Girlfriends

I’ve never been a feminist. You’ll often hear me defending myself rather indignantly – “Nope, I’m not one of those girl-power girls.” Perhaps it’s one of those deep-seated grudges that have followed me from old classroom games – yesteryears of long drawn-out popularity contests and frankly, just an overload of oestrogen within one complex. Laugh at the ridiculous caricatures they created in ‘Mean Girls’, but the truth really is that when you water them down, you’ll find a pack of them in every high school.

Of course I never fit.

There was always a hint of competition in the air, in assorted shapes or forms – whether it be an outright cat-fight over a position on the committee or just an implicit clamour for attention. And so I pulled myself out of ‘girl-power’, believing in the old-fashioned way of doing things. I gladly abide by the unwritten rules that are the undercurrent of one patriarchal society running to the next. Stop trying to be men, girls. Banding together is rubbish. It will all fall apart once the next hot thing struts through the door anyway.

On hindsight, perhaps it was a defense mechanism. You see, I never did learn how to trust. I knew I couldn’t play at their level and win. And so, perhaps I should save myself disappointment by not even trying. But recently, I’m becoming a convert.

J is teaching me more than I thought I would learn. She is everything that I’m not. Admittedly, I’ve had my prejudices. They are often unconsciously stirred when I come into contact with girls like these. The kind that is the life of the party, spontaneously combusting into fun and giggles everywhere they go. Miss Congeniality. It makes me feel uncomfortable when someone seems to love everybody, and vice versa. No one is that magnanimous. There’s got to be a catch somewhere. But this week, I have drawn strength I never dreamed I would find from her presence, extracted pearls of wisdom from her words that empower and encourage. She has taught me stuff of character and spunk; reminded me again of originality and creativity.

N can be described none other than a gentle spirit. Soft, feminine, sweet all rolled into one slender package, girlish ponytail bobbing in her wake. I find myself astounded by her readiness to put others before herself, her willingness to stand in the shadow of another, only for the sake of propelling someone else, to be that launching pad from which people can kick off and soar – And that, to me takes profound humility. And I find myself looking into the mirror a lot of the time. Perhaps that’s why we slip ever so easily into conversation, which seems to take a life of its own, rolling effortlessly off our tongues.

Seemingly two opposite ends of the spectrum and yet, sharing a vital common strand. These girls won’t take things lying down. These girls won’t settle for second-rate. These girls can recognise when to say ‘no’, and actually have the (er-hem!) balls to utter the hardest two letter word. These girls would never compromise the substance of character for someone else.

Self-respect. Independence. Confidence. Esteem.

It is a strength that has passed me by for well, most of my life. All those stifling afternoons, baking in a stuffy container, I would be glowering from my corner surveying my kind – the way her hair always fell ever so perfectly, the way she could command the attention of the whole table when she spoke, the way she smiled every so sweetly that I could almost feel everyone melt a little inside. And I spent all my time, chasing stereotypes instead of summoning things from within – virtue, belief, conviction, faith, hope, love – things that would make me, me.

Strong, bold, beautiful, unyielding.

So many years later (and hopefully much wiser), I think I’m starting to recognise the irresistible pull of these invisible entities. The world may be governed by superficialism (and that will probably never change) but for that extra flavour, for that extra pizazz, throw in a bit of character.

For too long have I let this flood of thick, molten envy, cake into hardened layers of obstinacy. Resistance for the sake of resistance. And for what? To prove a point? I think I’ve finally realised that there is something I can learn here.

I’d like to maintain that I’m still not a girl-power girl. I don’t believe in fruitless gossip-mongering sessions (true, they may be fun) or bandying together in the name of making a lot of noise to feel a sense of faux empowerment – like air-headed cheerleaders in a high school locker room, basking in the glory of fleeting beauty and empty status. I am not naive enough to hold onto ideals of ‘friends 4eva’ or the codes of sorority sisterhoods.

Let’s just say I’m not going to be raising a ‘hoes over bros’ banner over my door just yet.

