Before I Go,

I don’t really know what to say, but I feel like writing, so I’m just going to run with it okay?

Since buying this Macbook (which I love, despite some of its inconveniences and incompatibilities), I’ve been utilizing iCal. D said it would change the way you live, and I think I can kind of see what he’s talking about. It’s strange, I feel like so much has happened in the last 3 weeks, and yet, looking at it all, reduced to dot-points and colour-coded tabs, neatly tabulated in a grid… it hasn’t been that long at all, and there’s not long more to go before I have to say goodbye, and hello, and goodbye again.

So yes, I’m trying to re-count what the past 3 weeks have been about. Let’s give this a whack.

Well, I went and -

Infiltrated the other camp. I still can’t decide whether it was calculated or if it really fell into place oh so naturally, as I like to think that it did. Did I imagine it, or have I tried too hard to force the pieces, guilty of my classic crime – where I’ve once again, orchestrated things the way I want them to turn out. But I like it. I liked it when it was just the 4 of us cooking out on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It reminded me of the old days with N. I like it when we can be around other people, and I can be secure enough to let you go, and in doing so, let myself be.

Got myself new friends while I was at it. It is no act that I’ve inadvertently found myself in good company and meaningful conversation over the finer points in life, more often than not, extending into the wee hours of the morning. It’s nice to know that G understands. He’s probably the closest thing to D since, well, hmm, me. I also remember again how much I like Melbourne at this time of year. The streets are a little less busy. We set out less chairs at church on Sundays. The seats at our dining tables shrink in number. Somehow, noise and complication is ushered out along with the departure of people, one by one, after they hang up their academic hats for the year … until the city grinds to this sort of standstill, or rather, slows to a comfortable lull. Yes, I think I like this pace. I can manage these people. I am well-suited to this routine. I also know, that it doesn’t last. So, I’ll soak up what I can, and treasure it for what it is.

Lost hope; Only to find it 2 days later, and revive it to its full glory a week after that. I’ll say it again, it was a good lesson. A wake up call. A slap to the face. I had to face a split second of utter devastation. I had to be brought to my knees, crippled by powerlessness, driven to cry and rant and pray. I am aware though, of the part of me that was still indignant, that refused to believe it. They must have made a mistake. That’s what made me pick up the phone to verify it anyway. But still. In any case, I am thankful that I was cornered into embracing the possibility of change, stripped of petulant pride and arrogant airs; To finally come to fear a God that gives and takes away, and to trust that He directs my path.

Got my heart broken, again and again, and a 1000 times over. Expectations are a cruel, cruel… thingamajig (for my lack of a better word), I have to say. Y’noe how good things only happen to you, when you least expect it? And when you anticipate and anticipate, pine and pine, it’ll just never come? I’ve fallen prey to that too many times to count, and I’m absolutely sick of it.

Finished reading Twilight in 2 days. Edward is too good to be true. I find it exasperating how the narrative is so deceptively simple, the plot so blatantly straight-forward; and yet manages to ensnare my attention, enthrall my imagination, encapture my emotions. I guess Stephanie Meyer’s secret is quite elementary really. She appealed to the fantasies that every adolescent, or single and remotely lonely girl wants to realize. It’s a tried, tested and sadly, true way of getting it in the bag.

Speaking of ‘too good to be true’ are the double engagements over one weekend. I know, I know, we’ve been through this. I still can’t help the surge of envy that overcomes my better sense of well, civility and politeness. And as I courteously extend my ‘congratulations’ and ecstatic ‘I’m so happy for you’(s) and chirpy ‘I can’t wait for the wedding(s)!’ I think about the incredible act of laying down your life for another human being, and the immensity, the grandiosity, the audacity of that notion. It seems incredibly difficult and distant. Not because I don’t believe that I’m incapable of it, but because I can’t imagine that someone could, would do it for me.

Learnt how to play DOTA with the boys. I think I might be addicted. Now I can understand why boys can waste away spend hours upon hours holed up in cyber cafes. Time does seem to slip away much faster during game-play. I’ve also learnt that stew is the best dish to cook while DOTA-ing. In the midst of heavy battle, there it may lie, simmering all its yummy goodness into the broth while it sits forgotten on the stove. That being said, I kind of suck at it. I’m still at the stage where the goal is simply, not to die. Maybe I should spend the holidays secretly honing my skills and come back with a vengeance and astound all the boys. Heh.

