Ah, People.

For as long as I lived, people and relationships would continue to baffle me.
        Arguments, disagreements, estrangements, misunderstandings-conflict was always an unsigned for attachment in a relationship, never mind the level of intimacy. As a peace lover, I had successfully evaded conflict, at every bend and turn, in each and every one of my relationships. However, a chain of unpleasant incidents which should remain unnamed here made me wonder if running away was such a good idea after all.
        I always believed secret had a mysterious yet miraculous way of binding friends in a tight circle. Secret sharing entitled a bond of trust and responsibility. Despite the uncomfortable awkwardness, I was overjoyed whenever my friends shared a secret with me. Sadly, they didn't. In fact, I was the last one to learn of anything. The chain of unpleasant incidents aforementioned handed me the hard cold truth : I did not belong anywhere.I would always be a stranger. An outcast. A lonesome spectator in the dark corner.
        In my defence, I only had this to say : I might be boring, but trust me, I'm the most reliable friend you would ever find. 

Live Ugly, or Die Beautiful

I hate myself. I hate my inconsistencies. I hate my paper-thin determination. I hate my extreme lack of self discipline. I hate the mess I'm in.
        I hate that for all the reasons I spout out to stay on a strict diet plan, I still fail. I hate that for all the dissatisfaction I have of my body size, I still stay the same. I hate that for all the pain I endured to alter the way people might look at me, I somehow wasted them all over something as petty and frivolous as a comforting, satisfying burp.
        Urgh. Ergo, the consequence for my inconsiderate act would be the lost of excitement over outfit-picking a day before my departure, a ten hour painful jouney spent in grumpiness and self consciousness, and no more oohs and aahs due to my inattractive and shapeless appearance during reunion. Again, urgh. 
        But my heart is strong. It will not be dampen even by a strong blow as this. I will accept my punishment and bear the consequences. Nevertheless, everything is still not lost. I still have other reunions to look forward to. My plan starts again tomorrow and goes on until Chinese New Year and even days after, depending on future occassion requirements. But the point is, everything - these binge, these sways, these wander aways - must stop immediately. I will not encounter another failure, or die of shame and guilt. To live ugly, or to die beautiful is my motto.

Painful Reminiscence

Somehow I felt obligated to explain my reason for going off the grid for the past six months.

        It was a time I thought of all the time but never talked about. A time I wished neither to recall nor to forget. Two things happened to me then. Both occurred in august. Both almost ended my life-my real life, as opposed to my physical existence. I was never the same person since then.

        On the second week of August, I failed my parents. The following week, he failed me. For a person not accustomed to failure, I was devastated. Compared to the 312 incident, this was a catastrophe. My first instinctive reflex called for an emergency retreat. For the 180 successive days, I was a wreck. I shut out the world, avoided everyone I knew, refused food, slept for excessively long hours and spent every waking hour on computer games.

        Once in a while, whenever I told myself that I could never go on like this forever, I tried leaving my room, but instantly realized my mistake: I wasn't ready to face the world. Whenever I met someone, I clenched my fists, bit my lips, averted their gazes and shrunk away physically from them. Even around my friends, I deliberately avoided any conversations on classes and exams, changed the subject incessantly, faked a smile at every jokes and feigned interest in their daily happenings. Eventually the pain was so unbearable that I stopped seeing them. 

        Looking back, I was amazed I managed to pull through the dark hours. Nevertheless, what I'd been through neither took my life nor make me stronger. In fact, I was still haunted by its aftermath. I never admitted to anyone how badly wounded I was; how many sleepless nights I had; how often I planned on ending my life; how reluctant I was to point out the fact that I wasn't a regular batch student; how hurtful it was to feel like I was not good enough to belong.

       

A Long Lost Friend

Six long months had passed before I decided to revisit my blog. Guilt tagged along as my fingers moved across the keyboard awkwardly, pausing in between to recall the address and repeatedly hovering over the backspace key. Because for a time, I'd given up my electronic journal for a twenty-ringgit-eighty-pages-hard-covered, a-so-called-proper-one.

