I enjoy flailing myself mercilessly all around my room to the music. I feel beautiful, I feel happy, I feel wonderful. Today I'm flailing myself to Whitney Housten's I'm every woman & MJ's You rock my world. I love MJ alot, his songs never failed to get me moving. And that's good. Everytime when I feel bad or upset, I'll give songs like these a go at my hi-fi and swirl 360 degrees left and right then flail my body all around my room (I once knocked myself against the wall while doing that). I feel almost perfect when I'm doing all these movements and I am saying almost perfect not perfect. It doesn't matter if my movements are co-ordinated or not, I am not particular about all these not because I lack passion for dance or music but I don't like feeling restricted or constrained.
I enjoy freedom of movements and I usually don't give a damn if I am graceful or not, I am just into enjoying myself thoroughly if I may add. In fact, movements like these should come au naturel so as to benefit from the experience. Every session to me is a new different experience, I derive different pleasures time to time.Sometimes I club just to move my body, when I recommended this method of enjoying oneself mentally and physically to my friend, she said this "Yeah, you enjoy them because you are small and people love watching you when you do that, you have a nice frame.." That is of course not true, anyone who knows me would know I have an imperfect body. I am short and equipped with two flabby arms, some scars here and there, a tummy and I still dance. Anyone can dance to the music, it doesn't really matter how you look or how you move, anyone that laughs at you ignore them, for they lack substance and ain't worth any attention.
"I'm every woman, it's all in me...."
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Je ne sais quoi. I'm sitting on the latch now, my room's all dark and cold. Today I don't get the privilege of falling asleep before the heater's off because I am kept awake, yes kept awake by thoughts. Lovely thoughts of how treasured I am, how loved I am and much much more. I am marvelled how most of the people I've met actually saves a place for me in their hearts when I am so ordinary and plain. I am content just by this very fact. These are the small little things in life, which I am glad for.
Saturday, October 25, 2003
Why people write? I write to empower, entertain and let people have a good laugh. I write because I wish that people derive some pleasure in reading my writing bits. I write because I want to share. But what about the other writers out there? Do they..a) write for profitb) write to become famousc) write to influence people & provide pleasureIf the writers out there fall into any of category A or B, they ain't writers. They don't have the soul for writing. But ironically, most of them gets famous and earn big bucks.
Maybe if category A writers contribute part of their royalties back to the society, they aren't such bad writers afterall, they might just have a soul. Maybe if category B writers gets famous and influence people in the positive way and empower people, they are nice people afterall. But will most of them do that? I am not saying writers should not write for a living, but at the end of the day, it's not just about earning, it's about giving back to the society of what that has been given to you, your gift to write may be god-given or acquired as time passes, I am almost certain that anyone that makes the slightest effort to write consistently can be eventually a writer, but just what kind of writer are you? Where will you stand after publishing 30 best-selling novels or what have you?
Maybe if category A writers contribute part of their royalties back to the society, they aren't such bad writers afterall, they might just have a soul. Maybe if category B writers gets famous and influence people in the positive way and empower people, they are nice people afterall. But will most of them do that? I am not saying writers should not write for a living, but at the end of the day, it's not just about earning, it's about giving back to the society of what that has been given to you, your gift to write may be god-given or acquired as time passes, I am almost certain that anyone that makes the slightest effort to write consistently can be eventually a writer, but just what kind of writer are you? Where will you stand after publishing 30 best-selling novels or what have you?
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
There's a lot of things I've been trying and experimenting of late and I really liked that. From whipping up some weird looking dishes (And yes, they are damn edible!), napping, yoga lessons, grocery shopping. And the one thing I've been doing more than any of the listed is writing. And this is something which I am awfully glad that I am doing. Mum always thought that I had talent in writing, for some strange reasons unexplained. In short, I doubted her as well as my abilities. I used to write really well but I've grown lazy over the past several years.
