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?

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.

 Fleeting, a cm away from earth.

 

August is about to end, and my country is still on fire,

A fire of varying degree,

Felt uniquely by each and every one,

Nevertheless, we haven’t stop burning.

 

-

 

I’ve been loving every single read this month. I can safely say that this month’s reads are the most satisfactory as a whole. The thing about reading books, the fun part for me, is to combine and find different but complementary messages and ideas, blending into a wonderful new drawing.

 

Started from Algojo, that brought me violently into a world of politics, dirty and reality, spearheading a message that power and money corrupts, unless handled with restraint and moderation. To unravel the mess, to break free from the chains of corruption, one needs to see beyond black and white.

 

“Tapi kemajuan bukan mesin, kenderaan, senjata dan wang. Itu adalah kemunduran. Kemajuan adalah sesuatu yang membolehkan semua orang hidup dengan cara mereka mahu hidup, atas pilihan mereka sendiri. Itulah kemajuan yang sebenar.”

 

“Itu kemajuan dari perspektif mereka sahaja. Atau perspektif awak, Badriya.”

 

“YB, apa yang ada dalam dunia ni kecuali perspektif? Semua perkara adalah perspektif. Kita mesti mengiktiraf perspektif, terutamanya dalam isu kebajikan orang Asal. Sebab selama ini, perspektif mereka tidak dipedulikan.”

 

Sonogram delivered a message that the powerful, rich and elite forms a safety bubble, refusing to pop their bubble and help each other to live safely, and freely, in that sphere. Those with power are, and can be, and most likely are cowards. The higher you rise, the longer the fall. Be careful of the snakes. They lurk in the shadows. Ok, it’s actually a story of a boy chasing “ghosts” haha.

 

“Jadi teruskan berlagak macam tak ada apa berlaku. 90% orang yang ikut motto ni selamat dalam dunia yang dikuasai ahli politik sekarang.”

 

Di Situ Langit Dijunjung dragged me into the screams and blood of racial tensions due to poor leadership and unbalanced socioeconomy. People on the ground cries and digs for a roof, living in fear due to the doings of the ones who were supposed to help and bring dignity towards the land.

 

“Mama sedang mencari tempat untuk bertahan. Untuk merenggut sesuatu supaya boleh bergantung harap, seperti seseorang yang sedang lemas dan hanya tunggu masa nak ditelan ombak, tapi masih percaya akan wujudnya keajaiban. Perlahan-lahan juga aku lihat Mama seperti seseorang yang kelemasan, bila dia sedar bahawa kadang-kala, hidup ni memang tak punya harapan, dan di depan mata aku ni juga Mama mengecil dan mengecut, sampai yang tinggal hanyalah kelongsong. Kosong. Hilang. Aku nampak dekat mata Mama tu semua. Mama dah putus asa, hilang harapan. Dia dah parah dengan apa saja nasibnya. Mama dah bersedia untuk lemas, ditelan ombak jahat.”

 

 

Then i jumped into the wisdom of Syed Hussein Alatas that cleaned my brain from the confusion of social media and opinions of the masses. A dusty window that needs polishing so that I can look outside clearly without any obstructions. The book reminded of the role of leaders towards a nation, how rotten leaders are the root for many destructions in this country, the role of looking at any issue fairly using the appropriate knowledge and sources, and to be the saviour and builder of your people, and not to be among those who degrade their own kind while blindly following the “wisdom” of the west.

 

“Jika hanya menganjurkan usaha-usaha yang baik itu bukan revolusi, apa lagi jika anjuran-anjuran ini disalurkan dalam wadah falsafah golongan kerajaan yang berkuasa. Ini namanya idoktrinasi bukan revolusi! Revolusi biasanya menyerang sistem masyarakat, nila-nilai berkuasa, perbuatan-perbuatan yang berkuasa, penyelewengan hukum yang terjadi, penindasan golongan-golongan tertentu, ketidakadilan sistem ekonomi, sistem kerajaan, sifat pimpinan dan sebagainya. Bukan memburukkan peribadi bangsa sendiri.”

 

-

 

I feel like I’m constantly in a tug of war between reality and imaginary. Finding one in another, finding another in one.

 

 

Let the waves come. I'm tired.

A hooded man with a scythe.

The face of death, an image of death.

Black as the night, feathers of crows.

Black as jet, dripping down ink.

 

Trapped in cement, wood or air.

House, they say.

Shelter, they say.

Safe, they say.

Heaven, they say.