But what I do believe in, is authentic bonds of friendship. The kind where you build each other up with a wholeness of heart, independent of selfish agendas and vested interests; harnessing assurance from the implicit knowledge that there is someone in your address book that you can call upon in the wee hours of the morning with any crisis;

that there will be someone to catch you when you fall.

Thank you, both of you, you know who you are.

Seeds

Too much gloom and doom have marred these pages. Today, I want to remember things of goodness, of togetherness.

It wasn’t perfect. If anything, it was probably, very far away from that ballpark. Frustrations were running a-boil, videos were running mute, sound levels were being experimented with mid-song. Yet, there was still something largely satisfying about the culmination of the past 2 months into those 2 hours. And then it occurred to me that no matter how many blunders were made, or how far things were from ideal, the old adage that we always brush off with a dismissing laugh still rings true:

The process meant so much more than the endpoint.

V laying out the groundwork that first night on a sketch-pad, with W’s magic waffle balls and hot chocolate to keep us warm on a winter’s night.

S, coming over on a Thursday to nut out the Panel questions.

Trekking up Peel Street in the cold to C’s for an experiment of sorts with music and lyric.

N, perusing over paper on a pillow, with a pen in her hand. I can almost see the trails of sweet melodies forming in her head. She hums them quietly under her breath.

We ordered too many cups of tea at Pacific House. And then, it was many a brainstorm going down on a glass dining table in a Blue Tower, accompanied by vanilla ice-cream and apricot crumble – B, laboriously practicing his Singaporean accent. C, spontaneously combusting into peals of laughter over highly inappropriate anecdotes.

Ah, so very many new beginnings to celebrate indeed.

Conviction

“I don’t know why, there’s no basis for this, but out of all people, I know you’ll be okay.”

People have said that to me on numerous occasions, in a variety of ways.

I wonder what compels them to make such a bold statement, it sounds almost like a proclamation. And I look intently at them, searching for truth, hoping to find tell-tale glimpses of honesty, a flash of genuineness in their eyes.

Maybe it would help me believe them more.

But I will not deny, the surge of strength that pulses through me. I feel my resolve firing up, preening its feathers, raring to make it all come to pass. It is strangely reassuring, this backless claim – but I find myself resting in the promise of it, couched in the intangible possibilities that could surmount from this single, daring, projection.

Perhaps, this is what faith is all about?

Thank you. I too, desperately want to believe that I will be more than fine.

Turn, Stall.

I want to remember the music of my day.

Just like how my father used to put on his golden favourites, on those three-hour road trips up to Tampin. The fields of palm oil trees would roll along to the sounds of the Carpenters and the Electric Light Orchestra.

I wonder what songs I’ll be playing to my children in the car.

A lot of thoughts run through my mind at gigs like these. I don’t really know how to dance, so I just stand in the safety of a shadowy corner, not quite knowing where to place my hands. Folded seems too offensive, by-the-side seems too stiff, so I settle on assuming the casual stance of loosely tapping the beat against my lap, in my oxy-moronic effort of ease, to slip into the groove.

I look in what can only be described as perhaps, a respectful awe at her. She exudes an energy I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s because she’s the alternative rock-chick. Or maybe it’s her Irish-Asian descent. There’s an irrefutable spunk about her. She’s tied her hair into 2 loose braids, leaving the remainder to fall about in wisps and tousles that whip about her as she drives hard along with the beat. She could very well be mistaken for a tom-boy, save a delicate dimple that pronounces itself with every mischievous grin. Her voice is rough, gritty and husky, and yet, as she effortlessly slides into head voice, maintains a distinct femininity about her.

I sing along with the melodies I recognise, no one will be able to hear me above the din anyway.

And still, as I watch her, straddling her impressive White Falcon, in her perfectly-fitted faded-blue jeans, I can’t help but envy. It’s a strange thing, this actor-fan, performer-audience divide. It’s very much an us-they, me-them experience. I cast my mind to the time I saw her on the Ellen Degeneres show or just last week when I had to Youtube her performance on a stage in France. Wow, all the people she must have met, all the places she must have been to. Every day is a change of scenery, another city to conquer, another thousand hearts to win.

