Drug Allergy

They give out a typical consent form with a schedule of dates and time slots - It's the annual check-up where I had to remind myself to bring my Health Booklet to school.

I remember fears we had in common: What if we found ourselves barely able to read the rows of letters and numbers on the screen when we covered one eye? What if our "bent backs" revealed distorted spines and 'positive' shows up in our reports? How shall we pretend not to care if we gained weight, or weighed more than the boys?

Yet one thing that bothered me most was not quite what everyone experienced. I carefully made sure my booklet was faced down, or pretended to be poring over the facts of my babyhood while everyone compared their birth weight, head circumference, length.... All because I had a distinctive, stark red label plastered above my name on the cover: DRUG ALLERGY.

As a child I was more familiar with the dominant meaning of 'drug'- illegal, poisonous, addictive, rehab - all which meant I feared my friends judging me should they notice the cover. Of course, in retrospect I would think myself silly to actually have such irrational fears, because my present self would care less about what others think of my drug allergy.

But I remember this fear I experienced because I recently have another stark red label plastered over my appointment card. So I'm writing àbout another childhood fear that I otherwise would have forgotten.

Well, it's red for an obvious reason: A drug allergy determines what medicines I should not take, which the doctor needs to be aware of. But this very reason that served (and still serves) to protect me actually put me on tenterhooks.

I'm curious as to how far this label would follow me. I'm allergic to Penicillin, and I hear people telling me that means I can't take much medicine. But I have no idea what effects Penicillin has on me, or if I'm still allergic to it. And what makes this most interesting is if I actually encounter an experience where I have to make an important decision regarding my health, like that between Penicillin and possibly death.

The levels of experience that writing has helped me to remember and prepared me to anticipate...

Adios

Have you ever had a friend whom you feel you have known for your entire life, yet at different points of time, you realized you felt more like a stranger?

You remember how you used to share your fears, anxieties and hopes with her, and how she used to also feel the same way about many things in life. There were moments when she would pound her fist on the table just because your joke was so funny laughing wasn't enough. Moments when she would grab your arm while walking because she's too tired to support herself. Days when she called you her best friend, and showered you with many gifts and texts because you were at the top of her mind.

But you also come to understand they were short-lived. Few months of transition into the next phase of life, and you realize you no longer see her the way you used to. You thought for many years that she's a friend to keep, but it seems as if all the closeness between you two has turned into a void.

In those memories, you could understand everything she was thinking even before she spoke her thoughts. Yet in those memories, the friend you met has made her leave. You struggle to accept that the friendship lives only in you and what you wrote. Even if you try to make amends, she would only draw a blank. Or maybe tell you she does miss you but nothing changes.

She is now a stranger, whose thoughts need a lot more work to comprehend. You realize that you see in her something you never expected, something so prevalent in everyone else you thought she used to never associate herself with. You come to see her in a new light, and your heart feels not a tinge of pain, but an incomprehensible weight that zaps you of so much energy. Two different identities, one you used to know so clearly, and the other you're crippled trying to understand.

They say maybe people don't change, they just become more of who they are. I've let enough energy and emotions drain me trying to grapple with this change. I accept that there are friendships like this, some real ones that last for only certain points of time in life.

I really needed this closure. Goodbye, stranger.

A Writer's Dream

I'm usually clueless regarding what I'd like to do in the future but I'm certain of two things: 1. I have no passion for teaching. 2. I love writing but that may not be what I would do after all.

Surely I have contemplated options like journalism but whàt I'd like to belíeve is that there are indeed more options that I am unaware of, just like how I always thought my greatest passion was Literature until I discovered Linguistics. According to popular belief, my degree in Linguistics/English would not be able to earn me big bucks.

What gave me a pleasant surprise one day was walking past an article that hung on my dad's wall. I could see that he was proud of it (and me). In retrospect I realized I actually had the honour of experiencing what it means to be a writer while I was still in primary school. I wrote about my heavy heart upon the demise of a tree that had been struck down by the merciless thunderstorm of the night.