Then the laziness developed into fear which became a sore spot for me and I started doubting in every darn thing that I wrote and I started branching into doing some other creative stuff like painting, still arts. Then came the unanimous comment from both my mum and my art teacher, mum says I can't paint or draw, art teacher says my still paintings / drawings look as though they fly and no one can understand what I was painting or drawing. My pig looks like a cow, my dolphin looks like some shark. Everytime I draw something I have to explain to people what they are, then I started growing tired of describing my wonderful creations because I finally understood why nobody understands my drawings.
They have all grown rusty and used to taking things for granted, used to making assumptions and hence before they even pay attention to the details I've added in my master pieces they assumed it's one of the other. Oh well...the last piece of art I've ever done was at the age of fourteen and fifteen was the age when I decided to give up arts. Age seventeen was a good age for me, creativity in writing was re-ignited, I composed a few poems during some boring lectures on computers and gadgets and some short stories during my breaks. The only thing that I have been doing more than any other stuff was creating. Creating my own written works, in which I allowed no one to criticise nor improvise. Not that I am receptive towards opinions or suggestions but I felt that as a writer or creator, you should be the only one deciding what should be in and thrown out of the windows. To allow others to influence your style of writing is to let others manipulate your work. Where then is creativity? Age twenty is the best time of my life, for now, I've been encouraged by my mum, my close friends to write and I started writing. I am currently in the midst of production of a story which I hope it will one day not just be a story, but a book, a book dedicated to my Dad, his life, his story.
At age twenty, I feel more reassured of my own natural abilities, ask me for some ideas on how a particular essay should be written, I'll have it. It just takes me 5 minutes to generate an opening paragraph and tell me how good am I? I think growing is the best part of one's life. I can feel the change in me, ideas having form of its own, ideas becoming words. My mum's words still rings in my ears every now and then and I truly believe I too, one day can become a successful writer. It just takes a little more time to catch up with what I've been missing for the several odd years and it doesn't matter when I get there, what matters is the process of getting there.
Then the laziness developed into fear which became a sore spot for me and I started doubting in every darn thing that I wrote and I started branching into doing some other creative stuff like painting, still arts. Then came the unanimous comment from both my mum and my art teacher, mum says I can't paint or draw, art teacher says my still paintings / drawings look as though they fly and no one can understand what I was painting or drawing. My pig looks like a cow, my dolphin looks like some shark. Everytime I draw something I have to explain to people what they are, then I started growing tired of describing my wonderful creations because I finally understood why nobody understands my drawings.
They have all grown rusty and used to taking things for granted, used to making assumptions and hence before they even pay attention to the details I've added in my master pieces they assumed it's one of the other. Oh well...the last piece of art I've ever done was at the age of fourteen and fifteen was the age when I decided to give up arts. Age seventeen was a good age for me, creativity in writing was re-ignited, I composed a few poems during some boring lectures on computers and gadgets and some short stories during my breaks. The only thing that I have been doing more than any other stuff was creating. Creating my own written works, in which I allowed no one to criticise nor improvise. Not that I am receptive towards opinions or suggestions but I felt that as a writer or creator, you should be the only one deciding what should be in and thrown out of the windows. To allow others to influence your style of writing is to let others manipulate your work. Where then is creativity? Age twenty is the best time of my life, for now, I've been encouraged by my mum, my close friends to write and I started writing. I am currently in the midst of production of a story which I hope it will one day not just be a story, but a book, a book dedicated to my Dad, his life, his story.
At age twenty, I feel more reassured of my own natural abilities, ask me for some ideas on how a particular essay should be written, I'll have it. It just takes me 5 minutes to generate an opening paragraph and tell me how good am I? I think growing is the best part of one's life. I can feel the change in me, ideas having form of its own, ideas becoming words. My mum's words still rings in my ears every now and then and I truly believe I too, one day can become a successful writer. It just takes a little more time to catch up with what I've been missing for the several odd years and it doesn't matter when I get there, what matters is the process of getting there.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Research has proven that one third of our lives are spent on sleeping, the second instalment spent feeling like it would be nice to go back to bed. The last and final instalment is spent hoping/ wishing it will soon be bedtime! Yay! Now don't cheat yourselves, how many times have you wished school starts at late noon and daydream about the catnaps or noon naps while attending classes? OOPS! Waking early has become such a major problem for me of late that I have to spent some noons napping away to recover from the trauma of waking early.
