(34)
Now that I’m well again I want to start over.
I suppose I’m so blessed with health I’m often lost in vulnerability when I’m down with illness. But I’m glad. I’m very glad I was ill. He knows best.
(33)
The mind’s a jumble. I’m too much a burden to people I’d love to bundle myself up and roll down a hill to some spiky bush where people won’t find me. Nobody can promise happiness, only He can. I can never be consistently pleasant - strangely I’d want to, be. Even the self is surprised by the amount of effort I put nowadays, not that it actually equate to any commendable result. People are silly to cry over small things like static typed words, and short calls too early in the morning, small jokes. Words are our biggest weakness aren’t they. If the beach is near, the sea might calm me down, like it often does, and the piercing sun would be mean, but useful. Ignorance is of course bliss, as I have many times witness (in both pleasant surprises and sharp slaps) - the only problem is the ability to be ignorant would last only for so long, and when the shielding screen suddenly evaporates, the blast is stronger, the fall sharper, and you wish you cared just a little bit earlier. Doesn’t it all boil down to our silent want to be a better person?
And it disturbs me, this detachment from the brewing action. The wind doesn’t blow any news here.
Eowyn’s lingers:
“’What do you fear my lady?’
‘A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond beyond recall or desire.’”
(32)
It rains often these days. The politics are more or less the same. Strange but the country looks less likely to disintegrate now than when I was away. People are more resilient up close than from hearsay: perhaps that is obvious, and thus make apparent my loss of touch with my own country. She looks so sad every time it rains.
I now am not sure if people always disappoint because people are just people or because I always have high expectations.
I promised to not be pathetic. I promised to not be sad. I promised to not put up with crap. If I can’t keep the promises I make with myself, how do I keep those with others?
(31)
I was suffering from a bout of non-reading. And picked the right book to heal it. It made me lost track of time, so I only read it while commuting to work (and end up missing my stop).
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been through those streets, and it’s the pleasure of recounting familiar names. But more than that is the human perspective he gives. Simple words reconstructed to often make me stop and ponder. The resounding name now chills as I compare the scene in the book with the one I saw. War and rebuilding peace.
I never actually wrote about my trip. Perhaps it’s too complex an experience, and uncomplete, to give a fair view. One clear question keeps buzzing at the back of my head: Can we ever forgive people who killed and rampaged our families and friends because of unjustified hate? How do we ever trust those people again. Is replying hatred with kindness really the answer? Is it not merely human to mistrust. Are we supposed to be human, or rise beyond that? Not being in such a position, can we really say what is right, and what is not?
I don’t know.
(30)
The more I have in my plate the more unsure I become of my competence. I worry about being too free, now I wish for some room to breathe. I might’ve said yes too quickly to too many things; my pace now become forced and rushed it might give up at a certain point. Soon. The spillovers are restlessness, paranoia, guilt, the need to be comforted I feel pathetic. I hate to be a burden. I feel pathetic.
I’m too slow to be fast. I’m exhausted.
(29)
It rained yesterday around here. And it rains this morning. I wonder if it is the same rain, stringing its melody all night. I wouldn’t know as I dozed off early. Yesterday’s started with a rage, just as the sun was setting. The sun was strange yesterday; but it was perhaps the clouds that made it so. Like us human: we sometimes become strange because of the relief against those around us. The noon was sunny, brightly lit. Perhaps the complaints gather up and accumulate, like puffs of cloud innocent in isolation, but once ganged up and conspiring turned the day upside down. The water was plenty and going somewhere, but blocked of its way store up in a sorry flood. The roads were dense, the night dark, darker with blades of water. Clashes would be messy.
I hope it will be sunny today.
(28)
I can’t get rid of this buzzing argument playing on repeat inside my brain: I’ve been mooting the exact same idea all this while. Perhaps not out loud, but in heavy hints. Perhaps not as direct; in fear of offending, in refusal of the higher moral claim I obviously don’t deserve, in confusion of where I stand. Yet, does my opinion sit so low in comparison to his. Contemplation leads to concession - maybe its habitual coldness, that begs a timely warmth. Maybe I should be more receptive, and reciprocative. But it was stupidity, or rather inferiority, for thinking so low of myself, and thus a dismissal of what I want to hold to. Lesson 1: my opinion does not weigh much to you. Lesson 2: don’t make concessions.
Okay maybe now it’ll quieten down.
(27)
I keep forgetting that this is for real now. I’m supposed to pitch my tent instead of sleeping on the sands with just my water pitch at hand. It’s a mix of reluctance and being flattered for the chance given. The trust given. To say that my masterplan has shattered is a bit dramatic - let’s just admit that it was not that complete despite my long mulling over it, replaying it in my head in order to make it come true, strategising, and indulging in those strategies I thought clever. Everything needs a rethinking now, and think I shall, with an empty paper spread out.
Then again I asked for the best; and so must now accept that this is indeed the best. This means a lot to some people; it will a betrayal to not make the effort.
(26)
I now wonder what’s the whole point of it. Tawar hati. Semakin tawar hati. This the kind of sadness I was planning to avoid.
(25)
Maybe that’s what killed us - the lack of art, creativity flowing. Is that what made us bloom so much at school? All those scissor-work, useless colours, name-creating, organising - being crazy and bold. When was the last time I created a font? Too much digital, pre-made things. When was the last time I made a fancy box, wasting all evening planning one, doing another? Beauty becomes so effortlessly achieved it no longer is. Neat and tidy and minimal, are too easy too meaningless in repetition. They want a complementary adventure. They want us dreaming on a lazy afternoon: which part of the world we want to conquer next.