The most interesting part in hindsight, is not the content but the article being written in Mandarin. There was no Googletranslate, whose tremendous usefulness has now earned my reliance. I found it pretty hard to believe that I actually was capable of writing an article in Mandarin and have it published thereafter (therefore earning myself five bucks). I vaguely remember trying my best week after week to improve in writing so that my article could get selected. Though most people easily had more than one chosen, I am humbly in awe of this favour I was granted. Maybe I've given up on mastering a language, but I realized, I've never given up on writing.

Vacation

There are many things I write about but among these things there are also many things that I choose to keep to myself. Here is a post to explain the hiatus, if anyone bothers to keep track and notices my lack of 'updates'. Sometimes what I write here dates back to years ago when I first scripted them down but most of the time they come from my diary. Lately my thoughts have become too personal and I don't feel comfortable with sharing them. I'm not having insecurities, but I'm getting to understand myself better and I guess I was never one to tell others directly what I am. Despite saying all of that, I will not stop writing here. I'm currently embracing a long break whose end I do not wish to see at the moment. If there's one thing on my mind, it's probably getting my body clock back in order. I am not sleeping early though I have been faithfully turning in before midnight. I just wish to get more rest so I can write with a clearer mind.

Surrender

It is incredibly exhausting how things have come in one after another at breakneck speed this week that I have almost forgotten it's not even the end of the week. Every morning I look forward to my (peaceful) slumber when I've checked everything off the list for the day. But my mind will not give me a break even when I have tucked myself into bed. Before I can sleep several things run through my mind.

I think of who to pray for. I think of what I need to script down onto paper. I think of what I need to do the next day, who I have to meet, what deadlines I have to meet.

I'm typing this in the few minutes before my mind officially shuts down. From the comfort of my bed (oh dear bed) and in a few seconds this post will be sent from my Blackberry to Fierce.

Things are weird when my thoughts are incoherent. Last week I half-dreamt that I was possessed because my tummy was aching the whole night. Threw up the next morning and took a blood test after the doctor bruised my stomach with his latex-gloved hands. Gastric pain. Not new.

I don't know where this is heading but actually I did not plan for any direction.

4 projects, 2 assignments - all in 3 weeks.
Reminder for this week: Surrender.

Goodnight.

Reality (Or not)

For the past few weeks I experienced surreal moments of a few minutes where I could not separate myself from my state of dream. Each one probably lasted only a few minutes but the presence of this unfamiliar semi-reality was telling. My brains felt exhausted as though my thoughts raced incessantly in my entire duration of sleep. I vaguely recalled a few intensive dreams I had and it seemed like I was in Inception. Basically I just woke up and felt like I did not belong.

I consider this a threat to my existence because for a good three minutes I could not find myself and I forgot the names of the people I love. I am afraid that these three minutes would one day find a way to last. But I will not be able to end the moment because I am paralyzed in that moment.

I am also aware that it is an abstract idea I am problematizing and maybe there is really no such dimension that is trying to infiltrate my life after all. I have no idea when I would encounter this alternate state again but I surely need more sleep.

Bind

There are many things that I would like to do and say but oftentimes they slip my mind. I make many lists. Things to do, books to read, ideas that cross my mind. I make myself vulnerable when I forget because I don't like the nagging feeling of having any unresolved matter in my head.

I make lists because I consider it a facile method of keeping things organized. I like to work at my own pace and not force my eyes shut to recall what I've forgotten. I call my diary Rilm and when I see 'Write to Rilm' on too many lists I know I've been too caught up.

Which is what has been happening recently. Studying literature was what I thought inherently enjoyable since I am so obstinately obssessed with the beauty of words. I am not wrong, but the way the system is governed does no justice to the meaning of literature.

Two lectures run the life of a novel. Move on and rush another till it's done before the cycle repeats. We talk about risibility and ironies. Absurdity and meaninglessness. Yet this very act of doing so in such a short time makes us live in them, doesn't it?

All along I thought this was only what I wanted. If I had never tried I would never be truly convinced that this passion of mine is only meant to be kept. Irony here is that it is best-preserved under my own conditions of not having it examined or refined. Literature should not be shaped by systems nor judgment passed under rushed glances. The beauty of literature should not be missed because of obligation.