I wonder what runs through his mind, as he dutifully makes his round around the stage front, documenting in his mind every switch and knob. Regret, perhaps. Or has it already simmered down into a bitter resignation at a past forgone, that can never be re-lived. And it can’t help but cross my mind – He could be so great.

This morning, I woke up with tunes in my head.

Happy Days

Sometimes seizing the day can be as simple as whipping the camera out and capturing the moment. And then… the pause. I shy away, I hesitate, I hold back. That is my problem.

And so I try to paint the picture with a thousand words instead.

Today it is us sitting in a booth at a quaint 60’s styled, Billy Bombers-inspired joint. The walls are washed in milk pastel and the juke box is blasting toe-tapping dance numbers and evergreen classics. We share a spider, something I haven’t had since I was a kid. I watch the effervescence rise and bubble in the tall glass into a fluffy, creamy-white foam at the top. We carve steaks and pick off each other’s plates. We look to each other for the answers and pass each other knowing glances. Subtle smiles, easy conversation.

The feeling of gathering all the people you love at a table over food is so deceptively simple and so indescribably wonderful. Is it strange by the very virtue that this doesn’t feel awkward at all? Is it surprising the ease with which we are slipping into these unwritten roles? Is this a particularly rosy deception that is stealing its way into my conscious experience?

I dare not draw too many parallels, make too many assumptions, jump to too many conclusions. But let me just simply, indulge in the senses, the sweet smells, savour this beautiful moment. For what it is, at face value, in this exact point in time.

On the Red Couch

And as I sat there, pouring my heart out, in a fluid rumble-jumble of words and hand gestures, I was moved by a few things –

The surprising ease with which conversation came. It was as if you never left. Such is the beauty of old friends, the ones you’ve broken into so much, that there is a familiarity and comfort , like slipping into a pair of old woolen socks you re-discovered hiding in the back of your dresser.

The healing power of time. I wonder whether there will come a time in the near future when we can sit down and talk like this. When time came and went, washing away with it the insignificance of the nitty-gritty of the present, diluting the pain, eventually, till nothing remains. And we can laugh and look fondly upon the memory of yesterday.

That you’re still you. I will never be afraid to open my mouth to ask a favour. I will never feel bound to you in obligation. I think I forgot for a moment what it felt like, that I could, be comfortable with someone else again. I think I forgot that being taken care of can come with no strings attached, not private agendas, just… because.

And although things have changed; although I am a different person; although there is someone else now; although the meaning of ‘we’ is nothing of the way things used to be,

I’m glad you’re here.

Before I Go

Yesterday in the shower, I just felt this strange feeling that I could actually miss home, this place, this house. It occurred to me that this time when I leave for Melbourne, I might actually leave this house for good.

I’ve grown up here, well, practically all my life. I’ve seen this bedroom evolve from everything a girl’s bedroom should be like, growing up. It’s been my haven, my retreat – the television in the corner, a little luxury I know not many of my contemporaries enjoyed; the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and fuzzy soft toys and Archie comics, fashioned after the grand library I loved so much in Beauty and the Beast; my glass showcase of little trinkets and mementos either given to me or collected from around the world. I remember as a little girl, checking under the quilt for creepy-crawlies before I tucked myself in, waking up sporadically through the night to check if my stuffed toys were holding secret tea-parties at night. I remember coming home from long, hot days at school, turn on the radio and work at the dressing table instead of the desk. I remember how I first started writing on the light-wooden table that was chipped at the edges and had little ink stains in its grooves, my ammunition of multi-coloured pens and stickers stored in the pull-out drawer. I remember nights when I would just stretch on the cool parquet floor, close my eyes and be consumed in my own swirl of thoughts, of God and life. Or on more gloomy days, lie face-down and cry or utter a silent prayer into my pillow. I remember the low growl of the air-conditioning, and the soft orange glow of the Mickey Mouse night-light.

And then when I left, my bedroom went through several stages of minimalisation, down-sizing. Now, it looks pretty bare. Only the necessary remains. Everything is removable. The furniture seems almost ready to get up and shift at the signal.

