The past week has been the season of death and life.
Three deaths - one close, one in proximity, one distant. Every now and then, we're reminded of our mortality, especially when death claims someone dear.
Three birthdays, all close. The succession of deaths has made the celebration of life all the more poignant.
The one thing that all these events had in common, though, was the presence of love.
The baby girl, though born with the defect and had not been expected to live beyond her first birthday, had been given her chance at life and all the love she could want in her short time here. The actor who is remembered fondly by an entire industry of friends. The old man who was mourned the moment he was found dead.
Dinner with my father, celebrating a lucky age. Owing a meal to a close friend who brought great music to many. A night of kitsch fun with someone whom I once had to bury in my bosom.
Happy birthday, my dear Sagittarius men.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Seven beginnings
It was
The sudden feel of a warm hand taking mine.
An arm gently encircling from behind.
An awkward kiss in a quiet, sunlit room.
A searching look beside a merry-go-round.
A kiss at the front gate.
A hand softly coming to rest on the back of a neck.
Two foreheads touching after a bout of tickling.
Holding each other by the piano in the dark; lying back to back after an argument; stroking my hair late at night until I fall asleep; reading a tear-soaked letter from the homesick boy in the army; lying on park benches watching the leaves move; fishing on the jetty; stroking his fever-soaked forehead; the first scent of our breaths entwining; the terror of first-proclaimed love; the feel of fingers tracing grooves on my arm; the smell of fresh soap just before making love; an eleventh-hour silent confession; countless hours on the phone, long-distance; singing to him as he falls asleep; terminal dilemma, torn between two loves; kissing in the club, not caring who looks; driving in tender silence as the rain envelopes the car; seeing my hair on his pillow; discussing who to invite to our wedding; the boy on his knees begging me to forgive him; watching the lone figure walk away for the last time; the self-inflicted wound of cutting away love; weeping my soul away, clinging to him in futility; weeping alone, knowing he's gone.
Time lines, clear at first, get jumbled up. Memories mingle, jostling for prominence. Moments beginning, moments during.
And then, moments ending.
All beginnings must end alone.
The sudden feel of a warm hand taking mine.
An arm gently encircling from behind.
An awkward kiss in a quiet, sunlit room.
A searching look beside a merry-go-round.
A kiss at the front gate.
A hand softly coming to rest on the back of a neck.
Two foreheads touching after a bout of tickling.
Holding each other by the piano in the dark; lying back to back after an argument; stroking my hair late at night until I fall asleep; reading a tear-soaked letter from the homesick boy in the army; lying on park benches watching the leaves move; fishing on the jetty; stroking his fever-soaked forehead; the first scent of our breaths entwining; the terror of first-proclaimed love; the feel of fingers tracing grooves on my arm; the smell of fresh soap just before making love; an eleventh-hour silent confession; countless hours on the phone, long-distance; singing to him as he falls asleep; terminal dilemma, torn between two loves; kissing in the club, not caring who looks; driving in tender silence as the rain envelopes the car; seeing my hair on his pillow; discussing who to invite to our wedding; the boy on his knees begging me to forgive him; watching the lone figure walk away for the last time; the self-inflicted wound of cutting away love; weeping my soul away, clinging to him in futility; weeping alone, knowing he's gone.
Time lines, clear at first, get jumbled up. Memories mingle, jostling for prominence. Moments beginning, moments during.
And then, moments ending.
All beginnings must end alone.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Aren't we sick of obsessing over fat?
Hands up: How many of you, even though you know it's mean and not politically correct, have looked at someone you consider fat and thought, "Eww, what a fatso", or "Fat people just should not appear in public"?
I just saw a piece of news that being fat may now be illegal in Japan, and had the unfortunate curiosity to see what people were commenting on that video. The small-mindedness of some ignoramuses reminded me of this girl I once knew.
A 14-year-old girl, standing at 1.62 metres tall, weighing 47 kilogrammes, with a waistline of 26 inches, bending over backwards from standing into a wheel posture during a cheerleading routine for the school Sports Day.
That girl was convinced she was fat and unfit.
Why was she fat and unfit? Because she had the thickest waistline in the cheerleading team, because a small amount of flesh bulged over the top of her skirt, because she couldn't do a split like some of the other girls, and because she ached after playing ball games. Is it just me, or was that teenage sucker out of touch with what is normal?
