I get a funny feeling whenever I click the link to this blog. I'll click the link, watch the page load (sometimes instantly, if I'm lucky and my connection isn't being a finicky chump), and then just stare. I don't really read the words I write. It gets too embarrassing.
I'd let myself read a sentence here or there though, just so I can recall the general gist of the post. I've written so few here that I can somewhat recall the majority of what I've made public here.
Every single post makes me want to delete this entire blog. Instant cringing, raging desire to smash my head against the nearest, hardest object. I feel the same way whenever I occasionally glance through old photos of myself up on Facebook—hideous, terrifying; everything must burn!
Yet it's undeniable that every post here expresses some aspect or fragment of a younger me. Whether I like it or not. I usually wrote and posted during my peak points of erratic, volatile madness, with occasional brief and blithe posts to pad and soften the edges. It's hard trying to determine the right balance between being honest and being embarrassing.
One day, when I can muster the courage to do so, I'll sit down and read through every single post I made here, thoroughly and carefully. I have changed since I started this blog, and I have ebbed and flowed by all accounts in all aspects. In many things, I am happy with myself as I am now, in others, I wish to reclaim the virtues of the Me of the past.
I imagine most people are like this. They march forth in life, shedding old faults and learning new ones, polishing skills and virtues and forgetting some others. And most are filled this sort of half-satisfaction, half-regret. Or maybe I am one of the few still mourning a past, one that never really existed beyond the barriers of my biased memories.
I think one day, I will close this blog and make it private for myself.
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Monday, July 30, 2012
Fieldnotes on what to say to a grieving person
When Vern passed away, a whole slew of condolences came my way. For each and every single one of them, I wholeheartedly appreciated their intent and their meaning. But some were more of a burden than a salve, and some I still feel very bitterly against in their usage.
Some things were just not what I wanted to hear.
The one thing I hated then and still hate now, more than any other platitude said to me, was a person claiming that he knew what I felt and what I was going through. I think this is said in an attempt to support the grieving person via a sense of camaraderie and empathy. But it's a complete lie. No one knew what I felt and no one could understand what I was going through. And I didn't need them to, nor did I especially want them to. Even if they had lost someone important to them, that doesn't mean they knew what was going through my mind during those nights when I cried for hours. I don't know what they went through. I cannot put into precise words their own pain and feelings because they were grieving the loss of a completely different person with whom comes a set of completely different memories. I cannot imitate their pain and grief. I only have my own unique configuration of sorrow, one wholly my own. This isn't meant to sound like a bitter competition between whose grief is stronger or more honest. It's just a basic recognition that a person's pain is his own and no one else's, inimitable and impossible to pin down with precision.
In a previous post, I discussed Proverbs 14:10, and I'm going to quote it again here because it puts my thoughts into a sentence so succinctly and perfectly: "Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy."
---
A few nights after he passed away, a friend called me. She was kind and consoling, at least initially, but I think in her own grief she started to tearfully discuss how according to the Bible, Vern wouldn't be able to go to heaven. I don't remember how I responded to her, but I'm quite certain I only managed a weak "I don't know". There wasn't anything I could say to that sort of judgment. At least, there wasn't anything I felt I could say to that, not with how she was crying out loud and I weeping inside.
That conversation had me distraught for a long time. True or not, it's not something you should say or even think about. Or maybe it was just something that I didn't want to hear or think about then. Only after talking with Miss Catherine and Yvonne did the claws of that conversation start to withdraw from my skin.
---
The things that I had really liked to hear and felt had really helped me were the ones that assured me that there was no structured process to grief and that I didn't need to force myself to get over it and forget him, or do things in a certain way, or think or act in a specific path. Whatever I did, it would be all right. To those who sympathetically told me to "take my time", thank you.
During that time, the ones who I found to be a pillar of great strength for me were the ones who, while also grieving, were still dependable, warm, and wise in controlling their own emotions. These are the people who maintain their own hope and faith and pair it with their senescent logic, and then use it as a driving force to press on forward even in the bleakest of times. I looked at them with awe and I tried to imitate their steps, and did so with imperfection and many mistakes. But I learned many things from them, things that they probably weren't aware they were teaching me, and for that I'm grateful.
---
In the aftermath of the quietus, one way I handled matters was by trying to adopt a few of Vern's attitudes and mindsets. He sat at the very opposite end of the spectrum from me in many virtues, and one that I find more telling than any other: he thought and acted like he was invincible, like there would be no consequences for his actions and if there ever were, he didn't give a damn. So very often, he'd say things or do things out of utmost bravery and also complete stupidity. Halfway across that world was me, and I thought and acted like I was the most fragile piece of glass that'd shatter at the slightest thing, and I shied away from even the smallest of hardships. Over the past few years, I've been reversing my trajectory towards becoming a further outlier in trepidness, and have been instead heading towards where he once stood. I don't plan to engulf and become what he was. Not entirely. But I've been cultivating a thicker skin and a fearless face, one that he always wore in the face of everything.
From someone who thought too much and did too little, I hope to balance out and step into a midpoint, to close the distance that existed between me and him. I've a long way to go, and though every step comes with an added level of difficultly, a whole new realm of potential opens up with every inch I creep forward and conquer. And sometimes the harder it is to do something, the more fun it is in hindsight. Over time, I begin to understand how he gleaned so much joy out of his life, how he seemed to keep alive that wicked flame that I never bothered to ignite in my own life. But even then, I know that I'll never be able to hold that joy and flame in my own hands, and see it in its full glory with full understanding. His joy was his own, and it can never be mine.
I don't know how to put into words how much I miss him right now.
Some things were just not what I wanted to hear.
The one thing I hated then and still hate now, more than any other platitude said to me, was a person claiming that he knew what I felt and what I was going through. I think this is said in an attempt to support the grieving person via a sense of camaraderie and empathy. But it's a complete lie. No one knew what I felt and no one could understand what I was going through. And I didn't need them to, nor did I especially want them to. Even if they had lost someone important to them, that doesn't mean they knew what was going through my mind during those nights when I cried for hours. I don't know what they went through. I cannot put into precise words their own pain and feelings because they were grieving the loss of a completely different person with whom comes a set of completely different memories. I cannot imitate their pain and grief. I only have my own unique configuration of sorrow, one wholly my own. This isn't meant to sound like a bitter competition between whose grief is stronger or more honest. It's just a basic recognition that a person's pain is his own and no one else's, inimitable and impossible to pin down with precision.
In a previous post, I discussed Proverbs 14:10, and I'm going to quote it again here because it puts my thoughts into a sentence so succinctly and perfectly: "Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy."
---
A few nights after he passed away, a friend called me. She was kind and consoling, at least initially, but I think in her own grief she started to tearfully discuss how according to the Bible, Vern wouldn't be able to go to heaven. I don't remember how I responded to her, but I'm quite certain I only managed a weak "I don't know". There wasn't anything I could say to that sort of judgment. At least, there wasn't anything I felt I could say to that, not with how she was crying out loud and I weeping inside.
That conversation had me distraught for a long time. True or not, it's not something you should say or even think about. Or maybe it was just something that I didn't want to hear or think about then. Only after talking with Miss Catherine and Yvonne did the claws of that conversation start to withdraw from my skin.
---
The things that I had really liked to hear and felt had really helped me were the ones that assured me that there was no structured process to grief and that I didn't need to force myself to get over it and forget him, or do things in a certain way, or think or act in a specific path. Whatever I did, it would be all right. To those who sympathetically told me to "take my time", thank you.
During that time, the ones who I found to be a pillar of great strength for me were the ones who, while also grieving, were still dependable, warm, and wise in controlling their own emotions. These are the people who maintain their own hope and faith and pair it with their senescent logic, and then use it as a driving force to press on forward even in the bleakest of times. I looked at them with awe and I tried to imitate their steps, and did so with imperfection and many mistakes. But I learned many things from them, things that they probably weren't aware they were teaching me, and for that I'm grateful.
---
In the aftermath of the quietus, one way I handled matters was by trying to adopt a few of Vern's attitudes and mindsets. He sat at the very opposite end of the spectrum from me in many virtues, and one that I find more telling than any other: he thought and acted like he was invincible, like there would be no consequences for his actions and if there ever were, he didn't give a damn. So very often, he'd say things or do things out of utmost bravery and also complete stupidity. Halfway across that world was me, and I thought and acted like I was the most fragile piece of glass that'd shatter at the slightest thing, and I shied away from even the smallest of hardships. Over the past few years, I've been reversing my trajectory towards becoming a further outlier in trepidness, and have been instead heading towards where he once stood. I don't plan to engulf and become what he was. Not entirely. But I've been cultivating a thicker skin and a fearless face, one that he always wore in the face of everything.
From someone who thought too much and did too little, I hope to balance out and step into a midpoint, to close the distance that existed between me and him. I've a long way to go, and though every step comes with an added level of difficultly, a whole new realm of potential opens up with every inch I creep forward and conquer. And sometimes the harder it is to do something, the more fun it is in hindsight. Over time, I begin to understand how he gleaned so much joy out of his life, how he seemed to keep alive that wicked flame that I never bothered to ignite in my own life. But even then, I know that I'll never be able to hold that joy and flame in my own hands, and see it in its full glory with full understanding. His joy was his own, and it can never be mine.
I don't know how to put into words how much I miss him right now.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
3rd year - collection of old thoughts
It's been three years since Vern died.
I actually don't know what to say right now. This isn't exactly a loss of words; it's like an inability to decide which train of thought should I take. Should I talk about this or that—can I talk about everything?
Some things are still exactly the same. And of course, with the passing of three whole years, even more things have completely evolved into greater or lesser versions of their prior forms.
For example, I've become a better person.
I'm lying, I'm still a terrible person, but I have been improving a little. In terms of gaining confidence and eradicating my social awkwardness, I've made leaps that I feel quite certain even Vern would be proud of. He had always been scolding me for being too quiet when I shouldn't be, for not saying things that I ought to. Sometimes he'd be quite understanding of my old fear of speaking, sometimes he'd be driven mad by it.
I'm really unable to write anything substantial right now. My brain is numb due to overuse, due to the streams of conflicting and concurrent thoughts swimming around in spirals.
I will instead post extracts of a few things I wrote in the past but never got around to posting here or sharing with anybody. I wrote this things for myself, and avoided sharing them for many reasons, but now they gain a public presence. Sometimes the best way of being miserable to is keep it all to yourself, sometimes the best way is to shout it out into the world. I will do the latter for today. I don't think I will get another chance to be publicly miserable, not for a while.
Some of the below snippets are embarrassing (and you know, these are actually the better segments of the original texts that I cut them out of, imagine that), and I might delete this post one day. But because these were written privately and honestly, while I was trapped in some emotional states, I want to preserve the below notes. It's a bit like finding an old diary you used to write in when you were a child, and all your entries were stupid, stupid things that seemed so important at the time. And despite how inane and embarrassing it is to read it, you still want to keep that diary just because it was an honest part of your past. What I will post below are my thoughts, both old and recent. They tend to talk about the same things again and again, but that's just how my thoughts cycle and repeat themselves. Dates of when they were written are included, if possible.