Sometimes I feel so tired that I felt I have conveniently left my brain under the pillow as I pick myself up for school. I don't know if anybody actually feel exhausted at times just by waking early or is it just me but sometimes I feel so lazy that I just want to sleep in and not attend lectures. But thankfully, my conscience won't let me. So I am safe for now. haha yes for now is the word. When one is really tired, the mere thought of moving any part of your body becomes exhausting when of course, in reality doing something is less tiring than thinking about doing something. Get it? No? Oh give it some thoughts and you'll get what I mean.
My friend was telling me what an insomniac charmer he is and I patronized him by nodding my head vigorously but back at my head I was thinking if there's such thing known as insomniac charmer. How can this be possible? How can anyone be an insomniac charmer when one gets more and more tired and the things that one can talk about are probably absolute rubbish. When you get tired, you can't say anything charming, then you can't say anything interesting, then nothing is amusing and/or intelligible or mentally stimulating and finally nothing at all, because your eyeballs may just pop out if you attempt moving your mouth another inch.
There is this phrase that I've read somewhere that says "Early to bed, Early to rise, makes you healthy, wealthy and wise" and this other phrase by some writer that says the exact opposite (which I thought was real funny) "Late to bed, Late to rise, makes you unhealthy, poor and stupid" Haha There are times where you slip yourself into a nasty condition where sleeping becomes an issue for you as you can't sleep because you are so darn tired that sleeping is no longer possible! Solution: Bang your head against the wall, haha nah I am kidding, this will probably send you off your way much much earlier or to the A&E department of the hospital. So don't try it. And I mean it, don't try it. Oh why don't anyone listen nowadays? Everyone just loves practicing selective listening huh? Well your life, what can I say or do about it? Ok as I was saying you get into a nasty condition where you get too tired to sleep and the whole business of falling asleep is too much of effort and you just suffer.
Sometimes people can have 8 or 10 hours of sleep and still feel tired when they wake and they will then spend the next few minutes either cat-napping or feeling how nice it would be to go back to bed again, but don't get cheated, I mean seriously research has shown that 6 hours of sleep per day for a grown adult (Please don't get me to define what I mean by grown adults, ask the researchers) is grossly sufficient and 8 to 10 hours of sleep is therefore more than enough (or is it?) Sometimes I feel having a nap is like a tiredness enhancer that sends you fleeting moments of pleasure for napping but wake up 2 or 3 hours later with a cramp, dry mouth (not to mention stinky breath), wobbly legs, puffy eyes sitting in the lecture theatre wondering if you are dead!
(Resources for this material came from G Browning's Article)
Sometimes I feel so tired that I felt I have conveniently left my brain under the pillow as I pick myself up for school. I don't know if anybody actually feel exhausted at times just by waking early or is it just me but sometimes I feel so lazy that I just want to sleep in and not attend lectures. But thankfully, my conscience won't let me. So I am safe for now. haha yes for now is the word. When one is really tired, the mere thought of moving any part of your body becomes exhausting when of course, in reality doing something is less tiring than thinking about doing something. Get it? No? Oh give it some thoughts and you'll get what I mean.
My friend was telling me what an insomniac charmer he is and I patronized him by nodding my head vigorously but back at my head I was thinking if there's such thing known as insomniac charmer. How can this be possible? How can anyone be an insomniac charmer when one gets more and more tired and the things that one can talk about are probably absolute rubbish. When you get tired, you can't say anything charming, then you can't say anything interesting, then nothing is amusing and/or intelligible or mentally stimulating and finally nothing at all, because your eyeballs may just pop out if you attempt moving your mouth another inch.