That girl was me.
I grew up hyper aware of the issue of fat, because 1) I was underweight as a child, 2) I almost became overweight as an adolescent, and 3) thick waistlines run in the family.
Back to ignorant commenters. I see things like "I'm tired of seeing fat shits everywhere I look" and "Totally sick of seeing fat fuck ass girls everywhere and claiming they are happy being like that. Delusional idiots."
The person I love more than anyone else in the world is considered fat by many. When we go out together (at least in Singapore), it hurts to see people with their judgmental stares and smirks. Do they really know what it's like to have a lifelong struggle with weight? Do they know how it is to try your best and still feel thwarted at times?
Yes, sometimes, being fat is the result of laziness and poor lifestyle choices. However, in most cases I know of, it's a result of complex patterns and occurrences in the course of life, and, I believe, genetics in some cases (the converse is true too - how many people do you know are perennially skinny even though they regularly eat like food is going out of fashion?). Even then, poor choices are also often the result of patterns in our psyche, which is why behaviour modification is a common tool in long-term weight loss.
Let me present two people I know:
Person A: She weighs about 200 pounds, approx 1.65 metres tall. She can lift more weight than most women can. She goes to the gym regularly - I went with her for fitness classes before, and my body was screaming for reprieve while she was still happily pumping away. She's got a butt that defies gravity. She cooks low-carb pasta with organic vegetables. Her kitchen is always stocked with loads of fruit, muesli and whole-wheat English muffins for breakfast. She's diabetic so she keeps her sugar intake low. She has a good sense of style and knows how to dress to flatter (and get attention with cute accessories).
Person B: She weighs about 105 pounds, approx 1.63 metres tall. She eats only two small pieces of pastry each day. She doesn't work out. She's so deathly insecure in her clothes that she never stops looking uncomfortable and tugging at her clothes.
Don't judge. Being fat isn't always because the person can't be arsed to care about their health or make positive changes. Don't say a fat person who loves herself/himself as they are is being delusional or dumb. It means they accept that they're beautiful people even though some people just can't look beyond their physical appearance, having obviously never heard of the notion that attractiveness has more to do with personality than looks.
That's the other thing. Being 'fat' is such a subjective notion. Imagine how thrilled I was the first time I visited the US as an adult, and the locals were marvelling at how slim I was at 120 pounds. Meanwhile, in Singapore, I'm considered a big girl.
I say work with what you've got. No one can be perfect, even if they seem perfect on the surface. If you work towards being healthy, balanced and self-aware, I say you're lovelier than that starving mess of chopsticks they call a runway model (that's a whole other weight issue; let's not go there today).
And for goodness' sake, the next time I hear a skinny person (I define skinny as I-can-see-your-ribcage-through-your-top) say they're getting fat, I might just not be able to stop myself from slugging them.
To those who'd sneer at fat people, I have this to say to you: If looking at a fat person disgusts you, be grateful they can't see your soul and get more disgusted at YOU.
I just saw a piece of news that being fat may now be illegal in Japan, and had the unfortunate curiosity to see what people were commenting on that video. The small-mindedness of some ignoramuses reminded me of this girl I once knew.
A 14-year-old girl, standing at 1.62 metres tall, weighing 47 kilogrammes, with a waistline of 26 inches, bending over backwards from standing into a wheel posture during a cheerleading routine for the school Sports Day.
That girl was convinced she was fat and unfit.
Why was she fat and unfit? Because she had the thickest waistline in the cheerleading team, because a small amount of flesh bulged over the top of her skirt, because she couldn't do a split like some of the other girls, and because she ached after playing ball games. Is it just me, or was that teenage sucker out of touch with what is normal?
That girl was me.
I grew up hyper aware of the issue of fat, because 1) I was underweight as a child, 2) I almost became overweight as an adolescent, and 3) thick waistlines run in the family.
Back to ignorant commenters. I see things like "I'm tired of seeing fat shits everywhere I look" and "Totally sick of seeing fat fuck ass girls everywhere and claiming they are happy being like that. Delusional idiots."
The person I love more than anyone else in the world is considered fat by many. When we go out together (at least in Singapore), it hurts to see people with their judgmental stares and smirks. Do they really know what it's like to have a lifelong struggle with weight? Do they know how it is to try your best and still feel thwarted at times?