♦
He'd piss me off terribly; he'd make me cry and weep because of an injured ego; he'd make me smile and giggle in sheer bliss. I was desperate for those sorts of feelings. I don't think anyone else could affect me as much as he did. He breathed life into my passionless worldview, ignited sparks and blizzards of iridescent flashes to wake me up. It was magnificent, he made me feel alive and like a breathing, angry, happy, sad, everything person. I was desperate for that. Being alive is wonderful, and he could unlock that life trapped within me. With him, there was always the flashing trepidation, the knowledge that my mood could be and would be rapidly affected by whatever he did and whatever he said.
This wasn't healthy. But it was beautiful on its own. Feeling alive is beautiful. Maybe if it had went on for the long-term, it would have worn me down and turned me into an empty husk, drained. But for those brief moments, those brief years, it was wonderfully maddening. He could do anything to me, he could manipulate me into his puppet with his will, because my desperation for life and passion and emotions overrode my common sense, at least when it came to him.
He wasn't that bad for me. In some ways he was. In some ways he was wonderful. I think he really gave me the motivation and the push to change some of my ways, to hide away my deadened soul and present a smile and a friendly aura to others. Isn't that a good change? He did that to me. At least, he made me do it to myself. He knew how to hurt me, but more importantly, he knew how to love me and make me happy. I think he used the latter more than the former.
♦
date unknown
I'm not mature now, and probably won't be anytime soon, but at fifteen years old, I was a downright insecure idiot. And when you're an insecure idiot, learning that someone who mattered so much to you had died was The End of the World. I was wailing on my bed, thinking that with his life, my own had ended. Learning of his death had me expecting the world to stop, the seven horsemen of the apocalypse to glide into town, shaking their scythes at me and saying, "Hi there, hope you're prepared." And I was ready to run around, getting ready for the end of all things, storing all my Lord of the Rings merchandise in a safe area (because I clearly have my priorities straight), stockpiling food, finding a bomb shelter to rent for myself.
But the world didn't end, much to my surprise. Things went on. I went to school. I had my orthodontist appointments. Piano lessons. Chores and homework and assignments and exams. And all along the way, I was expecting Time to stop for me and say, "Hey, you look like you need a break, so I'm just going to take a nap and let you have a breather." But Time's kind of an asshole, so that never happened.
I struggled really hard to keep moving. I remember that, just a few days after I found out about his death, I had a piano lesson. I went in, and the first thing my lovely piano teacher asked me was a very normal "How are you?".
How can one question that I receive every week, practically every day, suddenly take on such a loaded meaning? How am I? I'm horrible! I'm on the verge of tears constantly! I'm surprised I'm not crying right now! How can you expect me to practice scales, learn new songs, learn all this stupid musical terminology when I'm ready to wail and writhe and steadily deplete the world's supply of tissue paper?
But I just said 'fine', albeit a little awkwardly, and went on with my piano instruction. What else could I do? The world wasn't going to stop for me, despite how much I wanted it to.
A few hours after my piano lesson, I had my orthodontist appointment. Same thing again. "How are you?" Horrible! Life sucks! What is the meaning of life? How can anyone be happy when this tragedy has occurred? Ridiculous!
I actually remember pausing then. Earlier at the piano lesson, a rapid "I'm fine" had came out, just an automated response built up by years of training, but sitting in that surprisingly comfortable chair in the orthodontist office, I had paused when he asked me that question. Some part of me wanted to just tell him everything that had happened.
Man, that would have been weird.
I just sucked it up and nodded, "I'm alright," and he went on with the usual routine.
This pattern continued for the next few weeks. Heck, I'd say it went on for months. People would ask me how I was, and I'd be ready to burst out into tears, pouring out my story of what I've been through the past few months. But that would've been idiotic, and I did have some fragment of self-restraint, so I'd just shut up and let out a nice, polite answer. That's all people wanted to hear, and fine by me.
---
I still remember thinking that Sophira had been joking when she made that call, telling me that Vern had died in the night. I reacted in complete seriousness, and my brain also registered it was completely non-jocular, but some part of me was still going, "Okay, she's gonna burst out laughing now, and say that she's kidding. I'm gonna hate her for this for a few weeks, but we'll be fine after that." That moment never came. I kept waiting for it. For weeks, for months. It was some blind hope I was running on, that all this was an elaborate lie set up to make me look stupid. I would've preferred that. Even when I went back to Malaysia, I still kept my hopeful vision of Vern suddenly popping up and saying something stupid about how, har har, I was so silly, of course he's not dead, it was all a prank!
Because that's how preposterous the entire thing was to me. No way was he dead. No way did he die in a road accident like that, no way was he gone forever, no way was I never going to see or talk to him ever again. No way. It didn't make sense, not a smidgen, it was completely absurd. So absurd that it can only be a lie.
I think the truth only completely sunk in when I entered the columbarium with my friends. It had already pierced through the surface of my reluctance, but the realization had yet to completely submerge into my conscience. It was only on that ridiculously hot day, with mosquitoes buzzing around, surrounded by endless rows of plaques bearing faces of the dead, did I finally accept the truth. Or rather, the truth shoved its way into my head, kicking and smashing open the doors, leaving only broken fragments of hope in its path. I burst into tears at that moment. I hadn't even seen his plaque yet, we were still near the entrance of the memorial center, but surrounded by all those tributes to the once alive, it was without a doubt a place of the dead. And if Vern was here, that meant that he was dead. No two ways about it. I had managed to befuddle my logic the previous months through a myriad of ways, till my common sense had swiss-cheese holes in them, but once you're surrounded by death, the bits of neurons in your cranium start patching up and logic starts flying around again. And the logical conclusion, unmarred by hope or self-deception, was that Vern was dead.
So I started crying there, next to a wall of plaques, looking at the photo of a dead person who I didn't even know, but knowing he was dead was enough for me. It was sad enough for me, and it was proof enough for me. Vern was dead.
I bawled like a baby that day, only comforted by the presence of my friends, and the blessed foresight of Yvonne to bring a bunch of tissue papers for me to use.
---
I think the only thing that kept me going in the past two years was the goal of making Vern proud. Kind of a stupid, cheesy goal, but damn did I cling to it. It became important to me.
But that goal sort of violates a few of the fundamental principles of goals. Namely, measurability and achievability.
It's kinda hard to please someone who, you know, is dead. You don't know what he wants, you don't know if you're on the right track. But it kept me going. If I had told myself "Alright, I'm going to do this for myself" in those first few months, I would've crashed and burned. Telling myself "Yeesh, you gonna sit on your ass all day and cry? Wow, Vern's sure to love that. Idiot." was the kick in the ass I needed then.
So I did a lot of not-very-logical-but-shut-up things to motivate me. I constructed a lot of conversations between us, along with a lot of praise and motivation from him to me. It's not really a bad way to motivate yourself, actually. Intense guilt and grief can be quite the energy source when you're down. Not recommended, really, but I managed to do a lot of things then that I'm surprised at.
Of course, it's all completely imaginary. Maybe he would've praised me for this or that, but maybe not. But in my mind, I could turn that uncertainty into a 100% chance, so I did. When I was down, I'd make up a dialogue that essentially boiled down to him giving me a pep talk to psych my spirits up. When I failed miserably at something, my transposed image of him would just shrug and go, "Meh. Just try again," and that was good enough for me.
It wasn't a normal way of functioning, and maybe not entirely sane, but it wasn't bad. Just a little creepy.
I still motivate myself in this manner for a few things. It still works, albeit not as strongly as before. But this trick really instills perseverance, which is quite a boon.
---
I don't think I've closed this 'chapter' in my life, if I can cheesily call it that. There's still a lot for me to think and ramble about, sometimes in quiet contemplation, sometimes with tearful cursing. There's still a lot of things I haven't let go of, some things still left unresolved. But maybe these things are just meant to be left as is, open and threads splayed, ready for further unraveling and tangling. Maybe this isn't so much as a defined chapter with a beginning and an end as a...theme? A motif? And underlying thematic motivation? I don't know. I'm pretty sure I just made up that last phrase, too.
Life is kind of annoying with how unorganized it is.
---
But in the end, that's just the sort of person I am. I'm quiet, not very sane, a little creepy, I think too much, and a large proportion of that thinking time is spent on over-thinking.
I can't say that I don't regret anything from the past two years (because I regret many, many things) or that I wouldn't change anything (dear God, I would change everything), but that sort of thinking just leads to a dead end, doesn't it? There's not much else for me to do. I could sit on my hands and just tuck away every thought, or I could just try to think a little bit about every memory I have. Willful stasis is easy, transformative enlightenment is arduous to the point of impossibility, but the latter sounds a lot nicer than the former. So what I'm really doing now is sitting in front of a massive jigsaw puzzle, still mostly undone, looking for the right pieces to press together. Maybe after a bit more thinking, I'll come away a fuller picture, not an undone scrambled lot of pieces.
♦
28 May 2012
I was completely irrational for him. And that is an amazing feeling, being so enamoured with a single person that you feel ready to shed every semblance of sanity just for brief moments of satisfaction and happiness. Those are majestic minutes where you feel that every bit of life's difficulties and complexities can be overcome with sheer strength of emotion and willpower and love and determination. You feel powerful just by the unvirtue of being irrational.
♦
date unknown
I just wanted him. I needed him for many reasons, but mostly just because I wanted him. I've wanted him since we were young, since we first talked, since we first gossiped, since we first made fun of each other (more of him making fun of me, of course), since the first time he told me he liked me, since the time he gave me a bottle of Pepsi Twist for my birthday, since he first called me fat, since I first successfully made him call me slender instead, since the first time I told him I loved him even before I had a definition of it (I didn't know what it was. But I knew I had it for him.), since every time he made my heart skip and stop and sputter in frantic, bewildered love. However childish and naive this love of mine for him was and is, it is a brand of love that is wholly Vern, one crafted by and for him. This is one that still burns alongside the vestiges of my childhood dreams, and if in time it withers and turns into ash, it will lie buried alongside its fellow dream compatriots.
I needed him. And for two weeks, I got him.
Not enough, not nearly enough.
♦
4 January 2011
It was a year of magical thinking.
And to be honest, the magical thinking, the flights of fancy and earnest wishes, have not stopped. I still sit here, thinking that if I beg God hard enough, he will spare Vern for a day, let him down and let me see him.
[…]
But I am sad. I am sad because I know, I do know, that it is not possible. I am a creature of logic. And that little logic of mine grows every day, and it tells me, louder and louder every day, that it is not possible. I am getting further and further away from the year of magical thinking.