So yeah, those are but some of the things, I went and done.

And now, I’m thinking of -

The amount of money I’ve spent trying to fix my face. I can’t begin to express how much it’s been bothering me. I feel tortured flipping through magazines, walking along the streets and having to meet with flawless, porcelain complexions. I can’t even look him in the eyes. What must people think, when they lay eyes on me? Please… go, go, go away

How I’m annoyingly finding myself at the exact same place as I was last year. A little more bruised, a little more battered. But still, standing. Same same, but different. Same talk, only with added attempts at outlining boundaries with chalk, rubbed away and drawn over with ease, as and when pleased. Same incapacitating insecurities, same hyper-sensitivity, same heightened paranoia, just different girl, different song. Same sliver of possibility, this time on a different land, in a different room.

What it means to say, I love you; and the tragedy of uttering it to move impassive eyes, cold rationality and a stony heart.

Home, and how it might be strange to return to ‘homes’ that I’ve never lived in (or not for long anyway), and what it might feel to live under the rules of the household again. But of course, I’m looking forward to running into the arms of the people who have loved me their whole lives; where there is no condemnation, no shame.

Only love, freely given.

Not This, Then That.

And strangely it seems, that the only way to distract yourself from one pain, is to feel the sting of another.

Standstill.

Y’noe what,

Nothing should matter at this point. Not how much you want to be there, or how much you care, or how much you think you might be missed, or how much you wish you could be a part of his music, an integral piece in his journey. The point very simply is:

He didn’t ask you.

And he should. He should have explicitly requested your presence, if you were that important. You at least afford that amount of respect, that little ounce of recognition for hours talking him through how he should steward his finances and invest in his craft; for all the times you’ve silently willed with all your might that the floodgates of inspiration may be opened; that one day, he would finally discover that he has a far greater story to tell than one that just revolves around another single human being.

But the truth of the matter is simply – He doesn’t want to let you in, you simply have no jurisdiction in that all-important part of his life.

Even though you’ve tried. Oh, God knows you’ve tried.

So pray now, pray for your life, pray your darndest. Pray for strength to stand tall and upright, pray for peace to fall asleep at night, pray for wisdom to carry yourself through tomorrow. Do not succumb to tears. Do not fall back into the throes of despair and crumble to weakness. Take it, accept it now, as a reality. At this point, there are more pertinent issues that hang in the balance. Issues that demand your resource and head-space. Be present to the people that are here. Be attentive to what He is trying to get through to you. Be receptive to the lessons that are surely, albeit harshly revealing themselves to you.

It’ll be alright. You will get over this. Happiness is still possible.

Love,
Me.

World Spins Madly On.

Woke up and wished that I was dead
I lay motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you’d gone
and let the world spin madly on

Everything that I said I’d do
Like make the world brand new
And take the time for you
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
And the world spins madly on

I let the day go by
I always say goodbye
I watch the stars from my window sill
The whole world is moving and I’m standing still

I thought of you and where you’d gone
and let the world spin madly on.

-The Weepies

The Lions’ Den

So today we returned to a familiar tale from our Sunday school days – of a man who was thrown into the lions’ den for his defiance of the law, but by a miracle of God, emerged alive and in one piece.

I noted with bemusement at how the boys run things. They adopt a straight down the line, mechanical, step1-to-step2 type methodology. Everything is logical, calculated, sterilized even. The events must be chronologically laid out. The narrative must be coherent. The characters and their motivations have to make some sort of sense. It is a critical operation of scouring through the text verse-by-verse, picking apart the inconsistencies and taking note of the nuances, analysing and breaking down to minute packages of digestible detail.

On a side note, I think we girls have much to learn from that. Perhaps this led on from lunch conversation, where we were contesting the appeal of American soaps to the lay-woman. Often, they feature the emotionally-charged female protagonist with her posse of equally neurotic gal-pals. Together, as they go about painting the town (Wisteria Lane, Tree Hill, Seattle Grace, Upper East Side Manhattan, Beverly Hills, whatever) red, they inadvertently sometimes promulgate messages. The promise that ‘everything that you ever wanted’ (McDreamy, for instance) can be yours even though you’re a little bit damaged. It’s okay to cry a little, to be crazy for a bit, to be demanding for just a little more. And we sometimes celebrate all that in the name of self-respect, or independence (whatever tagword they use these days), because we’re all beautiful and princesses and yada yada.

