Keep A Peek

If I walk the thin line between reality and surreality, I would find myself transported into the default settings of an ancient valley. I would be fighting dinosaurs and drinking blood from a crudely crafted container. I would be ruthlessly defiant of my desires and needs. I would be the recurring nightmare of my nemesis and the conscience of my soul(mate).

And then maybe my conscious choices would be more permissible, and my struggle more comprehensible. And understanding becomes a burden that I could just shrug off.

A messy start to an allegedly magnificent year.

Why am I always stuck in a perpetually paradoxical situation? I hate the connotation of anything remotely conventional or stereotypical, nor the futile effort of trying to prove otherwise.

My head hurts. My heart hurts. Every pore of my existence hurts. There is too much ambiguity in the present tense and I long for a moment, yes, just a moment of pure uncontaminated

Peace-

Like a giggle. Or a lollipop.

Blogging

Someone once told me people who blog are consciously or subconsciously an exhibitionist. The need to write and share all (un)important details of your (in)significant life and thoughts with the world is, when you think of it, not so different from flashing strangers on the streets. I don’t disagree with this. But I realise that as time goes by, I care less about whether or not there are audiences. I care more of what I feel when I read back on what I wrote and I care about the evolution of thoughts, and the pictures just don’t speak a thousands words to me anymore.

I miss writing. I seek refuge in words which elude my eloquence and pride. Its a pity that I don’t do that as often anymore. Life got in the way. Or is it a phase shift?

Moving

I have moved 11 times in my life. Across 9 cities and 4 countries. And two weeks ago it was my 12th. There is something weird about moving. It is just one of those things in life that you don’t get better at the more you do it. Everytime I move I leave behind a part of me. I still remember the first ever house that I lived in, there was a big rambutan tree that housed the nests of millions of ants. And then there is the swing. Oh how I loved it, that was the beginning of my obsession with swings. I left my childhood in that house, I remember the view from my bed, it was of the back of my dad sitting behind his desk. And I remember the scent of lemon grass and steamed fish and the creak of the iron gate.

I got better at packing, but not at moving. Packing is mechanical, but moving is variable. There is a finality to the word that I can’t get over. I remember the broken guitar chords and slam dunk comic books that I left behind in that crowded living room in Setapak and the four people that I never met again, yes, thats it. The possible never that comes with moving, it unsettles me.

And now I am living in the heart of a big city. Geneva is enchanting in the summer, but I’ve heard about how people feel lonelier in big cities. But maybe that’s what I need?

China

The trip did me good. I was in the presence of wonderful people and food and atmosphere that despite the hazy air and stiffling crowd and traffic, I was happy. I won’t get all philosophical about how a vacation always makes you realise something about the world and yourself and the whole, y’know, soul searching thingamajig. But I was mildly depressed, wait. Scratch that. It irritates me how this word is so overly used to dramatize every little pitfalls (and even that is a dramatization. pfft) one faces. For comprehension’s sake, I was demotivated and was feeling a lil lost during the few weeks before I went to China. Nothing was bothering me in particular, besides those same old quarter life crisis dramas. Anyway I wasn’t on top of the world, and China did me good.

I needed to let loose, to be stripped bare of all niceties and to see that what was left wasn’t shallow. I needed to share and to see. I needed to learn and to feel. I needed adrenalin and change. I needed depth. I needed to find out something about myself that has been troubling me. Talking with different people was therapeutic and rewarding. I was immensely lucky to have been in the company of fun, considerate and interesting people. I came back recharged and felt like one of those ridiculous self help book character. Har har.

Its not the place, its the people. They always say. But China was the catalyst. 回忆是快乐的温床，我猜？

Wedding

I am about to become the bridesmaid for my best friends wedding in like, 3 weeks time. Lately she has been telling me some of the agony and frustration of a wedding preparation. Its kinda … scary.

When the time comes, I am gonna elope with my beloved. Screw all the ceremonial crap and money politics. Seriously, nothing cheapens Love more than money.

That being said, Irene my dear, I won’t become a runaway bridesmaid, in sickness and in health, I’m staying. For the cake.

Friendship

I have a very idealistic view on friendship. In this forever-friends-like utopia of mine, friendship is built on essentiality. There is no tug and push, no calculative game-play, no ego booster nor bolster, no dominance nor submission, no tears. Friends with benefit are not friends, fuck buddies are just bed warmers.

But as the warped Creator (w00t look! I capitalized it!) of mine would have it, I’m not cutout for idealism. And lately one of the things I’ve been pondering about is how come I can’t seem to ever bare my soul to my friends, even friends that’ve known me for all my life. Despite my penchant for intimacy, that is also the one thing I can’t seem to really, feel. Fluidity is a baffling trait.

Gravity

I like his stoic presence. It calms me. I am staring into deep blue sea and all I can feel is the speed of air cushioning my fall. Its safe and dangerous at the same time. When there’s no one around I want to smell his hair and nibble his ear. I never seem to tire of that skip of my heart even when I am suffocating.

Love is weird.

I have a default feeling.

I remember when I was younger, like 13 or 14, my default feeling was one of an intense red. I felt everything with a magnifying glass and most of the time I was on a natural high of delirium. And then there was 15 where my default feeling was dark. And when I was 16 or 17 I turned light again. I was a delightful young gal, minus all the subtle mockery of the word ‘gal’ but with more spices on top. I then remember turning 18, and then 19, and then 20. I felt like a melting pot of different hues. But most of the time I can still differentiate the shades. And then from 21 to 25 the color coding stopped. It got complicated and the shape-shifting phase was full of crossroads. It was colorful, painful and exciting, but I felt less.

Nowadays I have less default feeling. Through some divine intervention I learned to make myself feel a certain emotion and spend less time being default anymore. But some parts of that damn pump tells me that I am masking myself with a transparent but non-foolproof defensive facade.

I hope it comes with an expiry date, because I miss being red.

Everytime I type the word banana, I have this inexplicable urge to type banananananana. And in my head there is a song going nana nananana nana… It is the theme song from the ad of a candy I ate when I was a kid and if my rusty memory still serves me right, its called Nanonana.

It tasted like little sachets of powdery flower plum. I used to hide them in my schoolbag for fear of getting caught by my parents for eating sweets, and they’d melt when the weather is too hot (the candies, not my parents). Once I sucked on my bag because I didn’t want to waste candies. Yes I knew not to waste food since I was young.

This is my first entry of the year 2009, brought to you in utmost solemn- and thoughtfulness.

I had a great 2008, by the way.

You know what is weird? Privacy in this age.

I have a private blog which i recently found out is not so private as I thought it is. After the initial shock and some mild irritation, i realised how pointless, naive and absurd it is - the idea of keeping things hush hush on a publicly available and overly popular platform. Its like sex with clothes on. Its suffocating, contradictory and totally defeats the purpose of the act itself. Nevermind that i am a sucker for such weird combination.

And the heat in my room is driving me crazy. I have a (at least) 100 pages report due in a month time and all I could think of now is ice.

Yesterday and the day before yesterday were days of heavy but enlightening conversations. Masterfully conducted debates of such sometimes put me in a pensive mood. What did I do to deserve this luxury?

And I suspect I am just writing this post because Mental Diarrhea is such a cool name for a category.