What is this loneliness you speak of

I think I should start being prepared to tread this world on my own.

I feel lonely as it is already here in Malaysia this semester, and I frankly don't know how I'll fare when I get to the States. It seems as if every second of the day is spent looking for something valid to fill the next undertaken one, and it surely is daunting.

I really don't know why I'm suddenly saying all this. Maybe it's because I'm listening to Gem Club, which God knows can incite weird, trance-like and emotional vibes within my veins. Or maybe it's because I'm starting to realize that every step I take in life has mostly been taken alone, and I'm afraid of growing up because I won't have anyone to hold onto anymore. Or maybe it's just the aftermath of discovering a best friend's current romantic and secure attachment; and realizing that I'll lose him soon. I can't single out any one of these factors and name them the culprit of these emotional strings, but I know they still tie me to the past and I have yet to relieve myself of them.

A part of me wants to run to my parents and tell them I love them and that I want to spend time with them. I don't want to be alone in these next six months, in spite of the fact that I see them every single day and yet I barely say a word to them. I don't want to leave home, I just want to go back to being three years old all over again where I had the happiest days of my life, evoking mischief and being forced to take a nap. These days it seems as if every word I write comes with a tear, and I just cannot bring myself to physically admit that I am weak and falling apart inside.

Each Coming Night by Iron & Wine,

Each coming night is filled with football madness; trying damn hard not to curse at lousy football players (such irony), checking Instagram at half-time to keep awake and largely, prying my stubborn and sleepy eyes open for the sake of using the odd-houred match as conversational currency. I feel empty, really. I open the bible on some days to find nothing, and other days I hear the Holy Spirit speaking to me ever so loudly and allowing me to inspire and minister to others. But the fact remains that I do have days where I feel infinitely alone and miserable because I am a workaholic and there is nothing worthy of my attention or action.

And yet I am happy that he has found someone, and that that someone has found him too. I am glad that they are both in love, although I'm not sure what to make of it. I also think people overrate my responses to the nth degree, thinking that because I am known infinitely for my temper, its intensity must override every other area in my life. I really am not amused these days. I know far too much than I should, and sometimes I wish I didn't. Sometimes I wish I was stupid, I wish I was silly, and that I would love, and love, and love, and love, and love, and love, and love and love until I could love no more. I want to give and give and give and give and give and give and give and give and give and give until I have nothing left to leave you with.

I have tried to love so much that I am growing tired. Ironically you can derive tired from tried. But that does not amuse me at all. No it doesn't.

I'm trying to sort out this poetry thing but it's not working out. Is this a work of prose, or is this poetry? Or is this semi-prose or semi-poetry? How can one tell? What does my work resemble? Can I even consider this to be a work of literature? An ongoing and unstoppable force, a silly and strewn about mess in my head. I am lost, and I am found. I need Jesus.

I think I have listened to too much ambient indie music. Spotify, please go away. I need good sleep. I need love. I need my parents and I need my family. I don't want to be alone.

I need Jesus. I need you, God. I NEED YOU.

I see things differently

I see things differently
Be it emotions
Or perhaps a literal question
My viewpoint is different

When I see anger
When I see withdrawal
I don't see selfishness
I don't see a mood swing
He is just a boy
Asking why he cares so much
Waiting for a word from anyone
Wondering why his value on friendship
Marginally surpasses theirs

When I see sadness
When I see suffering
I don't thank God that I'm not
I don't pretend I know
She is a strong girl
Having faith in a greater purpose
Pulling herself through the pain
Knowing she'll make it through

When I see a question
When I see an actual question
I begin to think
I wonder why
When you ask how I will ever make it
I assume you think I never will
When you label me a certain way
I would think you mean it
Even if you don't

Time
And time again
I try
I try not to think
I think that I overthink
But sometimes
To merely think
Is not to think at all
And to overthink, is to think

What if
What if we share the same lens
What if we see the same things
You and I
We need to affirm each other
To conquer the shallow things of this world
To remember not just to see the world as what it is
But to see it as what it really is

___________________________

They say I'm sensitive, and I try not to complicate things by thinking too much. But when no one understands why people behave the way they do, or are as they are, I know.