I lied to myself a lot that year. But that is not so bad, I think. There are worst things a person can do to himself, and I think telling myself boldfaced lies helped me cope in some way.
Inside me, logic and wishes were engaged in a ferocious battle, but sometimes one bent and bowed to the other, often the former to the latter.
Fantastical lies.
♦
17 September 2010
It is the realization that I cannot do anything that stings me.
[...]
I only need a chance. A chance to cheat Death, reach behind him as he's not looking, and pull Vern from beyond his grasp. But I cannot. And this is the fatal strike of the knife, twisting its blade into my already wounded hope. No matter what I do, who I am or who I become, this is something I cannot change. It will always remain far beyond my power to reverse. I will never be able to bargain with, cheat or trick, or bribe Death.
I do not have the option to do so.
I would very much like the option. I like options. They give me hope, in times when I have none.
And I have none now, of either.
♦
date unknown
Even now, it is hard to know when to use past tense and present tense.
♦
29 December 2011
I still have so much to say about him, but now I'm afraid that it's too late to say them because I should be completely over him by now. I need to get this out, to put into words the webbed concepts inside my brain.
I had so much invested in him. So many dreams and hopes still pinned to his image, like words of promises scrawled on a photograph. He was going to be my first boyfriend, my first date, my first kiss; he was going to be to one to take me to this restaurant, to that theme park, along this street, into that mall; we were going to argue about stupid things, laugh about stupid things, talk about stupid things, and promise stupid things. We were going to be all cute and smooshy with each other, we were going to act sickly sweet only around each other and to each other. He was going to call me stupid names, and I'd love it, and I was going to ramble about random topics, and he'd stare at me blankly (but secretly love it). And while we were doing all these silly things, we were going to (somehow) grow and mature and become wise, together. He was going to be the centerpiece of all monumental and inconsequential events in my life.
I think I should've by now discarded all of these dreams, should have burned them all up and scattered the ashes into the wind. But I'm still clutching tightly onto them.
I don't believe that they can come true and be fulfilled, of course. Not anymore, not since a while. I did though, even a few months after his death. I would console myself with insane, soothing thoughts that these dreams could still come true, because Hope and Love can conquer even Death.
I was a jackass. But I was a grieving jackass.
[...]
And when he died, I was faced with the reality that I had failed the bulk of my plans, and the rest were now beyond the realm of possibility.
I think that broke me somehow.
♦
9 May 2012
And this is my biggest fear: that I'm forgetting him. Not him entirely, of course not. I don't think there'll ever be a time where someone says "Vern" and I wonder "who?" or when someone asks "your first love?" and my mind doesn't immediately snap to him. But the details that made out the fringes of his being, that's what I'm forgetting. That's what I'm losing.
He's gone, and all I have left of him are shoddy memories, however fond and well-revisited they may be. He's gone and in his absence, I can only mentally revisit him. And every time I do so, I squish his character and life into a box for my convenience. I flatten him into a 2d character. He's losing his shape and his realness in my mind.
But this is an unavoidable fact of life. As I trudge forward into my life, bits of memory spill out of my pockets, leaving a trail of crumbs in my wake that I can't reclaim unless I constantly backtrack to pick up the missing details of my memories. And that's not possible or practical.
♦
29 May 2012
It used to be that I could say that he had been an active part of more than half of my life. Now, it's a little less than half. With the power of vague rounding however, I can always just say half.
But this amount will continue to shrink as time goes on. Soon he'll have only been part of a quarter of my life, than an eighth, than a miniscule fraction. The quantity of his presence in my life will diminish, unavoidably.
It shouldn't be this way. He should've been with me, in some role (any role), throughout more of my life, not until I was only fifteen years old.
I had him, officially, to myself for two weeks. I've been grieving for three years. This ratio of happiness to grief is only going to grow more imbalanced and ridiculous, moreso than it already is.
It is somehow inexplicably painful understanding that he will have no greater presence in my life beyond existing happily in my memories.
♦
17 October 2011 More than many things (than anything!), I miss you.
♦♦♦
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
I can draw hearts very well.
Last Sunday, I was on duty to help out at children's church.
We were working on some crafts, making rather clever, minimalist "purses" out of paper and string. Unfortunately, since I am, you know, too old, I couldn't make a purse for myself. Instead, I was stuck with cutting out the purses from sheets of paper and taping and stringing them into appropriate shapes.
What a pity.
I will admit, since I was young, I never did enjoy doing arts and crafts. Not very much, at least. All that stupid scissors-handling, the precise measuring, the finagling with sticky tape - so tedious. And whenever I'm rostered on for children's church, I always have to do these things, and be reminded of how much I hate them.
So anyway, I was busy snipping out bits of string to tie into the holes punched in the purses. And a girl whom I was taking care of, Kaitlyn, was sitting next to me and coloring her little purse.
She interrupted me suddenly, asking, "Can you help me draw a teirajlaef?"
A very important note to make: I volunteer to help take care of the younger children, ranging from toddlers to about 5-year-olds. Kaitlyn is about five (or maybe four, I forget). Now apparently, 5-year-olds are still quite lacking in their verbal abilities.
Rather strange to me. I'm pretty sure I was an eloquent poet the moment I jumped out of my mother's womb. I just leaped out into the doctor's arms and began reciting excerpts from Shakespeare, complete with theatrical arm movements.
Anyway, so Kaitlyn hadn't exactly said "teirajlaef" but she had said something completely incomprehensible to me. Luckily, I'm quite used to these situations by now, and so I patiently asked her what she wanted me to draw for her.
"A waurauea," she tried again.
Again, that was not exactly the sound she had made. Again, it had been completely incomprehensible.
"Can you try to doodle it out for me, and I'll try to draw it nicely for you?" I suggested, hoping that I'd get a better idea of what she wanted then.
She made a face, not exactly a displeased one but a somewhat impatient one, but took her pen anyway and made a quick scratchy jumble of lines on a spare piece of paper.
What the heck it was supposed to be, I had no clue.
"Hmm, I'm not sure if I can draw that very well," I muttered, trying to sound calm as I tried to recognize what on earth that bizarre, oblong shape was. "How about I draw a heart for you?"
She stared at me blankly, and I gently took the pen from her and drew a heartshape doodle on her purse. After a quick second, I handed her purse back and waited for her reaction.
Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she stared at my orange-colored creation. "Yes!" she cried. "This is perfect!"
And then she made me draw another heart with another color, I think it was green.
I don't know why I think this is worth writing and posting. It's just a fond memory I have right now, I suppose. Her pleasant satisfaction at my small doodle is quite heart-warming. It's nice to see that sometimes, if you get something that you didn't originally want, you can still end up happy and content. Because it might just surprise you and turn out even better than what you wanted in the first place.
We were working on some crafts, making rather clever, minimalist "purses" out of paper and string. Unfortunately, since I am, you know, too old, I couldn't make a purse for myself. Instead, I was stuck with cutting out the purses from sheets of paper and taping and stringing them into appropriate shapes.
What a pity.
I will admit, since I was young, I never did enjoy doing arts and crafts. Not very much, at least. All that stupid scissors-handling, the precise measuring, the finagling with sticky tape - so tedious. And whenever I'm rostered on for children's church, I always have to do these things, and be reminded of how much I hate them.
So anyway, I was busy snipping out bits of string to tie into the holes punched in the purses. And a girl whom I was taking care of, Kaitlyn, was sitting next to me and coloring her little purse.
She interrupted me suddenly, asking, "Can you help me draw a teirajlaef?"
A very important note to make: I volunteer to help take care of the younger children, ranging from toddlers to about 5-year-olds. Kaitlyn is about five (or maybe four, I forget). Now apparently, 5-year-olds are still quite lacking in their verbal abilities.
Rather strange to me. I'm pretty sure I was an eloquent poet the moment I jumped out of my mother's womb. I just leaped out into the doctor's arms and began reciting excerpts from Shakespeare, complete with theatrical arm movements.
Anyway, so Kaitlyn hadn't exactly said "teirajlaef" but she had said something completely incomprehensible to me. Luckily, I'm quite used to these situations by now, and so I patiently asked her what she wanted me to draw for her.
"A waurauea," she tried again.
Again, that was not exactly the sound she had made. Again, it had been completely incomprehensible.
"Can you try to doodle it out for me, and I'll try to draw it nicely for you?" I suggested, hoping that I'd get a better idea of what she wanted then.
She made a face, not exactly a displeased one but a somewhat impatient one, but took her pen anyway and made a quick scratchy jumble of lines on a spare piece of paper.
What the heck it was supposed to be, I had no clue.
"Hmm, I'm not sure if I can draw that very well," I muttered, trying to sound calm as I tried to recognize what on earth that bizarre, oblong shape was. "How about I draw a heart for you?"
She stared at me blankly, and I gently took the pen from her and drew a heartshape doodle on her purse. After a quick second, I handed her purse back and waited for her reaction.
Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she stared at my orange-colored creation. "Yes!" she cried. "This is perfect!"
And then she made me draw another heart with another color, I think it was green.
I don't know why I think this is worth writing and posting. It's just a fond memory I have right now, I suppose. Her pleasant satisfaction at my small doodle is quite heart-warming. It's nice to see that sometimes, if you get something that you didn't originally want, you can still end up happy and content. Because it might just surprise you and turn out even better than what you wanted in the first place.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Proverbs 14:10
I was reading the Bible aloud to my sister, and I came across this verse.
I admit that I haven't picked up and read the Bible of my own volition recently. Not for a long time, in fact.
But as I was perusing through it, it struck me that I had forgotten just how much I enjoy reading it. For me, the New Testament reigns over the Old, simply because Jesus is one awesome guy. No seriously, that's my reason. Reading the four Gospel books that begin the entire Testament is an old joy of mine, pouring through the biography of a man whose footsteps I desire to tread in.
But the highlight of tonight's reading session was not found in the New Testament. It was in Proverbs, one of those delightful books that I esteem above most others. Proverbs 14:10:
When I read that, I paused for a few moments to meditate on it, and then re-read it three times over. Its conciseness, its pithy wisdom, its almost fragmented structure, it all comes together into a single verse that is just so alarmingly beautiful to ruminate over.
Even though I flounder back and forth in my faith, toppling far over the edge at times -- even then there's something undeniably ataraxic about reading my favorite books in the Bible. Some parts of the Bible, I will admit, I find horrendously dull, or horrendously offensive. I cannot read the book of Jobs and come away feeling satisfied at the conclusion; the book drives me to confused distress.
A verse like this, however, is beautiful. In ways I cannot convey, it resonates with me. Even in print, it is mellifluent, it is calming, it is like the hum of angels barely audible over the din and clamor of life.
There are some verses, some passages, that anybody can read and enjoy and admire at its strident and poetic wisdom, religious or not. I suppose for many, this verse will have little effect and meaning for them. But for me, this is a stellar example of how a few words strung together can needle its way into my mind and click itself into the mainframe.