I laugh at how education brought literature into my life and how it deconstructs its significance. One needs the other to exist yet the mere co-existence can bring so much pain.

I'd rather read at my own pace. I'd rather have my breath taken away before I move on. I'd rather make insignificant(not) discoveries on my own. I'd much rather rejoice in my own corner of quiet.

Yet I have not come to a proper resolution. Simply(in a complicated way) because there is just so little of anything else that I am interested in.

I am living ironies within ironies.

Surface

When I think of how I penned that down I wonder if I was speaking to myself instead of the recipient. It's like a form of assurance I need, to put on a facade that my heart isn't experiencing the worst feelings. If I tried concealing it was for myself. I'm not comfortable with changes so I pretend they don't matter.

Growing up

When I was younger, I used to wonder if everything bought was put in plastic bags. If you buy a car, where do you get a gigantic carrier to hold it?

I used to have swimming practice every weekend. My dad made me swim twenty laps of each stroke. I was barely seven. And hated it. So I found all sorts of ways to cheat. Sometimes when the sky is downcast and he signals for me to stop, I think to myself, Is this too good to be true?

I received my first love letter when I was seven. He gave it to me and kept asking me to read it because out of awkwardness I passed it to someone else. There were only two sentences. Unfortunately the teacher confiscated it. Yet what made me scared wasn't him, but that moment when the teacher asked whose letter it was.

I met nice people and found my security in companionship, compliments and achievements. I followed trends and was too afraid to admit that I wanted to be like everyone else. I was happy but not entirely, provided for but not contented. Like you, I went through the phase of being fearful of being judged.

My heart broke for the first time when I learnt that words can't be taken for real. Promises are meant to be broken, said he to me. I just kept crying. Two things I learnt: Never trust so easily and don't ever make promises you never intend to keep. I hate how guileless I was yet am not ashamed of my naivety. For if I haven't trusted, I would never know that I can barely trust anyone.

Later on, I came to terms with the fact that this world isn't pretty. But it isn't entirely ugly either. Same with people. This coexistence made me realise how desperately in need I was of God. God, not a god. I finally understood why I tended to feel insecure. Not because I needed to be important, but my identity was in everything meaningless. Things that wouldn't last.

When I found my identity in Christ, I realised how insignificant everything else is. All along I thought life was good but this is way better. The best and only, in fact. And when I'm done living this life, I'd finally meet my Creator who went such a long way, to make this moment forever.

At the end of everything, what are you left with?

One-way street

Through the phone call
You said we would fall
We could

Scent of your voice
Hinted at me a wink of the glisten
Maybe drops, maybe rain,
A storm.

Battered by my indifference,
I wanted us done
Nothing stirred
Too peaceful, painfully peaceful

This instant I taste your helplessness
In the end no one
Wants to fight alone
Forget about taking-

In and finally up
Always the harder option
We were through

Original

Do you recognise feelings? Your heart goes through the exact same experience again. There are occasions when I unwittingly land in a spot and encounter a certain emotion. One unexpected evening I take a glimpse out the semi-reflective glass and in the quickest moment I recognise what I'm feeling. It doesn't have to be in the same place. Something was common but most things are different. As though the present me is in sync with the past me. Yet too quick for me to figure out what exactly. A fleeting phase in my mind where suddenly my thoughts drift to the happiest moments. When we followed routines and weren't wise enough to desire any difference. We had everything to lose but loss meant nothing. I couldn't understand why people said we can't turn the clock round. There was nothing harder than apologizing.

Insomnia

There is a little light. I see shades of grey. And black. Silhouette of the drapes, staged the vinyl of the trove of a multitude of myself. How long has it been - two, or three? I was counting, on my knee which I've brought close to my chin. I always curl when I sleep. My breathing is amplified because my ear is pressed against a companion. Vague and distant, a metallic drip which seemingly follows the rhythm of the sound that proves the warmth in my blood. The night is still and not one I'd want to have. Heavy, yet weighing nothing. Empty, but filled. The unnoticed reflection of a part of the road's only vehicle etched as quickly as it flitted from the door. And maybe just in that instant, I realised I haven't lost myself. I miss me.