Yes, sometimes, being fat is the result of laziness and poor lifestyle choices. However, in most cases I know of, it's a result of complex patterns and occurrences in the course of life, and, I believe, genetics in some cases (the converse is true too - how many people do you know are perennially skinny even though they regularly eat like food is going out of fashion?). Even then, poor choices are also often the result of patterns in our psyche, which is why behaviour modification is a common tool in long-term weight loss.
Let me present two people I know:
Person A: She weighs about 200 pounds, approx 1.65 metres tall. She can lift more weight than most women can. She goes to the gym regularly - I went with her for fitness classes before, and my body was screaming for reprieve while she was still happily pumping away. She's got a butt that defies gravity. She cooks low-carb pasta with organic vegetables. Her kitchen is always stocked with loads of fruit, muesli and whole-wheat English muffins for breakfast. She's diabetic so she keeps her sugar intake low. She has a good sense of style and knows how to dress to flatter (and get attention with cute accessories).
Person B: She weighs about 105 pounds, approx 1.63 metres tall. She eats only two small pieces of pastry each day. She doesn't work out. She's so deathly insecure in her clothes that she never stops looking uncomfortable and tugging at her clothes.
Don't judge. Being fat isn't always because the person can't be arsed to care about their health or make positive changes. Don't say a fat person who loves herself/himself as they are is being delusional or dumb. It means they accept that they're beautiful people even though some people just can't look beyond their physical appearance, having obviously never heard of the notion that attractiveness has more to do with personality than looks.
That's the other thing. Being 'fat' is such a subjective notion. Imagine how thrilled I was the first time I visited the US as an adult, and the locals were marvelling at how slim I was at 120 pounds. Meanwhile, in Singapore, I'm considered a big girl.
I say work with what you've got. No one can be perfect, even if they seem perfect on the surface. If you work towards being healthy, balanced and self-aware, I say you're lovelier than that starving mess of chopsticks they call a runway model (that's a whole other weight issue; let's not go there today).
And for goodness' sake, the next time I hear a skinny person (I define skinny as I-can-see-your-ribcage-through-your-top) say they're getting fat, I might just not be able to stop myself from slugging them.
To those who'd sneer at fat people, I have this to say to you: If looking at a fat person disgusts you, be grateful they can't see your soul and get more disgusted at YOU.
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Confessions of a Disney girl
I was Snow White dressed in the wrong colours. I was Cinderella with throw pillows under her skirt. I was the princess who sat atop the step-ladder throne. I was decked in plastic jewels with flaking silver paint. I held court perched upon a huge bean bag.
I was a Disney girl. A big time Disney girl.
I quoted dialogue from my favourite Disney cartoons. I'd hum So This Is Love as I clambered up the side of our garden swing - I never sat on the swing, I only climbed - and draped over the top bar until my mum yelled at me to get down.
Even as I ogled Transformers and GI Joe figurines at toy stores, I'd probably have a pink Barbie dress under one arm - I had more hope of getting girly toys from my parents than boy toys (little did they foresee the future...).
I wore lots of pink.
I wanted to be pretty, and be loved for being pretty. I wanted to wear the fluffy dresses and lipstick. But I'd never be pretty and princess-like. Which princess prefers climbing to preening? Which princess can't talk to mice, birds and other wildlife? Which princess prefers computer lessons to modelling lessons? Which princess slouches and sits with her legs open? Which princess gets bored at her prom when her friends want to do nothing but pose for pictures while she prefers to jive with the band? Which princess pays for every compliment with the pain that inevitably follows when a vulnerable, insecure girl can't tell the difference between angels and sharks? Which princess wonders why real mothers and evil stepmothers sometimes don't seem to feel all that different? Which princess feels unhappy, fat, trapped, and never good nor smart nor talented enough?
And then, one day, a man looked straight into my eyes and said, "Daph, you are a very, very attractive woman", and wasn't trying to get into my pants. I was 22.
That same month I got my first job, based purely on talent as I had no academic qualification that supported that line of work and only had an interview and a written test to prove myself.
Two years later I was an editor of a magazine. (I didn't have the appropriate pay increase, but hey, a promo is a promo).