It is like that wonderful moment when you read some line or phrase in a book or an article that completely describes you or your feelings or your situation in ways that you could never even imagine.
The Bible is a thing of solemn beauty; that verse is a thing of quiet reflection. It is followed, a few verses after, by another one that I find resonance with:
So gorgeous.
I admit that I haven't picked up and read the Bible of my own volition recently. Not for a long time, in fact.
But as I was perusing through it, it struck me that I had forgotten just how much I enjoy reading it. For me, the New Testament reigns over the Old, simply because Jesus is one awesome guy. No seriously, that's my reason. Reading the four Gospel books that begin the entire Testament is an old joy of mine, pouring through the biography of a man whose footsteps I desire to tread in.
But the highlight of tonight's reading session was not found in the New Testament. It was in Proverbs, one of those delightful books that I esteem above most others. Proverbs 14:10:
Each heart knows its own bitterness,
and no one else can fully share its joy.
When I read that, I paused for a few moments to meditate on it, and then re-read it three times over. Its conciseness, its pithy wisdom, its almost fragmented structure, it all comes together into a single verse that is just so alarmingly beautiful to ruminate over.
Even though I flounder back and forth in my faith, toppling far over the edge at times -- even then there's something undeniably ataraxic about reading my favorite books in the Bible. Some parts of the Bible, I will admit, I find horrendously dull, or horrendously offensive. I cannot read the book of Jobs and come away feeling satisfied at the conclusion; the book drives me to confused distress.
A verse like this, however, is beautiful. In ways I cannot convey, it resonates with me. Even in print, it is mellifluent, it is calming, it is like the hum of angels barely audible over the din and clamor of life.
There are some verses, some passages, that anybody can read and enjoy and admire at its strident and poetic wisdom, religious or not. I suppose for many, this verse will have little effect and meaning for them. But for me, this is a stellar example of how a few words strung together can needle its way into my mind and click itself into the mainframe.
It is like that wonderful moment when you read some line or phrase in a book or an article that completely describes you or your feelings or your situation in ways that you could never even imagine.
The Bible is a thing of solemn beauty; that verse is a thing of quiet reflection. It is followed, a few verses after, by another one that I find resonance with:
Laughter can conceal a heavy heart,
but when the laughter ends, the grief remains.
So gorgeous.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
how to be happy
I've yet to figure this out.
Like some woodland creature in its native habitat, it's adept at eluding me. I will catch glimpses of it, I will hear the earth it shakes and the twigs it snaps, I will smell its breathy scent, and I will at times feel as though I am in fact touching it.
But moments like those fade in an instant, and I'm left staring at my palms blankly, so sure that I was holding something tangible only seconds earlier.
It's a wispy notion that I want to capture and drown in.
But for now, I've constructed a series of steps that I believe I can use to achieve this end-goal.
1) Wake up to beautiful things. Open my eyes, and whether it be through my window in the ceiling or the glassy screen of my iPad, see something beautiful (in looks, in spirit, in intention) to start my day.
2) For even just one minute, sit in silence and bask in the world of daydreams. No hindrance from people, music, chores, homework, loneliness.
3) Start things early to avoid stress. Last-minute panic is a magnificent source of adrenaline and productivity. And stress. Avoid.
4) Write. Anything. Everything. Happiness and sadness, fantastic and vulgar, realistic and painful, condense every thought into a series of words that somehow align themselves into a coherent sentence (despite how jumbled it feels in my head).
5) Think of the future, and realize that I have a place in them. Though I do not feel I belong in the present, I have the future to hope for. I may not belong now, but one day, I will find some niche that I can burrow in comfortably.
Solitude is a gift, and loneliness is grief.
6) Wonders abound! Go forth and look for them. North, south, east, and west. Go. Unrestrain yourself from the chains of fear and reality, and go.
7) Be healthy. Eat well, sleep well, and exercise well.
8) Move to a place where there is no winter.
9) Drink more water.
10) Be fantastic. In every shape and every form, be fantastic, and forget the confines of my earthly cage. Forget the looks and the thoughts of my peers, and realize that all I have is one shot to die, and I ought to make it worth it.
All these steps are meant to direct me towards an end-goal. Which, of course, means that I should understand what this end-goal is. This requires me to answer another question:
what does it mean to be happy?
I have yet to figure this out too.
Like some woodland creature in its native habitat, it's adept at eluding me. I will catch glimpses of it, I will hear the earth it shakes and the twigs it snaps, I will smell its breathy scent, and I will at times feel as though I am in fact touching it.
But moments like those fade in an instant, and I'm left staring at my palms blankly, so sure that I was holding something tangible only seconds earlier.
It's a wispy notion that I want to capture and drown in.
But for now, I've constructed a series of steps that I believe I can use to achieve this end-goal.
1) Wake up to beautiful things. Open my eyes, and whether it be through my window in the ceiling or the glassy screen of my iPad, see something beautiful (in looks, in spirit, in intention) to start my day.
2) For even just one minute, sit in silence and bask in the world of daydreams. No hindrance from people, music, chores, homework, loneliness.
3) Start things early to avoid stress. Last-minute panic is a magnificent source of adrenaline and productivity. And stress. Avoid.
4) Write. Anything. Everything. Happiness and sadness, fantastic and vulgar, realistic and painful, condense every thought into a series of words that somehow align themselves into a coherent sentence (despite how jumbled it feels in my head).
5) Think of the future, and realize that I have a place in them. Though I do not feel I belong in the present, I have the future to hope for. I may not belong now, but one day, I will find some niche that I can burrow in comfortably.
Solitude is a gift, and loneliness is grief.
6) Wonders abound! Go forth and look for them. North, south, east, and west. Go. Unrestrain yourself from the chains of fear and reality, and go.
7) Be healthy. Eat well, sleep well, and exercise well.
8) Move to a place where there is no winter.
9) Drink more water.
10) Be fantastic. In every shape and every form, be fantastic, and forget the confines of my earthly cage. Forget the looks and the thoughts of my peers, and realize that all I have is one shot to die, and I ought to make it worth it.
All these steps are meant to direct me towards an end-goal. Which, of course, means that I should understand what this end-goal is. This requires me to answer another question:
what does it mean to be happy?
I have yet to figure this out too.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
text messages
I've finally done something I've been meaning to for a long time; I can strike through one little task on my woefully long to-do list.
I've finished backing up all the texts on my old phone.
I probably should expand a little more on this, so that nobody reading this will scratch their head over why this is supposedly a significant task for me.
I'm currently wielding an iPhone 3G, a third-hand device that passed through the possession of my father and then my mother before landing in my grubby little claws. But before this, I used a Sony Ericsson W810i. It's a swanky white model, small and easy to use, and even though I've retired it for almost two years now, it's still dear to me. I used it from when I moved to Australia up until I graduated from high school.
It was and is precious to me. I'd load it up with songs, and hide away at school, relying on it to entertain me when I had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Whenever I was in an awkward situation, I'd pull it out and pretend to be busy texting somebody. Due to my incessant international texting, I used to rack up impressive phone bills that led to a lot of lecturing from my mother.
It was on this phone that I sent and received an array of messages to and from Vern. These were texts that I had stored in there all these years. All others unrelated, I've already deleted long ago. But his still remain, and all others related to him.
And I've been meaning to back them up to my laptop, to provide a safe archive for me to save and trawl through one day, in case this phone ever dies. That was one fear I had inside of me. What if I lost all those texts? Two weeks of short, constrained messages full of short-hands and slang and misspellings. What if I lost them? I couldn't let that happen. So I scribbled down on my to-do list: "Backup smses on old phone."
And I delayed. For various reasons (no time! can't find my old phone right now! where did that transfer cable go? i don't know what program to use!), I stalled.
A part of me was too afraid to tuck away my iPhone, grab my old phone and switch it on, flick through the inbox, and read through the past treasures stored in there.
I used to do that a lot. After Vern passed away, for the many months that followed, I read and reread all that we wrote to each other. It was easy. I was still using that white phone during then, and so I had constant access to those messages at any time I wanted. And it both beautified and haunted my day, reading those glorious memories again and again, when I felt sad or happy or lonely or content.
When I traded that phone for the iPhone, about half a year after Vern's death, that changed. The white phone became Pandora's box. Once I open it, I'd unleash a torrent of poisonous feelings - not into the world, but into myself.
Since it was no longer my main phone of usage, it was easy to ignore it. Accessing the messages no longer held the factor of convenience. I tucked it away in a drawer, safely and snugly, promising myself to Back Up My Shit one day. One day.
One day turned into a few months, which spiraled into almost two years, and here I am.
I found a program, I set up all the drivers, and I plugged in my phone. For a split second, I was worried that it wouldn't start up. That age and disuse might've led to its death, and the screen would remain black, and those messages would be lost forever. But the screen blinked, and my paranoia faded.
I archived them in my laptop. The originals still remain on the phone, but now there's a copy existing in my laptop. I can't explain just how relieved I feel. Not only have I crossed this off my list and shook off the burden of thought, I know have some sort of safety vault for these short memories.
I think I must sound a bit stupid. I can't really explain how this is significant or important to me, I guess. But it is.
Actually, the backing up process had a slight hitch in it. It's a bit convoluted to explain, but well, I discovered that one of the messages he had sent me was missing. The very first message he had sent me, in fact, which makes it doubly important and darling.
You see, because I was and am a clumsy idiot, I had somehow saved that very first message to the sim card, and my phone being the bizarre little creation it is, no longer kept a copy of it on the phone. It only existed on the sim card.
But when I got my iPhone, I had swapped sim cards.
And so I panicked. Well, one part of me panicked, the other filled with quiet, hopeless dread and acceptance.
"It's only one text," the latter part tried to assuage my frantic half.
But one text is more than enough. I had to somehow get it back - but did I even have the sim card any more? I couldn't remember throwing it away, but then, it's just a sim card. Who the hell remembers whether they've thrown away their old sim card or not? And my room is a disorganized jungle of old cables and piles of paper; how would I ever find it again?
So I settled, and preemptively gave up. There was little point in searching for a lost cause. And after all, it was only one text. Only one.
But you know what was the worst feeling at that moment?
It was that I couldn't remember what that text was. I couldn't remember what it said. It was the very first message he had sent me, and I couldn't remember a word of it. What was it about? I felt miserable as I realized this. I could recall a few of the other texts he had sent me, some of the more clever and cute ones he had written to me.
But this one, the very first one he sent to me, the one that started our ongoing conversations - it was blank in my mind. The chunk of my brain that stored it no longer functioned, or at least it refused to disclose any information.
It might've been really important. Or really cute. Or really sweet. I couldn't remember. And I needed to remember. I didn't want to lose it. I needed to recapture it and reenter it into my brain.
I had to find it.
