewhere and he would sniff it out. And when I keep his stuffs beneath my back he would poke his wet nose and exhale while tickling the sides of my midriff which would beget gales of laughter. How we enjoyed those moments. How I would love to trick him by throwing his absent object to a distance (but really still having it at the back of my other hand) and he would rush after it in a trice hunting it down and then returning a confused gaze when he couldn't locate it. And how he would bark after me when I finally retrieve the object from my hand. And how irritated and annoyed he would be when I barricaded myself behind one of the cushion with his toy well hidden in my hand. I would have loved and enjoyed every moment playing with him and he with me. And I have never doubted he would ever give up pinning me and licking my face every single moment when he has the chance. Bruno was the best thing that has ever happened to me. The innocent, affable creature whom I strongly regard as a person. My best chum that I can never again replace no matter how great or how good the next in line would turn up.
It is no wonder I cannot give up grieving for him even after the rivulet of tears has stopped and the glands has ceased to eject any further liquid. I fasted for him and I would believe that he deserves all of it. I can never repay him with the enormous kindness that he has granted upon me. How could I ever show him my gratefulness? How could I ever forget how he looks like, how he smells like, how he would respond to me tickling his sides and how, especially how would I forget how he would react when I scratched the insides of his ears? Thinking about these things will never bring him back physically, but at least, for whatever that's worth, I could still picture him in my mind, scurrying after me without hesitation - with the primary aim of tracking me down and stampeding on top of me while pouring me with all his licking salivation.
Bruno has never borne any feelings of animosity against anyone - human or beast. In fact, I highly doubt that he is even capable of an ounce of anger or hatred. No matter how much he gets reprimanded, he will never remain vexed or harbour a great deal of vehemence against you - stranger or friend. He's the apotheosis of all apotheosis of a man's best friend. But he can be your friend if you want to, though he only has a brother, and that would be yours truly. How I sincerely miss him up till now and forever will be. It's a feeling that is indescribable. And only applies well to those who has shared my similar sentiment of losing a beloved pet, a beloved pet brother.
How regretful - yet not fulling regretting - the ambivalence of feelings; of how I once thought he was invincible, not capable of ageing and/or dying. I suppose I was wrong in a certain way, but I rescind the fact that he has died. He's never dead in my heart nor will he be within my mind and as well as my parents'. Bruno's on a trip that's all... a heavenly trip all paid for. One way ticket with free phone calls anytime and every time he feels like it. There would be endless buffet of meals and toys that we could never match to provision him with and he will be happy. Inevitably!
Bruno... I just want you to know that you're not forgotten. In Koko's heart, you are still here... and you forever will be. I miss you terribly and I'm so sorry I missed out so much of your growing up life in all those years when I was shipped to the university and subsequently to my workplace.
One that took me quite a while to complete, partly in fact due to the convoluted technicalities which was used extensively throughout this novel. I don’t quite believe that this novel is in anyway meant for everyone or any particular person in specific as one has to really grapple with the three voluminous books within this story with a challenge that seems too profound to be understood. The story picks off easily enough, then tapers and drone through a long winded course describing the occurrence of insomnia getting from bad to worse before the protagonist; Ralph Roberts himself, starts to elucidate things beyond the confines of his five senses. There appears to be a sudden change of glimpse from the earthly town of Derry before they take a turn into several levels altogether. Humans and animals begin to swirl coronas of aura defining their life essence and as well as their emotions which are predictably synonymous with the colour that is so oft used to associate them with. As to add on the confusion even further down the book, readers are invited to a differing realm of telepathy where body, mind and soul - physically and spiritually - are sent from the earthly realm (where they are visible) towards some other levels of ethereal region where their physical self becomes intangible yet capable of supernatural powers beyond the reasoning of Man.