There is this phrase that I've read somewhere that says "Early to bed, Early to rise, makes you healthy, wealthy and wise" and this other phrase by some writer that says the exact opposite (which I thought was real funny) "Late to bed, Late to rise, makes you unhealthy, poor and stupid" Haha There are times where you slip yourself into a nasty condition where sleeping becomes an issue for you as you can't sleep because you are so darn tired that sleeping is no longer possible! Solution: Bang your head against the wall, haha nah I am kidding, this will probably send you off your way much much earlier or to the A&E department of the hospital. So don't try it. And I mean it, don't try it. Oh why don't anyone listen nowadays? Everyone just loves practicing selective listening huh? Well your life, what can I say or do about it? Ok as I was saying you get into a nasty condition where you get too tired to sleep and the whole business of falling asleep is too much of effort and you just suffer.
Sometimes people can have 8 or 10 hours of sleep and still feel tired when they wake and they will then spend the next few minutes either cat-napping or feeling how nice it would be to go back to bed again, but don't get cheated, I mean seriously research has shown that 6 hours of sleep per day for a grown adult (Please don't get me to define what I mean by grown adults, ask the researchers) is grossly sufficient and 8 to 10 hours of sleep is therefore more than enough (or is it?) Sometimes I feel having a nap is like a tiredness enhancer that sends you fleeting moments of pleasure for napping but wake up 2 or 3 hours later with a cramp, dry mouth (not to mention stinky breath), wobbly legs, puffy eyes sitting in the lecture theatre wondering if you are dead!
(Resources for this material came from G Browning's Article)
Saturday, October 04, 2003
Moments of Life
Haven't been blogging for awhile since I've reached Manchester, been really lazy. Yeah lazy and no other cheap excuses. I felt an urge to blog today when I got out of bed and had this inspiration to write on this particular topic which I would like to name it Moments of Life. Moments of life, be it happy, painful, sad, hard moments, they are temporary and not eternal. No, moments don't enjoy what we call longevity.
Sometimes we just like to embrace the happier moments and chase the painful ones away. But hey, you know what? You can feel happy forever by choosing moments that mean something to you. It's not a difficult concept, pain is inevitable but not suffering. It's always a matter of choice. I am not a preacher or what have you, but life's all about being practical. Although at times, I daydream and hallucinate (ooh scary) and let my imagination go riot, I am still a very pragmatic person. It's like the classic cliche modified by my good old self (which I have fallen hopelessly in love with) that goes if you don't like something, change it, if you can't change it, change the way you think about it and make things happen for you. This is the benefit of being intellectual. You identify problems that's affecting your life, get to it, take charge and solve it. Easier said then done? Well sometimes this invites heart ache, heart-wrenching moments but again they are like moments, temporary and will, i mean WILL go away. So you decide what you want to remember for the rest of your life and hopefully, you can choose the best ones to remember and be happy!
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Walk me Home
I've been walking home alot of late, either from Isa's place or from my old place, not because I have to, but because I like to, I choose to. I like having the 'alone time' you get when you are walking by yourself, stealing moments and spending them all by yourself. It's just me, walking past a park, lively shopping malls and few blocks of neighbourhood. Walking. Thinking. I think alot while I walk. I go over the details of my current affairs as I walk.
Sometimes I sing as I walk, rather loud at times but the traffic drowns me out. I would sometimes laugh aloud to myself when that happens, a few strangers that walk past me find me weird and perhaps alittle insance. I am of course, without doubt perfectly sane. I walk to resolve problems by thinking them over. Contemplating all the silly thoughts, shallow thoughts, the things I wish would work, but I know won't. With those out of the way, the answers are clear. No room for stray "if only" thoughts to creep in and mess my life. Today I was walking home reflecting on how different things are now and then and on the whole, I thought things have been rather good.
Things may be good because they aren't different, things may be good because they are different. Sometimes I wished things would stay the same, not that I am receptive to changes but because I enjoy embracing those moments or rather appreciate the way things are and at times it's due to sentimental reasons. On the other hand, I welcome changes not solely by the virtue I've grown sick and tired of the old stuff but because change improves one's life. The world's always revolving, things always change, people change too, at the end of the day it doesn't matter when, how and why, what matters is keeping hold of who you really are that makes for the one constant in life.