Two years later I took a leap and did all the things that people told me were foolish and impossible to live on, and I've proved them all wrong.
And then, one day, I realised I was beautiful and talented.
The kind of princess that Disney has been veering towards in recent years has evolved - the ballsy, eccentric chicks who have the upper body strength to haul in a huge beast teetering on the edge of a balcony, battle crocodiles and (gasp) be non-Caucasian...but they are still pretty in gowns - Disney will never sell a plain Jane. Though I now own gowns and believe myself to be beautiful, I'm still no Cinderella (though I'm occasionally a Sleeping Beauty).
Today, an older and fatter me still thinks I'll never be a Disney princess, but that's OK because I'm fabulous nonetheless, and wiser to boot. Moreover, if I were perfect like a Disney princess, wouldn't I have nowhere to grow?
The beauty of not being good enough is knowing there's better to come. So yes, I'm not good enough. And that's an exciting thought.
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Dedicated to those who (think they) want to die
Why do we love the smell of rain, knowing it brings wet and cold?
Why do we long for love even as it stabs and maims?
Why do we have children, knowing they won't be ours for long?
Why does a starving child hunt for food, knowing that the pain of hunger will come back?
Why do we enjoy the view from high places, knowing that to fall is to die?
Why, even with the will to die driving us to the edge, do we allow life to call us back?
The price to pay for the joy of life is pain, but a lifetime's payment of struggle, tears and wounds is worth the reward of being alive to smell, love, eat, gaze, live.
Being so fleetingly yet blazingly alive.
Why do we long for love even as it stabs and maims?
Why do we have children, knowing they won't be ours for long?
Why does a starving child hunt for food, knowing that the pain of hunger will come back?
Why do we enjoy the view from high places, knowing that to fall is to die?
Why, even with the will to die driving us to the edge, do we allow life to call us back?
The price to pay for the joy of life is pain, but a lifetime's payment of struggle, tears and wounds is worth the reward of being alive to smell, love, eat, gaze, live.
Being so fleetingly yet blazingly alive.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
What I learned from other women
When you go out with other women, dessert is not an option. It's a necessity.
It's easy to tell who are the women who are easily flattered. It's not always a bad thing, but is mildly annoying sometimes.
Women's lips are far, far softer to kiss than men's. (Don't ask me how I know. OK, fine, Truth or Dare.)
I can see when they're genuinely glad to meet me or any other new person. Upon being introduced, their eyebrows rise a little, the upper mask of their face lifts and their eyes widen, and a half-smile is already forming before they consciously tell themselves to smile at you.
If you've ever laid hands on their man or ex-man, no matter how inadvertent or understandable or far-removed in time frame, they'll never trust you.
Insecure women don't know you can tell that they're insecure because they're too busy compensating. A good friend introduced me to a pretty young thing he was interested in. The girl in question was indeed good-looking, well-dressed, and poised in a manner calculated for effect. I smiled and extended my hand to her - her response was to press her lips into a tight, terse smile and look me up and down before limply extending her hand in response. And this leads me to my next point.
Insecure women don't know you can tell when they're judging you. She was gorgeous but I disliked her within 3 seconds of meeting her. Sure enough, she turned out to be deathly insecure and attention-starved and my friend eventually saw there was no point pursuing her.
A woman doesn't have to be drop-dead gorgeous to feel confident and attractive. In a social circle I used to hang around in, there were numerous slim, impeccably-groomed, delicate-featured young ladies. However, the only woman in that group to ever make me gasp and say "Now SHE's hot" was a fleshy ah lian who didn't score high in the looks nor poise department, but could switch from chirpy to kill-em smoulder in a heartbeat, and who spoke her mind freely, devil-may-care - it was this complete belief that she was fabulous that made her so.
Most women are better people when they realise that happiness is wherever they choose to find it.
But some women are much better people when they are miserable than when they are happy.
Some women will always crave the drama. Even when everything is going their way, drama finds them eventually, somehow. (But hey, look what industry I work in. All hail the drama.)
When you're in a room with powerful women, you can't help but feel empowered yourself.
Some women do have all the answers they need - the reason they've turned to you is not to hear the answers all over again, but to have your support and a hug.
The women who end up being the ones who stick around and share your life with you aren't the ones who are just like you. They're the ones who complement you and you them.