 

Yet demons slither in,

Eyes red as ruby,

Tongue sharp as words,

Hands of cold corpse,

Cold winds and searing pains.

 

Windows that were once so wide,

Shrinks and dissipates,

Into nothing but a cell,

Blocking and stopping,

Whatever it wishes.

 

For what is this all?

A distant roar of uprisals,

A distant roll of waves,

But too distant,

Too far,

How long is this all?

Come forth uprisals.

Come forth,

Waves.

Disparage

It's like a thunder when an idea cross your mind and send you tumbling to your laptop, hoping you'll catch at least the tail of the boom. So here's Disparage. An expression of a sudden wave of pandemic existence confusion.

Disparage.

Not to disparage, but am i going through a hard time or same old non pandemic years.

Not to disparage, but am i turning numb to the tribulations or same feelings so not feeling.

Not to disparage, but am i growing used to the changes or same routine so no gloating.

Not to disparage,

my own life or the world's crisis,

but I lay down, listen to the world, and fall into a state of eerie confusion,

what is going on?

Are we happy or grieving?

Or both, alternating in balance, too much to resist,

and like a pendulum, without resistance, slowly stops without realising.

When we're in a constant alternation,

do we stagnate like a river that doesn't flow?

When we're in a constant alternation,

do we, become a part of the constellation?

Hikmah dalam Tawar #3

Lately I’ve been loving hot soup. They’re so nice and pleasant to eat. Often feels like a warm blanket on a cold cold day.  

Talking about soup, a type of food made from a mix of different raw pieces, that somehow blends together into a harmonious end flavor. My life too, feels like it’s churning in a big pot, heading towards an end flavor, the “just right for me” flavor.

 

Last few months ago, I enrolled in a translation course outside of uni. 8 classes on weekends. Only one physical class due to mco. It just so happened that the the remaining 7 classes started at around the same time as when my uni resumed classes. So I had to adapt to online classes, being at home, being in my room, facing my own raw self with all its starkness and vividness, all the while trying to not miss classes while swimming in murky water. 

 

I like the course though. I like what I learnt. I didn’t mind the Saturday 9-5 classes. I really really wanted to do well in that course. I want to do well in the exam.

 

Then, the wind blew backwards, bending even the strongest hope, down.

 

It just so happened, again, that the exam date for this translation course was situated on a very busy week filled with exams and submissions. A stress-filled week. I had a uni subject exam right before the scheduled exam date for the translation course. The new system for uni online classes exam is, you are given 24 hours to finish the exam. On Friday evening, 3pm, the paper was given, I answered, until around 5am, Saturday. Then I couldn’t sleep. I have to answer the translation exam at 8! I was afraid I couldn’t sleep. Plus I didn’t study for the translation exam at all oh God. The exam was held at ITBM building. So that morning, without sleep, in a state I had never been in even for my uni exams, I answered three papers on the same day, despairing over the outcome because really, I actually wanted to do well in the course. It was just, tragic :D

 

So exam done, I waited for a few months for the result. Thinking that high chances, I would fail. I guess I have to retake the exam, I thought. I was expecting the worse, because I really didn’t prepare for the exam. 

 

Then few days ago, the exam slip and certificate arrived in the mail, I passed! Not with flying colors, but pass “LULUS” said the cert to me. I looked at the marks for each category, oh I did quite well in most parts, except for the theory part which required revision. And oh, only 1 more mark to “KEPUJIAN”, oh. “Oh” I said, and my mind goes into a swirl. Oh, if only I studied, if only I was in a better state, if only I had more time, if only I fought my fatigue a little bit more before the exam, maybe, maybe, I could have remembered some facts, and answered better, and get that extra one mark to get “KEPUJIAN”.

 

Then I thought, wow, 

Wow.

 

Wasn’t I extremely happy when I discovered I passed? Because I expected myself to fail. Wasn’t I super grateful just few minutes before I checked the marks? Wasn’t the whole situation, better than what I expected?

 

The ONE mark that divided a lower and higher rank, why am I so distraught over it? 

 

This ONE mark, is a test, I thought. A subtle test from Allah, isn’t it? To see where my thoughts and emotions will sway to? Didn’t I thought I would fail, and yes, the chances of passing without studying and in a bad bad mental and physical state, isn’t it a miracle I passed? Wow.

 

Just ONE mark, just ONE more, this train of thought, opened doors to many many new chamber of thoughts, brought in strong tides of murky and rough water that could my brain in a momentary disaster. Close the door before the water comes. Close it quickly. Think. Hikmah. What is it. Grab onto it. Hikmah.