I've been walking home alot of late, either from Isa's place or from my old place, not because I have to, but because I like to, I choose to. I like having the 'alone time' you get when you are walking by yourself, stealing moments and spending them all by yourself. It's just me, walking past a park, lively shopping malls and few blocks of neighbourhood. Walking. Thinking. I think alot while I walk. I go over the details of my current affairs as I walk.
Sometimes I sing as I walk, rather loud at times but the traffic drowns me out. I would sometimes laugh aloud to myself when that happens, a few strangers that walk past me find me weird and perhaps alittle insance. I am of course, without doubt perfectly sane. I walk to resolve problems by thinking them over. Contemplating all the silly thoughts, shallow thoughts, the things I wish would work, but I know won't. With those out of the way, the answers are clear. No room for stray "if only" thoughts to creep in and mess my life. Today I was walking home reflecting on how different things are now and then and on the whole, I thought things have been rather good.
Things may be good because they aren't different, things may be good because they are different. Sometimes I wished things would stay the same, not that I am receptive to changes but because I enjoy embracing those moments or rather appreciate the way things are and at times it's due to sentimental reasons. On the other hand, I welcome changes not solely by the virtue I've grown sick and tired of the old stuff but because change improves one's life. The world's always revolving, things always change, people change too, at the end of the day it doesn't matter when, how and why, what matters is keeping hold of who you really are that makes for the one constant in life.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Love for a friend of mine
Isa gotten herself a male puppy, chihuahua breed and named it Bachiku! What a queer name one may wonder but it's her sister's dream of naming a dog bachiku one day when she starts keeping one and voila! According to Isa, Bachiku's damn adorable and well I'll have to judge it for myself when I see it. Oh it should be him! lolz I love dogs, have always loved them and will always love them. I kept a few back then and the one I dotted the most on was Charlie. He was not of any breed / cross breed and so on and so forth, he was just a little brown stray puppy that Dad brought home to accompany me for a few days and that few days became months and a few years or so before Dad gave him away as Charlie was growing much too big and noisy for my flat back then. I've missed Charlie terribly...yes till now....Somehow a part of me died when Charlie left. Somehow I'm not all that complete, one may wonder how can this be possible?
How can anyone feel that sad for a pet? Well to me he is more than a pet, he is a very dear friend of mine whom I've spent my happiest & saddest moments with and we have been company for each other, I've seen him grown from a puppy to a young doggy and I've showered him with my love and affections, all of which are priceless. My parents never understood how much he meant to me, to them, the adults, he is just 'it', he is just a pet. Later on, as I grow older, I tried explaining to my mother how much Charlie meant to me before and now and it was only then she was convinced that I in fact love Charlie. All these years, I've spent some quiet moments thinking about him, I would sit and wonder and ponder thoughts like if he's still alive, if he's happy and if he's been treated decently and so on and so forth but I know I'll never get the answers. I can only hope and wish it's well and healthy. I can't help feeling sad and guilty for I failed to protect my friend ("the pet"), failed to keep him with me, failed to honour my promises to him, I hope he still remembers and loves me for I have reserve a special place at the back of my head for him and I still love him. I do.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Sometimes one gets to a point where he/she gets so sick of waiting that he/she gives up. One must then wonder if giving up is the right choice because life pushes us all around and some gave up by quiting, some submit to such pressure and accept their lives as it is and few fight for what they want in life instead of waiting. I guess there's always a few alternatives to a problem at hand rather than just accepting or rejecting it at face value why don't one question him/herself or do some reflective thinking and start thinking out of the box to solve problems?
Monday, August 25, 2003
Friday, January 03, 2003
"Have you finished packing your stuff? You're bound to miss out something, told you to pack earlier. See. See. Did you bring enough sweaters? Bring those that will keep you warm and not just look pretty ok? Remember to bring the ...""Aiya Mum, I know, I know, I've already done them!" I said impatiently.
It was September 2003, a few days before I left for Manchester to pursue my degree. Mum and Dad's been nagging for the past few days and trust me they almost drive me bananas. For I never really like the idea of my parents nagging at me, telling me what to do and yada yada, but then again who does? Afterall, I am already twenty years old and had been to a few places with them and my friends, somehow I just know how to take care of myself. Dad and Mum's "you are still a little girl" tone sometimes irritate me but they sort of make it up by believing in my ability to take care of myself, but still I was eager to prove myself.
