In Memory of My Last Great Love

Once again I stand at the window of my room staring, waiting, hoping, wishing that somehow someone would magically appear and take away this pain I feel deep inside. Once again a part of my dreams wither away and a little bit more faith dies. I am gripped by the melodrama as logic is suffocated by futile visions of happily ever after.

I catch my reflection on the tinted glass, tears streaking down a forlorn face, eyes pleading for a fulfillment of an impossible fantasy. Only a faint scent lingers behind, a reminder of what once was and would never be again. A dying moon is shining behind dark clouds as I bleed in solitude.

Why do we love even when it causes us pain? What keeps us on this never-ending search for a concept we barely understand?

I turn away from my window, walking slowly, ever so slowly to the door. My hands are heavy as they wipe away each teardrop still falling steadily down. Once again I look out my window, hoping for a sign, so desperately wishing for a wish to come true. Even after so many disappointments hope is the one sin I’ve never learned how to lose.

Leaning against the wall, eyes shut tight, body shaking in rage and frustration, I try to decide how I feel, trying to find the answer to the questions that fill my head. My knees give way as I slide down, sobbing, shuddering, until I am nothing but a quivering mass of unanswered questions and impossible dreams.

When will it all end? Must we stop feeling anything to save ourselves from hurt?

My head are in my arms as tears refuse to stop falling. After years and years of self-inflicted torture, you think you’d get used to it but you never do. You’re just adding wounds to scars that never really heal. Just an emotional sadomasochist addicted to the exquisite pain.

Whatever Happened to Happily Ever After?

While other little boys were learning how to fly kites and busy playing with their miniature cars, I was usually occupied making a home with my stuffed animals and daydreaming of prince charmings and happily ever afters. And as years went by, all those romantic novels and songs and movies affirm the childhood fairy tales and I grew up believing that when I fall in love, it will be forever; that the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return; that L-O-V-E is meant for me and you.

Then life happened.

In fairy tales, Cinderella never needed to worry that the charming prince would ever give in to the wily seductions of her stepsisters and the prince never had to set up an ironclad prenup because Cinderella might be a gold digger. They’ve found one another and finally, finally they can live happily. And not just happily, mind you, but also ever after. I suppose the authors forgot to insert a footnote that says that happiness is an abstract concept and few – if any – things ever last.

Life sure has ingenious ways to clear away your delusions.

So I deliberately wore a big, black, bad wolf-skin cape over my fuzzy pink fleece. And though simply pretending that nothing can ever hurt you doesn’t mean that nothing ever will, I thought it’s still better than nothing. So the daydreamy, naive little boy dreaming of love at first sights and true loves became a cynical, sarcastic young man still dreaming of love at first sights and true loves.

And this need for love – or something like it – has driven me to do various things from the typically rebellious behaviour of running away from home to the reasonably vanilla addiction to spending hours in a channel on the Internet relay chat. All in the name of finding the elusive One.

No such luck so far, although imitations are a dime a dozen and come at wholesale price.

Damn.

Sometimes I wish childhoods, fairy tales, and love songs never have to end.

0

I haven’t written in quite some time. So long, in fact, that a friend of mine asked me why. Now usually that’s a question that would get me thinking but today that’s simply not the case.

Admittedly, I’ve been experiencing a shortage of random musings lately, mostly because well, there’s nothing I care to randomly muse about. And despite my recent return to the Internet relay chat world, there is a serious lack of anything interesting. Sure, I’ve observed a thing or two here and there but few triggers contemplation and much less is worthy of transcription. All there is right now is boredom. And to write about boredom is just a little too, well, boring. So I simply don’t and just occupy my time with mindless distractions, equally uninspiring and uninspired.

Although, sometimes an idea would unexpectedly pop up but its significance dwindles in a matter of minutes and it’s quickly dismissed. I guess I’m just not at a place where I can draw meaning out of the little things. For now, things are just what they are and I’m in no mood to read into it nor poke fun at it.

Meh.

We’ll see what happens tomorrow.

To Be or Not To Be. Loved.

Yesterday, an ex-boyfriend of a friend posted a question on his Facebook status which said, “Do you believe every human has the right to be loved?”

