I Deserve Better

There is a boy whose face makes my world go quiet.

He has a look in his eyes - it's gentle, tender, tentative, and apprehensive. Sometimes I get to see it. At times I get a little panicky, a little anxious, a little sad when he won't meet my gaze. I can memorise the line of his jaw - narrow, defined and hard. I often encounter his jaw as I attempt to quiet my world, chin pointed away.

My fingertips have imprinted upon them the feel of his ribs, his bone and muscle. Instinctively, they want to touch him, to hold him. Touching him is always a mistake. Contact with him hollows me out.

I cry in front of him, and he does not take me in his arms. I tell him that I want to end things and he does not shed a tear. He sees me when it is convenient, when I fit into his schedule. His time is a gift, and I am to be grateful. He doesn't need me, he doesn't want me, everyone else in his life has the same ability to make him happy. He is happy, with or without me.

I am tired of trying to make a dent in his life, tired of trying to get him to look at me instead of turning away. Tired of trying to figure out if its me - that I just cannot inspire him to love me, or is it that he has no capacity to love me the way I need to be loved. I'm tired of testing the weight of my presence in his world. I'm tired of trying to see if I can affect his emotions, tired of realising how ineffectual I am. I am tired of pretending that I do not love him as much as I do. I am tired of pretending that I do not want to see him 5 days a week, I am tired of protecting myself from someone who can and will hurt me. I am tired of trying to become someone that he would love more. I know that I am bigger and stronger, I am better than the reflection of me in his eyes.

My mouth is puckered with bitterness. I am going to savour it. I will remember it. I will nurse it and feed it. My bitterness will be my armor - with it, I will build a wall to keep him out.

I deserve better.

I deserve someone that makes my world erupt with laughter. Someone that would look at me. Someone that would hold me when I cry, someone that I can delight with my presence and hurt with my absence. I deserve better.

Living

Ivan Klíma's Love and Garbage has some of the most piercing and soulful writing that I have had the privilege to encounter. 

"What used to fascinate me most about literature at one time was that fantasy knows no frontiers, that it is as infinite as the universe into which we may fall. I used to think that this was what fascinated me and attracted me in Kafka. For him a human would be randomly transformed into an animal and an animal into a human, dream seemed to be reality for him and, simultaneously, reality was a dream. From his books there spoke a mystery which excited me.

Later I was to understand that there is nothing more mysterious, nothing more fantastic than life itself. Whoever exalts himself above it, whoever isn't content with horrors already reached and passions already experienced, must sooner or later reveal himself as a false diver who, out of fear of what he might discover in the depths, descends no further than into a solidly built basement.

Kafka too, did not portray anything but the reality of his own life. He presented himself as an animal, or he lay down on his bed in his cleverly constructed murdering machine to punish himself for his guilt. He felt guilty about his inability to love, or at least to love the way he wanted to. He was unable to get close to his father or come together with a women. He knew that in his longing for honesty he resembled a flier and his life a flight under an infinite sky, where a flier is always lonely and longs in vain for human contact. The longer he flies the more his soul is weighed down by guilt and forced toward the ground. The flier can jettison his soul and continue his flight without it - or crash. He crashed, but for a moment at least he managed to rise from the ashes in order, second by second, movement by movement, to describe his fall."

Writing Stories

"At that time I believed that anything I saw or heard would come in useful for some story. But I have known for a long time now that I am unlikely ever to find any events other than those I experience myself. A man cannot gain control over some else's life, and even if he could he would not invent a new story. There are nearly fifty thousand million people living in the world and every one of them believes that his life is good for at least one story. This thought is enough to make your head spin. If a writer emerged, or better still, was produced, who was obsessed enough to record fifty thousand million stories, and to then cross out all they had in common, how much do you suppose would be left? Scarcely a sentence from each story, from each human fate, a moment like a drop in the ocean, an unrepeatable experience of apprehension or of a meeting, an instant of insight or pain - but who could identify that drop, who could separate it from the flood of the ocean? And why should new stories have to be invented?"

-- From Love and Garbage by Ivan Klíma.

Self-love

"He had learned from the first Book of Zoroaster, that Self-love is like a Bladder full blown, which when once prick'd, discharges a kind of petty tempest."
--- From Zadig/Or, The Book of Fate by Voltaire

Self-love, Conceit, Narcissism, Egotism, Pride, I have an excess of it all, whatever its form, however it clothes itself. If one could build a self-concept upon love of the identity itself, I have probably already done so. I, not surprisingly, have an incredible relationship with my ego. Many have tried to pry us apart to little avail; my mother, the church, god and my various setbacks being the most prominent assailants. The beast though, is like a hardy Mesquite tree, its roots spread far and reach deep, ensuring sustenance even in the most arid of conditions.

It is a greedy, hardy creature. To safeguard itself, it has erected wall upon wall around the softer parts of me, denying connection in the name of protection. In preventing risk and harm, it also keeps out reward and reciprocation. The beast is petty indeed, look at it clutching its little possessions to its chest, building a fortress, terrified of intruders, for fear that it might just have to share.

Aphotic Rendezvous

I found this quote on dictionary.com

"I sat curled up on the sofa, trapped in the dream from which I had begun to awaken, but still lost in the reminiscence of our aphotic rendezvous."
-- Žakalin Nežić, Goodbye Serbia

Firstly, I feel like I have to read Goodbye Serbia now. Secondly, I cannot help but wonder how an "aphotic rendezvous" would feel. Better yet, I wonder if I have already experienced the likes of it.

On a side note, there was a line on Gossip Girl the other day that had me chuckling. (I know... Gossip Girl... forgive my simple pleasures)

Diana: "I am a woman who has lived, of course I have secrets."

