War of My Life

If my preference in speaking English and doing everything English-y makes me more comfortable being certain people than others, just let me be. Gods. My mom thinks it is prejudice, my sis thinks it is vanity. Cheeses.

Not that I expect my mom to understand that; she did not have to experience the bipolar world of having English and Chinese speaking friends. Then again, she is always squirmish around my dad's college friends from UK, says their conversation topics are not her cup of tea and she does not get their jokes.So she tends to be extra busy whenever they visit, even offering to fetch me out to meet my friends. Huh. Well, welcome to my world, Mii. That is exactly how I feel sometimes.

It is not the personality or attitude, it is the basic human's craving for approval from people in the sense of behavior, of humor, of mentality, of favorites, and of what makes you you. Will you be comfortable around people who thinks your actions are uncalled for and not within the norm? I enjoy being with my Chinese speaking friends, but at times, I cannot fathom their obsession with singing in a cigarette-smoke-filled box that is karaoke, or them my fetish with picnics. And I am not choosing a group over another. Me loving to be with one of them does not mean I am abandoning the other; some people just allows me to feel happier and fuller in my skin in their presence. Simple as that.

Sheesh. The world is becoming more and more annoying.

The sun comes up, the story dies, and I don't know why

The sun was just breaking the horizon; its burning circumference shimmered with the dusting of new hopes in the wake of a new day. Then, as if the peaks of the distant mountains were sharp, they punctured the sides of the rising yolk, making its fiery red and orange glow leak into the skies.

The seven of them sat and watched the world come alight, the color now paling to mango yellow, which was further diluted by the water blue of dawn. Then, one of the boys wrapped his arm around one of the girl’s shoulder as she leaned her head on his, while she interlaced her fingers with the girl's on her right. Slowly, they linked themselves to one another; a human daisy chain. The best friends did not speak a word, but between them, it was the best conversation, just silently reveling in each other’s presence and the warmth of their friendship in the cool of the morning air. 

"You guys too will always have a special place in my heart! *hugs* but don't let it hold you too far back from the present, there will always be something good ahead of ya!"

I know, luv. But sometimes I cannot help doubting it.

I want you and your beautiful soul

I broke off mid-sentence as I spun around and saw him striding toward us in that familiar gait of his. I did not know how I expected myself to feel, but at that moment, I was overwhelmed by an aching from missing him too much and needed to make sure he was not a mirage. So I did the only thing I wanted to, with a sense of urgency.

“CHEEEEEE KIIIIIIIIIIN!” I screeched at him and simultaneously into Jo’s ears, who babbled in excitement through the phone still clutched in my hand. Then I pounced into his outstretched arms, coiling my free arm around his shoulder and neck, while praising the skies, “Oh my gaaaaawd! Oh, my God!”

All that fear of awkwardness melted away under the heat of my elation. It felt so right, like how it was when I hugged Amanda that sweet early June night, Lucinda a couple of minutes ago, and Joanna and Jing Hua every time we met up. Fuzzy warm, safe, home.

I leaned into him, not caring who was staring, selfishly helping myself to his embrace to make up for those hugs I needed when the world was crazier than I am. I wanted to hang on for a little longer; perhaps, forever?

Finally, I reluctantly took a step back, feeling like a fizzy champagne flute, and, as Jing Hua aptly put it, smiling from my heart.

“How are you, gal!”

Awesome, I told him.

But no. I was not that. What I really wanted to say was, I feel amazing and beautiful because I am me now more than I have ever been for a while. And I am so full of love, Chee Kin! I am complete (:  

We are brighter than the sun

I think I am glowing; glowing with an irrepressible light from within. It is not the bonfire sort of blinding blaze, but a firefly kind of soft illumination, pulsing and sweetly alluring.

It is true that we are beautiful when we are happy. And I am irrevocably blithe; I am drinking a mug of pure contentment snuggled in the arms of my best friends’ love and listening to the drip-dripping of the rain of everything-that-has-been-going-on-since-last-summer. I feel so pretty that I am golden.

No. We, we are golden; we are such incandescent specimens that even time wants to soak in our aura, holding its breath and prickling its ears to our stories pour out like sparkling juice over our table and floods the place that I am intoxicated by them.