To me, it’s interesting because it’s one of those questions to which most people would give an automatic affirmative answer without even the glimmer of a second thought.

I’m not most people.

So I asked him, “And to be loved means?”

And he answered, “To get/receive love.”

I was hoping for a more elaborate answer but, eh, I’d run with what I can get.

And I asked him again, “And what is love?”

And he answered, “Bigger than like, more beautiful than care, and more passionate than lust.”

Awww… How sweet. And ultimately meaningless. From experience, a poetic definition to an abstract subject is just an easy way out. And I know because I’ve done it countless times. It’s an attempt to end discussions in a flurry and tangle of words, the linguistic equivalent of octopus ink.

Yea, like that’s going to work.

So I asked him again, “Would you love Hitler?”

And he answered, “Yup, he’s still HUMAN.”

Interesting. I asked him again, “So everyone deserves to be loved simply by being human, disregarding character and action?”

And he answered, “Yep, even Hitler deserves to be loved. I’m not saying that I’m the one who will love him but he deserves it. Just like you, me, us, human.”

Now, that stopped me in my tracks.

The thought that to be loved is a right implies that it’s someone else’s obligation to give that love. For me, and maybe also for you, if someone does something simply out of obligation, it tends to decrease the profundity of the gesture. I’d much rather someone loves me because he wants to, not because he has to. Furthermore, I’m not someone who can say “if you love me, take me as I am”, because “as I am” is a loaded statement. When I love someone, I try to be the better person that he believes I can be as a token of gratitude for his loving me. Of course, I’d expect the same thing from him. Because for me, to be loved is not a right. It’s a two-way street which takes two to navigate, that involves a give-and-take unless you plan to crash and burn.

I think as a human being I have a right to be free and to love. But loved? Like Benjie Franklin once said, “If you want to be loved, love and be lovable.” So no, for me it’s something I strive for, not deserve.

No Room for Popcorn and Bubble Gum

Last night, I just finished watching The Ugly Truth and was basking in the afterglow of Gerard Butler’s extreme yumminess when a thought occured to me: why can’t my life be a romantic comedy?

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to have a tragic drama life worthy of an indie film festival award but sometimes, just sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a popcorn and bubble gum kind of life. You know, the kind where the cold and cynical heroine finds a new belief in love everlasting and kisses her dashing co-star to an uplifting soundtrack instead of careening to a life of drugs and bitterness and loneliness concluded by a melodramatic suicide to an appropriately melodramatic background music.

So I leafed through my diary and read through my blog in an attempt to, in a way, review my life and guess what I found? An overwhelming dose of bitterness, loneliness, and melodrama. Damn. No wonder I said I don’t want to be read. Aside from the random would-be-suicide-victim who needs a little extra push to get over the edge, I don’t see who would. It’s entry after entry of bellyaching whines.

Oh, well. They say that when it comes to writing, write about what you know. Maybe my need for profound reason and meaning leaves no space for popcorn and bubble gum. It’s sarcasm over slapstick, gloom over giggles.

And I guess a kiss from Gerard Butler is out of the question as well.

Jagged Little Piece of the Puzzle

I don’t fit. As much as I’d like to, I just don’t. And people don’t like that. It bothers them. It makes them feel uneasy and uncomfortable. We fear, detest, and cast aside what we don’t understand. Because it’s easier. Because it makes life easier. Things have to fit into categories and classifications. Because, hey, that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Finding your niche and settling down into it.

What if you don’t?

What do you do then? What do you do when every empty space feels either too large or too small and you just don’t fit?

What happens to an irregular piece of a puzzle? Thrown away into the nearest garbage bin? Cut and molded to somehow fit the rest? Labeled as defective and exchanged at the store? Left and abandoned as a hopeless cause?

Too bad it’s just a little piece of a puzzle and it can’t create a whole new puzzle for it to belong.

Remembering the Butterfly

The reason for my existence that I’ve forgotten for so long, buried among the debris of my life, blurred by the distraction and sparkle of glimmering lights, frozen by cold logic. It’s here still, a tranquil spring slowly resurrecting.