So some sort of hopeless determination funneled its way into my heart, and I began to look for the sim card. I dug through my room, rummaged through every box of cables and technological doodad that I possessed, emptied every drawer and rifled through every bag. And I couldn't find it.
It was gone.
That one piece of memory of him was gone. Forever, because I had been too stupid and too slow in backing it up.
Some quiet sort of misery simmered in me. I hadn't been expecting to find it, so I wasn't exactly outraged, but having it confirmed that I'd never get back that one text was a blow to the heart.
So I sat down amidst the mess I had created in my room from my scavenger hunt.
And then I saw it. It was in a drawer I had pulled open, hidden within a mass of cables. But it stood out, white among black, and I could see the yellow emblem on it that declared it to be an Optus sim card, my old sim card. For a second, I wondered at how I could've missed it in my earlier search. But then I didn't care. I had found it! I had it again. It was mine, that one piece of memory was mine again.
So I slid it into my phone and started it up. I wanted to see what he had written. What was the first message he had ever sent me?
My phone screen flickered to life, and after a few seconds of loading, I navigated my way to the saved messages inbox. And there it was.
Vern
"Yuan yuan ?"
And then I remembered it. I remembered reading that text. I remembered receiving it late at night, hearing my phone sound its little ditty indicating that I had a new message, and wondering who on earth would be texting me. And then I saw that message, and even though I didn't have his number then and so the sender's number was meaningless to me, I knew it was him. He called me that, a petname formed from my Chinese name, one that I adored. Not many people call me that, only my parents do. For some reason he also did, and it was sweet.
And then I switched over to the sent messages outbox to see what I had replied to that. I was very eloquent.
"OMG! Vern! <3"
That's Pulitzer Prize-winning shit right there.
It didn't properly convey my glee though. I was bubbling over with a very loud type of pride and joy, and all I could manage was an "OMG" and a heart. But still, I think in the later messages I sent him, I expressed my happiness a little bit better.
---
Reading through the messages he sent me, all of them, I get a little teary-eyed. He was splendid. Within the confines of 160 characters, he was adorable and sweet. With a near blasphemous amount of exclamation marks, smileys, and spelling errors, he was amazing.
Re-reading the messages and reliving the memories attached to them, it's very clear to me that I've lost someone incredible by every measure.
I don't think I could ever again meet someone as perfect as him again.
He was a deeply flawed creature. But he was perfect for me. He was perfect for the time, for my age, for my situation, for myself. I needed someone sweet and brilliant and strange, and I got him.
---
Three things about his messages that I want to make especial mention of:
1) His overuse of smileys of every kind was very adorable and very effecting.
2) He had an array of petnames for me, from Yuan Yuan to "silly =P", from Meatball (a stupid play on my Chinese name that I didn't really like when others said it, but didn't mind when it was him using it because it sounded oddly cute from him) to "my favorite girl."
3) The generous amount of hugs he'd unleash on me through text. I think this is my favorite thing about these texts. It's as if every other one of them had the word typed out at least once.
Though every single one of these messages are precious to me (I sound like a parent), there's one in particular I cherish and love above all others (a very bad parent).
There's a bit of backstory and context to this one text. But there's no way that I can retell it without having it lose a lot of its meaning and potency. So I won't share the context, because once it loses just a little of its essence, it falls utterly flat. But just know that it was a highlight for me, a secret success that I prided myself on, and his response to it was one that injected lethal amounts of light-headed glee into me.
His response, my favorite text message above all others, with all its juvenile text-speak conventions and irrevocably sweet loveliness:
Vern
28/05/2009 11:53AM
!! Omgg !! I wanna hug u so bad now D= look who's the sweet one noww~ miss u miss u misss youuuu ! Hughughug*
I've finished backing up all the texts on my old phone.
I probably should expand a little more on this, so that nobody reading this will scratch their head over why this is supposedly a significant task for me.
I'm currently wielding an iPhone 3G, a third-hand device that passed through the possession of my father and then my mother before landing in my grubby little claws. But before this, I used a Sony Ericsson W810i. It's a swanky white model, small and easy to use, and even though I've retired it for almost two years now, it's still dear to me. I used it from when I moved to Australia up until I graduated from high school.
It was and is precious to me. I'd load it up with songs, and hide away at school, relying on it to entertain me when I had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Whenever I was in an awkward situation, I'd pull it out and pretend to be busy texting somebody. Due to my incessant international texting, I used to rack up impressive phone bills that led to a lot of lecturing from my mother.
It was on this phone that I sent and received an array of messages to and from Vern. These were texts that I had stored in there all these years. All others unrelated, I've already deleted long ago. But his still remain, and all others related to him.
And I've been meaning to back them up to my laptop, to provide a safe archive for me to save and trawl through one day, in case this phone ever dies. That was one fear I had inside of me. What if I lost all those texts? Two weeks of short, constrained messages full of short-hands and slang and misspellings. What if I lost them? I couldn't let that happen. So I scribbled down on my to-do list: "Backup smses on old phone."
And I delayed. For various reasons (no time! can't find my old phone right now! where did that transfer cable go? i don't know what program to use!), I stalled.
A part of me was too afraid to tuck away my iPhone, grab my old phone and switch it on, flick through the inbox, and read through the past treasures stored in there.
I used to do that a lot. After Vern passed away, for the many months that followed, I read and reread all that we wrote to each other. It was easy. I was still using that white phone during then, and so I had constant access to those messages at any time I wanted. And it both beautified and haunted my day, reading those glorious memories again and again, when I felt sad or happy or lonely or content.
When I traded that phone for the iPhone, about half a year after Vern's death, that changed. The white phone became Pandora's box. Once I open it, I'd unleash a torrent of poisonous feelings - not into the world, but into myself.
Since it was no longer my main phone of usage, it was easy to ignore it. Accessing the messages no longer held the factor of convenience. I tucked it away in a drawer, safely and snugly, promising myself to Back Up My Shit one day. One day.
One day turned into a few months, which spiraled into almost two years, and here I am.
I found a program, I set up all the drivers, and I plugged in my phone. For a split second, I was worried that it wouldn't start up. That age and disuse might've led to its death, and the screen would remain black, and those messages would be lost forever. But the screen blinked, and my paranoia faded.
I archived them in my laptop. The originals still remain on the phone, but now there's a copy existing in my laptop. I can't explain just how relieved I feel. Not only have I crossed this off my list and shook off the burden of thought, I know have some sort of safety vault for these short memories.
I think I must sound a bit stupid. I can't really explain how this is significant or important to me, I guess. But it is.
Actually, the backing up process had a slight hitch in it. It's a bit convoluted to explain, but well, I discovered that one of the messages he had sent me was missing. The very first message he had sent me, in fact, which makes it doubly important and darling.
You see, because I was and am a clumsy idiot, I had somehow saved that very first message to the sim card, and my phone being the bizarre little creation it is, no longer kept a copy of it on the phone. It only existed on the sim card.
But when I got my iPhone, I had swapped sim cards.
And so I panicked. Well, one part of me panicked, the other filled with quiet, hopeless dread and acceptance.
"It's only one text," the latter part tried to assuage my frantic half.
But one text is more than enough. I had to somehow get it back - but did I even have the sim card any more? I couldn't remember throwing it away, but then, it's just a sim card. Who the hell remembers whether they've thrown away their old sim card or not? And my room is a disorganized jungle of old cables and piles of paper; how would I ever find it again?
So I settled, and preemptively gave up. There was little point in searching for a lost cause. And after all, it was only one text. Only one.
But you know what was the worst feeling at that moment?
It was that I couldn't remember what that text was. I couldn't remember what it said. It was the very first message he had sent me, and I couldn't remember a word of it. What was it about? I felt miserable as I realized this. I could recall a few of the other texts he had sent me, some of the more clever and cute ones he had written to me.
But this one, the very first one he sent to me, the one that started our ongoing conversations - it was blank in my mind. The chunk of my brain that stored it no longer functioned, or at least it refused to disclose any information.
It might've been really important. Or really cute. Or really sweet. I couldn't remember. And I needed to remember. I didn't want to lose it. I needed to recapture it and reenter it into my brain.
I had to find it.
So some sort of hopeless determination funneled its way into my heart, and I began to look for the sim card. I dug through my room, rummaged through every box of cables and technological doodad that I possessed, emptied every drawer and rifled through every bag. And I couldn't find it.
It was gone.
That one piece of memory of him was gone. Forever, because I had been too stupid and too slow in backing it up.
Some quiet sort of misery simmered in me. I hadn't been expecting to find it, so I wasn't exactly outraged, but having it confirmed that I'd never get back that one text was a blow to the heart.
So I sat down amidst the mess I had created in my room from my scavenger hunt.
And then I saw it. It was in a drawer I had pulled open, hidden within a mass of cables. But it stood out, white among black, and I could see the yellow emblem on it that declared it to be an Optus sim card, my old sim card. For a second, I wondered at how I could've missed it in my earlier search. But then I didn't care. I had found it! I had it again. It was mine, that one piece of memory was mine again.
So I slid it into my phone and started it up. I wanted to see what he had written. What was the first message he had ever sent me?
My phone screen flickered to life, and after a few seconds of loading, I navigated my way to the saved messages inbox. And there it was.
Vern
"Yuan yuan ?"
And then I remembered it. I remembered reading that text. I remembered receiving it late at night, hearing my phone sound its little ditty indicating that I had a new message, and wondering who on earth would be texting me. And then I saw that message, and even though I didn't have his number then and so the sender's number was meaningless to me, I knew it was him. He called me that, a petname formed from my Chinese name, one that I adored. Not many people call me that, only my parents do. For some reason he also did, and it was sweet.
And then I switched over to the sent messages outbox to see what I had replied to that. I was very eloquent.
"OMG! Vern! <3"
That's Pulitzer Prize-winning shit right there.
It didn't properly convey my glee though. I was bubbling over with a very loud type of pride and joy, and all I could manage was an "OMG" and a heart. But still, I think in the later messages I sent him, I expressed my happiness a little bit better.
---
Reading through the messages he sent me, all of them, I get a little teary-eyed. He was splendid. Within the confines of 160 characters, he was adorable and sweet. With a near blasphemous amount of exclamation marks, smileys, and spelling errors, he was amazing.
Re-reading the messages and reliving the memories attached to them, it's very clear to me that I've lost someone incredible by every measure.
I don't think I could ever again meet someone as perfect as him again.
He was a deeply flawed creature. But he was perfect for me. He was perfect for the time, for my age, for my situation, for myself. I needed someone sweet and brilliant and strange, and I got him.
---
Three things about his messages that I want to make especial mention of:
1) His overuse of smileys of every kind was very adorable and very effecting.
2) He had an array of petnames for me, from Yuan Yuan to "silly =P", from Meatball (a stupid play on my Chinese name that I didn't really like when others said it, but didn't mind when it was him using it because it sounded oddly cute from him) to "my favorite girl."