Thus with much confidence I left, like a proud little young bird flying from the old, warm and fuzzy nest, without even looking back at its aging parents. University life was, not quite what I had expected, it's not as exciting as I thought it would be (perhaps it's due to the fact that I hardly attend any faculty parties) and even the people are not as hip and fun as I imagined them to be (save for the people I'm hanging around with). But but but, the city itself fascinated me with its freedom in the atmosphere and the exchange of fun ideas in its shops and restaurants.
I observed my surroundings with hungry eyes, hunting for excitement, yet something else surprised me even more. I found myself getting lost and my life a little out of control. There was no longer wake up calls to ensure I get to school on time or calls to check if I have had my lunch and so on. I would wake up and find myself missing the 9am lectures and making up for missed work always made me feel that I was trying to catch a plane by riding a bicycle.
Many other things did not just "happen" as of right, they had to be "done." Back home, the only thing I had to do with dirty clothes was to throw them into a pink basket (yeah, girly stuff rules!). They would, and yes they would disappear automatically and then re-appear inside my drawers, folded, clean and with the faint trace of concentrated laundry wash. Now the magic no longer worked (I must have missed a few black art lessons as well!). The pile of dirty clothes would just accumulate and get higher and higher unless I carry them down to the laundry room and feed the white machines some coins. Back home, a cold or a flu was nothing dreadful.
When I was sick, I only had to transform myself into a 4 year old baby. Then if I need my favorite snacks, I just need to mention it briefly and it will then appear on the table in a few days time. Everything's autopiloted at home. Now? Nothing can just be pulled out of the air, and the world is no different from what it was because I am sick. Everything had become my responsibility. I can blame the alarm clock for not ringing loud enough or accuse the fly viruses for attacking me, but the fact that I missed classes and got sick did not change save for the miserable part. I am still responsible for everything, there is no way out except for me to get on my gear and play the game by the rules. No wonder people used the term "homesick." It's like a chronic disease, a perpetual obsession. When I was fixing up my own meals (Don't worry, they are edible!), the smell of the steaming white rice and Dad's curry chicken suddenly became vivid sensations.
When I walked home out in the cold and dark streets at 5pm, the picture of the white light emitted from our cozy living room and the purple coloured couch where I spend much of time couch potato-ing appeared in my mind. The desire to have a cup of hot Lipton tea and allowing the brown liquid to run all the way down through the esophagus to the empty stomach became some unattainable dream. Whenever my hallmate blast me with her superpower digital stereo to the maximum volume and the screaming voice of some hysterical girl filled our corridor, my little bedroom with my favourite R&B's music seemed like a lost dream. Where was I going to find those old memories that seem so far yet so near, and when was I going to experience them again? After sacrificing say 450 GBP, I gotten myself a one way ticket back home.
There was a certain strangeness and awkwardness when I met Mum at Changi Airport Terminal 2. Maybe it was because I had been away for almost three months (My longest record was 11 days). People wearing spaghetti straps and shots looked almost like some erm aliens to me. The sight of the trees along the highways and the sun shaped like an egg brought back some unfamiliar familiarity. In 30 minutes, we reached my favourite prata store and had roti prata for breakfast, it tasted heavenly, I had never craved for any food like this before. Soon we reached our neighbourhood, and Dad drove the car slowly down the streets, passing the shadows of the HDB estates slowly. As I watched the things outside the car window passing by, the strange feeling began to disappear and something stirred in me. I took out my suitcase with Mum helping me with some other stuff and walked to the lift. While waiting for the lift, I looked at my Mum again, as though I was making a final confirmation. Then the stirring feeling of anxiety and fear disappeared, I smiled and said to myself "I'm home."