Before coming back, the days ahead seemed to stretch endlessly. But as it always is, the last few days hurtle towards the end, when I must leave again. I feel like I’ve spent this whole holiday preparing for the end, in anticipation of jetting off again – so much so that I haven’t had time to let everything properly sink in. I didn’t let myself soak in the present. And that prevented me from appreciating the here and now to its full capacity.

Is that what happens, when a great change is coming?

******

We had a Christmas choir get-together today. And suddenly, the people didn’t feel so much like strangers anymore, even though so much time has passed, and we’ve run our journeys in completely different directions. I can still come to treasure the preciousness of these priceless moments when our lives can converge again, in these windows of time that are becoming more and more of a rarity – where old friends can seemingly pick up from where we left off over good food and drink. No matter the preliminary filler-questions in the name of small-talk or the occasional vacant moments of awkward silences – It is our history that binds us together.

It still feels like home.

I rest in the knowledge that wherever I may go in this world, there are kind eyes that are watching me grow from afar. Thoughts and prayers are released on my account, marking each step I take with love and assurance, following me all the days of my life. And for some reason, knowing that I have a launch-pad, that I am rooted – makes me feel just a little bit stronger.

It’s Pouring

I sometimes like to go back and re-play the videos of our performances at Crema. Perhaps it’s the effect of familiarity, but it seems to sound a bit better every time.

I love all the times we made music together – The private side-glances that dart back and forth during the short intervals in between verses; the small laugh we share or the embarrassed smile on your face should you strum the wrong chord, or when N notoriously screws up the set, but is forgiven by everyone, dismissed as entertainment value, just because he’s too darn charismatic to hate.

I attach a lot of fond memories to Put Your Records On. It has become a signature song, and I am proud of it. I love the crisp, smooth, acoustic sound of the Taylor accompanying the contagious bounce in the melody. I laugh when N voices over in his lazy American accent ‘Just relax’ instead of singing it, and I shoot him a death-glare. It brings me back to cold winter nights when it was just the 3 of us curled up in a burrow of beanbags and quilts, the supper smell of chilli con carne, baked beans and cheese hanging thick in the air, watching Naruto until the wee hours of the morning. I love hearing N spontaneously burst into the high-spirited laughter of a little boy, D buzzing happily along to the opening theme song. Suddenly they’re children again, and nothing else matters.

And every time I feel like giving up, it takes a listen of Umbrella to stop me for a moment in my tracks. It’s the cool twang of the electric guitar coupled with the easy groove of the lyric that makes you just want to latch onto and hold on till the end. I like the sound of your voice layered over mine, how it fills up the empty pockets and bridges the gaps before fading into the distance.

And I wish you meant the words you sang, as much as I did.

I wish you believed in me more, that you would invest more into my dreams, help me to fly. That’s what people do when they love each other, don’t they?

I sit here, contemplating these things, watching a droplet slinking its watery trail down slippery glass.

Oh Baby, it’s pouring rain.

Notes on Penang

Day One.

A is probably one of the closest girlfriends I have in YF. The rest, I always seem to have to worry about whether they are poisoned against me, by twisted stories of a wayward tongue. It always seemed to be a competition that way – who could win more friends and influence more people; who could recruit more members on their side of the camp. I know I always remembered YF to be one of the happiest times of my secondary school life, the highlight of my early youth. I lived through the week for Sunday. And yet, I remember journal entries spelling a quiet anguish, an empty loneliness, a yearning to be loved, accepted, ‘part of the gang‘. Nothing much has changed, really. But just for tonight, in the name of girl-talk, of comprehensive catching up, of sweet reminiscing, for old time’s sake… I miss it.

I’m glad I tore myself away from the comforts of my bedroom, came out from hiding, waiting in vain behind the computer screen. It smells like an adventure. I’ve always wanted to do something like this.

The sun is just breaking over the clouds, tinged pink and purple. I don’t know why I set my alarm at 0530, only to reproach myself, turn it off and return to restless sleep.

I still woke up 10 minutes early, to say it.