3) The generous amount of hugs he'd unleash on me through text. I think this is my favorite thing about these texts. It's as if every other one of them had the word typed out at least once.
Though every single one of these messages are precious to me (I sound like a parent), there's one in particular I cherish and love above all others (a very bad parent).
There's a bit of backstory and context to this one text. But there's no way that I can retell it without having it lose a lot of its meaning and potency. So I won't share the context, because once it loses just a little of its essence, it falls utterly flat. But just know that it was a highlight for me, a secret success that I prided myself on, and his response to it was one that injected lethal amounts of light-headed glee into me.
His response, my favorite text message above all others, with all its juvenile text-speak conventions and irrevocably sweet loveliness:
Vern
28/05/2009 11:53AM
!! Omgg !! I wanna hug u so bad now D= look who's the sweet one noww~ miss u miss u misss youuuu ! Hughughug*
Monday, May 30, 2011
You'd think that these kind of thoughts would eventually leave, and maybe for a normal person they do, but they're still hiding in the crevices inside my skull, lurking underneath the cobwebs and tunnels until one day springing up and slapping me in the face.
I don't know how people accept death and loss. I think it's impossible. I think what actually happens is that they forget. I'm forgetting. I cry less often now, but not because I've accepted what happened, but because of my own blessed memory deficit that doesn't remind me of what happened often enough to warrant me crying every day. Because those few still working neurons that are wriggling around in my head will sometimes by sheer miraculous chance meet, and the sparks of my memory starts flowing through, and goddamn, I remember everything, and I start to cry again and feel like that miserable day when I heard the news and holed myself up in the bathroom to cry for hours.
As time goes by and my brain tumbles down into ruins and my memory follows suit and drills itself into uselessness, it gets easier and easier to forget, and I don't cry as much, but what's the point of that if I'm left an idiot.
I am a goddamn mess. For today, I am a goddamn mess. I'll clean up my act by tomorrow. And then I won't be a goddamn mess, and I'll be the goddamn infinitely awesome me who's going to stay at home all day and study, because that's all I know how to do and nothing else.
I am done.
I don't know how people accept death and loss. I think it's impossible. I think what actually happens is that they forget. I'm forgetting. I cry less often now, but not because I've accepted what happened, but because of my own blessed memory deficit that doesn't remind me of what happened often enough to warrant me crying every day. Because those few still working neurons that are wriggling around in my head will sometimes by sheer miraculous chance meet, and the sparks of my memory starts flowing through, and goddamn, I remember everything, and I start to cry again and feel like that miserable day when I heard the news and holed myself up in the bathroom to cry for hours.
As time goes by and my brain tumbles down into ruins and my memory follows suit and drills itself into uselessness, it gets easier and easier to forget, and I don't cry as much, but what's the point of that if I'm left an idiot.
I am a goddamn mess. For today, I am a goddamn mess. I'll clean up my act by tomorrow. And then I won't be a goddamn mess, and I'll be the goddamn infinitely awesome me who's going to stay at home all day and study, because that's all I know how to do and nothing else.
I am done.
Friday, December 24, 2010
This is an update, a meaningless one, because I have nothing to say. I'm only writing this post because...I want to assure myself that this blog is still alive (though in a vegetative state).
So. This blog is still alive!
As I have spoken, so shall it become.
To the 0.5 people remaining who still peruse this blog: sweet child, you long-suffering saint, your patience and persistence shall be sung of for many centuries.
I don't update because I have nothing to say, much like this blog post. I should try to add something of interest to this pitiful chunk of writing.
At dinner, my mother checked something with my father, "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, right?"
I sat there stunned. WHAT? IT'S GOING TO BE CHRISTMAS ALREADY???? BUT...BUT...WHAT!
My mental calendar lies to me, telling me that we're still only in the middle of December. Stupid brain, so useless.
As usual, my family won't really be doing anything for Christmas. It's not a holiday we celebrate in particular. The last time we exchanged presents (to be honest, it was more like my parents giving me and Rachel gifts, and the both of us just being happy and greedy) was...many, many years ago. I can't even remember when. I might've been 11? That's just a random figure I'm guessing. I might've been even younger.
My father will still work on Christmas day - Taiwan really does not celebrate Christmas evidently. They hang up sparkly lights around the city, and have reindeers and costumed Santas everywhere, but they do not really celebrate it.
I should write a post on Taiwan. Why not, eh? And maybe I'll even add pictures!
Oh my, I'm going too far now. Pictures! *shudders*
A series of dotpoints describing random things:
- Am working on my letters to Soph and Vonn. I fear that my letters to them will evolve into tome-sized chunks of paper that'll take them months to read.
- Have nothing to do in Taiwan. This is both good and bad.
- Will hopefully be purchasing a piano with my father - an electronic one, or a keyboard. Whichever. I need something to clack away on, and my father wants to learn the piano (finally, after all these years of inertia, he might venture forth and do what he's always dreamt of doing - playing the piano. Actually, the piano and my father is an interesting topic. I should write a blog post on that.)
- Has vertigo. The doctor gave me pills for that. Now I'm a dizzy drugged up girl. Awesome.
- Enjoyed my time in Malaysia very, very much. I will probably (not) write this up in more detail later. Another blog post! Oh my, I'm going way too far now.
But at least I have a few topics planned now. Given my track record, I'll never actually write them. But it's nice to have plans (that you know will fail).
Back to dotpoints!
- It's really nice having my whole family together again. My sister arrived last night in Taipei, and now my family's all being fat and lazy with each other. I love it.
- I RODE MY BIKE YESTERDAY, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN NEARLY A YEAR! I FEEL ALIVE! I FEEL...sore. So very, very sore. I rode for a long time. Two hours with my father around the quieter streets of Taipei, and then one later by myself, with my father sitting nearby, playing Sudoku on my phone. (I should write an entire blogpost about my father. It'll be quite nice, I think.) So yes, my bum aches, along with other unmentionable parts of my body.
This blogpost is entirely too sober and unhyper. Really, reading this, I make myself feel like a downer. Not enough capitals. Needs more smiley faces. Boo!
Maybe I should take some more of my vertigo pills to incite some awesomeness. @____@
Anyway! Assuming in the likely case that I do not update this blog for a long while more: Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!
(This post will look so stupid if I actually do update within the next week.
...
Ahahahahaha, that's not going to happen.)
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
a condensed slideshow of thoughts.
I woke up today feeling like a swarm of bees was buzzing around my head. It was that lightheaded, bleary dizziness that accompanied my morning ritual. Some mornings, you just wake up, and you already know that you want to punch yourself unconscious so that you don't have to go through with the day. Today was one of those days.
Given the (awesome) flexibility of university though, I could easily skip my classes, stay home and sleep away the bees. But no, I had a Chinese test today. So after a few minutes of swearing and complaining to TumTum, my ever loyal companion, I got out of the bed and got ready.
My day did not get better. I burnt my hand while pouring hot water from a kettle, my fringe was rebelling against my mighty comb, I missed my bus by a scant few seconds (few things are more frustrating than seeing your designated bus drive past you), and was stuck waiting in the rain for the next one to arrive, all the while anxious about whether I was going to be late for my test.
As a side note, when the next bus did arrive, I was pleasantly surprised to recognize the driver. I knew him from a previous bus ride of mine, and I like him very much. The first time I saw him, I was going back home from university, rushing with a crowd of others towards the bus. He quickly shouted us in, and was perfectly aghast at how full the bus was, and how slow we were at entering it. "The Great Lord Jesus will have His second coming before I get to drive this bus again," he cried out, laughing. A witty, humorous bus driver is always nice. From all my commutes to and fro university, I've seen far too many disgruntled, aggressive drivers. Understandably, they are irritated and impatient, but it's when they start yelling at passengers that I start disliking them.
Now, anyway, I spent my bus ride cramming for my Chinese test, air-scribbling down the characters, trying to jam as many strokes as I could into my memory. Then halfway through my bus ride, somewhere in between the Oakleigh and Westminster stops, I got an sms.
"PITIFUL HUMAN, WHO DARES DISTURB MY CRITICAL LAST-MINUTE CRAMMING?" I ever so mercifully thought.
It turns out that it was my mother who dared.
"I love you.
Take care."
That was what she sent me.
And then I felt both miserable and that my day had just been made. The latter because, simply put, nothing is more heartwarming than receiving an unexpected "I love you". The former because, again simply put, I miss my mother.
It's been a little more than a week since she left. My sister and I are perfectly fine: we cook, we clean, we rock and roll, we shop, etc. The house is fine. Perhaps a little bit more disorganized without a mother to run around tending to the minor details, but fine, given that the both of us are busy and with little time to spare for cleaning.
Food isn't so much of an issue, since Rachel is a good cook, and I'm a good assistant (yes, guys, I actually do help with the cooking, and yes, the kitchen is fine and undamaged). We're creative and we plan ahead, and we take after Mom by buying a crapton of snacks, so we're never really hungry. The only problem I have with cooking is when I have to cut onions. Those demented tear gas spirits, burn in hell.
And there are benefits of Mom not being around. For one thing, I'm not pestered about my studies. I don't study any more than I did when Mom was here, but I don't study any less. I'm fine with my studies. Of course, there's always more room for extra diligence, but what the hell, it's the first year of university, who exactly is extra diligent?
Another benefit is that I (as expected) feel more freedom. It's not much, nothing drastic, no explosion of overwhelming freedom. I've never been one for going out much or parties, etc., so I don't feel any increased freedom in that area. It's the more subtle aspects that I revel my newfound state in. Not being chased after for sleeping late. Not being chased after for waking up late. Not being scolded for my messy room (note to self: declutter tonight). Not being chased away from the piano because my mom wants to watch one of her sappy Chinese dramas (she's moved from violent to sappy dramas now).
So yes. I'm not exactly suffering from the depths of despair at my mother leaving.
I do feel quite miserable though. At times, when I think about it. As you'd expect, I miss her a lot. Just as I enjoy the subtle details of freedom, so do I miss the subtle joys that departed with my mother. Having a hot dinner already prepared when I come home from a rainy, tiring day. Being made a cup of hot tea, unrequested, when I stay up late burning the midnight oil for an assignment. Being driven to the bus stop on the days where I'm running late. Being asked to try on this new pair of jeans she found on discount and bought for me. Entering my room, and seeing all my books and papers placed neatly in a single pile for me to sort through later, a huge improvement from the previous jumbled mess it was in. Not having to cut onions myself.
Demented tear gas spirits.
I miss my mother. I miss my mother very much.