Because we share the same ability to see things, differently.

Not all is fair in love and war, it seems

It almost always never occurs to anyone that they'd become a veteran of war at the unripe age of eighteen. We were so young and enticed by the biological weaponry of love and attraction, clamoring our way onto the battlefield without ever completely understanding what it was worth. We charged right into it without doubt, constantly deeming advancement greater than stagnation, as action became the ultimate moral imperative. Little then did we know that it took more than a desire, or a battle cry to sustain something as hefty as our hearts, and prevent ourselves from losing it in the first place.

But wars aren't always won. Often, we are led to become all too vulnerable and in effect, we forget that we must defend ourselves, just as much as we offend. As a matter of fact, the defense line is almost always frowned and chided upon, for their lack of mobility, for their absence of risk. Nevertheless, risks aren't evaluated adequately, and as a result, poor judgment is placed upon those who wait, who observe, who stay put. And yet, their possession of such patience finally becomes their reward.

So here we are - the rest of us, with the remnants of our injuries painted on our backs, with our scars exhibited like an unexpected inking on our once whole bodies, with the tides washing away the ruins of a temporal structure in abject slowness of pace. Yet, this is the evidence of having lived. And if anything has been acquired through the lost of our sanctity, it is wisdom.

Letting go

The most difficult part about letting go is precisely that - just letting go.

You're almost there. You've done everything you've had to do, to deviate from the past and move on. You've become a whole lot more spiritual over the months, confiding in God. You've set some distance between yourself and the people who've hurt you, the ones who broke your heart. And you've finally reconciled with them, albeit conventionally. Time had taken it's toll and although you're no longer whole as you once were, the sutures between the broken pieces are finally closing in and you're almost alright again. Just almost.

And then it comes.

Thoughts. Words. Rumors going about, giving you a glimpse of something contrary to what you've striven to achieve so far. You hear them talk about the presence of a brand new persona, and the seams around your heart begin to loosen. You've held it in, you've buried it in the ground and now it threatens to surface once more. You pick up your needle and thread, quickly holding up your fragile heart and attempt to patch up the loose ends. As you create miniature piercings on your heart with the needle, something leaks. It begins like a subtle tune, and then it becomes a song. Soon it flows, and memories, both good and bad pour out. You panic and accidentally drop your heart on the ground - partially stitched, partially open. You watch it lie pathetically on the ground, but resort to pick it up again. Is it still beating? Is it still alive?

Or is it on the verge of self-destruction, dying as it withholds the heavy sewing it was subjected to?

And then the tears roll down your cheek. You begin to ask yourself, "What have I done?" You cry out, begging for mercy, asking for a brand new heart. You just want to forget, and start all over. How will you ever restore it to it's original condition? You don't want the world to see you like this. You curse yourself for letting the memories burst out at the seams, although you aren't entirely to blame. But you know the world is cruel, it will not change your circumstances to suit your current state of having no composure.

You'll have to adapt.

So you go back to Step 1 and begin the same process all over again. You isolate yourself. You avoid silence in public, but delve in it completely in private. You rely on God all over again to provide you with strength, with wisdom. And you continually remind yourself that it is over, and that whatever surfaces is irrelevant - just a fragment of your subconscious mind poking humor at you. You dismiss thoughts, replace them and distract yourself with everything else. And you try to move on. Soon enougn, you regain composure. You reconcile with time, and your heart seems alright.

But you know it isn't the end. Something will strike you, and render you to succumb to misery all over again. And the next thing you know, it's rinse and repeat. Will you ever escape this cycle?

However, this time you recognize it, and that you try to fight back. You try as hard as you can to retaliate. The chances are slim, but you do it anyway. You might lose the battle, but you know you'll eventually win the war. You know you're more than this, more than flesh and bone and they try to kill you from the inside.

But as long as you fight - as long as you don't give in, you haven't lost. Just because you're losing, it doesn't mean you've lost. And you persevere.