 

Yes. Allah wants to see if I grateful, if I am able to think beyond, if I am able to see the context. Why is it that we must allow numbers and ranks determined by humans to become our badge of honor? Then my mind says, “but Allah, I could have done better, if I was in a better state”, then I realize, with a gulp, that wow. Allah is teaching me that MY ability, MY potential, MY intellect, are not determined nor tied by the numbers printed on a sheet of paper that could easily crumble and fade. I know what I am able to do, I know that I am better than whatever lables, numbers or grades the world had printed out for me. Wow. 

 

I get it Allah. I get it.

 

Thank you.

 

Alhamdulillah.

 

And like a hot soup that burns your toungue if eaten too hastily, but enjoyable when eaten slowly, waiting for a bit to let it cool down a bit, then swallowing it, enjoying the warm sensation that flows through your senses, life too requires the "intense period" follows by a “cool down” to attain the “perfect warmth” and the “just right flavor”. Success, redefine it. Don’t ever let this world cage you with their standardized claws. A tree with strong roots, will stand, even in the biggest hail. This too, is another story for Hikmah dalam Tawar.

 

A baggage of my soul. Here world, take it.

Fira's: The wonders of a crow

She looked up, above, into the skies that stretched above her, forming a sea of mystery, and hope. Why is it that A. Samad Said emphasized so much on crows in his book, Daerah Zeni? Is it simply because of the abundance of crows in Tanah Melayu or is there another layer worth digging?

Crows. Jet black animals, caws and are just, I guess, not as pleasant to the eyes as other colorful birds, like say, a parrot. It’s not even cute size like a sparrow, or majestic like a flamingo. Then what is it?

Crows often get a bad rap. In many Western cultures, they've historically been associated with death, disease, and bad omens, reviled as crop-stealers by farmers, and condemned as nuisances by city dwellers. But the birds are fascinating creatures, adaptable and brainy to an extent that's almost scary. 

Read the first paragraph on Google. Fira puts her chin on her palm and lets the information sink in. Above her, a shadow of black feathers flew past the clear glass of her window. ‘Beautiful’, she thought.

She scrolled down the website, WHEN A CROW DIES, ITS NEIGHBORS MAY THROW A FUNERAL, a line spoke to her. ‘Ahha’, she muttered to herself, suddenly remembering the story of how the two sons of Adam had a fight and Habil killed Qabil. Then unsure of what to do with his brother’s corpse, he saw a crow digging a grave for another dead crow, and did the same for his long gone brother. ‘Intelligent’ she whispers after relieving the thought. The fact that the Quran chose the crow to be the one demonstrating the act, to so called intelligent humans, whom was at lost after succumbing to his own rage and nafs, is a very interesting fact. Afterall, humans often deem crows as dirty, noisy and evil creatures. Often associating crows with witches, wizards, black magic, monsters, demons, in their literatures. Well, in one perspective, maybe not many creatures have the wits and capabilities to live with witches, wizards etc., hence the crows are accepted into the circle. Logically why would powerful creatures want weak and stupid companions by their side right? Crows must be smart and strong, to endure living among the demons without shedding a feather, cawing all the way. 

Of all the living birds, crows, ravens, and parrots have the biggest brain-to-body size ratios. And in lab experiments, these avians show a degree of cognition that puts them on par with the great apes. In fact, research has shown that they have a much higher density of neurons in their forebrains than primates do. The amount of neurons in this region is thought to correlate with a given animal's intelligence. Theoretically, having more neurons translates to better cognitive reasoning. Thus, it looks like crows, ravens, and parrots have enviable minds indeed.

That explains everything, Fira thought, reaching out for a Munchy’s Nutty Chocolate Oat Krunch in front of her, eyes glues on her laptop’s bright screen, eyes as bright as the screen, rivalling the technology in its intensity.

CROWS HAVE REGIONAL DIALECTS—WHICH THEY CAN DELIBERATELY CHANGE

CERTAIN CROWS KNOW HOW TO READ TRAFFIC LIGHTS

‘Ooooh, see, they’re amazing!’, exclaimed Fira, nearly choking on her second packet of Oat Krunch. She wiped the crumbs on her keyboard (this is why you must not eat in front of your laptop), and continued reading, this time loudly. You don't want a crow for an enemy.‘Crap’ she muttered, and remembered how the crows in Daerah Zeni were often hunted and shoot down by humans who considered them as pests. Apparently, crows can recognize and remember our face, and hold a grudge at the same time. ‘Well, good for them. Hopefully they’ll hunt down the humans who made their life hell’.