It’s hard going away on a holiday like this. It reminds me of the last one past, and leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I kind of wish you were here with me.

I got stung by a bee! It wasn’t the most pleasant experience; more like sharp and piercing actually. But there is a strange sense of pride to be found in the little puncture marks the bugger left behind, like a small island surrounded by a swollen sea of red patchy skin – like a battle scar to be shown off, a hallmark of a memory.

I checked for the millionth time. But, nothing.

There was a little school girl in the cable car. She was quite the forlorn picture – head buried in folded arms, shielding her eyes away from the unforgiving sun, beating down harshly from an azure blue sky. I saw her mentally drawing boundaries, blocking out the ambient noise of all those annoyingly enthusiastic tourists, encasing herself in a bubble of her own. As she toddles off onto the beaten trail back to her home, I notice her school-bag, like a tortoise shell, dwarfing her even further. She looked so small and frail. And yet, I somehow knew that inside, she must be strong and resilient as a weed. Probably, from having to make a journey that others would never have to make in their lives. Every day is an ascent, a mountain to climb.

Finally, disappointing. Was that all you could say? Obviously, you were oblivious to the effort behind the act; the initiative that I offer up to the table, not just today, but every day. For you. Strike 1.

Rendition. It was thought-provoking. It makes me wonder about utilitarianism – the classic argument that sacrifice of the minority can be justified for the greater good. Torture one, to save millions. You’ve got to admit, that sounds like a damn convincing trade-off to me. And the world will continue to be okay with it, as long as: One, they don’t see what goes behind closed doors. After all, ignorance is always bliss. And two, it doesn’t happen to them, or a loved one. But still, to me, no matter how many political rationales I’ve heard or religious arguments that have been fiercely debated over as dinnertime conversation – there is something inherently, innately, gravely… inhumanely wrong with slaughtering the innocent to purge the guilty.

An unfamiliar bed. It’s quite stiff, I try not to burrow my face too deeply into the pillow, like I often like to do, and the blanket rubs prickly against my legs. I don’t like sleeping somewhere foreign, unless it’s a damn good hotel. I mean that inherently, but of course, I suppose in the name of adventure or ‘roughing it out’, I’d step up to it. Or if I’m with someone who makes it all worth it.

Day Two.

I watch the uncle deftly scoop up soup from steaming, boiling vats into the bowls; the auntie with nimble fingers measure out the right proportions of noodle and deposit them onto the line-up of plates as-quick-as-can-be. Their faces are weathered by age and hardship, their hands worn out by toil and labour, their skin toughened like leather, as they work long hours by the heat of the flame. I wonder whether there will come a day when their legacy will become lost, as sons and daughters go off to university and spend the hours of their day climbing the corporate, social ladder; somehow come to frown upon the making of a simple living by a stove-fire, turn their nose up at bargaining for groceries in the bustle of a marketplace, in exchange for the clean grid-lanes of a supermarket. Char Kway Teow, Laksa, Chendol, Belachan Chicken, could all be extinct in the next 20 years.

I’m finding it very hard to be present. As we drive along the congested roads and the confusing streets, I feel the car-conversation wash completely over me. My mind wanders to places it should not go – not at this time, not with all these people around me, not while I’m here anyway.

It’s difficult watching L & A. That affectionate side-glance he steals at her when she does something remotely cute. A protective hand he subconsciously rests on her back as he guides her across the road or as we navigate our way through the maze of people and stalls. The late-night back and forth of texts, long after we’ve all said goodbye and goodnight. This is the way it should be, and what I am fighting so damn hard for, is wrong.

I answer too quickly. And you, don’t even flinch. Strike 2.

It feels kind of stupid now, that I tried to keep this trip from you. In faint hope that it would somehow matter, that you might suddenly realize that something went missing.

I find it funny how I’ve barely known these people 2 days, and here I find myself amongst them, in the thick of the sticky heat of a hawker market, like we do this every day after school. Plates and bowls of noodle and egg and meat make its circle around the table. The utensils of choice – one pair of chopsticks and a single soup spoon. Communal sharing at its best, and it’s never been more awesome, or natural.