I sometimes, just call it being spoilt.

On the flipside, there is then the glaring lack of emphasis on contemporary examples of male bonding or kinship. The notion of brothers, who band together around beer and peanut shells strewn all over the floor. No matter the occasional derogatory talk that objectifies females, or the distasteful random toilet joke, they have each others’ back, and sometimes (maybe, hopefully) drum some sense into each other and help their fellas learn a lesson or two. This has become increasingly rare, in my opinion, and all the more precious for it.

Anyway, I’m going off tangent, and that is a conversation for another day.

So, the discussion in this room over deeply-fried food, amongst this band of brothers, was somewhat tiresome for me. Faced with cold, hard, sterile facts, I found myself fidgeting in frustration at some points, mentally asking in exasperation, “What is the point of nit-picking over whether Daniel was the third highest ruler or the highest ruler in the kingdom?” But I soon grew to realise that debate over the most seemingly insignificant of detail was but one of the leading points, a foretaste if you will, yielding insight into much larger questions.

And so, we do it the boys’ way for once, which is also how we find ourselves painting quite the different portrait:

Daniel isn’t young or handsome. He is old, probably in his eighties, coming out of semi-retirement, weary from being forgotten generation after generation, and yet, still proving to be a formidable force of resilience to be reckoned with. Our Daniel isn’t perched on a rock, eyes raised towards heaven and hands positioned in prayer, bathed in pale moonlight. He is probably cowering in a corner, rocking back and forth to calm himself, all the while sweating, shuddering, praying profusely that hope against hope, that lions won’t be hungry. And they, these fearsome kings of the beasts, aren’t lying by his feet like obedient dogs sitting by their master, docile and drowsy. They are probably licking their lips and gnashing their teeth, on the prowl, taking prideful powerful strides around Daniel like sharks circling their kill.

Only, the difference is that their mouths are sealed shut.

It is true how we always pray for escape. We ask for a way out. We call on God for rescue. We desperately plead for pardon. We pray, more often than not, for the pain and suffering to be taken away from us. Oh, would You spare us this ordeal? Oh would You reach in with Your mighty hand and smite our enemies, and lift us up from this mess we’ve created?

But perhaps we shut out the real message that is really, quite unpleasant to the ears, that -

• the best lessons are learnt through the harshest, and cruelest of ordeals.
• you need to fall down, before you can learn how to pick yourself up.
• death comes before resurrection, the rise again.

And that is why people are frustrated with Christianity. That is why we think that our prayers go ‘unheard’. We are disillusioned with notions of miraculous windfalls and taken in by grand prosperity gospels. The thing is, the system won’t go away, the suffering doesn’t stop. But God can reach in with His mighty hand and manipulate the machinery, tweak the screws and bolts, to make things go His way, to make the system, serve Him. He can teach you to brave anything, but only by the process of breaking your heart and toughening your skin.

It reminds me of all my close shaves with failure. The times when I’ve stared it in the face, and snubbed my nose at it; When a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card was delivered into my hands, and I got away, scot-free. I used to call it luck, a fluke-shot, only to realize that really, it was God’s grace, a blessing, favour. However today, I find myself standing at a point again where the reality of failure is very imminent before me. And although, that I perhaps should count myself fortunate, to have been spared from it time and time again, but when and if it does come – this time – to knock, and then break and enter, I will have to learn to let it ransack all that I hold dear, plunder and pillage.

And with what is left, with all these broken pieces, still find wholeness and restoration.

But wait,
I’m also thinking about the dens I audaciously walk into, the lions I willingly throw myself at.

Was Daniel challenging God when upon hearing the decree being made, threw open his windows and made a blatant show of his devotion?

Am I making a farce of God’s grace by refusing to fly from this? And so this is where I evaluate my motivations for still being here. But I want to be here. I so do. I’m not really to leave yet. Don’t take me out of this situation. I would really, do anything for you. Those were but some of the rationalizations that buzzed through my head. Perhaps, there is a reason why I’m still here. Perhaps this pain is necessary.