Amongst the complicity of all these huge aura that doesn’t bode well for interests sake, unless if you keep reminding yourself that there is a solid plot to go along with the novel; there appears to be a further definitive approach towards alien beings which imposes good versus evil and acting as servants towards handling the human life, deciding when to sever them based on Purpose and Random (read the book to grapple these meanings, they can get quite a bit out of hand and you’d need to go through them several times, but eventually if you are patient enough, you’ll see for yourself the underlying touch). Although King remains the bodice of horror science-fiction with a melodramatic touch especially in this one, I find certain elements of human communication and verbal description of certain actions a tad bit unlike his mannerisms. Some were a bit of a laugh to begin with while some gives off the eminence that King has sort of lost his touch towards the span of the book.
Like many of his Constance Readers who may suggest that if the book were kept short and simple, the main element of the novel could still be retained while the confusion that mixed together with all the plots can be rectified, if not eliminated altogether. Then again, what would King’s work be if there is that lack of profound elaboration of the oddities that so defines his long handed skills? I shall leave that to you to decide, but a fair warning to you, Insomnia is a challenge to read. It took me eight days to read and re-scan through certain minute points that plays significant role towards the end, but I applaud the apotheosis of the story as well as the epilogue which was in many ways, a good sending off for King’s characters. You don’t quite see them that obvious in his latter works. So enjoy them while you can.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Would you believe it if I were to tell you something that is out of the ordinary? Or would it be rather simple than to just accept it out of the conscience of wanting to console the grieving individual? Be that as it may, I'm sure those who are tactful enough would fall into the second category, falling in line to either grieve alongside their mates or just to lend a shoulder to cry on. But for those who are more than just sensible, to those who takes sentimental approaches with a pinch of salt and not accepting something ethereal with a facile nod of the head, then I'd welcome you to my story. Again... one that is true, one that happens when my dearly beloved pet dog, Bruno pass on at that very fateful day of March the Fourth, Two Thousand and Fourteen.
I can understand how sad my mom and my dad was. Who wouldn't especially when you have knitted up a tight-fitting relationship with someone and not just something for such an endearingly long time? Being in closer contact with Bruno all these while, their hearts would understandably be broken to shattering diamonds that would find themselves a challenging time to piece back. And I don't think they would be able to piece them back without leaving a prominent scar along the way. Or to speak in a matter-of-factly tune, an interminable amount of scars.
As God is my witness... I would call no evidence in court to lie for anyone's behalf... and here so my story begins.
I was besotted with the murkiness that swamps the riverine region tracking its course along a winding path of dense mangrove forest when I happened to look up from my bed. Something fluttered across the living room - some shadowy substance that seems to play tag with the baking rays of the sun that pierces through the shaded curtains in my rented house. Every time I tried to track the mobile object with my eyes, I seem to be missing it for good. Rays of sun reflects eagerly off the fluttering organism that it took some time for me to register that it was a black coloured butterfly. From a distance I couldn't quite make out what shape it was or how in the world it must have gotten in to my house.
For the past ten months or so staying in the place I am currently residing in, I have never had an encounter with a butterfly; not inside my house nor in the garden compound that surrounds halve of my humble dwelling. The timing was perfectly lined that I should meet its acquaintance a few hours after the terrible news came to my understanding. Bleary eyed from snivelling intermittently, I stood up from sitting on the edge of my bed. I must have been predictably weak from bawling that I felt a momentary flush of giddiness and light-headedness. Black spots as tiny as a period dot formed and twirled in front of my field of vision and made me spun for quite a bit before settling down again on the bed to gather my composure. I rubbed my eyes, dried it with a towel and got up again, this time slowly; each and every time trying not to lose track of the interesting discovery I've made in that afternoon.
I lumbered out from my room and scrambled a stool from my dining table; sat down near enough to look what has just transpired in my living room and failed to register at that particular moment the significant association with the appearance of the butterfly. As I hunched my shoulder forward and lifted my head with a perfunctory glance, it suddenly came to me. I'm so oft reminded of the brilliance of a butterfly that comes to a home of an individual that I would never forget it, not even for a dull moment. Must have been the tearing episode that must have left my brain scarred momentarily to comprehend the ongoings of a butterfly; yes, and as simple as that... trudging along the curtains - up and down nonchalantly.