For the months prior her leaving, I had already been gearing up. Thinking of the various situations that I'd encounter in her absence (they've yet to happen; it's not very often Japanese ninjas break into your house, I suppose), reading and collecting various housekeeping techniques and quick cleaning tips, jotting down the odd recipe that she shared with me into my ubiquitous capture repository. And then, the vital preparatory step I undertook: hugging her every day before I left for university. The first week of university, it felt natural just to hug her, because I felt (and was) like a child being sent off to her first day of school. So I hugged her goodbye on my first day, and sprinted off to the bus stop. Weeks went by, as did months, and the pattern was set. Every day, at the front door of our house, I'd hug her goodbye, she'd tell me to look at both sides of the road (I know, Mom, I know), and then I'd rush out the gate. Some days, I forgot to hug her, or I was already running really late for the bus, or she was in the bathroom, so I skipped the hugging streak then. But I always tried to keep up with it, and it wasn't very hard to.
The first few times I hugged her, it was more of a "wish me luck, I'm a big girl now, whee, university, whee" act. Once university was no longer a new, exciting world to explore (it still is, but I guess the rainy waits at the bus stop dampens my spirit a bit), the hugging sprint became just a way for me to tell Mom that I loved her, and that I'll be home in a few hours, and that I'd miss her when she leaves.
She'll come back in a few weeks though. Either before my exams (about one-two weeks time), or in July. Either way, it's completely up to her, I suppose. I'm okay with either. As long as she comes back.
Moving on to other points of interest:
- Good Lord, the Chinese test was not easy. I'm not too concerned about it, to be honest, because it only accounts for 7.5% of the final mark, and I've gotten nearly full marks in every other assessment, so I can afford to lose a few here. I'm sure I passed, at the very least, so that consoles me. It was the grammar questions that tripped me up: asking me whether adverbials followed or preceded nouns or verbs, were attributives noun and adjective or verb and adjective related, is it appropriate to use the confirmation interrogative in this situation, blah blah blah reduplication of verbs blah blah blah pandas. STOP COMPLICATING MY BEAUTIFUL LANGUAGE WITH YOUR LITERAL JARGON! But yes, I did well enough in the translation and comprehension questions. Just the grammar questions, they can go get plowed over by a Chinese farmer. Not going to lie, I was very relieved when I exited the hall and heard the other students saying, "What the fajita* is an adverbial?"
- I keep forgetting to replenish my wallet with more money. I'm currently sitting on only a couple of coins, like a beggar waiting for people to fund his alcohol addiction.
- I really very much love university. It's like a fresh spring breeze after the frigid hellhole of high school. I love the flexibility, the environment, the BIGNESS, the way I feel like there's untapped potential hidden in every corner, waiting to be lured out and fostered into a magnificent being, the way I feel so much more in control of things, the way I feel productive and like I'm learning things that I both want to and need to. Yes, even accounting, despite my hatred for it, I recognize its usefulness and purpose. The only thing I hate about university: travelling there.
- I've been playing the piano a lot, and I'd like to say that I've improved a bit, but who knows. I feel like I understand music a bit more, if that makes any sense. The layers and the intricacies are unveiling themselves to me. It's a lot more fun and meaningful, to say the least.
- I've also been writing a lot. Well, not for the past few days, since Mom left, and I have to juggle between cooking and cleaning and studying, but I have been churning out some pieces, at least. Not very good ones, but some writing is better than none.
- For the past few weeks, I have been feeling glum, and this Sunday, May 30th, it shall spill over into a candlelit moment of remembrance and grief.
So here I am, in the Matheson Library at Monash, with ceiling-high bookshelves standing around me as compadres, with books from "The Whole Story" to "The Index and Abstract Directory" (of what, it does not say, and now I am curious, but this tome is far too large and heavy for me to bother pulling out) crowding around me. And I sit here, finally updating my blog with, of course, a blogpost far too long for its own good.
I sit here, and miss the various people who I love so much.
*word substituted because I am a stick in the mud and don't like swearing.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
a broken chord
I am going to update this blog, or die trying. I cannot for the life of me figure out what to write, but I will persist, and find something worth writing. Words and thoughts seem have to come to a standstill, yet fingers still type on endlessly, fruitlessly - when will something valuable come out?
A waste of effort for the moment will soon stir forth a pot of golden thoughts.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
drunken insomnia
I remind myself now: victories occur in small steps. Small little things are happening to me, and I must be ready to either accept them or challenge them! Next Monday, my results are released. My honest, genuine feelings are these: doubt, fear, anxiety, and...hmm...it is endless.
But now! I will adopt the following thoughts, reciting them until they become true: cheerfulness, perseverance, determination, optimism, and unbreakable willpower.
Sometimes it's a little hard to change your thoughts from pessimism to optimism. And I guess I don't know the secret to it either. But maybe, maybe, maybe the secret is to get drunk. Drunk in spirit, not in fact. Drink in all of what you desire to be: happy, outgoing, cheerful, determined. Find whatever feeds that spirit of whatever you desire, and drink it so much that you are at ease with it. Don't drink too much, otherwise you'll have a hangover, and you'll regret it. Regret is something you must now throw away, if you want to change, or simply, if you want to live a life of happiness. Drink in moderation and with regularity, so that you neither overdose nor starve yourself of your required alcohol.
I drank a little bit of alcohol a few days ago, and again during my stay in Malaysia. In Malaysia, it was red wine that came with a dinner set. A few days ago, my family went to a whiskey brewery, and there, the staff gave me a glass of whiskey, mistakenly thinking that I was over 18.
I hate alcohol. It is disgusting. How do you drink it? It stings your tongue, burns its way down your throat, and leaves you with a buzzing feeling, like something's not quite right and you need to fix it but you don't know how.
I think - maybe - once drunk, I will become one of those bitter, moaning, depressed people who gaze into the bottom of their glass, hating the universe and the stars. I don't plan to find out if I am that sort of drunk - not yet, not soon.
Oh! And I drank with my parent's permission (encouragement, actually), so don't worry! I am not a naughty law-breaking girl. They were actually telling me, "Have a taste," "Go try some," "You need to try some alcohol."
What is this...this...behavior...of encouraging wrong things?
Several habits I am trying to become drunk with:
- reading the Bible everyday. My mother has given me a bilingual Bible recently, with a Chinese and English side. She's been encouraging me to read it everyday, the way she does, and I will do it from now on.
- sleeping before 2AM. So far, not so good, but I will keep trying somehow. Soph! Stop making me stay up late. (I love you, rawr)
- exercising every day, in some form or other. Currently, I've taken to just walking in the streets, because it's a simple sort of exercise. Otherwise, I'll ride my bike with my father. (The butt pains are unbearable, however) Also, I'm trying to restart my daily habit of doing sit-ups. The flab that is my unfabulous stomach must go away
- eating more veggies - because I need my hair to grow fast
- writing more, in any form
- keeping a clean room - a clean room is a clean canvas
- enjoying the little things around me. Living in a city, it's hard to enjoy things on the street. I do, I honestly do, but it's hard sometimes. Like walking in a street, I will often look in awe at the skyscrapers, or at the hawker stores full of people working hard for their keep. But it's never possible to look at them long - somehow, a car will horn at you, or a motorcycle will nearly mow you over. To enjoy little things in a city is a dangerous thing to do.
- be less useless. This is an all-encompassing promise to myself, really. It's difficult to summarize this in a single paragraph, but I will try. I define 'useless' as 'being unable to please oneself and others in a certain shape or form'. That definition is, frankly, useless. Sorry. But often, I will look at my own life, and I will become unhappy. Not because I have regrets or I am jealous of others. But looking at myself, I realize that I have the potential to be so much more, but I have yet to fulfill that potential. Right now, I am a "could-be" girl, not a "is now" person. Becoming a "is now" person is a lifelong process, I realize and whole-heartedly accept eagerly, so that's why I want to start as early as possible.
- maintain and increase my depth of thought. I refuse to become a shallow thinker, concerned about my own existence in my own world only. I'm at an age where I am capable of planting the seeds of wisdom in my life now, and I want to see them grow as I age, so that one day, they may be harvested for a greater purpose.
Habits are, for me, difficult to form. I can continue my old habits very well - sleeping late, waking up late, being a picky eater, not cleaning my room, always being lazy, wasting time, hunching a lot. But new habits are near impossible to develop.
That is why I've now decided to become an alcoholic, and become drunk in my habits until they've become like my old habits: impossible to break.
Oh, but please pray that I do break those old habits above. They're very bad. I need a better sleeping schedule, and I need to have a nice posture. I always look at pictures of myself and think, "Is my hunch really that bad?" I never really know, because I don't look in mirrors often, so seeing my hunch in pictures is always very shocking. Maybe I should find a mirror and sit near it so I can check myself often. I am trying to stand up straight, but my spine tends to ache after staying in a good posture for a while.
Now! Let's drink and be happy. If today we fail, there is always tomorrow. If tomorrow we fail, there's always forever. Today, at this time, 2:18AM, when I cannot sleep because I am of bad habits, I promise to become drunk so that I may become a better person.
Let's hope I will be a happy drunk. ^_^
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
6209 days and counting
Happy birthday, Vern!
Well, in about half an hour, it'll be your birthday. I'm just preempting you, as usual.
I've been gearing up towards this day, mentally and emotionally. And now, I can spend it with you.
In an earlier draft of this post, I had written that I wished that we could spend tomorrow together, but now I realize - yes, we can.
In a way though, I am jealous of everyone back in Malaysia. They can celebrate together, and give you a celebration that you deserve - full of people and happiness. Our celebration will be a lot quieter and lonelier. But I refuse to think that I'm celebrating it on my own, alone. You're here, with me.
I remember that year when you bought me a bottle of Pepsi Twist for my birthday, and I bought you a bottle of Sprite for yours. Massive bottles, the type you buy to share with your friends. I kept my Pepsi Twist untouched for a long time, more than a month. It sat on a shelf above my desk, like something sacred on a pedestal. My mother kept looking at me oddly for that period of time, asking when can we finally drink it. 'Never!' I'd mentally answer. It's just part of my bizarre packrat habits, where anything precious is stored away forever.
And then on the night of your birthday, I asked where was the bottle of Sprite. And you said you had already finished it with the guys.
Good to know we're on the same page.
I'm thinking of ways to celebrate it today, anything, something simple. There's nothing I can think of. I'll find something, don't worry. We'll have our own private time. We can do anything then.
Something simple.
I wish there was an easier way to talk to you. There's a lot left in my heart and mind, still waiting to pour out. It's difficult just speaking out loud, trying to believe that you're listening to me. It's easier to put things to writing, but even so, the fingers are only a little looser than the tongue.
I've put you in my mind, a special little niche for you, though. And the little door to that niche opens up every second. Somehow, every subtlety knocks on the door, and pulls out memories of you. Sometimes words ("I remember him calling Soph that"); sometimes places ("he mentioned a restaurant like this a long time ago"); sometimes objects, foods, people, they all remind me of times we've shared. A few things have already become synonymous with you.