Hiatus

Have neglected this space for too long. Increasingly feel like I don't have to blog everything I write. Life hasn't been stale despite the break, but recently I feel like I could get used to this.

Promise

If you know me well enough you'd know that I have a habit of wanting to know what happens at the end. Of a movie, or a book. I want to know if people are reunited or left behind. Whether people lose or find themselves at the end. Every time I start reading a new book I find myself flipping to the end to find out what happens even before I know the characters. I like guessing the links, the intermediate chapters. This is what I find more exciting than not knowing the end. People often call it a killjoy. I can't help but love spoilers. I want to know every part of a movie if you ever start narrating it to me. The reason why I like knowing what happens next or at the end isn't because I want to feel like I'm in control but because it gives me hope. If people fall out in the next chapters I want to know that eventually even if they do not even things out they are better off in different ways. It makes me feel safe. This place is becoming increasingly chaotic and difficult to comprehend. But at the end God will come and gather all His people. He makes me feel safe.

Friday

I hold the slip in my hands...Where do I go after this? Everyone around me is in their own silent moment. Fists punch the air. I don't know what that means. My heart cringes in fear and tugs at my nerves. My mind starts registering images that are too familiar. Disappointing numbers, hopeful words. Lucky times...no scratch that - I never believed in luck. Erratic hours of sleep, mindless staring at the pallor of my skin under the light while the moon watched me elusively. Instances where I would involuntarily raise my chin a fraction to inhale the air when I needed to be calm. Too many still mornings. I feel no connection between the mind and body. An inner voice urging my fingers to revive, my feet to stay on solid ground. I never gave up, but resilience pays off in different ways. I am holding a glass, that is quickly revealing the edginess in me, amplifying every shudder my heart makes. It sheds lights on past battle scars and increasingly blinds me to every ounce of strength that is slowly ebbing away. My clasp tightens and fingers turn blood red, as if the harmless edges of the paper cut right into my veins. I have to be brave. I need to remember this does not define me. There is no running away. In a minute I will be coming face-to-face with it, right there indelibly inked. Right there, real, in my hands.

Mask

Corner of a bridge that arcs the bay. Three wooden sticks are inclined at an angle and they lean against a tree, bound by coils of wire. Next to me, a lamppost that seems to be taking its break. I’d like to feel its soft heat on my skin when the sky turns dark. I hope it’s beautiful, mellow golden light that cloaks the garden with a gentle glow. I’m beginning to like this place too much. Right behind my shoulders is a breathtaking sight. I study the pace of every pair of feet that moves along the bridge. And with vehicles above them, travelling in the opposite direction on a separate platform. Which the giant wheel overlooks. The intricate crossing of the wires meet at the pivot, where the sticker of a Chinese character resides. I hear voices, muffled little bits of a conversation. People have cameras tied to the necks, laidback hats that rest on the hair. I like it when people never pretend. When attractiveness exudes from an inner charisma they build from scratch. Scratch, being the mirror that tells them not a lie. All pretence will one day be torn down. If you’re reading this, I hope you learn to love being who you are. I always believe God has made each of us special.

Deception

The moon doesn't stay in shape. Occasionally eluded by the clouds that have camouflaged within the nightsky. They spread across the horizon, all the way from where it gathers light from the moon, till where it almost disappears, at the back where my eyes wouldn't reach. Lumps that come in different sizes. If they represent people I miss, I reckon you'd be the one right above me. The spot on the sky where my gaze shoots straight up and reach. You wanted to be free. Yet you longed to linger in a part of me, wishing you hadn't become like this. When I face you again I don't understand how you managed to pull through that state. Of desolation. Eyes incredibly earnest to fight yet on the flipside what grew deep into you was emptiness. Now the moon and clouds resemble the shadow of a ship that's sailing nowhere. Is that you? Crazy, is that what most people would label? In a place you lived on your own, like the strips of metal flanked by two bars right in front of me. Or the glass sphere that has turned too hostile and chosen to be coated with an inner shimmer. Too ready to take risks. To protect yourself. They are all joined up now, and they fill in the spot which was previously empty. Were you taken away? Too many reasons tell me you didn't have a choice. The mind is proven untrustworthy - you were obliterated as quickly as how a simple white adhesive would colour a blemish. As though even your shadow missed the beat of a heart. If you lose what's under your feet, you get to realise what you missed. And maybe between us, we'd find nothing but a shard of mirror.

