Trying to wake up

Yesterday, I woke up at 10.30am, rather later than I'd like.  It means one and a half hour to noon, it means one and a half hour to saying goodbye to a whole morning gone wasted. I looked up, and written there on the ceiling is my goal. I want to get up, and try to make full use of the day. But it has always been difficult for me to get out of bed. Every morning I have to overcome this great inertia over me, thus the choice to remain in the comfort of my bed is far more tempting. I'm afraid to deal what the new day would mean; I'm afraid to accept another day of disappointment, of no accomplishment. I'm afraid to deal with the sad realities of the world. I seem to know that there is nothing to look forward to except failure. So I stayed in bed there, wanting to cry but there was no more tears to shed.

Mom, how are you? Mom, I miss you, I miss us one whole family together. I miss that... It's like the story of my life has just ended, and there is no reason to add new chapters.

As much as I miss her, I resist calling her, because I'm afraid to hear how tired she is. I just need to live my own life. I need to live in a world where I'm in the centre of the universe. I cannot live like I'm someone's sidekick, or someone's brother, or someone's servant. I need to live in a way that serves full affirmation of myself, and if you have a problem with that, then I think our friendship serves no purpose.

Most Inspiring, Thank You Katy, you have no idea how much this means to me

Groin-Scratching

A white woman on my right was scratching her groin. Notice how the apple-green fabric of her skirt ripples with the motion of her hand?

I texted the guys about what I saw. Things like this have always been the source of our jokes. I wondered if it was obvious to her what she was doing. It was definitely obvious to a guy who is busy reading HLA Hart's The Concept of Law; one whose eyes are at the same level with her groin, not to mention right adjacent to it! For God's sake, your vagina was almost right in front of me, don't you white people know there's a time and place to do that?

But then again, who am I to complain? What that could mean is that she's feeling itchy down there, good for anyone who's getting lucky with her. Or that could be herpes (not sure if one of its symptoms includes scratching) or fungal infection. Well, in that case, I better steer my face away! EEEEEWWWWWWW!

"Next station, Wangsa Maju"

OK! Time for me to leave!

The truth is...

That he'll only love his wife if he gets to see his other woman. The truth is that we, men, cannot settle for one woman for the rest of our lives. Even if we can set our love in just one woman, such love can only be preserved without descending to the realities and dynamics of human relationship, with its accompanying prejudices and unexpressed wants.

Looking for love? We want romance, we want an escape from the crude realities of human existence, the isolation we face when we confront our competitors. The world that we live in, apart from the world of our wives. That's why they could never understand.

The truth is we, men, created the idea of 'love' and 'soul mate' to keep you from straying. We know that we were lying when we made those promises, because the future doesn't matter. What matters is the present companionship that you gave us, the bliss that you shelter us with your affection. We feel we are complete, finally feeling and seeing our sense of self-worth through you, with you.

The truth is, love, like religion, is an opium...

...that could kill you.

I'm stronger, I'm wiser

Banality

The room is quiet. Can't hear a thing, can't feel myself. There was only TV, with its blaring inaudible screens. There were people, but people who are clueless of my presence. They were too engaged in dialogues, though scripted for them, but nevertheless very much reflect the banality of drama and the notion of evil in our 'world'.

Beyond the TV, there was no recognisable movement which could pierce the silence of my current existence. There was nothing else, except the old walls, who've heard and seen aplenty. They were the background of those who groped in the dark as they hurried their way out of bed for work before dawn. They were witnesses and were the support prop for newfound lovers making love; they were close enough to their lips than any human being to hear and were able to feel how their lips made contact, passionate and gentle at times; and the ripple that travels from the hearts too - only they can sense the impact of such passion. They were also the witnesses of the bitter ugly quarrels that had erupted between them, the victim of things hurled in an ex-lover's way, the convenient support structure for a man who wants to throw the wife to exert violence and control and still able to keep her standing eye to eye so she can listen to him; there wouldn't be any need for him to lower himself to pick her up if he want to his point. If they had a choice to speak, it would only make the scene worse, they would testify about the 'betrayal' that they had seen in the bed of their masters.

Yes, if they have spirits, one such that we humans have not the senses to detect nor the perception to transcend our current realities, so that we can see the significance of such time-transcendent element present in the most banal structure of human civilisation.

Yet they do not speak now, I can only stare and wait in the insane hope that it will speak to me a wisdom I crave for. But I cannot be sure, I'm only guided by human common sense that they do not speak, maybe they do in a different way, just that we don't know. I wish now to see if they do speak, one way to find out is to touch them, feel their textures, the cracks.

They are signs of what had happened in the past, and will happen again. They were the witnesses to the timeless essence of human nature.