Author: Fangjie

sometimes the same wounds can hurt in entirely different ways. an injured wrist, a gnawing sense of incompatibility, mountains of work to clear (just to have an entire new load the very next day) and memories of the past that you don’t want to remember.

sometimes i like to remind myself that every once in a while, everyone feels this way. my feeling of this way is normal, so there’s no reason why i should be hurting this way. but it doesn’t help that the pain is still as vivid as ever, just as excruciating. and just because every one else too, is capable of feeling this way, doesn’t cushion the dull impact of an insensitive blow.

lately i have been rather overwhelmed by the series of events. for the first time in my life, i catch myself not hungry during after-training supper even though i just had a tough training. my wrist screams internally as i struggle to hold my chopsticks. physical pain is so excruciating but i shut up and move on hoping that it’ll recover the next day. the next day i could barely write because my wrist hurt so god damn much.

i hate how i can’t write fiction. all my writings are too personal. all my writings stem from the very fact that somewhere hurts. it’s like a remedy. writing is supposed to be a happy thing. you’re supposed to feel happy at reading your own work. i get compliments telling me that i can write, but sometimes reading my own work just hurts. why?

you know, this is a crap post. one can say that my entire blog is crap. it’s 6 years of accumulated bullcrap. my archives contain crappy reflections of my past, my blatant naïveté, solid evidence that remind me that i don’t ever move past from feeling this dull crappy ache. if i stopped aching i wouldn’t write. but i’m always writing because somewhere is always aching. it’s like pain constitutes 99.9% of my life. i might have become good at writing sad posts. but nobody wants to read sad posts. i am incapable of coming up with a piece of happy fiction. oh, no.

unfortunately, writing to me feels like the way my soul bleeds. this cripples the entire purpose of ‘keeping a leisure blog’. cuz it doesn’t work that way. i didn’t create this blog intending for it to be an accumulation of all my hurt. but this is what it is. a dump site of all my negativity. and with much, much, more to come in the (near) future.

how ironic, though, that i have come to enjoy writing. it comes quite effortlessly. like turning on a tap somewhere in my brain and all the words just come out naturally. does this mean that i am now a masochist who takes pleasure in experiencing this pain? then where’s this ‘good’ that philosophers preach? philosophers disagree over virtually everything but pain being bad is the one thing that most of them agree upon. where can i find this ‘good’ that isn’t all this pain?

stay happy.

my friend

•

you and i, we have sailed the oceans

depending on each other

our mutual source of company

my only form of solace

•

we have had battles together

both with and against each other

but regardless of the outcome

we have stood the test of time

•

i have seen your naked past

just as you have seen mine

i have seen your ugly scars

heal over a period of time

•

tonight we are alone

under the starry night sky

you raise your glass to me and

something made me want to cry

•

you are a familiar face

and once a familiar soul but

tonight i may be falling for you

a secret you’ll never know.

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.

It's starting to get a little crazy outside there.

Recently, I took my MBTI test again – 3 years after my first attempt of which I had gotten an ENFP result. Everything remained the same, except that I went from a 75% extrovert to an 85% introvert. In 3 years.

This is the period of time that I'm meeting new people. The start of university implies many new people to meet, many social events to attend, and many new interesting facts that I discover about myself. Yesterday, somebody asked me if I was an introvert due to my reserved nature and my tendency to listen a lot more than I talk. I told her, no, my test results (3 years outdated) indicated that I was quite an extrovert, but simultaneously I couldn't help agreeing with her observations on me. I had never initiated a single verbal conversation throughout the camp, and those that I initiated by text were very carefully crafted and double-checked multiple times for the fear of error. I may have sounded too formal in my messages.

I shy away from loud events and I found myself always in the corner of the room or near to the walls, never in the centre. During cheers, I would slither my way to the outermost corner of the group at the most opportune moment, else I would find heavy beads of stressful sweat trickling down my forehead whenever people asked me to cheer any louder than my barely audible whisper. I couldn't do it. I had never been able to participate in cheers without feeling like my entire soul was being ruptured by an extremely strong force of awkwardness.

It's true that a lot has changed during the past 3 years. It's probably been the most life-changing 3 years of my life. I've witnessed many things I never wanted to, went through some of the most stressful periods of my life, and felt moments of intense emotional trauma and pain that I never hoped to have felt. It's probably what shut me up on the exterior, and instead moved my words to a pen and a piece of paper, an online platform to write on, to ease the turbulence happening within.

I feel bad towards people because I feel like I've not explained myself enough. Then again, I don't know how to explain myself verbally because no words come out whenever I try to speak. Then again, how could anyone understand me if I don't speak a word? I hope I don't come off as inhumane.

I dare not say that I have figured it all out, figured you all out, because I’m not ready to. 