I wonder if it’ll be forgotten again. If the faint rhythm of gossamer wings beating will disappear again with the receding waves of memory. For what is abstract has no place in hard cold reality. Sadly, ghosts are not welcomed here.

And the Psycho Babbles

An old friend of mine came over today. It was a nice gesture on his part, since I called him rather depressed and distressed over my last post. We talked about things, caught up on some stuff. And at one point of the conversation I mentioned that I am now close to friendless. Acquaintances I have many, but friendships don’t come as often and most don’t last very long, either by termination on my part or theirs. I’m not complaining, though. I’m very happy with the few I have. However, since people are most of the time immersed in their own lives and preoccupied with their own matters, I sometimes do find it difficult to find people to talk to.

So I write.

He asked me, “How many people read your blog?” and I answered, “Aside from myself, I’m not sure there’s any.”

Then he asked me, “Why not?”

And that got me thinking. And wondering. And pondering. As questions usually do.

And now, here’s my answer.

I don’t write to impress, to create art, to educate, to influence, to be understood, or even to be read. Words are simply my way of making some sense of it all. Therefore I don’t write for anyone else’s amusement or pleasure. I write for me. Because I need to. Because I am.

And that’s the truth. Oh, sorry. I meant, that’s my truth.

I do not wish for people to read my words and question my meaning, reason, or logic and especially I do not wish to justify them to anyone. As Anais Nin once said, “We don’t see things as they are… We see things as we are.” What’s the point of justifications and explanations if they will only be used as materials for debates and arguments? Can we really understand anyone or anything else when we ourselves only exist in the confines of our own limited versions of ‘reality’?

Just live and let live. And before we start to understand others, maybe it’s a good idea to take a look inside and understand ourselves.

Catch 22

People want power. Maybe in different forms and for different reasons and purposes but we all want it. No one is immune to its hypnotic seduction for to wish for the immunity to power is, ironically, simply to wish for power in one of its forms.

People call it by different names: money, beauty, charisma, intelligence, strength, influence, status, talent, knowledge and so on. But they all mean the same: superiority over others whether in essence or in consequence.

The world we live in is competitive, calculating, and oftentimes cruel. And as long as we are a part of society, there is no escaping the power games because politics exists as long as there is dynamics.

It’s depressing for me because it doesn’t fit my idea of what the world should be. Yet the fact remains that it’s how the world is. And the more I shy away from engaging in politics, the further I grow apart from the rest of mankind. They see me as withdrawn, awkward, and distant while I see them as aggressive, foolish, and pointless. Well, not so much them as their actions; but then again, aren’t we defined by what we do and how we do it?

As I think about all this, it feels like I’m slipping into a deep, dark place. The absence of a common ground as a basis for establishing connection means the gap is widening and becoming that much harder to bridge, which consequently means that unless I find a reconciliation, I might never be completely functional socially.

At least until I have the power to be an absolute recluse.

The Sarcastic, Bitter Me

I’m reading my own blog, other people’s status on Facebook, tweets on Twitter, text messages on mobile phones, e-mails. Remembering words said and promises made. And I wonder.

I wonder how often do we mean what we say and say what we mean. I wonder how many of us remember a promise and keep it not because we have to but because we want to. I wonder how words start to lose their meaning because of our own inconsistency and irresponsibility.

So many people. So many words. So many empty words. Does that mean there are as many empty people?

I recognise that absolute honesty about everything to everyone at every time is close to impossible. Truth is an unpopular taste and often comes with a consequence we are neither ready nor willing to face.

So we lie. We lie to spare other people’s feelings, to maintain harmony, to be kind, to impress, to be safe, and to ultimately escape or at least forestall an undesirable consequence.

I’ve lied. White lies, yellow lies, half-truths, and flat-out bullshit. About too many things and to too many people, including to myself. I don’t like it but I acknowledge its necessity. For me, it’s a matter of knowing to whom, about what, and why. Because at the end of the day, everything is justifiable and isn’t truth overrated anyway?

On Reasons of Friendship, or Lack Thereof

During a telephone conversation.

Friend: I just hate him so much. He’s so fucking boring and clueless!

