beyond wrath and tears

Hi everyone~ Please take time to read my texts. Feel free to leave comments. I will use them to improve my writing skills. For most of them, no background context is provided. This is because I write as the inspiration comes and have never attempted to construct a 'real' story with defined characters and plots.

Year of the Rooster—A Revival

I have been travelling for a few weeks—it feels like a lifetime.

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(Photo: Yangon’s “Chinatown” a few days before Chinese New Year, Myanmar)

I have been toying with the idea of starting a blog, a website, or a diary, for a while now. The exhaustion from backpacking, sleeping in hostels and night buses, juggling between the company you have at the moment and the friends you left back at home—all of it brought me to a state of intense exhaustion at which point the world around me swirled in a ringing sound as I proceeded to aimless tasks in a robotic manner. I picked up my laptop and my writing, like many other people, with a sense of urgency—the urgent necessity of putting my sights, experiences, and thoughts down, on paper or otherwise.

People say that starting something is the hardest part—once the routine is in place, it becomes “second nature.” But in this case, the initial push of sitting down in front of a blank page hasn’t been so difficult as what I imagine the next few weeks of attempting to keep up with it may wind up to be. Still, if I can pick this blog up again after what I reckon has been three years, I have hope that perhaps in a cosmic sense, it was meant to be.

Since three years ago, my writing has changed. My world views, my experiences, my academic and professional trajectories have all been unavoidably altered. It wouldn’t matter to you—I doubt my first post had more than five viewers!—but to me, this means a lot. In spite of my usual laziness and tendency to be easily distracted by instantly gratifying activities, such as not writing as opposed to actually writing, I do love the process of going through my thoughts and leaving a trace of them that I can look back on with tears in the corners of my eyes (or perhaps hatred at my once stupid-sounding self). Whilst I believe that when one wants change, the next minute should be the starting point, I do make New Year’s resolutions out of a habitual and romantic liking of anything worth celebrating—and the coming of a new year definitely deserved celebrations, if only for the possibly dark days ahead (I avoid pessimism and melodrama as much as possible, but given Trump’s presidency and his new policies, as well as the avalanche of right-wing populist voices emboldened by it, it is certainly fair to feel concerned, at the very least).

I made a few resolutions this year, and one of them is to write more—another related one is to read more non-academic works. The latter has been quite successful so far, not least because the year began with a two-week long backpacking trip in which I spent countless hours on night buses and airports, with no Wi-Fi hence no distraction from my Kindle. The former is being carried out this instance.

I will likely elaborate on this matter further, but for now I shall say that writing, for me, is a very personal process. As such, I haven’t told anyone around me of this *secret* hobby of mine, which gives me the freedom of expressing (hopefully) anything that I would want to read again at a later date. This also means that the number of views my posts get is not so much of an issue—there are countless newspapers, websites, blogs, and so on out there and I understand the sheer amount of reading required can be daunting, and I wouldn’t necessarily wish to add to that. On the flipside of that is the fact, maybe, that some of my more political or controversial views will not have as much of an impact as I would perhaps wish to—but I know that should a topic fascinate me or make me feel engaged, my current Master’s Degree in International Relations will be an adequate outlet for such sentiments, both in academic writing and in my day-to-day interactions with my fellow students, hence I shouldn’t feel concerned.

With all that in mind, I am formally reviving this overly-dramatic sounding blog in what has officially become the year 2017! Wish everybody the best that life has to offer.

X

 

 

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(Photo: A sunset walk in Christ Church meadow, Oxford, when my photography skills were still as poor as they’ll [hopefully] ever be in my life, United Kingdom)

“Lili

Take another walk out of your fake world.

Please put all the drugs out of your hands.

You’ll see that you can breathe without no backup;

So much stuff you got to understand.

For every step in any walk,

Any town of any thought,

I’ll be your guide –

For every street of any scene

Any place you’ve never been

I’ll be your guide.

Lili,

You know there’s still a place for people like us:

The same blood runs in every hand.

You’ll see it’s not the wings that make the angels;

Just have to move the bats out of your head.

For every step in any walk,

Any town of any thought,

I’ll be your guide –

For every street of any scene

Any place you’ve never been

I’ll be your guide.

Lili,

Easy as a kiss, we’ll find an answer.

Put all your fears back in the shade.