As the butterfly prodded for a place to limber on before moving on to another sweet spot, my mother's voice, clear as crystal came to me in a soft hush tone that seemed to be the most perfect voice that I would want to hear at this moment of dire circumstance...
'Whenever a person or an animal pass on... they would transform into a butterfly and visit the ones they love the most...'
That reduced me to tears again and I cried my heart out not caring for once in the world that it would jar my neighbours from their afternoon slumber and peer in to see what might have gotten my toe. Thankfully, no one was home next door, not even a few more houses after. The retching episodes came and as I nauseatingly vomited saliva onto the floor, I allowed myself to slide from the stool and onto the unblemished linoleum which I had just recently bleached a few days before. I sat there with my head planted firmly in the groove between my knees and bawled and bawled until there was nothing left but a stuffed red nose and a stink of vomit that rose high up to disperse the lizards stuck at the ceiling.
If you were to ask me how long I sat there glazed with dumbfounded insouciance, I would have told you it must have been for hours... only then as I finally succumbed to the significant thirst that I then allowed myself to grab a glass of water from the dining table. I happened to turn my head into my bedroom while I was at it and the clock face seems to tell me that it has been only 15 minutes. I drank the water gratefully and then as I put it down... a memory so sharp race across my mind again. Something with regards to Bruno. I've read somewhere that even after your pet has passed on for decades, a small momentary lapse of sight, sense, smell or touch and even taste, be it insignificant as it is would trigger the tear gland and push you into a moping episode. But the relevance was obvious. My beloved Bruno loved water and my mom always compared my carefree attitude in always forgetting to drink water to that of Bruno, whom by himself would know when to drink them and how much he would need to drink in order to prevent himself from getting sick.
That would perhaps explain why Bruno, as fit as a fiddle had never gotten a flu bout for the most part of his life.
But I digress with a touch of sincerity... to explain and elaborate on how Bruno means so much to me. Even now his actions in his prime daily routine would trigger me to find a place to sit and cry the episode out of my eyes until I feel comfortable again to recoup. The water had not so much entered my gut that I regurgitated some of them out again as another bout of weeping episode came unbidden. My knees unhinged and I sat down with a thump on another stool, planting squarely with my bottom on the seat, minding not the pain the sent a sharp bolt to my spine.
But I'll spare you the grisly details of my crying bout, the insanity of repetition of which would drive any sane minds to the wall. Suffice to acknowledge the fact that I loss all sense of touch to the immediate world when I return to my home from work and feel the loneliness creep into me. I tried to read but I don't think I got anywhere far. I tried to engage in details of my work, but I doubt that would get me anywhere more than flipping through the papers before thumping them back into my tote bag. I don't know for how long I would be grieving my lost, but funny as it seem, I don't really mind it at all. It is as if grieving for my loss is an acceptable fashion in this circumstance and it would hold me closely to Bruno, never wanting the memory forever etched in my mind to escape.
But why would I denounce all forms of remarks in asking me to get on with life and move on with it? For that simple fact that I never had a friend so loyal and so lovely as that of Bruno...
Thanks for visiting me in Sabah, Bruno... Although worlds of scientific rationality and pragmatism would dismiss that the presence of the butterfly in my living room could have been a coincidental finding of perhaps one that has gotten lost while venturing too far from home, I would never hear any of that.
Your sweet presence and your good sense of locating your master has never ceased to amaze me even after you have move on to the heavenly realms. I rejoice in the knowing that you are as carefree as a butterfly, as sweet and lovely as ever and as wonderfully loved as you are.
I still miss you Bruno... and I dream of you every time I close my eyes and lull myself to sleep. I know Mom and Dad does so too and it is still very much painful and very much real to all of us who loves you so much. Your paw prints has not only touched us; your close immediate family, but whoever that has come into contact with you. In one way or another, I want to believe that you changed their life for the better. Even those who hasn't seen you at all are afflicted with the pain and sorrow that they share of losing you. I'm so proud to call you my brother. Bruno... you'll never be far and I darn well know it!
I love you Bruno!