Reclusive

I don't know what's coming over me these days.

Ever since I had that emotional breakdown about two weeks back, nothing's been the same. I can't stop thinking. I've been sleeping, but with constant nightmares. I don't know which is worse; insomnia or nightmares.

Why can't I sleep like everybody I know? What's bothering me? Why is it that I want to learn so many things? Why is it so difficult for me to make choices between the things I like?

I keep picking depressing movies to watch.
"The First Grader"
"The Bicycle Thief"
"The Pianist"
Of which, the last two don't really have a happy ending. In "The Bicycle Thief", the poor man goes home to his wife and child, jobless and penniless as ever, having had his own bicycle stolen. He had to pawn his bedsheets to get it for a job.
In "The Pianist", although Wladyslaw went back to playing the piano and performing, the captain, Wilm Hosenfeld, who had shown him a better place to hide and brought him food and even given him his coat for warmth, died in a Soviet POW camp after torture at age 57.

I can't stop thinking about what evil people are capable of. I can't understand why. I need to understand, I want to understand, yet I don't want to get close enough to do so.

I have this urge to cut all ties, to be away from the rest of the world. I want to go to Mars for a day, or swim in the Dead Sea, or try my hand at herding cattle in the mountains. So desperate to get away.

Reclusive.

Taking risks

I think it's high time I do a post about taking risks.

This morning I was riding in the car, and going through my record of friends in my head, and I had the horrible epiphany that most of them aren't risk-takers. Not in the very least, if I may add.

Risks are not about smoking, drugs or lying in the middle of the road and shouting "YOLO". No, that's called being stupid. You only living once doesn't mean you do anything stupid that might shorten your life. Risks are about trying new things, daring to experience. Let me start off with a few examples.

My Honey dared to tell me his feelings, and next April will be start of our forth year together. ;)

That nerdy doctor whom I thought was cute but didn't speak a word to me? On my last week of work I panicked like heck trying to think of what to say to him, how to give him a lemon muffin I baked, and how to deal with it should he reject it. As you all know, I take rejection harshly. I know it's a problem, I know, I know, but how do I get rid of that fear?
Well anyway, after several days (days!) of worrying and sleepless nights, I finally forced myself to just knock on his door and give him the muffin. We ended up chatting for a bit, and he was very grateful! I earned that smile.
I knew if I didn't take that risk, I'd spend forever wondering "what if?".

My latest risk-taking session was this morning, as a matter of fact. Mr Sexy Hands has, obviously, terribly beautiful hands, but has this black face wherever he goes. This puts most people off from speaking to him, because who wants to talk to someone grumpy? He avoids eye contact in the corridors. He's a good teacher, though. In the mornings he comes to school with his earphones plugged into his ears and refuses to talk to anyone until he's had his morning coffee or something. I dread bumping into him because it's always an awkward moment with that glare of his, but I'm always ogling his hands.
So this morning I was walking towards the library from the labs after chucking my jogging gear into my locker, and I was minding my own business, really, with this beautiful choral piece playing in my head. Here comes this attitude-swagger my way with (surprise!) earphones plugged in. He was heading to the coffee machine. I'm walking, walking, and he definitely sees me, so what the heck, I wave.
A look of surprise flashed across his usually-grumpy face! Of course it recovered as quickly as it could, but he gave me a small wave. AHA!

Take that, you people!
Risks you take don't always work out, but I have to say, most of the time, they do. And when they do, they really make your day. If they don't, oh well, try again next time. Maybe that guy you're trying to talk to will be in a better mood another day. Maybe the new job will be more than what you hoped for. If it doesn't turn out the way you want, know that you always have the power to make new decisions to achieve what you want.

Don't spend forever wondering "what if I did?"

Fly, my pretties, fly!

Griffin and Sabine

I found the most exquisite set of books today.

They were hidden away at the level 5 research section. The range of books were scarce; there were only a few books on rows of otherwise empty shelves. I picked these out the day before yesterday, hoping to at least flip through them for the colourful artwork. I opened the books today, and was pleasantly surprised to find letters in envelopes and postcards waiting for me.

Griffin and Sabine live in parallel universes, probably a couple of years apart. They've always somehow known one another, they could sense the other being there. One day Sabine sees Griffin's artwork on a postcard and immediately recognizes it, and writes to him. He is bewildered and afraid; how did this stranger know so much about him?

Correspondence takes the form of postcards, which they illustrate themselves, and though it has a somewhat rocky beginning, they find themselves looking forward to hearing from each other, up until the point they start to fall in love.

Griffin gets cold feet and wonders if he'd conjured Sabine up, thinking he's lost his mind. He flees from his house and goes away from a while. It's only after he realizes that he misses her that he returns, and his heart flutters once again when they continue writing.

They discuss the theory and possibility of living in alternate universes, and try to meet up in Griffin's house, but though they were there on the same days, either one was nowhere to be found. They continue to write.

Sabine goes on a trip to Alexandria, and writes about a secret door that opens into another world. They discuss it; maybe it could help them meet at last.
They make plans to meet there.

A new friend

On Monday, I made a new friend.
Today, I talked to him.

He is 40 years old. He has a heavy Mainland Chinese accent, but speaks simply of seasons. He wears several rings on his fingers, which are often in motion as he gesticulates wildly. His actions do not seek attention as they stay within an imaginary box, as if I were looking through glass.