And so, today’s lesson seemed like my brand of self-soothe medication. A justification for this insanity. But now I’ve got to ask myself some vital questions -

Does it make me noble? Am I truly selfless? Have I crossed the fine line between helping someone and having a Messiah complex?

OR

Does the implicit expectation of something, anything in return (consciously, or not) negate sacrifice? Is this love a selfish one? One that serves a personal agenda, one that is a slave to nothing but mere cowardice and fear of my greatest fear itself.

Have I laid down my life, where it isn’t needed?

All but a vain sacrifice & a sacrifice in vain.

It always somehow, becomes a bit too much for me to handle.

And I wonder, when, when will a day come, when I can bear it no more.

Sigh.

I miss you. And you’re just here. How am I ever going to survive weeks away from you?

The saddest thing is that you’re probably out, gallivanting somewhere. Plotting your next big social takeover. How to win friends and influence people. Getting that girl you always wanted.

It’s not fair that I’ve been given these feelings.

______________________________

Father,

I feel myself slipping again. Into this shame-blame game. I blame You for seeding these desires in my heart. Why do they take such a specific form? Why does happiness seem to only culminate in that one person? Why does he dictate my everything? I shame myself for not being good enough, for not being beautiful enough. I blame him for not knowing better, for being blinded by superficiality, for not growing up quickly enough to see what is good and right under his nose. I blame them for taking my place, for their selfish and shallow pleasures, for their blatant insensitivity.

And now I have all this time on my hands – Time to bemoan days that have passed, to antagonize the things of the present and to worry incessantly about tomorrow.

I pray that you will help me use the days wisely, productively. May I learn to feed my soul with the richness of a Word that is alive and relevant to my current day, fill my mind with the knowledge of Your, our world. May I yearn to keep You close to my heart, every second, every minute of my every day. May I preserve my hope in a better day, a brighter future be grounded firmly in You as my solid Rock, my strong Fortress. May I guard fiercely my faith in a God that will provide, that will see me through the long and narrow path. 

I may not always make the right decisions. More often than not, I succumb to the wilful desires of my flesh, fall prey to the tantalizing potential of momentary gratification. Just like how I have broken my fast, time and time again for the sake of convenience, yielding to the hunger of my cravings, bowing to the pressures of the people who sit with me at the dinner table, or to he, who has the uncanny power of pushing me beyond the boundaries of anything I’ve known till now. 

But Lord, have mercy. Be patient with me. For I am, and hopefully will always remain a work in progress, yet to be finished.

The Win

I wouldn’t have picked myself to be so taken by the US elections. True, I only caught onto the bandwagon at the last, but thankfully, finest possible moment… but, better late than never, eh?

To be honest, I have never watched him actually speak before on the campaign trail. And yet, today my attention was transfixed on the screen, feeling a strange surge of support for the man, not really knowing why. Even still, from my primitive understanding of American politics, and my piteous knowledge of economics and climate change, there was something momentous about hearing the gracious words of an old, war veteran as he conceded defeat. Offering his support to this young, daring upstart, at the expense of personal ambition, in the name of a higher allegiance to country. And of course, I believe anyone, educated or not, would be able to appreciate the sanctity of this moment, to see a white and black family embrace each other in goodwill on the same platform.

Several news reports and conversations later, S forwarded me the link to Obama’s infomercial. Hungry for information, I sat through the 27 minutes of an outline of the proposed change and the policies he intends to implement in a nutshell; all narrated in a calm voice, with a picture-perfect smile and carefully measured poise. Today, I’m still reeling from the emotions conjured by the landslide win, and lapping up every article I can find, just so that these unfounded good feelings towards the guy may be grounded on some sort of substantiated basis.

Lack of general knowledge aside, I’m just thankful, really. Thankful for being alive in this day and age, to be born into this middle-class family, at this level of the socio-economic system that allows me to be given opportunities to partake in the life and history of these three countries.

