Tag Archives: thoughts

A life review (Third year)

It’s the end of my third year of university. I’ve been telling that to myself repeatedly now but it has not settled in. True, I have one more year to go but it is just hard to process that this phase is actually coming to an end.

To most, university is a means to and end. You want to get into a prestigious university to ease your way when you’re entering the work force. But for me, university IS my end. I think it was when I was 8, that the idea of studying abroad came to me, after one of my family member left for Australia for uni. Starting from then, I go through each round of exams, knowing that those were all means for me to achieve my goal, which was to get into a university abroad. Now, that I’m here, I’d be lying if I say i’m not slightly clueless about what I’m going to do next. Cause i’ve done it guys, I’ve fulfilled my biggest life goal.

Third year. To sum it up, it’s the year that I lived with no regrets. I was able to enroll in a summer school program, in a good university (Peking Uni), doing a course I absolutely enjoy (Mandarin), all while being able to travel around China (Yes, I’m including China in ‘third year’). And although I’m not going to say that all my courses were enjoyable and applicable in the future -I’m referring to you, Global Justice and Citizenship- the majority of it was. Like, how cool is it to be learning about Political Islam and the Politics of Sex and Gender? The courses may sound cool, but the contents will blow you off your seats. I don’t think that any other courses have impacted my political opinion and my general view of the world as much those two have. In all honesty, before third year, I was getting sick of Politics, sick of IR and academia and all these white privileged men telling me about everything that happens in Europe and America. It’s as if no one else exists, no one else matters. And it was so tiring to the point that I really questioned my degree. Hey hey hey, not anymore, ey.

Let’s also not forget all the friends I made this year. The new people I met, who surprisingly have become relatively important subjects considering the short amount of time they have existed in my life. Not forgetting my decision to dive into the world of relationships and although I’ve closed that chapter, I must say that I don’t regret ever trying it out. Most of it due to the fact that my partner was the best person I could ever choose to do this whole romance thing but alas, I realised that having feelings for someone and committing myself to a relationship are two very different things. While I am not opposed to the prospects of being in a relationship, I am quite sceptical now that I understand more about myself, my priorities and the lengths that I would go to for a person. In the future if someone manages to change my opinion then yay, great! but if not then, yay, great!

I am pretty sure that none of this is of any interest to anyone but I must say I enjoyed writing this unstructured, unimportant, post on my life. No tutor is going to comment after each chapter, no one to correct any errors or criticise anything I say. Cause really, who knows better about my life that myself right?

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Farewell to the skill I once had

I have genuinely lost all my writing skills. I think. It happened somewhere between the absence of a need to write essays and the not so inspirational surrounding I have at home.

No.
I am lying.

These are just reasons. It was the same last year during my first summer break and I had still managed to produce one of the longest works I have ever written.

It is me.

I have lost the ability to write with confidence. I have forgotten the emotions that kicks in, forcing my fingers to dance on the plastic keyboard of weirdly arranged letters. I cannot remember what it feels like to have the same 10 fingers vomiting something beautiful.

How do I write something that is close to my heart but not too close that I leave myself bare, like a display in the public spaces of free-entry museums? Yet, I do not want to write something so distant, something I do not feel connected to. That would just mean writing cliches and things you have probably read before.
I have a longing to be original, somewhat special.
But how do I even start to be original when I am clearly not.

I guess it is nice to amuse myself with dreams so high I can’t see them  even with 20/20 vision.

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The best feeling in the world is when you are able to stand up for yourself and fend off bullies.

There is only so much a person could take. Only so much hatred and frustration one could hold back.

It is absurd that a person does not feel safe in the confines of their own home. There is always the fear of being attacked, harassed or insulted and degraded on a daily basis.

The fight is rough, harsh shoves and raising voices but nothing beats the satisfying feeling of knowing that you can rely on yourself.

Proud.