        Finally, a familiar page flashed before me, and I could still see clearly the rainbow streaks of hues against a white blackground, the stuffed animals scattered across it, and the childlike fantasies which compelled me to choose this theme for my blog. As I strolled down, reading each posts, dated from January 2010 to my 21st birthday, I was reassured. For my long forgotten friend hasn't changed a bit. He's here all along, waiting patiently for me to return to him. And that was when I saw my mistake : I didn't have to choose. I could very well manage blogging and journal-writing at the same time.

        Choice is a very cruel word. It is made under cruel circumstances, between something gained and something lost - never in the middle - without an absolute certainty of the stakes at hand, and the outcome. Even a choice as simple as journal-selecting can be wrongly-judged. I should've known better that life's not a multiple choice question. Like a piece of poetry or a stage play, it has an undistinguished edge and a far more subtle voice.

A Not-so-happy Birthday

I think birthdays are the best reflection of a person's social circle. For one out of 365 days, the world revolves around you. You're showered with greetings, gifts and surprises - and under those intricacies the unspoken yardstick of your social network. You can always tell how popular you are among your peers by the magnitude of celebration. You can know, at a point of your life, who are your closer friends by the effort undertaken to spring your surprise party, or just post a simple wish on facebook.
        I tried to not make a big deal out of my birthday. I tried not to mentally single out the date. I tried not to be excited. I tried not to ponder on every possible way my birthday surprise might take form. I tried not to telepathically announce it to everyone I met. I tried not to judge them if they hadn't wish me. Because almost every year, I got dissappointed. Served me right. The more you hope, the more disappointment you would get.
        I had a friend who does all these things every year, and more: his announcement is made verbally and electrically (he posted it on facebook). His actions tranlate to raw desperation: a desperate need of attention, friends and maybe to feel important once in a year. I was once obsessed with those needs too. Thankfully, this teenage obsession had ceased now. I began to accept the fact that I am a social wet blanket - always a friend's friend, a acquaintance, a what's-her-name. But there were times when a thin strand of longing would crept through my mind, times like birthdays, when I would always wonder if things would turn out differently had I been more sociable. Perhaps I would have a proper celebration with a cake, a sumptuous dinner at a restaurant, or a pleasant outing by the lake, with or without the surprise element.
        I have a mental image that one day I would become an old maid who was invited over to other people's birthday party on her own birthday, because they didn't realize it was hers as well, and they felt sorry for her.

Overthinking

Another sleepless night again.
        I have been doing a lot of thinking and rethinking these few days. I know for a fact that every single day of our lives, we make choices - and most of the time, we regretted them. The question is, how can I tell if they're unmistakably life-altering bad choices, or simply an occasional discontentment with life after having a bad day? After that, should I just carry on with my life, because it's the easiest way out; or should I make right my mistake even if it means starting all over again?

We're Different

For years I had been made to think that homesickness is a form of weakness. I had been ashamed by my friend's scoffing on the frequency of our homecomings, humiliated by her friend's casual joke for home missers to grow up, and today, another harsh comment on Facebook hit me hard on the face. To quote its exact words, it says run home and hide under your mother's hairy armpits. While this comment was never new to me, this was the first time it was being directed right to my face. I felt an intense burning to my cheeks the moment they hit my eyes, which I realised a few seconds later, was not out of shame, but of anger. And I thought, screw the comment. Screw all of those self-righteous, stone-hearted, I-don't-miss-home-I-'m-so-tough hypocrites.  You want to think that being all alone out in the world, miles away from home simply translated to you being oh-so-independent and grown up and ready to take on the world, fine, I'm not the one to contradict you. But I'm not going to feel ashamed of my feelings anymore. I'll not be afraid to admit about my homesickness any time of the day. I'm not going to look for a private spot to cry into the phone, or IMing or text messaging my family to tell them that I miss them instead of saying it out loud through Skype. You want to laugh at me? Go ahead. Because FYI, I think all of you are pathetic, because while you're so busy trying to be somebody in this world, you started forgetting who you already are.