It is a precious, wonderful thing to witness history in motion. I remember the last time I had this feeling was on the 11th of September in 2001, of course, under a very different context altogether. All the same, be it at the other extreme of the continuum ‘twixt fear and hope, it is just this sense of being one in a multitude, and yet, knowing that by even being – by living and breathing and thinking and feeling, you are participating in a far greater story that will ever be told. A collective story. The story of mankind. A profound tale of the human race, pressing through its struggles and waging its wars, capable of the ugliest brutality and the most passionate love. But oh, when the beauty of all things fragile and imperfect peek out from underneath the brokeness; when the weak summon strength and courage they never knew they had to overcome impossible odds; when hope seemingly dies and resurrects itself in the face of darkness;

It is good. It is very good.

And so I can’t help but think that he got it absolutely right when he said that, “Our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared.” Neither can I help feeling like I want to rise to my feet and join in with the rousing applause that resounded through the square as he took the podium. And oh, was that a tear welling in my eye?

I now believe that we are all significant. I now understand the powerful significance of Obama’s rise to the presidential seat. He fought against tradition, against youth, against even the colour of his own skin. It is a symbol of conquering the impossible, an embodiment of hope, a message that heralds the coming of change. It rings loud and clear. And yet, I still found myself wondering, doubting. There is that niggling, annoying voice that hisses scathingly,“Impossible? That’s not for you. It’s too hard. There is always going to be someone bigger, faster, smarter than you. No matter what you do, nothing is going to change.”

But today, I refuse to listen to it. I expose it for the lie that it is. Perhaps, it is like forefathers who dreamed and passed on before getting the chance to enjoy the fruits of their labour. But they seemed to understand something fundamental, that the reason why they slaved would be realized by a future generation. No matter that they would not live to see it come to pass. And today, when what was fiction transcends into reality, it can truly be said – No one goes unnoticed, no life is insignificant. We all make our mark on the world, just by being here. Some will make bigger impressions, some will make smaller impressions, but an imprint all the same. Unique and irreplaceable in its own way. From president, to white-collar middle-class worker, to teacher, to soldier, to farmer, to student, to starving child in Africa, to doctor, to prisoner, to farmer, to celebrity, to police man, to football housewife, to yes… even little ol’ me, wannabe-psychologist.

I think I will endeavour to read the news more often from now. I finally understand why my father would incessantly badger me all those Saturday mornings to sit down and read the newspaper. I finally recognise the importance of keeping abreadth of what is going on in our world. Because as far removed as it sounds, everything is a cause and effect. Everything filters down, from decisions that are made at the highest seats of power, trickling down to the rest of us commonfolk, busying about our seemingly mundane, daily lives. It is our world, and who is there but us to take ownership of it? There is so much to learn, so much to understand, so many issues to grapple with, and wrestle through, and debate to the ground. Issues that shape the course of our lives, guide the way our family units function, the fields in which we spend the majority of our daylight hours harvesting, that determine whether there’s going to be bread on the table at dinnertime.

I envy the lost plasticity of childhood. They say that your mind is like a dry sponge when you’re young, that soaks, and soaks, and soaks some more. Learning should always be like that. Rich and effortless. But I hope I’m not too late. I shiver in anticipation again, as I dare to dip these toes gingerly into these streams of information – to be overwhelmed by the wealth of it, to be swept up in its current, to be completely immersed in its abundance.

I want in.

I am not an American citizen, but I’d like to think that I’m a citizen of the world. He may not be our president, but I believe that the decisions he makes will extend its influence beyond their shores to the rest of us, all watching on. I also appreciate the cautionary tales that are circulating about the importance of exercising discernment in choosing the people in whom we put our belief and trust in. After all, we have all seen the great heights from which to fall from whenever we thrust people on a pedestal. I like how he emphasises that he is not infallible, that change is slow and arduous, while at the same time, promulgating that there is hope yet.

And so, it is on that note, that my sincerest prayer is that he be able to have the fortitude to weather the storms that are brewing in the distance, that he be able to rise up to the responsibilities that have been entrusted into his hands, that he be given the wisdom to navigate the crises his country faces, and the strength to uphold the promises that he’s made to the people.

Time will tell.

But for once, I’d like to, actually, let us enter with the people of America into this “dawn of a new era” (so they have dubbed it), with the mindset that perhaps yes,

Yes we can.

Note to Self:

Never, ever, ever count on people for anything.

Seriously.

