Mak

A sensitive, tender, and painful point for me, has to be my mother.

Mak.

Always sacrificing herself for others, always thinking about other, always in a rush to somewhere or something, always complaining about her tired bones but never sparing a good moment to rest, always wanting to do more and more, 

while I wait beside her, behind her, out of her radar, watching her morph into a saint, a figure, someone's daughter, someone's niece, someone's sister, someone's aunt, someone...

who is also, the soul whom I call, mak.

Mak, I don't understand you, and until now, you probably still don't understand me.

You, who have always done her best to tend for me despite everything, the way a loving mother does, you're always striving to give me more and more. But you see, in my eyes, how could I ever receive enough of you, when so much of you is always for others first.

Me; second, third, fourth, last, wherever I stand at a given time, as painful as it is to admit, I wonder if I was ever truly and honestly, first for you.

I was a sensitive child who was always on the move, uprooted from one city to the next, one school to the next, busy but good-hearted parents, kind but much much older siblings who had their own lives, a disabled brother above me who require much attention, a grandmother who carries poison in her poise, an uncle who brought calamities wherever he goes, and I was just, a young sensitive child.

I listened. I tried to understand people you told me to understand. In your eyes, no one is truly at fault. Everyone had their own demons to fight. So dear child, sabar. Try to understand them,

And mak, try I did.

But growing up, I carried too much with me. All the things I kept to myself, at the ripe age of 13, with cracks starting to form at 11, I couldn't bear the weight anymore. I was young and sensitive. I didn't know how to process nor carry the load that was meant for adults to carry.

Blame. Do I blame you? No, you were part of a generational trauma that shackled your hands and feet to the commitments you signed up for.

You had your reasons, and none were bad. Your actions were not made in vacuum, but a byproduct of the responsibilities that comes with a broken family, and the expectations your generation imposed on a singular person.

You sacrificed so much, and to this day, you are still doing to much. I'm afraid one day, you will shatter and in a split second, disappear forever.

Mak, loving you, I have no idea how to. Social media can never understand our complex dynamic. You whom I don't understand,  and I, whom you don't understand.

Who's to say we haven't tried to love, the way one was supposed to love in a mother-child relationship.

But at this point, I'm tired.

The years of self-sacrifice has turned you into a formidable, unmovable mountain. We have moved too far from the 'emotional connection' train despite best efforts, and I am now 27, married, adult, and I no longer have to fend for myself inside the enclosure we used to call 'home'.

I can live on my own now, and everyday, I take a new step towards recovery, towards a healthier future for myself, for my kin, for everyone around me.

Mak, I love you but, I think it's best if we maintain this distance. Boundary, as they call it. I have learnt, ever since I move out to live alone a few years ago, distance is healthier for us. There are things I no longer ask nor say, to protect our peace.

Things weren't always murky in that house, in our family dynamic, but the ghost of the past still lives in the present. Stepping away is my only choice.

Mak, I love you and I want to give the world to you.

I want to have hearty meals with you, I want to go on vacations with you, I want to chat amiably with you,

but I don't think you know, how difficult it is do these things with you, without my heart breaking every single time because there will always be something more important for you.

And I, will probably always be somewhere in your heart, but capable enough to live on my own.

I thought long and hard, and maybe, the way it is now is the best. You will always be my first love, my mother, my heart and soul; and for that, it hurts to see you breaking down due to the years of self-sacrifice, and it hurts to not be able to help, to soothe, to carry some of your weight.

But I, I made the choice to not continue your legacy of self-sacrifice. 

I'm sorry.

I love you mak. I truly do. I keep praying to Allah, please give my mother the best rest in heaven, please give her everything she wants and needs in heaven, please love her and grant her all the pleasures in life, please Allah, please grant this wish of mine. Because at least, a granted dua is what I can give to a mother who after all, raised me to become who I am now.

A happy ending is perhaps, subjective.

Maybe what we have now, is good enough.

Not standard-friendly, but good enough.

Our lives whom social media can never define.

Mak, my formidable unmovable mountain.

A piece of my heart and soul, a tender crucial point in my life.

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.

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.

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.

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

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?