I listened to him speak. There was so much noise around that I could scarcely concentrate on what he was saying, but I did my best. He told me about his job, his family, and everyday life. He works from 6am every day for 11 hours, and receives a minimum wage of $30. He spoke fondly of his family and daughter, who is entering university back in China. He smiled to himself. His heavy accent smothers his words occasionally, but he continues speaking. He showed me the scars on his face and forehead from a traffic accident he got a few years back. They were almost gone now, but I could still see them on his temple.

He spoke of each season, like it was magical. Winter falls 30 degrees below where he comes from, but there is snow, snow up to the knees. He hasn't been home in years; there isn't enough money. The exchange rate does much for him, and his daughter needs to pay for her university. He spoke sadly of how much it costs to study and live here.

He works as a cleaner.

A certain daylight

I am still dreaming of a certain daylight.

Of course I don't mean it literally. This is a tropical island, there is sunlight everywhere. Most of us folk tend to run from shade to shade just to avoid it, because it is deathly warm. And yet, here I am freezing in the school library.

Often I get happy flashbacks of travel, of beautiful architecture, paintings, musicians, places and friends. It's not everyday that you find your very own Hungarian bear, in the form of dear János, who drives a bus, loves Chinese food and plays flying simulation games. There is a certain charm of Europe that can't be compared to, like the people who sunbathe topless on the banks of the Danube.

It is back to the same old routine lifestyle for me. My internship at the hospital is done, and it was truly amazing. I got to touch tumours and everything! Most of the people there were lovely, but I noticed that the lab folk took a lot of time to warm up to me, as opposed to your everyday person. There are plenty of political issues in the lab, but then, that's true for anywhere. Some people were not so friendly, but I managed to stay out of their way, just, so that didn't bother me too much.

I am still the same stubborn emotional creature that I was years ago. Sometimes I yearn for that on/off switch, just so I can fulfil my fantasies of escape. Think about it: just one flip and suddenly your problems don't matter anymore. You're never kept awake with them flashing behind your eyelids every few seconds; the only way to avoid them is to keep your eyes open in the darkness. You never hear them shouting in your ears.

Medication has been developed solely for this function, but then, my teachers always told me there is no such thing as a safe drug. Sometimes I can find that natural switch in art or music, but otherwise my fears haunt me at the only time and place when they can- when I try to sleep.

It is rather therapeutic, this arrangement. Since I am done with my SIP, I report at school from 8.30am to 6pm every weekday. During this time I am free to do my research and discussions for my Major Project. Well, most of this time I spend on my Major Project. Otherwise, it's actually rather therapeutic to have the entire computer room to myself. Since this morning I've been listening to a constant stream of classical music, looking at photography and doing research on our dear friend E. coli.

Lonely but peaceful.

The Morning of 13th June 2012, 4am

I am typing this at 4am in the dark. It is almost impossible to see the keyboard, I have to rely on my aim, which, unfortunately, isn’t too accurate.

The mattress is new but thin, such that I can feel the hardness of the marble tiles through it. I have to make do, to complain is suicide. The house smells of a strange mix of incense and embalming chemicals, people are strewn over every available couch. I was “greeted” at Penang airport by my sister’s grumpy face. You’d think that families, being thought of close and loving and all, would have at least a cold “hello” for me. No, the first thing she said was “do you know what you’re wearing?”

She was, of course, referring to my yellow long-sleeved tee. Nobody told me I couldn’t wear colours, honestly. All they told me was to bring a “white shirt and black pants” for the burial ceremony. Nobody, I repeat, nobody told me I couldn’t wear colours. When I said that, she replied, “It’s obviously common sense.”

Whose common sense, may I ask? I know it’s all mourning and all, but honestly, I think Granddad would appreciate the splash of colours in the midst of all this gloom.

Poor Granddad. I had to pray with joss sticks to him and some God (I think). It’s an open casket, the body is in the living room right now. I wonder where his chair is, the one he used to nap in every afternoon. I used to play with the strings on them while watching TV, trying to stretch the plastic-rubber strings which never seemed to break.

His illness took a toll on his body. The liver cancer, not eating, just sleeping, lung infection, lack of oxygen, and kidney deterioration shows on his face. I took one look at the face lying in the coffin and my first thought was “what? This is not my grandfather!”

I felt a tug thinking about how much he must have suffered during those few days before his death. On the last day, he had trouble breathing, probably due to the lung infection. He wasn’t responding to antibiotics (and the doctors were too idiotic to prescribe another), and the infection was probably suffocating him. Theory has it about blocking the alveoli from oxygen exchange or intake. He was transferred to the ICU, where he passed away an hour later.

I kept looking at the face in the coffin, trying to picture the once chubby, vibrant man, my grandfather. It was impossible; the stranger in the coffin bore no resemblance to the man I used to know. Until a few years ago, he was still driving himself around, he always drank soft drinks (Pepsi, Sarsi) at meals. He loved to go out on his own, but then recently, about a few months ago, he broke his kneecap and couldn’t walk anymore. I think there was a certain frustration inside him, and it sparked the realisation that his body was giving way.

I can’t say I was the closest person to him. In all honesty, I barely knew him. He was always this distant figure, non-physical-touching, and he spoke a different language, so there was always that barrier between us. It was always rather awkward, but then, in my family, it always is.

Sometimes I wish for something warmer, but this way it’s easier to let go when the time comes. Poor Granddad. He couldn’t walk then, but at least he can go wherever he wants to now. I can talk to him without the language barrier, and he shall suffer no more.

Ok this is random but I keep feeling this strange soft pressure on my upper back. But no, not fear. Just a strange calm knowing he’s around here somewhere.

Morning of June 13^th 2012

A portrait of barren beauty

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held:
Then being asked where all the beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

-William Shakespeare