Parting with Dignity

One would think that after all the partings that I have had to participate in, I would be way better at managing them now. I have a set of rules that allow me to keep a dignified face when saying goodbye. (At least I am deluded enough to imagine I can keep to them.)

1) Never grasp at straws, or if another analogy is preferred, do not indulge in the last breath before death. (Extra time is useless, it just prolongs what is inevitably going to happen.)

2) Always acknowledge to the other person that you might see each other again, whilst silently repeating to yourself that the world is small, but it isn't that small. (Kill all hope.)

3) Try to stay away from parting situations near transportation. It always feels too final and desperate. Always say goodbye several hours before, so that you can experience all the building anxiety safely away from the person that is leaving. (Do not build on what is already unpleasant.)

Identity Foreclosed

James Marcia, a developmental psychologist came up with a theory called the Identity Status Theory.

In it, he claims that there are 4 identity statuses of psychological identity development. These are determined largely by the choices and commitments made regarding certain personal and social traits.

Identity achieved: Refers to when one has gone through crisis and made a commitment to their final decision/identity.
Identity foreclosed: Refers to when one has not gone through any crisis, but made a commitment to their final decision/identity.
Moratorium: Refers to a state of crisis where the individual has not committed to anything as yet.
Identity Diffused: Refers to a lack of crisis and lack of commitment to any form of decision/identity.

I feel like most of the decisions that I have made about my life are made by commitment without crisis. I fear the crisis and the struggle so much, that I tend to reject moratorium and instead make a commitment to the nearest and most feasible possibility to alleviate my uncomfortable state of mind.

Using the apt phrasing of someone I know - I make decisions based on convenience. It is convenient for me to pursue a path in clinical psychology, it was convenient for me to take the STB scholarship instead of researching and applying for more alternatives. It was convenient for me to only date people that would eventually be on another continent. (no mess) It is convenient for me to stay on at City Harvest, despite my objections.

This is all very out of character for me because I have been someone that prided myself on always being in crisis, thinking hard and caring about the decisions that I eventually make. Now, I am starting to realise that I only struggle for the shortest of times, then, without coming to any resolutions about anything, decide on commitment. When there is an easy way out, I take it... and then convince myself and everyone around me that I have thought long and hard about it.

Foreclosure is not a stable identity stage because resolution without crisis, is all too easily challenged with a few piercing thoughts and doubts.

I am terrified though, of never getting out of moratorium. There just seem to be some decisions in life that one can never find a satisfying answer for.

Fire Alarms

My building's fire alarm system has been acting out. Every time the fire alarm goes off, I find myself having the same thought process.

"I wonder if this time its real, maybe I should at least get out of bed/my chair to check it out. Mmmm... do I smell smoke? I don't smell smoke. I don't hear people panicking... I wonder if today is the day I die due to my laziness."

I blame the incessant fire drills that us Singaporean kids were subjected to. Instead of conditioning us with regards to what to do during a fire, they conditioned us to believe that the fire alarm is not a signal of fire, but instead of a set of annoying procedures to follow.

The beauty of relatable literature

I was browsing through some of my Kindle clippings, looking for a particularly good paragraph that I found the other day, when I had a moment of abashed self awareness.

I realised that there was this common thread running through most of the passages that struck me with their beauty and/or truth. They were all related to the most ruminated on and rehashed issues of a young adult's life - the prioritizing of ambition or love, the fulfillment of life's potential, the search for a home and what it means. I don't think these passages have helped me come to any sort of reconciliation or revelation. However, there is a wry kind of sweetness that fills my heart when I think about my participation in this communal cognitive rite of passage.
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That was her trouble then - She dreamed of a greater kind of love than the kind displayed in the library. But she was also filled with a nameless ambition that had nothing to do with love. What exactly did she want? It was an ambition that wouldn't let her compete for or seek the same things others sought.
- Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese


The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work, 
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
- The Choice by Yeats


Droll thing life is, that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself that comes too late, a crop of unextinguishable regrets.
- Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad


I wished to know the meaning of things. I am the meaning. I wished to find a warrant for being. I need no warrant for being, and no word of sanction upon my being. I am the warrant and sanction... It is my mind which thinks, and the judgment of my mind is the only searchlight that can find the truth... Many words have been granted me, and some are wise, and some are false, but only three are holy: "I will it!" Whatever road I take, the guiding star is within me... I know not if this earth on which I stand on is but a speck of dust lost in eternity. I know not and I care not.
- Anthem by Ayn Rand

Wasn't that the definition of home? Not where you are from, but where you are wanted?

- Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

This one is not from a book, but a movie, nevertheless, I think it fits in here. From Garden State -
Andrew: You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.
Sam: I still feel at home in my house.
Andrew: You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it's gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.
Sam: Maybe

The wind in Shanghai

I don't think I can ever fully articulate the kind of connection that I have with Shanghai. It is as if it made a slit in the skin between my ribs, slid in there, and is now living comfortably with the rest of my viscera. Once in a while, when it is afraid that I would forget its existence, it prods at my insides, jostling them, so as to stir up the old dust.

My memories of Shanghai have haunted me in so many different ways that I am starting to lose count. They have appeared in the form of my favorite streets, in a palpable tingle of the memory of a hug, in the image of someone's brown and orange gloves, in the glistening grains of fried rice nestled within a styrofoam box, and most recently, the chilly wind of the Shanghai night.

- I would be standing on the main passage in wanda facing guoding lu, flanked on one side by burger king and the other by that shop that sold the leather belts and shoes. Behind me, the glass protrusion that signaled an escalator down into the mall. Always, it is night and there is a chill. The tone of the night feels like autumn, but I'm sure it is spring. Sometimes I'm standing with G, and it is the night M texted me about getting into Med school. I remember that night, there was something heady in the air. Other times, I am just standing there alone, looking out into guoding lu. The wind, it always blows.