Keeping my hands busy and away from my skin.

When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of the dark. I slept with the lights on until I was 11 and then I moved on to night lights. I felt like such a grown up the first night I slept with the night light on. I guess that was one of the first times I felt like I wasnt a kid anymore. I guess that's stupid, sleeping with a night light doesn't make me an adult, really, it's no different than sleeping with all the lights on.

I started sleeping with the lights off the first night I moved into my sister's house and out of my parents'.

The truth is, it wasn't darkness I feared. It was more than that.

Hushed arguments whispered in the dead of night, being shoved into my sister's bedroom when the whispers gradually became louder. Muffled yellings penetrating through all the barriers in between. Shouts travelling beyond bedroom doors, walls, comforters and palms covering my ears. The hate resonating through my eardrums and goes to places deep in my mind making me feel emotions I didn't understand, not at the time at least. Somewhere in what felt like the distance was ny sister's slow voice, telling me to sleep. My solace then. Still my solace now. 

It was always in the darkness when things get ugly.

It was never the darkness I feared, it's what it reminded me of that terrifies me.

I am not scared of the darkness, I am afraid of fights.

Q.

Hello. 

It has come to my attention after several conversations with some of my good friends that my fascination with scars (mainly my own) creeps some people out. So today, I would like to blog about scars.

I am no stranger to scars, both physical and emotional scars. Having gone through the kind of teenage years that I went through, those close to me would probably just smile and nod in agreement. Yes, the surface of my skin is littered with plenty of scars ranging from small-barely-visible ones to omg-is-that-a-scar sized ones, some self-inflicted but mostly accidental because I am one of the biggest klutz in the world and because my cats and I; we play rough.

So one day, while I was telling a friend about my latest scar, she told me that I seemed quite proud of it (and my other scars) and at that moment I realised that while I am definitely fond of my scars, I am in fact quite proud of them. I’ve been asked why I don’t make an effort to ‘fix’ my scars and really, why would I? I have never been one to fuss over physical beauty, especially not my own so I don’t see the need to ‘fix’ myself.

I love my scars for they tell stories of times when I was wounded (literally and figuratively) and they remind me everyday that no matter the hardships I face, I will someday be through with it. These scars take me back to a time when I was frail and damaged; these scars are here to teach me a lesson. It is my form of tattoo except they are (mostly) not intentional and I don’t get to choose how I want them to look like. However that’s part of the beauty of scars; not having a say to what they’ll turn out like and wearing them like a badge of honour on your body as proof that yes, I was once wounded and weakened but also yes, I survived to tell the tale. So there, that’s why I am fond of my scars… even the ones inflicted by my rabid, un-neutered cat (that is an interesting story I may want to share here someday).

The same goes for emotional scars, except on a bigger scale. These are scars you face alone because you and only you can see them and you’re the only one who knows how deep the wounds of those scars run and this type of scarring is generally more difficult to accept. I do however hold a different opinion when it comes to emotional scars, at least on some things.

I believe some emotional wounds run too deep and hurt too much that they never really heal but you will have to wake up everyday for the rest of your life with an open, bleeding wound that threatens to consume you alive. I had a very enlightening conversation with a dear friend of mine who is currently going through some difficulties in her life and it is her wish that she will someday wake up with the ache in her chest miraculously reduced to nothing. Me, being the blunt mouthed ass that I am, told her that the kind of wound inflicted on her would probably never heal because it runs too deep and is the first of it’s kind that she’s ever experienced (the first cut is the dee~~~pest). Having said that, I’d let her know my stand on un-healing wounds. That although they never really heal and are always in danger of opening and bleeding again at the slightest pressure, we will someday grow accustomed to the pain. It is a beautiful thing knowing that you can survive such an ugly, vicious wound; bleeding red and throbbing like no kind of pain you’ve ever felt before. It is this fact that makes me appreciate scars and even more; the wounds that never heal, to know that it is possible to make it through to the other side, that you are capable of healing yourself and that you are strong enough to adapt to the pain, even though you may not wake up one day with the pain miraculously gone but you would gradually adapt to the hurt so that one day, the wound that once threatened to consume you alive may hurt no more than an ant bite. It is the kind of pain that reminds you that you are alive and that you have made it to fight another day.