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Burn

Burn

Burn,
Not bright and mesmerising,
But fast,
Slick tongues of flames,
Licking your useless being,
Edges turning pitch black,
Black like your heart,
Black like your presence,
Turning you into the ashes,
That you are worth,
Because you are nothing more than that,
Dust,
Dirty and unwanted.

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The Iron Women (And Their Tender Hearts)

She lies next to me
On this bed for two
But I am the only one
Whose mind is present
While hers is caught between
The right swipes of the wrong app
And the running debt behind a frozen bank account
A husband she no longer calls one
And the daughter who has to carry too much

I wrap my arms around her
Frame frail and fragile
She did not fall into the trap of planning to fail
But her plans have failed her
And she is in a limbo of her unwise decisions
Between her mistakes and the ones of her loved ones
She easily forgives the wrongs that hurt her more

I spend time with her
And it seems like she is okay
But living in a house that is not a home
Torn between wanting to be a ‘good’ mom
Or one who could actually provide
Leaves her in a lose-lose situation
Forcing herself to swallow the unpleasant taste of guilt
When she sees her son and imagines every what if’s

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Spectrum

Her touches are the colours of warmth,
The crispy shade of dried leaves,
Crackling under the steps of old souls,
The rough edges of red bricks,
Dust and dirt filling the gaps of familiar fingerprints,
The strokes of beauty on the wide canvas of the sky,
Moments before twilight,
When the sun for once is not painful to the eyes.

Her words are a range of soothing hues,
The fresh smell of newly mowed lawn,
The same that stains scarred knees,
The comfort in laying your head on the ground,
Ends of grass that tickles the exposed skin,
Between the torn hem of worn denim
And loose ankles, sprained too many times.

She is a pantone of strength and security,
Bright and scary like a series of thunders,
During the peak of a turmoiling storm,
Deep seas reflecting the image of the sky,
But also calming ombres that darkens towards the horizon,
I was fooled to believe that they are only separated by a fine line,
When they are dimensions that never meet.

 

 

 

This is my version of TaySwizzle’s Red or Halsey’s Colours, whichever genre you listen to.

Also, i think i might have tried too hard with this, as much as trying to hard can get at 6 in the morning with no sleep the previous night. I only hope I do not sound pretentious in this.

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Hi World, I do not need for you to know me.

At a certain point of having this blog, I realised that I really wanted to be heard. I desired for my thoughts to be understood, for others to at least try to see it how I see it, regardless if they agree with me or not. But in all honesty that does not matter. I have discovered that now. That my goal was never to be understood by the world but by the few people I care enough to share what it feels like to see the world through my pair of boring, brown eyes.

Then isn’t it stupid for me to run a public blog when the obvious way to achieve what I really wanted is through personal communication? Well, I guess, but the more attached I am to someone, I find it harder to express to them my real thoughts. Especially the controversial ones I keep hidden. Also, I must say, putting my heart out on my sleeve isn’t something I am particularly good at.

Writing here is easy and between the two paths diverging ahead of me, I choose the easier one. As much as I know everyone who reads this are human, I do not put an identity on any of you, no faces attached to the views I get everyday. I am detached from you. So, I do not care what are your perceptions of me after you have done reading what I decide to tell you.

What I could do instead is maybe start a project like one of my friends have done. She writes letters to all the people around her. Despite the fact that she never sends them, it still serves the purpose: She gets her thoughts cleared up and it is kept private. Maybe I should start one as well. And maybe unlike her, I should hand them to people when I feel like the time is right. And just maybe, you might have one with your name written in block letters (cause I cannot write cursive)on a worn envelope with dog ears on two out of the four sides.

As for now, I have taken off the link of my blog from my public accounts. The only ones who have access to this blog now are people who have visited it or people who stumble upon it after being on the wordpress reader and they aren’t many of them. So now, this becomes more personal to me, well at least as personal as a public blog can get and I feel more safe writing what I feel like writing.

Ps: Also, recently I was hanging out with my sisters and I asked if they have read my blog and they told me that they had but they could not really understand what I was saying. They said it was too poetic (in a bad way). If you agree with them please tell me. I guess I sound like I am trying too hard half the time. Have I? I am not really sure myself.