It's easy to tell who are the women who are easily flattered. It's not always a bad thing, but is mildly annoying sometimes.
Women's lips are far, far softer to kiss than men's. (Don't ask me how I know. OK, fine, Truth or Dare.)
I can see when they're genuinely glad to meet me or any other new person. Upon being introduced, their eyebrows rise a little, the upper mask of their face lifts and their eyes widen, and a half-smile is already forming before they consciously tell themselves to smile at you.
If you've ever laid hands on their man or ex-man, no matter how inadvertent or understandable or far-removed in time frame, they'll never trust you.
Insecure women don't know you can tell that they're insecure because they're too busy compensating. A good friend introduced me to a pretty young thing he was interested in. The girl in question was indeed good-looking, well-dressed, and poised in a manner calculated for effect. I smiled and extended my hand to her - her response was to press her lips into a tight, terse smile and look me up and down before limply extending her hand in response. And this leads me to my next point.
Insecure women don't know you can tell when they're judging you. She was gorgeous but I disliked her within 3 seconds of meeting her. Sure enough, she turned out to be deathly insecure and attention-starved and my friend eventually saw there was no point pursuing her.
A woman doesn't have to be drop-dead gorgeous to feel confident and attractive. In a social circle I used to hang around in, there were numerous slim, impeccably-groomed, delicate-featured young ladies. However, the only woman in that group to ever make me gasp and say "Now SHE's hot" was a fleshy ah lian who didn't score high in the looks nor poise department, but could switch from chirpy to kill-em smoulder in a heartbeat, and who spoke her mind freely, devil-may-care - it was this complete belief that she was fabulous that made her so.
Most women are better people when they realise that happiness is wherever they choose to find it.
But some women are much better people when they are miserable than when they are happy.
Some women will always crave the drama. Even when everything is going their way, drama finds them eventually, somehow. (But hey, look what industry I work in. All hail the drama.)
When you're in a room with powerful women, you can't help but feel empowered yourself.
Some women do have all the answers they need - the reason they've turned to you is not to hear the answers all over again, but to have your support and a hug.
The women who end up being the ones who stick around and share your life with you aren't the ones who are just like you. They're the ones who complement you and you them.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I am not a (conventional) romantic.
Don't buy me large, expensive bouquets of flowers. Instead, stroke my face with a single rose petal and mingle its scent with that of your lips and breath.
Don't take me to candlelight dinners where the waiters wear coat tails. Instead, dance with me in the dark to Sting's "When We Dance".
Don't compose ditties for me and sing them to me with guitar accompaniment. Instead, hum a soft tune in my ear on a sleepless night while you stroke my hair.
Don't write poetry for me. Instead, read my favourite poems and try to understand why I love them.
Don't repeat "I love you" every other hour. Instead, show me your vulnerability and allow me to hold you when you've had a bad day.
Don't buy me expensive lingerie and silk sheets. Instead, look into my eyes when you make love to me.
Don't open doors nor pull out chairs for me. Instead, be strong for me in times when I truly need you to be.
Don't pay for all my shopping. Instead, tell me honestly when I put on something that makes me look fat, and tell me I'm gorgeous when I put on something lovely even if it costs an arm and a leg.
Don't do everything I like and go to every place I like. Instead, show me who you are and allow us to discover our own things to do and places to go.
Don't burn yourself out trying to be Mr Super Romantic in the first months of our courtship. Instead, be my perennial best friend and partner.
Don't worship me. Instead, love me.
Don't take me to candlelight dinners where the waiters wear coat tails. Instead, dance with me in the dark to Sting's "When We Dance".
Don't compose ditties for me and sing them to me with guitar accompaniment. Instead, hum a soft tune in my ear on a sleepless night while you stroke my hair.
Don't write poetry for me. Instead, read my favourite poems and try to understand why I love them.
Don't repeat "I love you" every other hour. Instead, show me your vulnerability and allow me to hold you when you've had a bad day.
Don't buy me expensive lingerie and silk sheets. Instead, look into my eyes when you make love to me.
Don't open doors nor pull out chairs for me. Instead, be strong for me in times when I truly need you to be.
Don't pay for all my shopping. Instead, tell me honestly when I put on something that makes me look fat, and tell me I'm gorgeous when I put on something lovely even if it costs an arm and a leg.