And time has stopped for us, has been for a while, because its promiscuous fingers of change have not brush across either of us; we are still the people we were four years ago, back when our extraordinariness were dampened and dulled by ugly blue pinafores and puke-green pants. For this, I feel immensely blessed. Sure, some of our hair styles have taken to metamorphosing into various forms, some of us have picked up detestable habits, and some of our fashion sense have quirked a few notch weirder, but essentially we are still the same loud, excitable maniacs in our own rights, like amplified guitars that are not tuned correctly, yet still crash headlong through our song.

I do not need to think. I AM glowing. Because, finally, I am home. 

The miracle that is us

"Wow, look at you girls! All grown up! So fashionable!"
*Points at Lucy* "I love what you're wearing!"
*Points at Jo* "Mmm I love what you're wearing!"
*Turns to me and points* "I love what YOU are wearing!"
*Swivels to his left and points at Daa* "And man, I definitely love what YOU are wearing!"
"You girls are ravishing!"
We laughed hard.
God, I missed Chee Kin so, so much.

Somewhere over the rainbow

There was once a girl who hated playing the piano. She hated it so bad that the despise made her taste ashes in food, made her zing with irritation and annoyance, made her see the world a shade darker under the stormy clouds of an inescapable chore.

But it did not matter what she felt because her parents thought she shone in music. Every time she threw a tantrum about it, her parents would remind her of the fees and how fortunate she was to have a chance to learn an instrument. Every time she threatened to quit, they would coax and persuade her to have another go, telling her that the beginning is always the hardest; that she would love playing the piano when she practiced enough and could play songs that she enjoyed.

I guess the little girl never did. Song lists were the dictation of the piano teacher, of the syllabus, of the audience present, as if she were a goddamn jukebox. Thus playing the piano remained just a command, an order, a chore, nothing more than a dead action.

The hatred of it cocooned her over the years, though the shell softened ever so slightly; playing the wooden block of an instrument became tolerable simply because that was one of the few things she surpassed her peers in school. She was always clustered by classmates who wanted to hear her play, to gawk at her fingers as she caressed the keys in a song she was forced to practice one too many times. So she played the piano, if only for the limelight and the surging feeling of being praised.

Then there came love; or what she assumed was love. High school saw the arrival of despicable subjects: physics, biology, chemistry, additional mathematics; the new enemies in an unprecedented war that allied her with music. She soon sought solace from the piano when the sciences frustrated her, when the numbers dumbfounded her. Sometimes she found the comfort she needed but more often than not, she did not, because the running notes of scales and the demanding technicalities of the pieces were an eyeful and took too much attention for her to dwell on the sweet sounds of the piano to be lulled back to serenity. Music was her voice but larynx of a piano always stayed loathingly silent; she wanted to play Westlife, Beatles, Kelly Clarkson, Jesse McCartney, and a mountain of songs that meant something to her, not impressive concertos that never crisscrossed her life.

So she turned to writing. It started with a journal of words that bespoke anger and hurt, of the qualms of an insignificant high school girl, of the people she would love to strangle. Then something happened. She realized she was no longer mute, just depressingly short of vocabulary and full of grammatical errors. But she could speak, sing even, and that mattered more than anything else in the world. And somewhere along the way, she fell in love with it; writing became the medium, the bridge that closed the gap between her train of thoughts and the stage of the world. Writing gave her the gift of expression and God knew her heart needed to do just that.

Soon playing the piano resumed its role as an obligation, an accursed step prior to lessons she could never enjoy.

Time flew, and when the time came for her to choose a career path, she said the saddest thing: I am going to pursue music. Because she knew the only other things she actually love doing were reading and writing, and reality wise, they would not ensure a sound future. People do not pay people to read; review books perhaps, which was not an option for full-time job. And the path she saw in writing was journalism and that did not strike well with her parents; not that it was an interesting field in the first place.

So music it was. Still is.

Not every story has a happy ending, but I am pretty sure this girl will find hers one day.

How dare you say my behaviour is unacceptable.

We are blind to the bleak colors of pollution and destruction as it bleaches our earth and seeps its life away. We are deaf against the cries of less unfortunate people around the globe, even those right under our nose, our materialism and selfishness like earmuffs to the real sounds of the world. We are mute toward corruption and injustice that border on suffocating, having a voice and yet choosing to stay silent. We are crippled against the power of the authorities, our strength to stand to defend our rights is constantly questioned and tend to pale when faced with law-induced consequences.

And here we are, mocking physically disabled people while we are the true ones who are handicapped. The world sure is twisted.