It was September 2003, a few days before I left for Manchester to pursue my degree. Mum and Dad's been nagging for the past few days and trust me they almost drive me bananas. For I never really like the idea of my parents nagging at me, telling me what to do and yada yada, but then again who does? Afterall, I am already twenty years old and had been to a few places with them and my friends, somehow I just know how to take care of myself. Dad and Mum's "you are still a little girl" tone sometimes irritate me but they sort of make it up by believing in my ability to take care of myself, but still I was eager to prove myself.
Thus with much confidence I left, like a proud little young bird flying from the old, warm and fuzzy nest, without even looking back at its aging parents. University life was, not quite what I had expected, it's not as exciting as I thought it would be (perhaps it's due to the fact that I hardly attend any faculty parties) and even the people are not as hip and fun as I imagined them to be (save for the people I'm hanging around with). But but but, the city itself fascinated me with its freedom in the atmosphere and the exchange of fun ideas in its shops and restaurants.
I observed my surroundings with hungry eyes, hunting for excitement, yet something else surprised me even more. I found myself getting lost and my life a little out of control. There was no longer wake up calls to ensure I get to school on time or calls to check if I have had my lunch and so on. I would wake up and find myself missing the 9am lectures and making up for missed work always made me feel that I was trying to catch a plane by riding a bicycle.
Many other things did not just "happen" as of right, they had to be "done." Back home, the only thing I had to do with dirty clothes was to throw them into a pink basket (yeah, girly stuff rules!). They would, and yes they would disappear automatically and then re-appear inside my drawers, folded, clean and with the faint trace of concentrated laundry wash. Now the magic no longer worked (I must have missed a few black art lessons as well!). The pile of dirty clothes would just accumulate and get higher and higher unless I carry them down to the laundry room and feed the white machines some coins. Back home, a cold or a flu was nothing dreadful.
When I was sick, I only had to transform myself into a 4 year old baby. Then if I need my favorite snacks, I just need to mention it briefly and it will then appear on the table in a few days time. Everything's autopiloted at home. Now? Nothing can just be pulled out of the air, and the world is no different from what it was because I am sick. Everything had become my responsibility. I can blame the alarm clock for not ringing loud enough or accuse the fly viruses for attacking me, but the fact that I missed classes and got sick did not change save for the miserable part. I am still responsible for everything, there is no way out except for me to get on my gear and play the game by the rules. No wonder people used the term "homesick." It's like a chronic disease, a perpetual obsession. When I was fixing up my own meals (Don't worry, they are edible!), the smell of the steaming white rice and Dad's curry chicken suddenly became vivid sensations.
When I walked home out in the cold and dark streets at 5pm, the picture of the white light emitted from our cozy living room and the purple coloured couch where I spend much of time couch potato-ing appeared in my mind. The desire to have a cup of hot Lipton tea and allowing the brown liquid to run all the way down through the esophagus to the empty stomach became some unattainable dream. Whenever my hallmate blast me with her superpower digital stereo to the maximum volume and the screaming voice of some hysterical girl filled our corridor, my little bedroom with my favourite R&B's music seemed like a lost dream. Where was I going to find those old memories that seem so far yet so near, and when was I going to experience them again? After sacrificing say 450 GBP, I gotten myself a one way ticket back home.
There was a certain strangeness and awkwardness when I met Mum at Changi Airport Terminal 2. Maybe it was because I had been away for almost three months (My longest record was 11 days). People wearing spaghetti straps and shots looked almost like some erm aliens to me. The sight of the trees along the highways and the sun shaped like an egg brought back some unfamiliar familiarity. In 30 minutes, we reached my favourite prata store and had roti prata for breakfast, it tasted heavenly, I had never craved for any food like this before. Soon we reached our neighbourhood, and Dad drove the car slowly down the streets, passing the shadows of the HDB estates slowly. As I watched the things outside the car window passing by, the strange feeling began to disappear and something stirred in me. I took out my suitcase with Mum helping me with some other stuff and walked to the lift. While waiting for the lift, I looked at my Mum again, as though I was making a final confirmation. Then the stirring feeling of anxiety and fear disappeared, I smiled and said to myself "I'm home."
NB: This post was first posted in December 2003 and not January 2003.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