Don’t become a ghost without no colour,

Cause you’re the best paint life ever made

For every step in any walk,

Any town of any thought,

I’ll be your guide –

For every street of any scene,

Any place you’ve never been,

I’ll be your guide.”

Lili (U-Turn), Aaron

Ever wondered how nice it could be, being ‘Lili’? To have a loving person sing these sweetest words to you? To think this declaration of unconditional support and eternal love were for you? How would that feel?

Have you ever felt that rejected? Hopeless, homeless, dreamless to the point that you are fearless? Do you have to be that lonely for the world to take pity on you? What if you don’t want it? But who would believe you? Can you convince yourself that sympathy, at least attention, is not exactly what you secretly and deeply wish for?

Who, in his right mind, would refuse that? In your most confused, blurred, dark and obscure moments, would you turn your back on that most desired hand, that softest look that promises everything and denies nothing? ‘Easy as a kiss, we’ll find an answer’.

But you don’t long for mere attention. Not just any kiss. Only this one person’s touch is the most comforting in the entire world. Better than any kind and anyone’s words. Better than an avalanche of nice attentions. Better than thousands of pages of philosophical ideas. Better than an army of friends at your feet. Better that morphine, cocaine, marijuana and LSD. The wonderful certainty that however rejected, however lonely, however hurt you are, you will always have something. Something that matters to you that you can cling to with your last breath. Because this is a gift from the only person that occupies the thrown you have carefully guarded in the innermost and deepest compartment of your heart.

I didn’t have that luxury. No tender look from him that would feel like a mother’s caress on your frozen cheek. One that would heal my aching heart and shaking body. No refuge. Nowhere. Kicked out of what I had called ‘home’ for a dozen years, I had no idea where to go. Sincerely, I don’t think the idea stroke me as much as it does now that I can consider it with as much lucidity as I can muster. No, I didn’t think that much. I tried to subdue my passions. I went back to my room with the most ardent wish to just disappear. To erase any trace of my insignificant existence. Confused, confused to my bones, confused to the last fibre in my muscles and the remotest cell I could ever imagine sheltering, I attempted to calm down. My heart was like a cauldron boiling within me, threatening to burn my entire body and soul. Anger, uncontrollable hatred for this one person, who had once promised  to dissipate every cloud that dared to penetrate my head; mixed in a disgusting mishmash with the deepest level of despair I had ever experienced, the kind that feels as if thunder had stricken you and made you as empty as void, yet so disgustingly abandoned it made you wanna puke your insides out, just to proceed to an intensive internal cleansing. Around me the world started spinning but I could not grant it any more of my attention. I sat for what seemed like an eternity, desperately trying to keep inside the insides of my soul. Pretending I was Lili, I wanted to fool myself. Yes, there is someone out there that would whole-heartedly and spontaneously sing these words to you. No, you would not need to express how pathetic you really feel. He would know. Or wouldn’t need to. A soul sister doesn’t need words, nor does it need any kind of futile and incomplete communication. He’d know what to do better than how to solve the easiest possible equation. Of course. Keep dreaming. Again, cynicism. The hurtful kind. The harmful kind. The one that pierces your soul and destroys any vestige of hope that you ever had. I hated myself. I couldn’t sympathise with my own self. I wished to smash this pitiful self, crush it, stifle it, step on it, ceaselessly mock it and burn it down. Erase its very existence. I hated it for being so harsh yet not amount of harshness could fulfil my own sadistic thirst. Tired of myself and powerless, I stormed out.

I ran, ran and ran. As fast as could, as loud as I could, as far as I could. I felt the raindrops hitting my shirt, reaching my skin, cooling my burning heart. I ran longer than I ever ran. With no sense of direction whatsoever, losing sight of the road and of my own existence. I forgot that I even existed. All my mad conscience could focus on was the mad race. The race against my past. The race against time. The race against reality. The race that would undo it all. The race that would bring me to heaven. I ran so fast I was in flight. I had left my most ailing lucidity behind and I was running as fast as I could to break free. My existence did not matter. Nothing mattered but the race. Raindrops made encouraging sounds of clapping hands. I belonged to this dreamlike environment I had created in this cold and soaked night. I had crafted a parallel dimension for myself. An illusionary world in which I was a hero, a winner. I won the race. The race against humanity. The profoundest bond I could have with the universe, I was experiencing it. I ran so much I could no longer feel my feet or knees or beating heart. I was a member, a component of this microcosm that was made entirely for me, that had leapt out of my own consciousness. My asylum.