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It’s been a while

I think, I think too much
And that’s another thing to think of
Besides the subject that is you
Running laps continuously around my mind
While I am always known as a slow walker
And I cannot keep up

My friends tell me they never know what I want
And I have never minded just settling with ignorance
But when every mention of you is accompanied
With multiples ‘i don’t know’
This once, I really care to know if I care for you

I seek left and right for some sort of advice
And there is one straight ahead who could help me
But how could I possibly ask you about you?
Even if your insights would be the most insightful

Timing is everything, I agree
So tell me if I should reopen this after a year
Or should I just let it go like I did three years ago?
You are 7 hours away but it does not matter
Because what are years and hours and memories?
They only make this sound more tragic than it is
When the only tragic thing is us stuck in GMT-friend

I’ll be honest, I am nervous
And if I’m lying I’d say I’ll talk to you today
All this time knowing today will never happen
Shall we trade experiences once this is over?
Today I wish for you to read this
Today I hope you could magically read my mind
Today I will stop being complicated and mess things up
All this time knowing today will never happen

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A reply to ‘Raison d’être’

Raison D’être

 

There are days when I force words out because my brain seems to act like a car sitting in the garage for too long, needing a few attempts before the engine purrs to life. Those days are hard and most of my work produced usually ends up in the draft folder I never revisit.

Then there are times when thoughts start to suffocate me and I cannot function. When my life looks like everything is right where it should be, but my mind is a mess I need to organise. It is then that my work seems less pointless. I guess because that is when I write the truth. Sentences that are not laced with exaggeration or randomly placed jargon to make it sound better.

I guess I write because there is actually so much about myself I do not know. This is partly because I never question anything really. When I am asked how my day went, it would take me a few seconds for me to actually think of it because I never do. I live knowing that I have to go through days however they turn out to be, so I never really cared if it was a good or bad day when I should.

I never really knew what I liked and what I do not. They used to be the same to me. I just power through whatever it is that comes my way. Maybe because growing up, I was never really in a position where I could choose for myself. Lessons are pre-chosen by my school or parents, I wear what is approved by my family, I do what seems to be appropriate to everyone else. I am a produce of a relatively constraint surrounding I would say.

Writing makes me question every underlying assumption I previously had. If not, what I write would not be convincing and if I am not convinced by it how would it ever help me sort out conflicts between the thoughts I have in my head? I do hope whatever I write would bring people pleasure or some sort of joy or satisfaction but essentially, they need to fulfill the main objective: for me to fully understand this loaned soul of mine and once I achieve that, hopefully I get to be a better person. Although that is arguable.

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13 years

There are some things you just cannot seem to forget.

She came home when she was 8, report book squashed between multiple other thick textbooks in a bulky Digimon bag. Like any other night, after the 8 o’clock news, when both of them are resting in front of the television, she entered the room. The thin green book in hand as she made her way to the right side of the bed where he lay. She must have been smiling. She was probably 3rd or 4th in class. Never the smartest but it did not matter to her.

She handed the book to him, and he shifted further up the bed, leaning against the headboard, the flimsy book in his right while his left hand lifted his glasses above his eyes to rest on his head.

‘How could your average score be below 90?’

She had never thought of why she did not do better than she did so she really could not answer and just looked some place else. Her score was 86% or 87%, she could not really remember.

‘I’m not going to sign this, get your mom to do it.’

She was a little shaken and confused, mostly confused, so she took her book back and walked out of the room. It was either that or she moved to the left side of the bed, where the other lay and got her to scribble her initials in black pen instead. She must have slept on a salty pillowcase that night. The book was later returned to her class teacher, with the other’s signature on that page.

And all the pages after that. Every single one. She had never bothered to ask him for his signature after that day.

She is 21 now but she still remembers. Each time, it hurts the same way it did when she was 8.

I am sorry.

I love you, but I still remember.

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