Friday, 25 April 2025

A small boat on a deep ocean

A small boat on a deep ocean, I’m in ‘freeze’ mode. How do I express myself? After working so hard to drag myself out of the gutter, and suddenly trampled by a landslide, I’m here in a daze.

Where did that landslide come from? Did I left it there, to crash? Did I think, it would remain there forever, a patch of eternity. A hill of adversity, proof that everything was real. That she really did hurt me. And I had to heal and sew my wounds back, without anyone to guide me.

Yet her face still linger in my mind, from the last time I visited, it felt, cruel. She will age. She forgets. She will pass by. She will leave. And I remain. 

Sometimes I thought I have accepted, forgiven, moved on. And in many ways, I have. I have accepted that the circumstances happened. That I was too young. That she was struggling too. That it was unfair. That it was bad, but there was also good. That I was alone, but it made me tougher. That no one would fully understand, but some will reach out to hold my hands, eyes glistening with concern, wanting to soothe the ache. 

The changes in her eyes, in her existence, as age clawed  and thawed her, I hate it. If she is no longer the same as before, yet still the same, then does that invalidates everything? The thorns that scratched and digged through me, if it’s no longer visible to the eyes, would anyone believe me anymore?

It’s startling to see someone fading.

Especially when it’s someone who had hurt you so much, yet you can never truly hate.

Someone whom people wanted me to understand even when I was 10. An age too young to be told to be an adult.

A generational trauma I fought to cut.

Dear kin of mine,

Know that I have fought tooth and blood in my own silent way, to distance you from this heavy currents. I want you to sail your boat with a steady heart. On sunny days, I want you to look expectantly towards the sea, beaming with excitement, and not worry about the darkness lurking and rumbling below. 

May the sun warm you, and may your boat reach the shore with ease.







Thursday, 9 January 2025

Decluttering #1

 It feels like an invincible rain is pouring down torrents and torrents of rain, and we’re walking on roads overflowing with water, feet soaked because we’re not wearing waterproof shoes, and it doesn’t matter if it’s day or night, because the sky is always grey and cloudy, blocking out any potential sliver of hope from warming our bones or providing some direction for us to choose our path forward. Doesn’t matter what day or hour it is, because how can it matter, when the world around us is shrouded with a haze so thick it leaves us feeling like we’re walking in circles, or maybe not moving at all. Even the streetlights and moments of brightness from cars passing by were shrouded by a thick veil that distorts and creates an illusion that we’re all alone in this world, trying our best to find a way out from this disheartening globe of grey surrounding us. Was there anyone walking around us? How can we know, when our hands are stuffed tightly in our pockets, trying to protect our fragile self from the monstrous coldness trying to freeze us to death all around us, pulling and pulling for us to fall down on the cold asphalt and muddy streets, if not for the rising water on the shallower parts of the city due to the rain that never seems to stop.


Is there anyone around us, trying to reach out to us? Despite our numb figure and downcast head, losing track of time and spirit. How much more energy do we have within us, before our legs crumble and our kneecaps hit the earth, allowing us to stop. Stop having to decide to go forward, to move, to try – because the end is near, is here. And maybe, when we stop, someone will finally be able to reach us. And the rain will finally stop. Maybe if we close our eyes, the sun will shine again, the sky will clear again, and maybe before everything moves to normalcy again, we can finally smile – relieved. We don’t have to fight so hard anymore, Thank God. Thank God everyone is fine, but me. Thank God.


Saturday, 19 October 2024

A reflection on reading and life in general

Recently, and maybe not recently, but ever since I began to realise I do not exist in vacuum, and become more and more aware of the tragedies and happenings around the world, wether it is within my own country or across the borders, of the devils that exist in human form, of the injustices that are justified by people on pedestals, by how I'm protected from the news I watched, because of one thing: the place and family I was born to.

And so what does that mean? Why me? What should I do with this knowledge? What can I do to help? To support, to change, to do something, anything...what can I do?

And this job I'm doing, of polishing manuscripts till it shines so bright, it captivates and engulf the world through its' sheer existence. My daily job, where I work with fictional strands of conflicts and premises, weaved into convincing stories, food for the soul, nourishing and satisfying.

