The Written Word

On writing.

I used to love to write. It was a saviour to my "tortured" soul; like balm to soothe the torrent of emotion that welled up inside too often for my own good. So that when I let loose, I found perspective, it shaped me, my beliefs on subjects of religion, relationships, family and the like. It was the sieve to the many philosophies and worldly wisdom and religious teachings that one accumulates from being around people, reading too many books and watching too much TV. It gave me insight to where I stood on the boundaries of black, white and grey. Or, on contrary, not to have an opinion at all.

I've seldom ever let anyone read my writing. Yet here I am, blogging for all the world to see. To say I've lost my shyness would be inaccurate for am still painfully shy sometimes. [I hide it well. I think no one even knows.] Especially when it comes to my own work. For I try not to judge lest I be judged. Yet, how can I say I've improved when no one has critiqued? I resolve here and now today that I will attempt to write a piece of whatever-catches-my-fancy-or-not-at-all once a week. Here. About the fog that clouds my mind, the abstract (il)logic/situations/people that draws akin to what seems to have no relation with each other. The distracted nature of mine that drives many people to exasperation, notably my other half. My better half. The one who knows the ways of the world when it continues to befuddle me.

Writing is a cleansing process. Much like crying. Does well for melancholics and depressives. But it only works if you acknowledge that you're one. And how often are we that self-aware?

Sometimes, I wish I were more proficient in numbers rather than language. Then perhaps I would less of what I am now, and more of someone the world in general would approve. Not that I have a self-loathing tendency, but more because the numbers-inclined me would've been less of an emotional/sensitive being and more equipped to survive in this concrete jungle. But whenever that thought crosses my mind, I wonder, how do you express anger and joy and anxiety or excitement in numerals? Like 996736352 to the power of 33 gives you "happiness" while the square root of 55883312 equals "really-pissed-off"?

I write openly here because only a few people know of this page's existence. And you guys are the closest to me so I can be myself. Plus there are no photos (neither will there be in future, not of my face at least) so no blog-voyeurs will know who I am. I feel safe like that.

So sensitive

How does one refrain from being sensitive and emotional?

Why is it such a bad thing? Does it make me a bad person? Or a lesser one?

If not, why ask me to change?

bye bye ah sai... sob!

We're back from the airport. Just sent off ah sai (a.k.a. my sister) and feeling rather sad. Have not cried yet.. we did that at mass yesterday already. But there's a funny feeling welling up in my chest that has not found the surface, upon which I think would mean, active tearduct activity.

She'll be gone for a year and I will miss her dearly. My sister is my best friend. Like she said, amongst other things (unflattering and flattering) written on my birthday card, "I'll never be alone in my weirdness becos of you." She alone understands the dysfunctionality of our family, my own strangenes that so mirrors her own. We are very different, from our looks to taste in fashion, food and habits but somehow, we are also the same. Is this what blood does to you? Bind you in some inexplicable way, making you recognisable only to blood.

Ah sai and I share a bond. I know she feels it too but she's less vocal than I am about expressing emotions. The past few months have been a countdown to tonight but this morning, it was here. The day finally came. And she only finally got packed at 7pm. We had dinner at Soup Restaurant and ate a ton. I thought I would cry at the airport but I didn't. Instead, I was the naggy cow. Remember this, remember that... I can't help it. Am just naturally protective of her. Like when we were young and our then-maid would lock her and ah sai in the room to make her take a nap. She'd be wailing her guts out and I would worry.

So much so that 7-year-old me would climb outside our 6th floor window ledge and peer into the next room to spy and make sure she was ok. There was a time I nearly slipped but God had other plans for me not to die early. But this is how fiercely protective I am about that dodo. And I miss her already. She's very noisy at home, blasting japanese music and crap that it's oddly silent.