But, I will say that I have learnt a lot about you, from you, through you, in a brand new perspective I have never been exposed to previously. I have learnt much from the words you said, from the actions you made, but I’ve learnt more from you when you go for days without exchanging a single word.

I’ve learnt not to expect things from you, to take you as you are and your random desires to do certain things as you wish. I’ve learnt not to expect a reply from you even when I think that what I said was interesting, or to expect 48-hour hiatuses simply because you do as you wish. I’ve learnt to expect the unexpected, to accept the previously unaccepted and to be patient and quiet when I’m usually hasty and loud; to listen when you are talking and even more so when you are not, to be aware of your actions and read between the lines when you are idle. 

It is pretty much unequivocal that you like to do things your way, and your way only. You are egotistical and a person chary of compliments, one without much words upfront but buries plenty of thoughts beneath your skin. 

It’s been about 8 months now and things have changed along the way; lifestyle, routine, upcoming prospects and future plans. I miss the times of the past where things were easier and much more carefree. I regret the minor details that I had previously not bothered to compensate. If I may say, I’ve grown quite a bit mentally; the hard way unfortunately, but grown I have nonetheless. I’m glad that I’m able to maintain my cool for longer periods of time, and to look at situations in a more matured way.

To you, you have always surprised me; both in terms of teaching me new things about yourself, as well as brand new things about myself. Things I never thought I would learn, I have learnt it in a brand new, eye-opening experience from you. 

Listen.

Today I stopped for a moment, and appreciated everything and everyone that has left a positive impact on me.

I know that things are not always smooth-flowing, and I know that everyone is bound to face some troubles here and there. I know that sometimes I can be on the verge of losing hope; so tired of all the failures accumulated within such a short period of time. We all want the things we don’t have, but we forget to be appreciative of the things that we do have. We are unhappy because of events that we deem as failures, but we don’t bother to recall our successes, regardless how seemingly inconspicuous they appear to be. We have yardsticks for ourselves to gauge our level of happiness so that we remain hopeful for a better future, and sometimes, we inevitably fail to achieve what we initially intended to. 

Today, I want to remind myself to be thankful for everything that I currently have. 

I have a blog that has been alive for the 6th year and counting, and I think that’s pretty impressive seeing how the writing culture is slowly but surely diminishing. Good English is something that I try (very hard) to achieve in every single post, alongside content that I hope do not come off as too mundane. Everything on this humble blog started off as daily journal-like entries, before it took on a much more emotional and personal turn as I gradually developed my writing style. I’ve received compliments on my posts and every single one of them means a great deal to me; without them finding the motivation to continue writing would be difficult. Writing has found me my University course, my current part-time job, and many great past opportunities that has broadened my perspective on the world around me. Language has always been very personal to me, the art of the millions of combinations and permutations of 26 alphabets, together with the usage of effective punctuation, can get almost every single thing imaginable done. For that, I am grateful for being fluent in my language, for all the hard work put into learning and the fruit that I have borne out of it.

I have people that I can turn to whenever things are not going well. Society is judgmental and not always accepting of individual quirks, therefore making society arguably cruel. I have a select group of people that I can talk to regarding almost any matter on mind, to ease my tired and confused mind of the daily vicissitudes of life. Nobody is perfect, and I may have ticked them off here and there and vice versa, but at the end of the day I want to keep them close to my heart. I especially cherish the fact that we may not talk every single day, but when we do, it feels just as personal and heartfelt. 

I have a (somewhat) job, that gives me emotional fulfilment from helping others in something I’m good at, alongside building better interpersonal relationships with people from all walks of life. Some people work long hours for something they don’t enjoy, but I am blessed to be working relatively shorter hours for something that I actually love doing. For that, I am blessed that my job does not feel like a chore.

I just want to feel hopeful today, for all the good things that have happened and the good things that will eventually be soon to come. I am a firm believer in fate and I trust that if I do the right things on my end, good things will naturally come my way. I want to rid the negativity for a while that has been accumulating on this blog, and to hopefully shine some positivity into this rather lethargic mindset of mine. 

And so, my WhatsApp messages, shall not bother me today.

You are one of a kind, literally, at the place you work at. I don’t know why you wanted to work here, it makes you appear oddly out of place; I do wonder if you can fully fit in.

You are one of a kind, figuratively, because you look at me in a way that sends tingles up my spine; even from a crowd away. You move quickly and quietly, one moment I catch you looking my way and next you are nowhere to be seen.

Are you always alone at this place? You have some occasional company but none of them looked like comfortable company. You don’t smile much, but I think you have an adorable smile. Are you happy at this place? I always catch a slight hint of melancholy in your eyes.

My time here is almost up, but you are unforgettable. You’re not even publicly recognized, but I’d recognize your eyes anywhere. You wave hello and goodbye, and I don’t see you anymore again.

I wish you all the happiness in the world, and if possible – to look my way again.