And in all of this, how is my job contributing to the whole scene that troubled me. Maybe what I'm doing is trivial, unimportant amidst displacements, poverty, and genocides. Maybe I should do something more, rather than thinking about how to bring out the emotions of a character better, or spotting the inconsistencies in a story narrative. I mean, how is all this doing anything to help improve the world?

At the same time, I know, I know what I'm doing is important. Good stories are essential. People need and crave for excellent literature. The world can not live without meaningfully crafted fictional POVs of different individual striving to live, despite all odds. Soul food.

What's missing is the bridge. What's the bridge linking what I know what I'm troubled about. How can what I know about my work help prevent and fight genocides and atrocities.

Then maybe, an answer has already formed for a long time at the back of my mind, I just needed substance and just a little bit more conviction by anything, to carve out the answer.

A few weeks ago, I picked up a book called When Hearing Becomes Listening: Prophetic Listening and How It Can Transform the World Within Us and Around us by Mikaeel Ahmed Smith at a warehouse sale at the place I worked in haha.

So this book, as I was reading the book yesterday under the sun, between lush trees and chirping birds, I stumbled on a passage I didn't expect to exist in the book. It was this:

Polls show that women, generally, read more than men and that the gender gap in reading is largest in the area of fiction. Reading or listening to a fictitious story forces a person to make some level of emotional investment in the characters in the story. As the characters navigate various situations and interact with certain people, we learn more and more about them and we get to know them. The best authors make us feel as if we deeply know the characters involved. This storytelling incident between the Prophet SAW and Aisha RA shows a willingness to not only listen to, but also to emotionally invest in the fictional characters she was describing. 

The prophet SAW was so invested in the story that he was able to compare himself to these fictional character she was describing. The Prophet SAW was so invested in the story that he was able to compare himself to these fictional characters. Aisha says that after listening to the story, he said to her, "I will be to you like Abu Zar." So not only did the Prophet show us how important it is to value what those who are closest to us value, but even when the subject matter is fictional and perhaps quite trivial, he used it emotionally connect with his wife.

Something about these paragraphs struck me hard. Reading "fiction" with "the Prophet SAW" in one text feels surreal at the given time. It's like, "Oh look, the Prophet SAW respects and appreciates fiction. I found it increasingly interesting how the author used this example of the Prophet SAW listening with full attention and focus to the words of wife, through this specific example. Suddenly, my daily job of editing stories do not seem trivial. Suddenly, I feel acknowledged and maybe you can say, validated haha. The Prophet didn't stop Aisha from telling her stories, in fact he enjoyed it, and this situation was used as an example for emphatic listening.

This alone, solidified the answer that has been building up within me.

The world need good stories.

The world need powerful and emphatic authors.

The world need authors that can write to change and challenge the narrative, the world need authors who know how to deliver their point tactfully and concisely, the world need authors who can shine light and push people to really see the plight of the orphans, the refugees, the weak, the war, the wrongs. 

Authors and stories and literature and woven words do not exist in vacuum. There's a whole professional team whose sole purpose is to polish and sharpen the existing words, so that it can serve its purpose as a medium to make people relate, reflect, ponder, imagine, and feel and see the world the way the never had.

Stories created empathy, stories create understanding souls, stories shifts perspectives.

And so, what I'm doing is not futile. I'll do my best to become a better editor who know when to see the forest for the trees and when to see the trees for the forest. I'll do my best to help great stories to breathe, exist and stretch its' hands throughout the world, in hopes that one day, this path I have dedicated myself to, will bear healthy fruits for a long time; creating generations of wonderful, wise, emphatic, respectful, brave, and imaginative authors, who wield their words as a weapon to protect the weak, to speak up when new bursts of genocides began to spark, who write ferociously, knowing they can change the world through their words, knowing they can heal hearts from their prose, knowing stories, literature, prose, fiction, are not futile nor trivial, but seeds to a better future.

The journey to see the trees from the seeds, that can shelter people from the cold and harsh wind, will require a lot of patience and determination, but we do what we do, and the future will unfold naturally, one day or soon.

Until then, the future where Malaysia will become a force to reckon with, through words. 

Until then, I'll be here, reading, editing, reflecting, hurting from the stories around me, healing from the soothing words whispered to me, and occasionally writing, as honest as I can.






Thursday, 29 August 2024

Hey, how have you been?

I’m doing fine, great, sometimes horrible, sometimes just plain confused, most times living.