The Conundrum

There is no us.

It only is just me, and you. Two separate beings, living our own separate lives and pursuing our own dreams. Accomplishing the things we've been after all our lives, and seeking to fulfill the aspirations that have been embedded within us since childhood or possibly, birth. Spending quality time with our own friends and grasping the present as quickly as we can, before our youth becomes a fragment of the past. And just as desperately, we yearn for the future to advance upon us.

I've given up trying to find that piece of a puzzle, at the risk of sounding cliche. Time and time again, I've tried to seize every opportunity that I have into unraveling the tangled web of your intellect and interests, only to find that I become even more confused. I've laid myself bare, as difficult as it was for me to do, and yet sometimes all I ever attain is a generous amount of indifference. When I do receive some form of feedback, I encounter new riddles I have yet to discover the answer to. As culturally relative as I try to be, I absolutely detest it when one beats around the bush over a long period of time, to the extent that the original intended message is nullified. I wear my heart on my sleeve, reveal the parts of me you constantly wondered about and all I am given in return is a shrug and a sigh. And that's only if I'm fortunate and discern enough to hear it expressed. I would give anything to penetrate that seemingly everlasting silence.

I've come to see that there is in fact, no way towards reconciliation. The further I attempt to reach out to you, the further you seem to drift away. Every ounce of my courage is wasted every day with optimistic thoughts, the desire to mend the subtlest of bonds between us, in the least. And yet every day my efforts are fruitless and my persistence remains futile. The more I consciously work to erase the bitterness, the resentment and the overwhelming sense of regret that encumbers me daily, the more I unconsciously fall prey towards the forces of emotional vulnerability. Then, I am forced to put on a mask and uphold a facade that exudes charisma, grace and immense joy. While with the grace of God, I often am able to retrieve myself from what is perceived as a bottomless pit, it doesn't make me any less human or any more divine, than I already am. I still feel. And I do feel hurt.

But all I can do is smile. They say that if you're down, the only way you can go is up. Well, perhaps that's true - what occurs from this point onward is beyond my control, so why not focus on the things that do require my attention? If there's anything I've learned from all this anguish, this never ending frenzy of conflicting opinions and mental paradigms, it's appreciation. To appreciate those who love us, and love them back. To express our gratitude to those who have helped us along the way, in our inhibitions, in our silence and in our uttermost pains. To relate to the underlying sentiments deeply engraved in the souls of others, and be part of a camaraderie that is formed on the basis of the points advocated formerly.

After all, is it not true that all we ever want is to feel accepted, to feel as if we belong and to feel loved?

Daily, I seek to love. I choose to arrest the broken ones - the ones who have fears but are brave enough to face them, as well as the ones who have hurts but are courageous enough to forgive, and express my concern for them. I try to show as much affection as I can through speech and action, pray as earnestly as possible for their needs and allocate time if there is ever a need to address the faults and challenges we encounter in our lives. I need to be the best kind of friend I can be to whoever it is, because my conviction is that no one should have to deal with such matters alone, given that it took me a great deal of trial and tribulation to overcome the bitter portion of my life. If I can illuminate God's love unto others just as God did for me, I will not cease to do so.

Without a doubt, I admit I couldn't find a solution to my personal troubles. But perhaps some matters are best left undefined. If you can't figure out Y, it's probably best to leave the X alone.

I am done, and I'll call it a night.

For twenty year olds who have never been loved

"All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten" it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack. 

This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth? 

The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you," and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen. 

At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours. 

Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk.  

But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting. 

The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. 

They’re what you might call a soul mate. 

They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole. 

And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.” 

— Writings for Winter

I came across this while scrolling through Tumblr and thought I had to share this beautiful piece.

Because someday.