I’m gazing out at the coloured city-lights doing a dotted dance across the surface of the black water. You can see the sleek straight lines of the bridge from here. Directly before me, looms the hulking shadow of a tree-carpeted island. I don’t see a soul, no sign of life. We dot the rough stony path like a sparse assortment of pebbles along the beach. Friendship should be like this. No pressure situations, no clamour for attention, no fight to the top, no private agendas. Just a bunch of friends, hanging out. Period. A simple equation where there’s nothing more to add, and nothing less to be subtracted from it.

Tonight, it all seems very far away. The emotions are fading, the pain is somewhat abating. I dare to scoff a little at how ridiculous, meaningless it is.

Day Three.

Beep. I jumped, only to wish it had been from you. Strike 3.

Am I making it weird or awkward for you? I don’t really know what to say. I’ve forgotten how we actually left things. It seems like it was a different lifetime, and I was a different person. Actually, a different age. Just, but a child – and children are egocentric. I was selfish to borrow power from your affections, positioning myself and my needs at the centre of it. It should never come down to that. I don’t know how much hurt I inflicted on you all those years ago. But if it’s even a taste, a shadow of the pain I’m feeling in this moment, I am truly sorry.

It broke, just above the bridge. Cracked, rather unceremoniously, as I was squeezing into the car and smashed it on the roof of the door. No matter that it cost a pittance, compared to the Gucci it’s modeled after. It was the one material thing I hold onto from Sydney. Sorry, but I take it very personally.

I’m kind of glad we’re going back tonight. I need the familiar smell of my bed.

Browsed at Borders in my last hour in Penang. I really should read more. I found myself meandering my way towards the Psychology section – Jung for a Lifetime, Divorce for Dummies, My World Came Crashing Down, Introduction to Freud. I picked up I am Sam and read a little, transfixed by how the simple, child-like narrative could capture a profound pain beyond its years. I realized as I was browsing the shelves, that I was searching for something, that could make me feel again. Sometimes, pain shocks you to your senses, awakens sleeping emotions. Anything, to remind me that I’m a living, breathing human, who feels. More importantly, feel for someone else. Apathy is one of my greatest fears. And as much as my nature seems to rub in the opposite direction of the path I wish to take – I am determined to make people my expertise.

A 1000 places to visit before you die. Sigh. I want to do it all, with someone special, one day.

I’m surprised at the pinch of sadness that prickles as we board the steps of our ride home. These people have been so nice. Nice is too generic and bland a word actually. Hospitality without a price, extending a hand of friendship without a question. Goodwill – no strings attached. The world needs more of this. L & L, S & M. I hope this isn’t the last I see of them.

I don’t like saying goodbyes. I like saying, fare well and see you again .

That Night

I’m reading a romance novel by Nora Roberts at the moment. I admit, it is a guilty pleasure. I escape to another life, an ideal life – where the leading lady is always beautiful and the man in her life is always death-defyingly handsome, chivalrous and gallant, a true knight in shining armour. And true love is always possible. There is always attraction at first sight. The man will want the woman with a violent passion, but she will play it coy. But eventually, she caves in to his irresistible charm and adamant advances.

And he will make her feel like she’s a woman.

The one I’m reading now hits particularly close to home. Actually, I have a habit of thinking that all movies and stories relate directly to my life. Perhaps, they really don’t. I’m like a schizophrenic person finding patterns in a constellation of random dots. I’m simply searching for what I want to see, grasping at straws, and so I find what I want to find. But no matter. The story is about a psychologist who’s prim and proper, rigid and conventional, thinking herself bland and boring. She is recovering from the divorce with her old husband, the wounds still fresh. He was methodical and meticulous, their courtship was conventional and scheduled, straight down to the letter. Until he met another woman, whom he obviously found more interesting and vivacious, who managed to coax him out of his shell and abandon his 5-year plans for spontaneity and ridiculousness. Happiness. While she, was left with the pieces to mend.