Me: (laughs) Oh darling, you’ve got to learn how to form an opinion.

(brief silence)

Friend: Wasn’t that an opinion, what I just said?

(awkward silence)

Me: Remind me again why we’re friends?

(another awkward silence, after which I hung up)

Die, Bitches. Die.

Alright. I have to get this out before I either explode or implode.

So earlier this morning, the seminar/workshop participants were preparing to go on an excursion around Bali. While we were waiting in the hotel lobby for everyone to gather, I lit up a cigarette. It was a semi-open area with ashtrays and no air-conditioner, so I thought it was okay. After all, I’ve never had any complaints before and I’m always thoughtful whether or not my smoking would disturb anyone. I was just taking my first drag and blowing my first puff when this woman, a participant of the seminar, sitting 1.5 metres away started complaining loudly saying, “Oh! Always smoking! Always smoking!” Then she prattled something in German that I didn’t understand to her friend and when I asked her POLITELY if my smoking disturbed her, she said, “Shoo, shoo!” Of course, me being me, I only apologised and moved away. Although that didn’t mean that I wasn’t seething. And I still am.

If I don’t complain about you being a fat, ugly, horribly dressed, and anally-retentive bitch, don’t you dare complain about my smoking. If you want your air to be exclusively yours, buy some.

To be honest, if people disapprove of my smoking or anything I do, it’s their right. But there are many different ways to express your dislike or disapproval. If you lack the capacity to behave in a civil manner when your fucking job is socio-cultural related, then you might as well quit your job, find a high cliff, and jump off it because I doubt you’re doing anyone any good anyway.

Seriously.

Quit. Cliff. Jump.

Or should I write that down for you on a piece of paper in case you can’t follow a simple instruction because your puny little brain is suffocated by your excess fat?

Bitch.

Shells and Universes

I’m in Bali. On my second day of working as an interpreter for a seminar/workshop on intercultural understanding and communication by a German organisation. If it seems weird that I’m in a situation where it demands my socialising and interacting with a lot of other people, believe me, it is.

I’ve pretty much stayed in my shell for quite a long time. I mean, c’mon. The tagline for my blog at this moment is ‘we are all, in ourselves, a small universe’. It doesn’t get much clearer than that. So this circumstance is a huge culture shock, especially because the seminar/workshop participants come from different countries and they bring their own styles of address, issues, agendas, opinions, beliefs, and personality into the mix.

Although I know that a lot of people would disagree and I myself don’t seem the part, but I’m actually very shy. Perhaps not in familiar situations or when surrounded by familiar people but yeah, I am. It actually takes longer for me to shed the feeling of unease and awkwardness that most people feel when entering a new environment or encountering new people. I just hide it better.

Anyway, being in such a situation with the many differing – and sometimes opposite – characters exposes me to their many antics. Some I only observe but some I have to be involved in. And I have to say that several instances are like refresher courses on why I choose to limit my contact with other people.

In interactions with others, there are boundaries. Problems arise when these boundaries differ and, either from the lack of understanding or simply from indifference, are thus overstepped. There are things you’re not supposed to say, questions you’re not supposed to ask, acts you’re not supposed to do but well, they still are (if you’re wondering at the irony of this taking place in an intercultural seminar/workshop, yep, I’ve noticed).

It is said that you should not take things personally. However, when it affects my person, may it be my feelings or principles, how can they possibly expect that? I suppose developing a thick skin is an option but somehow I have a feeling that I wouldn’t like myself very much if I did. I carefully constructed my shell – you can also say my entire mini-universe – in order to have a personal space into which I can withdraw and avoid the necessity of having a thick skin.

So for now, I just have to grin and bear it. After all, I’m not Asian for nothing.

The Idealistic Me

In life, people will let you down. No matter how you try to prevent it from happening, it still happens whether you like it or not. And when it does, it hurts. You can pretend that it doesn’t but the pain is still there, eating you up inside. It’s easy to surrender to that pain, to bottle it up and let it fester away until it bubbles nastily to the surface one day and boils over, creating a hard crust that gets thicker with the accumulation of every added batch of fermented pain.