Don't do everything I like and go to every place I like. Instead, show me who you are and allow us to discover our own things to do and places to go.
Don't burn yourself out trying to be Mr Super Romantic in the first months of our courtship. Instead, be my perennial best friend and partner.
Don't worship me. Instead, love me.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Futility
I want many things.
I want to take back the wasted years.
I want him to give a damn about what he did to me when we ended.
I want to grab him by the collar, shake hard and demand, "How COULD you?"
I want him to feel as cheated as I did.
I want my current discontent to have died when my feelings for him died those years ago.
I want to be able to feel without fear.
I want to be able to say, "Goodbye till tomorrow" instead of just, "Goodbye."
I want to be able to remember what it is to be in love, because it scares me that I don't remember.
I want hope to stop wearing away.
I want to take back the wasted years.
I want him to give a damn about what he did to me when we ended.
I want to grab him by the collar, shake hard and demand, "How COULD you?"
I want him to feel as cheated as I did.
I want my current discontent to have died when my feelings for him died those years ago.
I want to be able to feel without fear.
I want to be able to say, "Goodbye till tomorrow" instead of just, "Goodbye."
I want to be able to remember what it is to be in love, because it scares me that I don't remember.
I want hope to stop wearing away.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Water-logged blues
The rain came back to Mother Earth in an unrelenting crystal curtain - water never forgets who it is beholden to. Wayward dancing shards momentarily defied the confines of gravity and flew horizontally under the canopy, before smugly hugging its target surface: my freshly made-up face. And my new shoes.
But an overdue date with the girls must not be deterred by heaven's sprinkler party. With dogged determination, I dialed a cab company again. A friendly drone informed me that all the taxi services had better things to do than to attend to me.
I'd squeezed into a new backless dress and 4-inch heels - no way was I going to crawl back home because of over-enthusiastic atmospheric moisture, which kept trying to fling itself at me even as I retreated further and further inside the porch canopy. I dialed another cab company, which this time decided to forgo the automated faux friendliness and simply ignore my call.
As I blessed the phone with my richest expletive, a soccer ball, apparently also trying to defy the laws of physics, zipped past my left foot, missing it by 2 inches. Its pint-sized owner scampered to retrieve it without casting me a look, before proceeding to accelerate the 22-centimetre particle through various other vectors.
As the gleeful riot of rain gathered in strength, I glanced forlornly at the time. I was hopelessly late. A loud thump to my right made me feel lucky to be alive while children are playing soccer on the porch. I attempted to book a cab again - the sooner I away with me, the less likely to experience death by ball.
Just as another irritating engaged tone emanated from my phone and my feet started to scold me for donning screw-me-shoes after a long hiatus from high-heels, I looked up in time to see the offending black-and-white sphere hurtling my way again. As I artfully dodged the soccer ball of death, I opened my mouth with the intention of curdling the child's blood with my verbal prowess, when a flash of red brought light to my rain-darkened world. The scarlet Volkswagen came to a halt and the knight in shining white shirt emerged as I jubilantly surged forth to meet him.
"Dad! Pleeeeaaaaase give me a lift?"
But an overdue date with the girls must not be deterred by heaven's sprinkler party. With dogged determination, I dialed a cab company again. A friendly drone informed me that all the taxi services had better things to do than to attend to me.
I'd squeezed into a new backless dress and 4-inch heels - no way was I going to crawl back home because of over-enthusiastic atmospheric moisture, which kept trying to fling itself at me even as I retreated further and further inside the porch canopy. I dialed another cab company, which this time decided to forgo the automated faux friendliness and simply ignore my call.
As I blessed the phone with my richest expletive, a soccer ball, apparently also trying to defy the laws of physics, zipped past my left foot, missing it by 2 inches. Its pint-sized owner scampered to retrieve it without casting me a look, before proceeding to accelerate the 22-centimetre particle through various other vectors.
As the gleeful riot of rain gathered in strength, I glanced forlornly at the time. I was hopelessly late. A loud thump to my right made me feel lucky to be alive while children are playing soccer on the porch. I attempted to book a cab again - the sooner I away with me, the less likely to experience death by ball.
