Month: August 2017

There's a white plastic bag in my room.

It is an ordinary plastic bag, carrying physically ordinary things of extraordinary emotional value to me. They are the physical form of the words I never dared to say, the actions I never dared to take, the questions I never dared to question. They are the embodiments of my memories of you, faraway and distant but simultaneously so dear to my heart, a reminder that daily communication isn't necessary to rank you at the top of my thoughts.

These are the words I don't say to you because I know you prefer not to deal emotionally. Our exchanges are precise and curt, oftentimes direct and blunt, but for a reason I can't fathom, they mean the world to me. My circumspection of the topics I choose to bring up, my choice of diction so carefully selected and inspected, my irrational fear but at the same time sheer excitement from opening your messages; they make me such an inept individual, so awkward and socially unskilled, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of this unknown feeling I feel for you.

We used to converse daily but our lives have since branched out separately, taking you away from me physically. Our schedules are always clashing, both occupied with our mandatory obligations such that mutual separation seem like the inevitable. You're so tired you rarely reply your texts, and on occasions when you do I can hear your tiredness over your texting tone. Your Instagram stories slowly become unrelatable to me, I don't recognise the places you frequent, don't share many common topics of conversation, and this slowly sounds like the recipe of drifting apart.

Yet, you are so special that against all odds, you penetrate my late night dreams in my deepest sleep, reminding me the very reason why you mean so much to me – that there is no reason. That there is no viable explanation why I feel so much for you except that I just do, and there's no feigning the denial of this very fact – so I man up and deal with it, that perhaps, just the very slightest of rationality, you may be my soulmate.

Where does the line cross between practicality and sentimentality? We've all been told at some point in life, by someone we hold high regard for, to chase our dreams. To chase our dreams regardless of what the rest say.

You can do that when there are no responsibilities on your shoulders, no obligations to answer to. You don't give a damn about the judgmental opinions of others who seemingly have more "practical dreams" than you. A dream is a dream, regardless. But some dreams are more socially acceptable, employable, more practical than some others. Some dreams are safe, some dreams are a walk on the tightrope, but aren't all dreams – dreams?

A walk down the archives of my blog and it strikes me how much I have changed over the past 5 years. My writing style has changed and developed over the years, from a colloquial daily journal to a more serious, sentimental avenue where I air my distractions from life, asking the Internet questions I'll never have answers to, publishing blog posts into virtual space where I have not a clue on who reads it, until one fine day when someone mentions my blog to me, and I dawn upon realisation that my incoherent thoughts do translate into somewhat readable content. Initially, I set it a target to blog every single day, because it after all was an intended journal. I managed to keep it up somewhat for maybe half a year, before I dawned upon the fact that forced writing will only result in writer's block, and any writing that subsequently comes out of it will be utterly valueless. The biggest takeaway from my writing journey, as far as my blog is concerned, is that noteworthy writing cannot be forced. There cannot be any pressure put into good writing, because good content only comes from the very depths of the heart, where the core of my soul is awoken to guide my brain, my fingers, into an almost automatic motion, and I write, and I write, a garbled thought and a flurry of words, and I don't stop until I've exhausted all my internal fuel. This is the stamina that cannot be forced, but only propelled by daily vicissitudes.

In primary and secondary education, all the way up to Junior College, I've been a student taking on the science streams. I memorised hard, solid facts, backed up by hundreds of thousands of experimentations and evaluations, to produce an answer so exact that no further questioning was required. Yet, I never felt a connection with math and science. Instead, I liked the idea of ambiguity, producing an argument, and arguing against the arguments of others. I liked the feeling of being overwhelmed after reading a particularly powerful passage, it gave me the inspiration and motivation to write just like them; to make my readers feel something on the intrinsic level, to touch, to move, to stop for a second to absorb all that they are feeling by my work.

I've tried doing professional writing jobs, but none of them made me happy as the requirements didn't give me the flexibility to articulate what I truly wanted to express. All they needed was good grammar, decent vocabulary and a relevant physical topic to work on. Anyone can do that. It wasn't special enough. Then again, feeling something doesn't pay you, it doesn't give you recognition, until something kicks you so hard inside that you take on the physical world.

As I start University, my course will give me plenty of space to think, to feel, to express what is exclusively mine. To write, to argue, to challenge; to give a piece of my mind to mark my existence of my thinking (I think, therefore I am), to be constantly alive with my thoughts, to be repeatedly reminded that how powerful it is to be able to feel.

Of course, everything is a risk. Some dreams weigh more than others, and mine is a particularly heavy one. Regardless, all will fail if I don't even at least try.

I will see what I can make out of it all.

I want your collision,
gently and silently –
not physically but that
between our hearts;

your attention,
privately –
not loud and rowdy but
exclusively for me only;

your assurance,
quietly –
our clandestine conversations
kept within these four walls only; and

your affection,
wholeheartedly –
your desire for power to
ease my vulnerabilities.

Last night I caught myself dreaming of you.

I liked the silence we shared in my dream, you and I, we sat there without uttering a word. The wind caressed your hair gently, blowing strands across your face – and I told you that your fringe was too long.

I liked how you always took way too long to reply my texts, sometimes you took three hours and sometimes three days, but you would eventually always reply me. I have learnt to be patient. I have learnt that things have changed from the past, that your moment of excitement has simmered down to permanent commitment; like a sporadically crackling bonfire slowly steadying itself to a long, peaceful flame. I loved our peace.

Sometimes you speak without thinking, sometimes your words may sting. I like how you've put your flaws upfront and that you have been completely frank with me. I like how you are occasionally caring, amidst your naturally stoic personality, how you have shed just a tiny bit of vulnerability even though I know that you want to be powerful.

For you, I am completely ready to compromise on my ego and my traditional views of myself. There is something so profoundly calming about you, even with your storms, they have soothed my raging thunderstorms to a mild breeze.

I hope you never change.