YOU CAN CALL A GROUP OF CROWS A MURDER, BUT SOME SCIENTISTS WOULD RATHER YOU DIDN'T.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the correct term for a group of crows is a murder, an expression bird-watchers and poets have been using since at least the 15th century, which the OED speculates may allude "to the crow's traditional association with violent death, or … to its harsh and raucous cry." But maybe it's time to come up with a replacement. McGowan hates the phrase "murder of crows." To him, it only feeds the public's negative outlook on the animals. "These birds aren't a gang of nasty villains," he wrote in the book Birdology. "These birds are just birds." McGowan would also have you know that American crows rank among "the most family-oriented birds in the world."

‘You’re right McGowan. Nothing truer than this. Crows are just birds, creatures of God, like us. Why must we paint and depict them in a narrow and harsh light? Isn’t it enough that we murder our own kinds by our lies and fabrications disguised in the form of ‘spill the tea’, ‘truth’. Humans really enjoy sharing stories to each other, nothing wrong with that, but they often forget, every human have their own filter on how they view the world, and often, not one filter is similar. Then what do they do when their worldview differ? They force it upon the other under the guise of ‘retweets’, ‘likes’, clout, publicity, popularity and power. Easy to act that way, since the mass population often too, forget, that they have a mind of their own and is not obliged to follow the masses. We are all a mind of our own, so today, at least, I have allowed myself to ponder about an existence by my own will. Crows are awesome!’. 

Fira looked up upon hearing a cawing sound and a ruffle of feathers, a glimpse of black glistening feathers, light reflected upon its feathers projecting a velvet touch, spreading its wings across the clear blue sky, gaily and mightily, soars untainted, unruffled, unshackled, from any human filters. ‘Herein, the crow exist’.

Reference: https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/504722/12-fascinating-facts-about-crows

 

 

 

 

22. Expectations.

“Challenges bring forth stress.

   Challenges, makes you stronger.”

“Put your expectations not in this world,

   But the promises that lies beyond.”

I am still very far from the individual I wish to be, but life itself, from the day we were born to the world of now, is ‘work in progress’. Therefore, I will continue to progress, mend, build, create, and learn from every single element in my life. 

Expectations,

Turned out to be one of the most ground breaking lessons in my life. A shackle I had to break and be free from. Learning where to put my expectations at, took years for me to comprehend. A lesson that cannot be learnt through lectures or continuous memorization. A lesson that had to be thought by a thousand and one individuals. 

From a child who keeps herself in her shell, afraid of the thorns and bullets flying around her, braving through the blood, in order to live, and retreating back into the shell, trying to comprehend the scratches and bruises on her skin and soul.

To a child who comprehends now, that the scars, the tears, the blood, was all a part of growing up, of maturing, of learning, and relearning, of turning into a person who can see the reason and wisdom behind the thorns, of why it happened, of why it had to happen, of why it had to be learnt from.

Expectations, had to bring hammers and bulldozers to crush and break me, to break the shell around me, in order to rebuild me from better elements, elements that may withstand the sharpest tongue without having to retreat backwards, elements that absorbs every good and evil and turn it into a form that can do nothing, but bring value to a life.

Expectations, now at 22, resides in my belief of what God promises humankind. Do your best, do good, and worry not of the results. Be at ease if it doesn’t go the way you think it should go. Be at ease when the lights in your life turns black. Be at ease when your path shrinks, and the sky collapse. Be at ease because God has promised eternal heaven for those who strive for good, remain patient, learn from their own faults, and never fail to be grateful for just, being able to breathe yet again. No darkness is constant, for God, has promised us an everlasting light in an everlasting dimension. So be at ease.

The labyrinth where time stops.

The labyrinth where time stops.

Morocco.

She stood above her gaze, traversing through unknown figures, turning into a translucent sheet of fabric, allowing light to travel through. Buildings of turāb, turāb means earth, the buildings here reminded her of the ground below her, crumbling but intact, a compact base, for crippling humans.

One step after another, she placed her foot, one after another, on the dusty stairs of the blocks of hope. Hope of seeing the sun in its galore, descending to earth like a holy deity blessing humankind with its grace. She pushed open the door separating her world and heaven. The wind gushed in, singing a tune of freedom, skipping and tumbling all over her existence. She pulled her sweater sleeves over her cold hands, unready for the world. Closer, she walked to the edge, towards a mere human creation that separated sanity from insanity, a small wall that stops beneath her shoulders, made to remind, that humans are mortal and death beyond the wall, waves, and calls, like a siren in the vast sea, beautiful and inviting.