FAQ

Who
it was you
an ordinary soul
a foreign Mind
a common sight
unexpected yet commended

How
hours on end
soaring above skies
across oceans
caving In on solid ground
distant yet familiar

Why
a Change of paradigm
thwarted plans
out of love
out of pain
rejected, then accepted

When
The end of the booK
beginning the next chapter
a brand new life
to start afresh
anew yet old

What
thrust into Emotions
played the perfect game
won a heart
but still the same
catharsis, then anguish

Where
the locus of Your voice
what was here before
is now gone
nothing survived
Instinct, then enlightenment

Yet
i am to blame
not what was done
not what was said
but what was felt
i took it all too well

i must move on
i must take comfort
knowing of your happiness
i must think less
i must live more
holding onto faith above

Then perhaps, I shall fathom love.

Curiosity did not kill the cat

No argumentative basis whatsoever. I just thought it sounded less mainstream. I've caught on to the hipsteria, most fortunately. Okay, moving on.

It has been said, that the eyes are the windows to the soul. While this is partly true, I am certainly not a partaker of this belief. I may observe the actions and reactions of man, but I do not affirm myself of one's personality by concentrating on the motion and expression emitted by their body language. Simply put, I see, and I observe, yet I do not scrutinize.

However, this does not necessarily indicate that I am not attentive towards the behavioural processes and mannerisms of others. I honestly do, and sometimes even more than I should, but my insight is not found in scrutiny of facial organs, but rather in words. In my opinion, the written, or in this era - the typed word speaks more than itself.

I was leafing through the pages of the school magazine just mere minutes ago and I came across an essay written by a friend, or should I say acquaintance, since we aren't very fond of one another. As it happened to be the only English essay written by a senior that was published in the magazine, I became curious of the contents of the essay, especially since the title was rather beguiling and intriguing as well. And so I found the first word of the initial paragraph and began reading.

And I was shocked. I was startled. Amazed. Impressed. Infuriated. Surprised. Well, there's nothing more I can say to summarize my instant reaction to the essay but I was indeed, shocked. Never in my life would I have imagined this acquaintance of mine a literary genius. I won't specify precisely what the short was about, only that it contained elements of psychology, a concealed expression of teen angst and a sheer disposition of romance. And for a mere Malaysian adolescent of seventeen years to concoct such a brew that can stir the emotions of man, well, another adolescent like me makes such individual, a marvel.

While the elements of the tale he crafted were devastatingly provocative to the avid fan of literature, what had me taken aback was the author of the work. The mastermind behind the persona, the character. The genius behind the impersonation. The imposter himself - my mere school-aged acquaintance. I am indeed curious. What exactly was it that rendered him enlightened and in contact with his literary muse? What were the exact thoughts embedded in his cerebral cortex at the time of birth of the notions he expressed in his work? What is it that had physically, emotionally and spiritually driven him to have produced a piece worthy of recognition and acquisition by all who believe that there is hope in mankind in the literary world where all seems lost in the pandemonium of erotic novels and vampire fiction?

And this is why I cannot comprehend. I cannot fathom how someone I have known or perhaps, merely taken notice of could possibly possess such a great literary capacity in spite of the other responsibilities and absurdities in life all youth have had to endure in vain. Perhaps this boy, or should I say man literary-wise, has been intellectually adept to have exploited this very attribute and converted it into a catalyst for the progress of his work. I am earnestly lost and abashed by his humility, which I had once presumed as insecurity.

Needless to say, this has made me solemnly vow to myself that I shall never assume for the rest of my life. I am all for changing my perception regarding all individuals that exist in my life for the fear that I may someday traverse and find a similar soul - a genius in disguise and may wrong him or her superfluously.

On a lighter note, today's Christmas party was enjoyable. I had a great time conversing with all my friends and I reckon their parents had a splendid time as well since they actually stayed longer to chat than I had initially expected. Overall, today was a good day in spite of yesterday's misfortunes and I am definitely looking forward to Christmas now. Also, this fear that my friends and I will somewhat drift apart and fail to remain in the know of one another is beginning to fade away as well. After today's brief (okay, not really) gathering, I'm convinced that all of us, despite having different undertakings in life, will always remain friends forever (as cliche as it sounds).

Today, I am glad. That is all.