Because I write

Simplicity. If only we could nurture its existence. Too often, we complicate words, actions, smiles, signals, and thoughts.

In the future, I believe that there will be less words spoken. We’ll all be too tired to fight back. To say what needs to be said.

Is this it is it is this it is it.

It’s easier said than done. To be cruel to be kind. Many a times I falter as I squeeze those alphabets back down my throat. The world is not my playground. Even if they need to hear the truth, no one wants to.

I am to be observant, if I wish to be a writer of any kind. Writers watch. Writers wait. They rarely write, because they spend too much time thinking. If only thoughts could write for themselves. I’d have a million published souls by now.

Mmm dey mmm da mmm daaeeeoo.
Mmm dey mmm da mmm daaeeeoo.

Imogen: Don’t make a sound shh listen Keep your head down We’re not safe yet Don’t make a sound and be good for me Coz I know they’re waiting somewhere out here.

Lay low. Be good. Be quiet, till the time comes. Here’s a toy, if you need it. My arms are here, if you want them. Everyone has a child in them. And I’ve found yours.

Someone once said, the day we’re born is the day we start dying. The pessimist in all of us will know that this is true. We are not who we choose to be. We are what we choose to be.

I am the maker of my own stories. There’s too much tragedy in this world. So much, that everyone wants a piece of it. Autobiographies from Paris Hilton to Xandria Ooi. Everyone has a life story to tell.

But who really lives?

How different is one life from another? A boy from a girl?

Love. I’ve had my fair share of heartbreaks and broken dreams. But dreams, like stars, will turn to dust when they cross the walls to the other side. It would do you well, to keep you stars in a crate by the field. Store them behind the trees. Hide yours from view. One day, you may find the way to bring them back.

I wouldn’t trade anything for the classes that made me watch movies. I may wish that I’d studied something more practical, like say, medicine, but I’ll never forget what I learnt through those sessions. They made my impatient. They made me angry. Most important of all, they taught me sadness. Now, I can no longer look at another person without feeling their pain from within.

The movies. They’ve made me weird. They’ve made me a writer. They showed me the world, albeit only one side of it. But for a girl who’s never left home, isn’t that enough?

Am I more impatient than ever now, because writing has made me self-conscious of self-censoring myself, while I watch in vain when others never do? Can I blame the OCD when I feel like correcting ’strenght’ to ’strength’ and ‘congrates’ to ‘congrats’? Or when they say ‘headgearhog’ instead of ‘hedgehog’, or ‘ree-odd’ instead of ‘riot’?

Mmm dey mmm da mmm daaeeeoo.
Is this it is it is this it is it.

Religion. Am I open to what I learn, because I write? Because writing tells me to be impartial, to give every paragraph a voice? Religion, it is really a respect. And I cannot respect anyone to be objective, if they do not respect another religion and its views. People say, people do, just as long as I don’t. I will try to understand who you’re speaking to, and your intentions, but I will not try to make you me. Although I can’t help but feel annoyed that you can’t be more than what you are.

The stars are really not that far off in the sky. It is only because we choose to touch further than we really should, that we shoot past what is beautiful in all its glory.

Why do we say the things we do? Why do we choose to insult, when the very act of insulting is an oxymoronic concept in itself, because insults never really work when the insulted doesn’t care for a comeback?

Why do we find pleasure in causing pain? Is it our urge as humans to share, to make them angry because you’re angry too? Is this how we pass on the anger, is this how we expect it to disappear, by transferring the heat from one hand to another?

What has my world become, when I have to hide behind headphones? That’s what headphones are for. Like pop up ads that never seem to go away, annoying people need a reason not to bother you. It would be easy, if everyone had an ‘X’ button somewhere and that you could just click on those you wanted out of your life, and they could still go on living in some other people’s world.

Sometimes, I don’t feel like talking. Perhaps, I’ve already had a million conversations in my head before you have had your first real one. Even if it’s just 9am. Even if I’m the first person you see. You could be the 1 millionth and 1 conversation that I’ve had for the day. Even, if it’s just 9am.

I’m best left alone.

Because I write.

Ode to Kay

How do you explain death to a child?

For Cathy, who once said to Chris, “I wished mom had let us have a pet. Then we’d know what it’d be like if something died.”

Grandpa’s dead. Do you know what that means?
He’s gone to heaven.
Uh huh. He’s gone forever.
We won’t be able to see him again?
No. Grandpa’s not coming back.
He’s gone to another dimension?
Uh huh.
We can’t even say goodbye?
No…

A conversation that I never got the chance to be a part of. It plays in my mind like this but who knows what was said?

What made him cry? What made him not know, not see and still cry?

How do you miss someone whom you don’t really know?

I always wondered why he never ran up to see what was going on. Was he afraid? Perhaps it was just one of the rare occasions that he decided to listen to us.

Do children feel sad for others?

Each time he looks at my mom or plays with her, does he feel her burden, her loss? Does he know how to be sensitive?

When he turned around to pat me on the arm, or wipe a tear from my cheek, does he know why some cry more than others do?

I wonder sometimes, if he knows of the word ‘regret’. Of the many times he refused a pancake or a doughnut just so that he could prove a point.

The little prince of our hearts, who knows no better. He was barely 8, and we made him grow up so fast.

I’m sorry that I got tired of your wise cracks.

I’m sorry I never played with you that much.

I’m sorry I never shared the child in me with you.

I’m sorry that what would’ve been the best holiday, turned out to be the worst nightmare ever.

Perhaps, one day, we’ll meet again. Soon.