She stood near death and insanity, her gaze swept over  square fortresses and stretches of dreamy blue sky, emblazed in majestic gold, dipped in gentle pink hues, and  there she saw, a glimpse of the deity on its pedestal.

of a hidden river

I realise, that things won't be easy.
This path I take, many will feel the burden.
Of a long distant relationship,
separated by seas, connected through a screen.

I realise, that it will only get harder,
but this is a path that I must take,
to relinquish the fire in me,
that seeks for new challenges,
that seeks new wonders,
that seeks to explore.

Despite my own weaknesses, I somehow,
still find myself trudging on thorny roads,
cutting through thick bushes,
just to see the hidden river beneath the thickets,
only for the determined,
only for the ones who seek.

Forgive me, but I must.

Partially invisible

Partially invisible, is her, sitting in her sphere, in a small office, trying to keep herself occupied, while footsteps sprinkle around her, reminding her of the purpose missing from her, a ring of a phone and the sound of the receiver being picked up, the rustling of papers, the sound of someone muttering something deep in work, the distinct sound of fingers pressing keyboards typing a line of importance, the sound of someone in the pantry, making a cup of coffee, stirring the mixture, a power booster, back to work, a blue shirt passing in front of her small cubicle, visible in her sight as she train her eyes on the screen of her desktop, legs starting to cramp, sat for too long with no work to do, a voice calling someone, the beeping sound of the printer, creaking out papers, a door opened, more voices, request, discussions, the doorbell rings a melody, greetings exchanged as the cleaner enters, “Assalamualaikum” she greets, and the intern sits, listens, reads, types, sits, wondering if she is partially invisible, and if it is possible to be fully invisible because then she can at least take a much needed nap which no one can blame her for taking, then the clock strikes five and a voice chimes “Taknak balik ke Maryam?”, the chime of freedom, suddenly, like cinderella who loses her magic at midnight, the intern's magic fades at 5, now, no longer partially invisible, she gathers her stuff and inhale the welcoming air of being a fully visible, functional human and takes firm strides filled with purpose, towards the door, out into the cool post-rain air, now, she lives, I live.

Apple crumble

Love comes in many forms.

I still remember feeling my chest swelling with happiness upon hearing the sound of the gate opening and the soft purr of a car signaling my father’s return from his work after a night away in a different state.

I also remember the warmth that fills my soul as I hear my brother’s voice in front of the house, returning from tarawih prayer, half screaming in joy at the sight of the Mercedes Benz parked cozily in the parking space, and the way his footsteps and energy reverberates as he enters the house, bursting in with radiance greeting the one man he grew up with, an innocence that only he can possess.

I remember looking up from the soft green sofa and greeted with white enshrouded backs. The backs of wan and mak, in their telekung, both now weak in the legs, consumed by age, seated on plastic chairs, praying two rakaat after Isyak prayer.

I remember the silent humm of the house on that night, filling in every nook with radiance, comfort, peace. Like the warmth and crunchiness of the apples of an apple crumble, baked to golden. Warm and sweet, with a grunge of texture perfecting the stimulus. My apple crumble.

That night, nothing else seems to matter more than savoring the taste of the night. A love that I know will not last, so let time stop, imprint it on letters, and let the crumbs spill all over the world.

Recommended song: Nap of a star - TXT

Unpacking memories

I was packing my stuff because the semester has ended for me and I’m going home tomorrow, and an overwhelming nostalgia hits.

This whole process of packing and unpacking brings back the memories of my childhood. I have lived a childhood of hopping from one school to another, one house to another, one city to another. Not as much as some people but Wangsa Maju-Shah Alam-Kota Damansara-Bangi-Saudi-Bangi, is still a handful for an introvert soul like me.

While packing, I reminisced on the memories of my school life that seems to become even more vivid right in front of my eyes. Without realization, when I was in primary one, I have already began the process of moving from one place to another. I had two schools for primary one, because I hated my first school for some reason, I ran from that school to my old kindergarten (it was right beside the school). The second one gratefully went fine for me. Made friends, played a lot, lived a typical life of a primary one kid. Little did I know I was going to move in one more year.

I remember telling my friends I was going to another school and my friends were angry because I told them lambat. Honestly, I didn’t know what was the huge deal, I was just going to move to another place. Heh.