And yet, the sadness and grief has become a passing blur. It's no longer sharp and intense and cutting, it's a blunt emotion now, incapable of inflicting shocking pain. My memories of you have been overused and overexposed...but then, there are the moments when they suddenly sharpen, and then they hurt all over again. Sunday night, I found myself feeling lonely - more than that, feeling deserted and overwhelmed with emptiness. I cried a little, and then took out one of your shirts that I have, the black one. I felt alright talking with you then, out loud, really believing that you were listening.
I'm moving forward, but at the same time, I'm retracing old steps, tying myself to memories of you. Eventually, I'll find the right meeting point in between these two.
I am determined to not fall behind in life, and not have regrets. Because that's the only way I can make you proud now. Beyond the obvious fact that you'd want the best for me, I also know that you had certain expectations for me. I want to exceed them. There's nothing else I can do for you now, besides living up to your hopes, and not abandoning the path I'm on.
There's bits and pieces of papers stuck all over my desk, and there's a particular one that I took care in writing. Mental Memos for Oct-Nov 2009, full of self-notes and little kickstarts. And I have scrawled on it, "No regrets for 2009 | Year 12. Make myself + Vern proud."
That is in fact my driving reason now. I want you to know that I am doing this for myself - obviously myself, of course myself - and you. This is the moment where I shine, achieve my dreams, and be proud of myself. And let you know that I'm alright, that you've only made me more motivated, determined, and confident. It's the only way I can tack something onto your legacy, another moment where you've been an inspiration to someone.
Whether I do actually score as high as I want to is not the point. The only thing important now is that I'm attempting it, and trying my best. If I get it, then there you go, case closed, and a new light has shined on my path. If I don't, so be it, no regrets, I've done what I've done, and that was my best.
On the days when I flounder, barely scrape in an hour of work, I just read through my scraps of paper. Regain a little sense of purpose and motivation, and then set forth again.
I want to show you the good things I've done when we meet again. And I want you to be proud and happy.
Wish me luck, and keep motivating me, Vern! And yeah, just give a little bit more power. That's all I need. I still read your little motivating smses, and still feel the same rush of eagerness and determination. If I keep replaying the memories, I can find pieces of encouragement that I now collect.
Thank you. You gave me, unknowingly, a gift that I can keep for a long time. And now, it's my turn to return the honor, and give you a gift that'll make you proud.
Happy birthday. I'm empty-handed now, and bear no gifts, but that'll change with time. Wait for me!
Love,
Your yuan yuan
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I was taking a nap just now, and my phone woke me up.
It was my father calling me. He asked the usual, how am I, what am I doing, where's mom, where's Rachel, have I ate yet, have I studied yet, am I a good girl?
And then he asked me how much I loved him.
Dad: Daddy is very tired right now ~___~
Me: Go rest.
Me: Go rest.
Dad: Mm, I will after I finish this report. Haih.
Me: Haih.
Dad: Daddy misses you all a lot. Do you miss Daddy?
Me: Yeshhhhh
Dad: How much do you love me?
Me: A loooooooooot =D
Dad: How much? One dollar?
Me: No, more. D=
Dad: Daddy loves you very, very, very, very, very, very much.
The 'one dollar' thing is an old gag of ours. When I was younger, one dollar was, like, the bomb to me. If I had a dollar, I had the world. So back then, a long time ago, my father once asked me that question.
Dad: How much do you love me?
Kiddie Me: A lot! =D
Dad: How much?
Dad: How much?
Kiddie Me: One dollar! =D
Dad: ...=\
I love you guys one dollar!
And yes, mega-post on holiday is still incoming. Still working on the post for Saturday.
I have to start choosing my uni courses now. Need to submit my preferences soon. Commerce or Science, what shall I do? Or maybe a double degree. I've my eyes set on also doing a Diploma of Languages regardless of what degree I choose though.
It's very, very hard trying to decide on these things. I know that no matter what I choose, I'll probably have a whole career change in the future. I can see myself doing that, for some odd reason, despite the fact that I'm the sort of person who hates change. Maybe it's because from young, I've already seen myself doing that sort of thing? Going from this stream into that stream, just to explore.
Nonetheless, I want to choose my course carefully. With the limited years of life I have, I want to use every bit carefully, learning only things that I care about.
What shall I do, what shall I do...
Many expectations to live up to, many of my own dreams to achieve, many people to make proud...
One day, I shall go far away, to a field of tall grass and faint breezes, and scream, cry, and sleep.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
lonely quiet club
It's 3:50AM - I should be in bed? I'm tired, but I just don't feel like sleeping. I've been meaning to update my blog - still need to finish up my full, huge write up of my holiday in Malaysia and Taiwan. Sorry guys, will get that done as soon as time opens up.
Yesterday, I walked around the city alone. It felt good. It felt perfect. I was surrounded by everybody, and was a nobody like them. Just a faceless figure in a crowd of nothing. But this crowd of nothing, it's full of something.
I don't know what I'm saying. I just really enjoyed my time alone. I walked around many streets, explored some I've never been into, and wandered around and got lost a bit. Good thing I've the navigational skills of a pilot.
A very good pilot, I mean.
It felt good. Walking alone. Just thinking by myself about things. The city, as faceless and metallic as it is, welcomes me and my thoughts with open arms. The breeze - can I capture it and blow it into my room? Wind, wind, wind, come and surround me, and hug me tightly.
I've talked to Yvonne and Ms Cath a little bit about religion and faith. I know that their own personal replies will not answer my own personal questions - but I guess I could say that they form the research framework that I need?
I'm trying to do what Yvonne mentioned, just talking and unloading everything to God. Everything. (It was her that suggested it, yes, no? My brain needs to sleep...) It feels good to do it. Not necessarily having to articulate my thoughts out to Him - just think it, and let Him translate it. That takes off a little stress. I can't explain my feelings or thoughts now, but I can think it out. God can work from there.
It's going to take me a long time to really assess and understand my faith. And not just that - my feelings, my thoughts, and myself too.
Am I sounding like a personal development pamphlet now? Haha, I feel like I'm expressing my honest thoughts dishonestly. These genuine feelings I have, how can I show them without coming across as badly rehearsed?
My formal is this Friday. I can't say I'm really excited for it. Troublesome - hair, makeup, shoes, dress.....
Should I be excited? It's just one night. Just play dress-up, sit at a table, and be a wallflower? I am a pessimistic soul...
It doesn't seem special to me. I don't know, should it? It doesn't anymore. Months ago, it seemed like a really exciting thing - I was going to get a beautiful dress, look like princess-bride, and have the best night of the year. And now, just one night away, it seems like it's going to be a very hollow, meaningless night.
I had asked Vern to be my partner for the formal - twice, in fact. First time in January, the 7th, about a week after the reunion where I last saw him.
2/7/2009 5:20:03 AM v є я я - wan me be ur date?
2/7/2009 5:20:05 AM v є я я - lets goo !
And then again on the 16th of May. Just because I'm a persistant little girl. But he wasn't going to come in July, it was decided. But I live on hope.
5/16/2009 2:17:27 AM v є я я - bought it for my cousin's wedding dinner
5/16/2009 2:17:43 AM v є я я - i danced with my mom on the stage
5/16/2009 2:17:45 AM v є я я - ==
5/16/2009 2:17:56 AM v є я я - she was like on the stage demonstrating
5/16/2009 2:18:01 AM v є я я - den we all had a dance-off
5/16/2009 2:18:09 AM v є я я - then she called me up
5/16/2009 2:18:20 AM v є я я - i simply dance like those 70's
5/16/2009 2:18:23 AM v є я я - hahahah hillarious
5/16/2009 2:18:32 AM RouYuan (neighbor is down, woot!) ahahaha
5/16/2009 2:18:34 AM RouYuan (neighbor is down, woot!) need videos!
5/16/2009 2:19:48 AM RouYuan (neighbor is down, woot!) i wanna see you dancing
5/16/2009 2:30:40 AM v є я я - LOL
5/16/2009 2:30:40 AM v є я я - noooo
5/16/2009 2:31:53 AM RouYuan (neighbor is down, woot!) fiinneee
5/16/2009 2:34:22 AM v є я я - if some miracle happen
5/16/2009 2:34:27 AM v є я я - end up in aussy by ur formal
5/16/2009 2:34:30 AM v є я я - dance with u la
What miracle can I expect this Friday? It will be a lonely night for me. I was talking to Zoe a little bit about it. She said something about me being disappointed because I had expectations...(sleep-deprived brain refuses to recall exact words...)
I am worried. Will I sit there in the formal, and realize that I am by myself? I think my friends will be busy having a good time - maybe I can find a no-dancing-just-sitting-and-eating partner to accompany me. If not - the walls have ears, and shall hear my secrets.
Or my triple chocolate dessert.
It will be a lonely night.
I don't feel sad when I remember memories of Vern. I feel happy, lucky, and blessed that I got to have them at all - what have I done to deserve them? But what makes me sad is when I think of all the dreams and hope I had. I think I can say that I had already planned out a year's worth of things for us to do (but knowing him, he'd go through it all in a month...).
The formal was just another dream I had. At first, it was that he would be my partner for the night, keeping me company, and dragging me to dance. When it was decided that was impossible, I decided to myself - have the best night, and then report the good news to him (and call him to surprise him).
It feels tiring to have to bury a dream.
It will be a very lonely night.
I need to go over my old conversations with Vern, pluck out some choice quotes, and send them over to the sister. I keep telling myself to do it soon, but the time never seems right. This seems like something that should be done with a lot of time and consideration. Maybe I'll post them up here and link it to her? I need to think of the best way to present it - convenience...
His family is amazing. Very open, very friendly. I want to write more on them - and will, in the big upcoming post about my holiday in Malaysia - but I will summarize them with a question: how can a family who has lost so much still be willing to give so much? I felt very shy and quiet around them - didn't say as much as I would've liked to. But regrets are meaningless - throw them away instantly.
Resolutions of the now:
- Start reading the Purpose Driven Life
- Talk more with God
- Start going to church (???)
- Clean up desk
- Make time for going through old conversations with Vern
- Guitar!!!
- Study! Even harder!! Maths....
- Do my best to have a good night on Friday
- Piano!!
shout unto god with a voice of triumph...shout unto god with a voice of praise...shout unto god wih a voice of triumph...we lift your name up~we lift your name up!
Even in this time where I feel I need to really scrutinize, reassess, dissect, and unravel the mystery of my faith, there are three things that bind me tightly to my faith, my belief - three moments that makes me so sure God is with me. When I'm listening to a good song of worship, when I'm writing, and when I'm alone outdoors.
Maybe I should try doing all three at once? Haha.
I want to write more on my feelings and thoughts. What I am feeling now - how can I capture it with words? I want to pen it down and keep it for memories, for my writings, for references...for reflection. For life? I need to try being more honest with myself...
good night, Vern
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