How old are you now? Spiritually and physically? Do you feel like you’ve aged? But really, how do we know how we should act, with our given age? Who decide the rules?

Hey, I heard you still live there, and sometimes live in the woods, but really, where do you feel you are right now?

Are you here with me, or are you floating out there in the wind, between floating leaves, befriending surprised birds up in the open air?

Or are you deep beneath the earth, lurking in burrows and caves, hanging upside down with a sleeping bat? 

Or maybe you’re long gone, saying goodbye when I’m busy dealing with life, crossing another bridge, burning another path, building another fort. 

That paper I saw floating in the air, flying further and further, and someday landing somewhere, becoming one with the world, was that you? I wonder.

Wherever you are and whoever you are now, I’ll be here. Because I have decided I am capable enough to live on my own feet. My naive and fiery self of the past, collides into one. My “I know about life” and “I know nothing about life”, now a mesh of careful ducklings crossing a busy street.

I am here. For you, to return and visit when you want. 


Until then,

A presence you have known all your life




Wednesday, 17 May 2023

Fickle fickle mind

Hello my fickle fickle mind.

Fickle but stubborn mind,

do you mind?

Could you step aside, let me be free,

an experience what it is to not live in a paradox of universes.


Hello my fickle fickle mind.

Fickle but persistent mind,

do you mind?

If I stuff you in a titanium box,

and sink you deep deep in the ocean.


Hello my fickle fickle mind.

Fickle and determined mind,

do you care?

If all I did is stay close to you,

while cursing your existence and slowly,

burn your roots curled deep within my soul.


Would you mind?

If I call you mine

but wish for you to be gone?

A joke and an ancient tree; my fickle fickle mind.




Used to & now I

used to come here to write everything and nothing as if digital life is not absolute.

used to come here and freely write like tomorrow never exist.

used to be here because it felt like, a place I could return to.

used to be here to soften the bruises I didn't know I had.

used to be here to feel listened and comforted,

by my own words.


used to,

but now I 


I am still here.


Hi.

You never left,

the shimmering river within me,

filled with life and cool amidst the heat,

untainted amongst the junk,

flowing, living,

you

how are you?


25 and life is clearer but muddier too,

the way it was

the way it is.


This and that,

are you still there?

are you still with me?

are you still living?


are you alright?



Sunday, 17 October 2021

Family

 Here's me with my scrambling thoughts after ep 13 of homecha.

God.

That episode made me cry a lot.

Also been reading Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb, which made me delve more into my own behaviours, past and present. Crazy how much one doesn't know about one self. 


Back to title. Family.

This word has been hiding in my mind in some distant corner covered with dust, but still there nevertheless. Staring at me waiting for me to pick it out, among all other thoughts. And carefully hold it in my hands. Giving it the attention it needs.

Stepped into a new group of people i've just met or just met few days ago, and they say we're family.

Stepped into a new building with entirely different life and it said we're family.

Walked into a common ground in conversations and events and the world chants we're family.


Family.

Should be a holy mantra.

A powerful piece of word that immediately wraps up everyone in a bubble.

Tying arms to each other, assuming familiarity and comfort.

A powerful tool for authority and security.


I wonder. How many of us, how many of those who said we're family actually acts the way a family does and doesn't feel like another black and white law. Dull on a sheet of paper. Read everyday solemnly.

We're family.


I don't know if i have ever truly felt family in any circle that overused the word other than my own blood-born family. 

Blood-tied. The strongest pact. But even then, it took years to finally understand what a family is. A sense of comfort, familiarity, unconditional love and support through thick and thin, always with you through time. 

Family is not just a decoration. Real work must be situated to make it work. Even when a thread in the knitwork goes astray, there's a way to make it work. To make it fit comfortably in the overall look without cutting it off. To never leave one in their worst persona. To wait patiently and love nevertheless and willingness to make it work. Whatever it is. To know that you belong no matter what. You can come home no matter what.

Family and home is intangible.

Maybe i'm still overprotective over my heart, tears and sanity. And i deny any other entity that says we're family without any visible action that convinced my heart. 


What a nice word.

Sold for cheap.


How can one be family if money, monthly targets, written rules, and expected behaviour are included in the bowl?

How can one be family without knowing each other and cutting parts of oneself to look exactly the same as others? 

That's not family.


I cannot accept an expensive word to be sold cheap.