When people let you down or hurt you or are selfish, it’s tempting to let them down or hurt them or be selfish right back just to give them a taste of their own medicine. But why would you cut your nose to spite a noseless person? A little dumb, wouldn’t you say?

After all, life’s made up of a series of choices that eventually leads to an outcome which in most cases is not only affected but determined by the options taken. Therefore, how we respond to a situation is also a choice which at the end of the day determines the kind of person we are. If we do to others what is done to us, then are we really any different? I hope I know better than that. Still, it’s not enough to just know better. It’s a matter of doing better because we know better.

So, though I’ve said countless times that it’s close to impossible for me to forget, I’d still try to forgive. Just to be better, not than anyone else but simply than myself.

Mushroom Mayhem

I’m high. Wait. Am I?

Mwahahaha..

Yep. I’m high.

I’m on shrooms. How do I describe it? Hmm.. Let’s see. Pink. Yellow. Purple. Strangely, no blue. Hmm.. This is good. So good. Everything’s taken a life of their own, a personality of their own. It’s all beautiful. Magical. Wooow.. I’m just writing along as I think it, am completely sure that I’m not making sense but oh well.. Since when did life make any sense?

I love it. Absolutely adore this feeling. Highly recommend it. It’s just wonderful to feel each word come to life and pass through my brains and out of my fingers. Life in Technicolor glory. Damn. Makes you wonder how you miss these little things in your everyday life.

Things are glowing. And swaying. And pulsating. Awesomeness. I can feel my nerves tingling. Tingle. Tingle. Ding-a-ling ding. Ha!

Hmm.. Suddenly mellow. How did that happen? For a minute my head stopped thinking. Stopped wondering. Paused into being. Shifting, sliding, mushroom mayheming.

Light and shadow are playing a game with me. Playing a trick on me. Heaving. Gyrating.

Gonna stop this right now. Just gonna get lost in this feeling. It’s not gonna last. It’ll be over too soon. Always too soon. Enjoy it while it last.

Pink. Yellow. Purple. Ah! There’s blue!

Lights, Camera, Upload

Andy Warhol once said, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” With the birth of YouTube, it’s safe to say that his predictions came true. Now everyone with a camera, an Internet connection, and sufficient narcissism can Broadcast Yourself (the website’s succinct yet effective slogan).

Being a homebound homo with a lot of free time and a reasonably fast home Wi-Fi, YouTube has quickly become an addiction. The plethora of submitted clips are simply astounding. I can stay glued for hours on end watching some of my favourites like Fred, Shawn Dawson, Smosh, and that’s just naming a few YouTube artists (note that I didn’t say ‘celebrities’) who have taken the art of vlogging to new, daring heights which incorporate concepts, scripts, editing, and just the right amount of neurosis into their videos.

So do you have a hidden talent you’ve been dying to show the world? Is international fame your lifelong dream? Well, slap a smile on your face and get ready for your close up. Now with YouTube, you can be a self-made star.

… and My Core was Nudged

It’s close to 3 am and I’m nowhere near asleep. Having had quite a dramatic day yesterday, it feels like my head is still in turmoil over the day’s events.

My father was hospitalised for coronary heart condition. He called late morning and complained that he had trouble breathing. I told him to go to the hospital and that I would meet him there and for once, without arguing, he agreed. Once there, the doctor said that there were two options: to have balloon angioplasty with the risk of complications and possibly death or to get intravenous therapy with the risk of a stroke. My father chose the latter. So he spent 6 hours in ER while they injected medication to supposedly dilute the clogging, followed by isolated observation in the ICCU.

While me and my sister were waiting at the hospital, sometime in the afternoon there was a 7.3 (on the Richter scale) earthquake that started in Tasikmalaya, a town in West Java, which ripples reached Jakarta and caused considerable panic. People were worried of an aftershock and, Jakarta being a coastal city and with the memory of Aceh still fresh in people’s minds, the possibility of a tsunami.

