Month: April 2017

20th century French philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre, once posited the idea that “what all existentialists have in common is the fundamental doctrine that existence precedes essence”. To put it in layman terms, one first has to physically exist before he discovers his mission and role in life – contrary to essentialist beliefs that one’s purpose in life is already determined prior to his physical existence.

So, what is the purpose of my existence? I am a second generation Singaporean, arguably fully equipped with a true blue Singaporean mindset and a sense of belonging that the rest of my family tree do not share with respect to Singapore. I was raised, for as long as I could possibly remember, under the care of Chinese parents who had obtained their Singapore citizenship prior to my birth, and hence giving me the status of a Singapore citizen at birth. Legally, my parents and I do not share much differences in terms of legal rights, yet there are stark differences at a personal level that I sometimes cannot get around.

1) Language: There’s really not much of an argument to put up against the fact that my parents and I can have some serious language barriers during daily life conversations. I’m not rubbish at Chinese, in fact I deem myself fairly eloquent in spoken, everyday Mandarin. Yet, when it boils down to me wanting to drive a particular point home, I find myself struggling to come up with the right words and phrases in Chinese to use in order to make myself sound convincing. I can have the grandest idea in the world, the most ambitious dreams to become a full-time (English) writer, but nothing works out if your parents cannot be convinced. When you have to slowly translate your thoughts from English into a language your parents are more familiar with, it’s inevitable that should your translation be slightly off (which is mostly the case for me because I suck at translation), the entire meaning can be completely misinterpreted by your interlocutors – in this case, my parents. There are times whereby I have an urge to just blurt my argument out in English, but what’s the use if you’re not being fully understood? Somehow, growing up in a different language setting from my parents not only damages the quality of communication, but also vastly increases the chances of arguments for the very same reason.

2) Expectations: Fundamentally, we grew up in different backgrounds, integrated in different societies, and learnt to adapt to the lifestyles of different nationalities. Singapore is a very new country with its cultural roots established not that far ago compared to other larger countries. We have different expectations regarding similar matters, and share a different set of principles that guide us through as socially aware individuals, although fundamentally all human nature is the same. We disagree on the education system and society’s attitude towards certain taboos. Even after so long, it’s impossible to fully accept the lifestyle patterns of true blue Singaporeans. Even after so long, albeit not at all an uncalled for surprise, my parents can’t fully accept my Singaporean quirks and that sometimes leads to a lack of mutual understanding. Sometimes, it feels like my house is not truly a home, but rather a physical shelter littered with unhappy complaints on how I didn’t turn out to be the ideal child they wished I were. Furthermore, being an only child does not seem to be of much help when it comes to solving parent-child misunderstandings.

3) Relatability: I don’t. I just don’t. Literally since young until now, there’s not much to relate with my parents in terms of life experiences. Nothing – primary school, secondary school, anything really. It’s quite sad a story, that you’ve never been through what your parents had, and vice versa. 

There is no one to blame, and frankly nothing significant to bemoan. Yet, on the darkest days this subtle harshness creeps in on me, and without prior notice, stabs me where it hurts the most. 

“I get tired of everyone, even you.”

It’s been such a difficult week, majorly lacking in productivity and inspiration. I said I wanted to write something, and life has thrown me my biggest writer’s block ever. I stay up until 3am trying to wreck my brains to come up with something, anything worth a mention at all that won’t bore the panel of judges and readers, but seemingly my life is either too boring, or the issues I wanted to address are too personal to go public.

I’m trying to do a daily poem challenge in view of April being the National Poetry Month, yet I can’t seem to write any poem that isn’t related to love and romance. I’ve come to romanticize everything – pain, pleasure, and utter peril. I could romanticize a toilet bowl scrubber, but what use would it be if the same theme is used every single day?

I’m picky on my writing, I delete entire chunks of text when I reread and find myself unhappy with it. I’m not usually that meticulous of a person, but my expectations and standards on my own writing are ridiculously, out-of-the-roof high. I am definitely not your usual, everyday perfectionist, not like some of my friends who are in my standards, overachievers but to them, they’ve barely begun their roads to success.

A few days ago, I found out some brand new insights to certain parts of my junior college life that I arguably never wished I had found out. The pain of the particular event itself, although now down in the books of history, still stings and sears like the depths of hell. A sickening dawn of realisation to the question I’ve always casually, subconsciously pondered over, that it’s not because of an accidental mistake as what they’ve suggested, but a deliberate attempt of cruelty and malice. Does it actually matter now? No. Does it hurt? Yes.

I’ve come to realise that you should probably always keep your expectations of others low. On days when they make you particularly happy, you are probably better off assuming that it’s because they’ve had a particularly excellent day. As you watch your conversations slowly deteriorate to subpar standards, you know that every single promise you had previously made – they are going straight down the drain.

I live nearly every single day now in anxiety. I’m not that terrible of a person, really, but society knows how to evilly play with me. Sometimes, I think I’m about to lose to it all. I want to share the joy with some of my friends but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to, not until I’ve escaped the danger zone myself. When can I be relieved of my anxiety? When will my patience be tested until?

I don’t know. I need answers. But oh life, it’s not giving me any – not at the moment.

No, there is nothing wrong with you.

There is nothing wrong with the way you break my heart – not at all. That is your signature move, and I expect nothing less from it all than a cruelly shattered heart. There is an odd, tingling sensation that accompanies every heartbreak; as though you needed a reminder that you are still alive, that you are still human, that you have yet become an emotionless psychopath.

I just didn’t know how to respond to you anymore. I just didn’t know where to draw the line. You’ve said it countless times, warning me you can be cruel – you are mean, but I went ahead and let you anyway, arguably even self-inviting all these pain. You seem to have a desire to inflict pain, and I so willingly became a subject for you – for what reason, I do not understand. 

So, toss me around like a single, lone wave in the ocean, make me seem tiny like an inconspicuous wisp of vapour in the wind.

I am too tired to care, too tired to be afraid of what is coming next.

There she is – a top scorer,
7As in the bag and a bright future
tantalisingly lying ahead of her;
London-bound and on a full scholarship.

 
We started off on the same path –
Building sandcastles after school in the
run-down sandpit near our blocks and
our homework long forgotten and lost.

 
We grew up and attended the same schools;
Our parents nagged at us equally but
somehow she was always the top scorer while I
barely struggled to make it a pass.

 
We were best friends since young but
I don’t know what went wrong –
Somewhere along the way, somehow now
all the laughter is long gone.

 
What’s wrong, you ask me;
why aren’t you smiling any more?
something is bothering you, you say
but what can possibly be wrong?

 
Nothing, I say – absolutely nothing at all
I looked at your radiant smile and
somehow, I felt as if my problems were
too naïve, too unimportant to be cared for at all.

 
We stopped going out because you’re
always too busy – and every time I needed a shoulder
your phone always seemed not to be working so I
carried all these hurt like big, fat boulders.

 
Today, I sent you off at the airport –
you’ve packed your bags as if you’ll never come back.
And maybe, somewhere deep inside I knew; I thought
I’d lost you a long time ago and now I know it’s true.