People are fickle. They are like sheep, governed by a crowd mentality.

Sorry but I don’t think I want to be part of this herd.

I’m tired of re-iterating these lessons I have had to learn multiple times, after having to pick myself up from the hardest falls. It’s frustrating how the passing of time seems to dilute all the anger and bitterness and wrath you swore you’d bring down hard on the people who have trespassed against you. But many ice-packs later, the pain seems to inevitably numb away to a dull throb you learn to ignore, and the memory of it grows so dim it’s as if it never happened. And, you start to forget.

It’s okay. It was just that one time. I’m stronger now. I’ve forgiven him. They didn’t mean it. I’m ready for whatever crap you throw my way. After that, nothing will be able to faze me anymore.

Unknowingly, you have just wiped the slate clean, cleared the score cards, and stupidly learnt to trust again. And then when you least expect it, just when you accidentally let your guard down, allow expectations to build, and (god forbid!) a flicker of hope ignites…

Someone will let you down. And you’ll remember again, like it was only yesterday, that it still hurts like a bitch.

I sent an invite round to Disappointment, and he RSVP-ed to say that he’s coming. Any moment now, I’m going to hear a knock, and there, greeting him at my front door, all I’ll be able to say is:

“Yes, I asked for it.”

Is there any point in saying, ‘Never again’?

For the Record:

So, I know I’m making a huge mistake.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t some brave show of martyrdom, or some warped version of a Saviour complex. The stakes are far too high, and the costs… well, more than I have to give. Perhaps it is a kind of sado-masochism, this obstinacy, this devotion, this, strange sort of love. Love that can’t seem to take ‘no’ for an answer. Love that knows no shame, driven only by desperation. Love that is given disproportionately to what is received.  Love that just simply, won’t back down.

I hate it that when the clock struck twelve, I was by your side, watching you fall asleep.

I hate it that I spent my birthday with you and N, lazing away a glorious afternoon outside listening to the drawl of weird, alternative indie music that sent us half to sleep. Truth is, I missed it. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

I hate it that the very thought of losing you sends my heart plunging into my stomach. I could have sworn it was you, and my insides wrung themselves out.

I hate it that I couldn’t feel anything on the date yesterday. Pink roses, now drying on the clothesline, were not enough. Neither was bold initiative, or forward questions. It all stacked up, balanced out, and yet, meant nothing at all.

I hate it that on the way to your house, all that flooded through my system, was the wash of relief. And when I dialled the familiar number, checked my reflection in the lift mirrors, rapped politely on the door before letting myself in – into the warm, orange glow of your lampstand; the faint sweet smell of your mother’s potpourri lingering in the air; you, poring over your laptop on the coffee table, in black-framed glasses and one of your favourite white t-shirts.

It just felt like home.

I wonder if this is just a fear of the unfamiliar. Maybe, the right one hasn’t come, the one who will erase all the pain, and make me forget.

I’m starting to think that maybe he doesn’t exist. And that’s perfectly alright, for once, I feel like I’m okay being by myself. There’s only one I want. And if I can’t have him, I’d rather have nothing.

It sounds like the rant of a petulant child demanding her way, throwing a tantrum in the middle of the department store floor, kicking up a ruckus to the dismay of her father. He stands by, tall and immovable,  waiting for her to exhaust herself crying. Are You folding your hands in the corner, God? Shaking your head, with an almost-smile creeping across Your face, chiding kindly, ‘Oh you don’t know what’s best for yourself, my dear child. Stop kicking me with your feet, and beating your fists against my chest. Stop fighting back. Something better’s coming.’ ‘

Perhaps.

But somewhere in my mind, a resolution seems to have been passed – against the better of rationality or good wisdom. Heck, even against the interests of selfishness or pride.

But I simply can’t help myself, I can’t help the way I feel about you.

And if that is going to lead to my destruction, perhaps that is what it is going to take for the foundations of my world to be rocked to the ground, shaken to ruins by a seismic earthquake. And then we rebuild, from ground-up. I pray that my mind will be able to bear it.

Are these the kind of letters you wrote to her? Did your words use to spell a hungry, almost mad desperation? Is that why she thought you were fresh out of the psych ward?

So, call this a suicide mission, my kamikaze.

Maybe, I have to die trying.