All that, combined with the 9 hour wait that I spent at the hospital which translates into watching the endless comings and goings of patients, made me wonder about mortality and the seemingly inevitable fear that people express – whether explicitly or implicitly – when talking about it. So I started asking around and, from the collective answers, arrived at this conclusion:

When people say that they fear death, it’s either because they have things or people they can’t bear to leave behind, an unfinished business they have yet to complete, regrets over past events, not knowing what will follow after, or a combination of those mentioned.

It’s a known fact that we’re all going to die, it’s just a matter of time. After all, ‘forever’ is just a concept and very few things ever last. For my part, I’ve said that I’m not afraid of death as long as there’s no pain, and I mean it. And I’m not a great believer in regret. I know what I’ve done – the good, the bad, and everything in between – and though I may not like some or even most of them, it’s not as if I can jump on a time machine and redo them differently. The best I can hope for is the presence of mind to not repeat the mistakes I’ve made when a second chance ever comes but if it doesn’t, so what?

With everything in mind, life in itself holds little concern and death doesn’t seem that big of a deal. It’s simply the beginning to another adventure to end a pretty much predictable one. So why fear it? If anything, the knowledge that death can come at any time is only a reminder for us to live life to the fullest whichever way we know how.

Rock-a-bye Baby

Age has always been a funny thing for me. When I was young, I couldn’t wait to get older. Now that I am, I find myself dodging the question, changing the subject, or – when pushed to a tight corner about my actual age – discounting it by at least 6 years in my answer.

Ironic, you say?

No, it’s just plain moronic. And maybe a tad schizophrenic.

The irony here is that after years of playing the rebel, of going against the grain, of trying to oppose or at least question the mainstream, I’ve succumbed to the pop culture that worships eternal youth, standardised beauty, and everything else superficial.

I’ve become the thing I hate most.

Why?

Though I don’t like saying it for the sheer fact that it sounds so damn cliché and pathetic, sometimes it’s nice to feel accepted; to feel as though I belong. Sometimes it gets exhausting to feel like an outsider looking in; to always feel different and isolated from the everyone else.

Still, it’s hard to believe what I would compromise – and to an extent, sacrifice – my own voice, beliefs, principles, and ultimately myself for.

Hm. I wonder if it’s even worth it.

Movie Review: My Mom’s New Boyfriend

Due to another Saturday night spent alone at home, My sister gave me a DVD to watch, saying that she heard a rave review about it and wanted to know my opinion. So I popped it in the player and prepared to be entertained.

Nope, didn’t happen.

I began this review with a description of the plot and introduction of characters – the works – but then decided against it. Trying to recall scenes from the movie seems to annoy me even more everytime I try. So I’m just going to write down my opinions.

Here goes.

The script was sloppy. Dialogue was elementary. Plot was predictable. The acting was passable and immediately forgettable. Personally, Meg Ryan let me down big time in that horrible remake of The Women and she didn’t seem to be doing any better in this one. And for his performance in this, Colin Hanks gets special recognition for being uber-annoying. Seriously? This guy’s a professional actor? Gah! Antonio Banderas did what he could though it wasn’t enough to salvage the movie. And Selma Blair barely had enough lines, let alone funny ones.

I mean, c’mon! I thought comedies were supposed to make you laugh, not desperately wanting to grab the remote and press the fast-forward button until the end credits start rolling or to start banging it against your head until you’re unconscious!

Damn. I’m getting worked up again.

In any case, feel free to check out My Mom’s New Boyfriend and see for yourself.

Just remember: You’ve Been Warned.

In the Universe of Dreams

Woke up with a head and a bed filled with dreams. Strange how sometimes they can seem absolutely clear and every cell in your body refuses to function and instead clings to the memories and the nuances of what had felt so real. The world is too hard and cold and, without the temporary escape to the sanctuary of dreams, too insufferable.

At times I look at life and I wonder, Is that all there is? No more than random and chaotic repetitions of events and chain reactions. Maybe I’ve just become too jaded that for something to shake me to the core, or to at least give it a little nudge, is too much to expect.

The book of Ecclesiastes says that “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” Rather bitter, perhaps, but then again isn’t most truth?

Maybe that’s where the enchantments of dreams lie. Tucked away from the harsh bright sunlight, dreams can freely reach heights that laws of nature would not allow. In the absence of improbability, we too, for once, are free.