Vacant

Down the dark hallway, I watched something glisten. I couldn't tell if they were angry tears or regrettably a sign of your exhaustion. I wanted so much to walk out that door and be freed from your lies. My lies. Instead I kept silent. I didn't want to break your heart. But more than that I was too terrified of leaving. I knew what you were capable of; Yet even what little I knew was only part of what I could have risked finding out. In your frustration you could have walked right up to my face and given it a punch. Easily. I never fought back because I hadn't the strength and courage. Instead you picked up the bin at the corner, raised it above your head and flew it down to the ground. Your face is filled with anguish, completely bent on having things your way. My body stiffened as I broke into tears. What else can I do? I just wasn't.....brave enough. In a quivering voice slightly lower than a whisper, I murmured something in compliance. If I kept up the front, you wouldn't have to scare me. In time to come I realised that either way, I'd never have had it any easier. What eventually left me with an ache was that I never mattered enough to even break your heart.

Someone extraodinary

Through the heavy lids of my eyes I watch you lazily. You place your arms on the cool marble and stretch your legs, your body ramrod straight, inclined at the same angle against the ground. I hear your voice gently calling my name. Completely harmless and of no haste; like how seashells softly crunch under the sole of my shoe.

I put on the socks before playing with the velcro. You lock the door behind me and I wait for the usual 'Let's go'. I wonder if that is a habit of yours that I have gotten used to. Four letters are inked onto the faded grey beneath our weight. Bad word, said you to me when I ask you what it reads. I do not know how to pronounce the peculiar vulgarity that I'm seeing for the first time, and in such big print.

I love our morning jogs like these. Across the road, up a slope onto the path with the green on my right. We stop by the fitness corner and I watch you do the monkey bars. You always urge me to try but my arms carry me past no less than three because I don't like my feet in the air.

When we walk back home you hold out a clenched fist. Show me the back of it. You teach me how to tell the number of days in a month by looking at my knuckles and each depression in between. I gawk at my hand in disbelief. You ask me the colours of the rainbow and I ponder my thoughts aloud. Fumbling by the time I reach the last finger. Richard of York gains battle in vain, this acronym you teach me. It wasn't until Physics that I recalled that this is ROYGBIV.

In the afternoon you bring out a bucket of water that foams with bubbles at the surface. I carry the heavy scrubs and we start cleaning the blemished grey we saw in the morning. Scrub all four letters, one by one. While watching the paint lose its initial starkness I think of why you are doing this. The stubborn black refuses to come off completely.

You're the first kindest man I met.

Exception

Imagination, is the most powerful part of me. I don't want to stop believing in spite of all my tears and the painful truths I have to learn. I dream of having my own column. I aspire to write to move something in everyone's hearts. People read it and give a good-natured laugh but deep within they suddenly have a resolution. They pledge to let go of all setbacks, and they are not afraid to face what's ahead. People never have to compete anymore. Even watching a flower's petals as the wind wafts through their hair makes them smile. People exchange hugs under the sun and dance in the rain. They watch for rainbows when the sky clears. No one asks for the time because there's nothing to rush for. They take slow walks by the lakes and understand how life is precious even as a fish hurriedly swims, as a bird stops by the stone pavement to take a break. People learn to stretch out their hands to feel the soft heat of the sun instead of clenching their fists. I dream that eveyone has the opportunity to love. To love and understand how it can also bring pain. No one takes love lightly because it is a gift. And when the sun slowly falls, marbles on the asphalt glimmer. Like hope...and everyone goes to sleep with reassurance. I dream that the world can be a pretty place.