I couldn’t help but draw the parallels. I felt her pain, I could understand it so well. She had to deal with the painful fact that she wasn’t the woman for him. She wasn’t meant to be the one to change him, to save him. It was chilling. It occurred to me that I could be reading about myself, 10 years from now. It was like a glimpse into a possible, no, a probable future … should I continue winding my way deeper and deeper into this downward spiral, and experience today’s stubborn folly played out to its full extent. It made me question what I’m really fighting for, and just what am I clinging on so tightly to? And no matter how you try to water it down with consoling words and horribly over-used polite clichés, it is a huge blow. Enough to permanently cripple the fragile female soul.

Yet, it’s inspirational. The way she discovers herself again in a foreign land. I’d like to take an adventure like that some day. Retreat to a quaint Irish cottage or escape to a sun-kissed Hawaiian beach. Go away where no one knows me, meet someone who will sweep me off my feet or just have a holiday fling with an exotic foreign gentleman who is well-versed in romance. Yes, reading makes me dream, hope for something more. Perhaps the knowledge that there indeed is more, after all I’m sure such stories are conceived from ounces of reality. True, in the very rare case… but still, somewhere out there.

But there, there, chides the voice of realism, it is unhealthy to indulge in such frivolous fantasies. You’ll lose yourself.

Still, I want to be romanced. I want to feel beautiful, to be made to feel wonderfully feminine in the arms of someone whom I love and who loves me.

I don’t think I’ve ever had the chance to write about what happened to me, that one night in a backpacker’s hostel in Sydney. Today, I feel like I need to. I need to put into words, to see in black and white my memory of it. Perhaps at the end of it, I’ll feel better. Or not, because I don’t think I could ever reveal the details of it to another living soul. Still, I will write, I will remember. Just because it was a momentous point for me. It was probably the one moment in my 20 years so far that was so intensely rich – emotionally, physically. And no matter what happens from now, or how things might change in the future, whether I look back on today and laugh at the silliness and triviality of it all… I want to remember the first.

It’s been … months. I still get flashbacks. The nights are the worst, when I’m lying alone underneath the covers, with too much space to myself on the bed. That’s when the loneliness hits, like a sharp knife lodged in my side. And the pain seems to spread its fingers across every one of my senses.

But my heart aches for D, remembering how he seemed to be a different boy, man that night. It was bliss. We could have been there forever.

And then, as suddenly as it came on, it switched off. And a part of me still cannot take no for an answer. I cannot fathom how I am the only one who lingers, or how he could done all those things with me and not have experienced the intensity I felt. I try to put rhyme and reason to it, not knowing which brings more consolation. What does it matter, whether he was just like any other hormonal homosapien male, who would jump at any opportunity presenting itself on the bed next to him; or whether he truly felt something in the moment, that all his misgivings and his doubts about the future is what is really keeping us from happening?

No matter. The reality is still the same. We share nothing now.

But I think it’s time that I come clean about what I’m really upset about here. I don’t think it was the fact that we never entered into a proper relationship, that he never stepped up to claim me as his own and take it public. Although, I realize, as a prideful woman with dignity rightly should.

But I don’t think I’m that woman, am I? The truth is, that what really hurts is the shame, that he didn’t come back for more. And it is the residual doubt, the insecurities that gnaw and bite away at what little self-worth I possess.

I wonder how successful I’d be at being one of those girls who can muster up the guts to kiss a guy. Maybe that would do the trick. It seems to work in the movies.

But seriously, it just doesn’t seem fair that I lie here, wanting more, while he gets the luxury of moving on in life as if nothing happened. And I know he can, and he will, before me, whichever comes first. They were right – I let him off scot-free, I absolved him of the sin he committed against me, I let him get away with robbery, with murder.

But now, I have to ask myself some fundamental questions: Did I feel like a woman in his arms? Does he make me feel beautiful? Is it exciting, exhilarating with him? Is this a love story I want to re-tell over and over again to my children and my grand-children, shout it from the rooftops?

What do I truly want out of my life, for myself? – At the same time trying to dismiss that small voice in my head that scoffs at the audacity of my question.

Do I dare dream?