Then I moved, to an apartment in Shah Alam and boy the apartment was a handful for my 9-year-old soul. I remember throwing tantrums for some reason for quite a few times at the parking lot (still have no idea why), watching kacang kacang show on tv, poking at my huge pillow God knows why I have it and why anyone bought it for me, and staring at the empty walls and the limited spaces in the white walled apartment.

Then Kota Damansara happened. I remember sitting at the arm of a sofa, staring at my parents unloading boxes from the car, eyes starting to get teary and I blinked it away. Damansara brought with it many good and conflicting memories. A larger house, had friends to play with as my cousins live a few houses away, had my own space for toys and books, but school, was a challenge.

First time being a new kid, you gotta learn the rules. No friends for a few months and never mentioning anything to my parents, life went on, along with school drama. Gradually, the friend problem ceased, people apologized to me, friends entered my sphere, and life rolls on. At my second year in the school, I was told by my parents that we were going to move again. I remember internally slowly detaching myself from my friends, teachers and school environment. This time, with farewell gifts in my hand, I knew what moving means.

Then we moved.

A young city, that will soon grow faster than it should. New house, new city, new friends, new environment, and once again, the new kid in the block. School went fine, gained more friends, made many great memories, but it was also in this city where God decided to teach me a life-long lesson. My world became significantly darker as I exited my primary school life with a greater sensitivity to my surroundings than before.

High school life, began. 

Three schools for Form 1. Two in Malaysia, one in Saudi. Each with their own stories. Just when I thought my life should have settled down, somehow I was on a plane to a place I have never imagined I would go so early in my life. A new home means I have to quickly adapt and learn the ropes in a new school. Every school is different. New kid in the block once again, this time in an international school. Fun. The memories were polarized from very nice to very depressing.  One year in, and I was again, told by my parents that we will be moving back to Malaysia. Again, I thought, what’s new?. I was ready to move, and we did. 

Somehow, after that, my life settled down in one school until high school graduation. Sri Ayesya. The first school I stayed in for more than two years. I was definitely amused. A world record.

What was I doing? Ahh I was quietly packing my stuff, but somehow, old memories waft in my mind, creeping out from the hidden passages in my mind. Amazing isn’t it, to be able to experience all of that. A life unique to only me and no others. An exquisite journey designed to bring out the best in me. All this while, while moving from school to school, I never realized that in the end, schools, are merely classrooms for me to learn. The real school is this whole worldly journey I’m on. I have nine schools but none can teach me as much as the school God have tailor-made for me. 

May whatever journey or path we embark on, becomes a character-building experience for all of us. It might be rocky, confusing, lonely, exciting, and a thousand more sensations, but in the end, it’ll be a unique experience that only you will get to experience. Have faith, it’ll be an amazing story to tell. 

Hot Season

https://listenonrepeat.com/?v=f6bHMLFwJmw&s=&e=#Sad_Piano_Music_-_Searching_(Copyright_Free)

A hot season with a cool mug of iced tea in both hands,

Fresh from class,

From frantic people,

From mind wrecking decisions

From stifling lecturers,

From random passerby,

From the golden sun,

From the clear blue sky,

From a day filled with different levels of energy.

“It’s fun but also tiring”,

She types in her whatsapp group,

Not intending to complain but,

To just let it out ,

Let it out,

Of the system that lies in a human physique.

“I mean, I AM happy. I love what I do. I am proud of myself for handling everything so well.”

“but, sometimes, the heat gets to me. I hate how I always watch other people’s whatsapp stories, I hate how I always glance at my whatsapp to see if there’s any new messages although my brain is full. I can’t respond to everyone who needs me. I can’t please everyone who seeks me. I can’t be the perfect figure for people who looks at me. My life is full. I wonder what’s my limit on these days? On days where I walk under the sun while maintaining a calm composure, wincing at the heat.”

Then, as the headache knocks,

And the heat level increases,

And auto-pilot mode activates,

She realize,

“Ahh, I have reach my limit. Right, let’s take a break.”

And curtains drawn,

A mug of iced tea,

Laptop ready,

Earphones on,

Calming tunes began to play,

she moves,

And listen,

And watch,

And write,

Whatever her heart wills,

And the weather becomes cooler,

The breeze began to enter,

Into her dimly lit room,

Colors began to form,

Splashes of red, blue, purple,

Recolor her fading soul,

Spreading warmth,

And comfort,

Until finally the end product,

Her heart beats again,

With life,

Spirit,

And a soothing coolness.

“Could this be the iced tea effect?”

She wonders,

As she sips her sweet tea,

And allows the coolness of the mug,

To sink into her dry palms,

And cools her humid world.