Just as another irritating engaged tone emanated from my phone and my feet started to scold me for donning screw-me-shoes after a long hiatus from high-heels, I looked up in time to see the offending black-and-white sphere hurtling my way again. As I artfully dodged the soccer ball of death, I opened my mouth with the intention of curdling the child's blood with my verbal prowess, when a flash of red brought light to my rain-darkened world. The scarlet Volkswagen came to a halt and the knight in shining white shirt emerged as I jubilantly surged forth to meet him.
"Dad! Pleeeeaaaaase give me a lift?"
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Beauty, joy, and ghost tears
My heart is full upon being part of my dear Joy's wedding, which was smashing to say the least. Seeing her so happy, having a ball of a time with my best friend and her loved ones, and having been there at such a special time at such a place of beauty has filled me to the brim.
And I discovered that when your heart is full, you truly feel the undercurrents churning, and you realise that repression does not keep a tempest at bay.
Being at the wedding among so much joy pretty much made me realise what I had to do shouldn't be dragged on much longer, and what I truly need isn't anywhere in the vicinity. I don't want to waste weeks, months or years sticking to the easy, 'nice' path, because 'nice' will turn into 'polite', which will turn into 'toleration', and I don't want to have to find out what the next metamorphosis will be. All of us deserve more than that.
Yesterday, we drove into Patong for a quick jaunt. Whilst the rest of the trip had been a ball so far, driving through the raucous streets of Patong brought an unwelcome feeling of recognition, right before I realised why. Years after I was, and still am, over the f***er who bailed on the rest of our lives (and turned it into the rest of my life), the memories of our special moments still hurt, and Patong was witness to the very best time of our life together; for goodness' sake, his profile picture in some social networking site is still a photo I took of him as we sat in the coloured darkness of Patong's night scene. Even passing by the cabaret reminded me so acutely of those blissful days that turned out to be tainted with deceit at such a fundamental level.
I wish we hadn't gone to Patong (but am still very thankful to our kind friend who brought us there).
It hurt to think of the life I'd lost, and the life I know I want that isn't reachable currently. As we traversed the steep slopes that took us away from Patong, it took the blazingly stunning red disk of the setting sun and the resonant laughter of friends to ease the transient dull ache.
These four days mark the tail end of a long contemplation. What I'm about to do is so difficult, but the more time passes, the more the need digs its claws in.
The sadness of loss and readjustment, the liberty of having done the right thing. How does one weigh their life?
I want to choose fairness over comfort. We've done enough thinking and talking - months and months of thinking and talking. It's time to do, and do cleanly.
Somehow, all this sounds more objective than it feels.
And I discovered that when your heart is full, you truly feel the undercurrents churning, and you realise that repression does not keep a tempest at bay.
Being at the wedding among so much joy pretty much made me realise what I had to do shouldn't be dragged on much longer, and what I truly need isn't anywhere in the vicinity. I don't want to waste weeks, months or years sticking to the easy, 'nice' path, because 'nice' will turn into 'polite', which will turn into 'toleration', and I don't want to have to find out what the next metamorphosis will be. All of us deserve more than that.
Yesterday, we drove into Patong for a quick jaunt. Whilst the rest of the trip had been a ball so far, driving through the raucous streets of Patong brought an unwelcome feeling of recognition, right before I realised why. Years after I was, and still am, over the f***er who bailed on the rest of our lives (and turned it into the rest of my life), the memories of our special moments still hurt, and Patong was witness to the very best time of our life together; for goodness' sake, his profile picture in some social networking site is still a photo I took of him as we sat in the coloured darkness of Patong's night scene. Even passing by the cabaret reminded me so acutely of those blissful days that turned out to be tainted with deceit at such a fundamental level.
I wish we hadn't gone to Patong (but am still very thankful to our kind friend who brought us there).
It hurt to think of the life I'd lost, and the life I know I want that isn't reachable currently. As we traversed the steep slopes that took us away from Patong, it took the blazingly stunning red disk of the setting sun and the resonant laughter of friends to ease the transient dull ache.
These four days mark the tail end of a long contemplation. What I'm about to do is so difficult, but the more time passes, the more the need digs its claws in.
The sadness of loss and readjustment, the liberty of having done the right thing. How does one weigh their life?
I want to choose fairness over comfort. We've done enough thinking and talking - months and months of thinking and talking. It's time to do, and do cleanly.
Somehow, all this sounds more objective than it feels.
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