Author: Fangjie

It’s been about a year now, I haven’t seen or heard from you. I’ve not been missing you crazy, but how do you do?

I found a letter you wrote me, it still smells just like you. I found the presents you gave me, every little piece brings back a certain part of a memory of you. My friends have been telling me that they’ve been seeing you around. I’ve been meeting new people whose facial features or behavioural traits resemble you, but never have I met you again.

I remember everything about you. I don’t think you’ve changed much. Perhaps, still carrying that pleasant countenance, vividly still etched in my mind. Your ever constant laughter, loquacious in crowds even though it doesn’t suit you. Our once clandestine affair, now marked in the books of history as a disaster. Our separation, made perspicuous to everyone around us. I was perturbed by how people would view us, view me, as a deplorable human being lacking ethics, triggered by the idea that everyone seemed to be by your side – which I acquiesced in eventually.

How do you do now? It’s been so long, yet I still have a visceral reaction every single time to wander my late night thoughts over to you. 

How do you do?

I remember you once blaming me for no longer writing about you.

The truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to write about someone I no longer felt a thing for. There is an essence in my writing and language that comes from beyond my intellectual ability to comprehend and process words – an innate desire to express from the core of my heart. I don’t write for the pure sake of putting words down onto paper (or onto the computer monitor, if you will), I write to feed my soul – the very process of painstakingly regurgitating my guiltiest secret desires and my torrential flooding of sentiments into something physical, something organised and intelligible; something I can be proud to call my own.

I don’t want to throw my words freely into the air, meaningless and cheap nothings that contain no value of truth or sentiment. I hope you understand that for every piece of writing that I used to dedicate to you, I didn’t just give you my words; I gave you in that instant, all of my heart and soul. In that finite amount of time that I wrote, I wanted to give you an infinite amount of reasons to be convinced that you were in every way everything that completed me as a whole. 

Therefore, I beg of you – I implore you to not demand me to write about you. I will cease to function properly and my words will never reach you; they will not sound like me and in every single way insincere and likely misconstrued.

Yet, how ironic when I write to implore to not write about you, I am somehow, writing about you?

Last night, you slipped your way
into my head – while I was fast asleep;
tapping on my shoulder and hugging me
from behind like you actually meant it.

I don’t even talk to you very much,
much less barely do I know your name but
last night we didn’t have to talk at all
for you to completely steal my heart.

This morning, I slid my way into your messages;
my text but a mere pin in a haystack for your entertainment.
I saw you walk away and drive off, moving on with life
while I can’t detach myself from memories of last night.

Perhaps, I’d much rather meet you in my sleep, you
put your fingers on my lips – silencing me (and my fears), and
in a land of make believe, you are the only thing I want
to see, so tonight see you again I shall – far away in my dreams.

I will admit that you are quite a challenge to converse with, even more so to understand. I know that our characteristics and personalities are rather polar opposites, but I want to believe that there is something which can be done in order for this to work out.

I have to make the first move, as always, because if I don’t then everything will stagnate and eventually break off. Yet, I don’t want to come off as oppressive and dominant – stifling if you will, as per what I was told the last time I tried to make the first move out of good will. I’m constantly reminded of feedback I was given in the past, and how shockingly similar my situation is now as compared to then – but a lot more extreme on the scale. I want to know where is the fine line between being caring and condescension, between trying to strike a conversation and personal space invasion, as well as between giving a healthy dose of personal space as compared to neglecting the person. Teach me, because I really don’t know – but I am willing to learn.

Some days, I feel really special and appreciated but some other days I feel forgotten and unwanted. There seems to be an invisible switch in your mind that controls your desire for social interaction, some days you take in a healthy dose but others you seemingly want none at all. Yet, this has only started happening in recent times, so I really question if there’s something I have done wrong.

I am trying to read between the lines, catching the little unspoken hints packed behind your physical actions and words. Your social media is a gateway to find out on the things you enjoy and dislike, but I think nothing speaks louder than your gift for silence. Indeed, I think you say it best when you say nothing at all. Sadly, I don’t always comprehend the language of your silence – maybe eventually I will, maybe I won’t.

Simultaneously, I want to be more patient and forgiving with myself. I have been trying very hard, as diligently and determinedly as possible in making myself a more reasonable and approachable individual. I have been actively trying to improve myself as a better listener, a better friend, a better interlocutor. I do all of these regular self reflections because I genuinely want to be a better person in every way that contributes to the betterment of society, but I understand that mistakes and slips are inevitable, and should they be unavoidable, I want to accept my own mistakes without any grudges.

You indirectly teach me to constantly reflect on myself with clarity, to not be assuming, and to give the benefit of doubt. I still don’t completely understand you, I don’t expect to, but you teach me things I’ve never found out about myself. When you speak, your minimal words create a profound impact on me and I learn so much through a different perspective coming from someone with a near opposite personality.

Yet when you stay silent, I’m still learning even when you say nothing at all.

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.