Q.

Love of my life, Sylvia Plath.

“That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket"

Core of my literary soul, Sylvia Plath.

"What a man is is an arrow into the future and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from."
- Sylvia Plath.

“I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath

I'm bringing sexy back, Y E A H.

"Let's be alone together, we'll stay young forever" 

 Many many hello!! It's been almost 2 years since my last blog post here! People tell me I should continue writing here but between school and being the lazy bum that I am, it has taken me 2 years to actually publish another post. I actually come here a lot and write but then I save them so they remain as drafts, gathering virtual dust in this website's server. So I decided that today I will, regardless of how pointless this post may end up being, publish a blogpost. 

Let's see, a lot has happened since I last wrote here. Two years is quite a long time not to be writing. I don't have to continue with this blog (it is a dying field anyway; blogging) but I feel obligated to keep it not only because I like reading about past me and her thoughts on things but because I feel like it would be nice to keep an outlet for me to write my long opinion on things people may or may not care about. I don't even know if there is anyone reading this blog, I don't even know if there are that many of you out there who used to read my blog before but I'd like to think that at least one person would come by once in a while (within these past two years, yeah laughable I know) and check to see if I'd posted anything. 

 AAAAANYWAY, I got into law school, I voluntarily quit after a year of law school because I realised that it was doing more harm to me than good, I've made a bunch of new friends, I met A LOTTTTTT (like really a lot) of new people I absolutely adore, I've lost some friends, reconnected with old ones and I checked off a few things off my bucket list. 2012 wasn't much of an exciting, adventurous year I had hoped it would be. It was mostly filled with me trying ('trying' really is the keyword here) to keep up with law school and unceremoniously failing to do as well as I'd wished. Law school was tough and had I thought that I will not end up killing myself at the end of it, I might have actually gone through with it. But after some personal battles and months of serious conversations with my Dad, I decided that it would be best for me to leave law school and do something that would keep me alive. I hate quitting and giving up but I'd hate to have gone crazy over school. I haven't quite figured out what to do next and that's unlike me because I always at least have a vague outline of what I want to do for myself but I guess life's all about the unexpected detours right? 

I applied to do journalism but unfortunately the university misplaced my enrollment documents and I'd have to wait for the next intake in March to be able to pursue my degree. That's okay, more time for me to do things I've always wanted to do !! Oh in the process of applying for journalism, I found out that when I enrolled the first time, I actually filled out 'journalism' as my choice of course but I ended up getting accepted for a law degree instead. What a bizarre discovery. 

 Aside from enrolling and leaving law school, I went to meet up with a bunch of people I've been dying to meet recently. Since we're all from different parts of the world, we collectively decided that Singapore concert was the perfect place to meet up with everyone. I arrived there and stayed at the hotel with the lovely, Bomz who was so nice to me I didn't know what to do with myself. I met a bunch of other people too, Liz in particular was very hard to miss because of her red hair. I stayed there for a night and stupidly did not bring my camera out and about with me so I actually don't have any pictures with anyone except with Bomz when we were in our hotel room. 

I traveled to Singapore alone and it may not seem like a big deal to you but I have never travelled alone and since I am one of the most paranoid person I know, I worried a lot about flying to a different country by myself... Even if it's just Singapore. But it all ended well. That was my third visit to Singapore this year, thanks to Imran (and that shall be shared the next time I blog) and I want to go again because I want to eat that famous stingray dish I keep hearing about. 

 I've actually plenty more to write now that I'm in my writing mood but I have to go take a shower and get ready because I'm meeting up with two of my favourite boys tonight :) Pictures next time !!!! Bye. 

 p.s. Is it weird that I kind of hope someone actually reads this blog? (and kind of sad because I actually think no one reads this blog hahha) 

 love, 

 Q. 

"Baby let me get you high, high, higher. Open up the doors, light my fire"

Wednesday, August 24th 2011

I guess I never took account on how difficult it would be leaving this place. A year and a half here flew by like they were only weeks but at the same time it dragged on endlessly. I don’t really know how to explain it, but it’s as if time went really fast and really slow at the same time. This would be your typical ‘leaving-a-phase-of-life’ post and if you are sick and tired of those already, you’re welcome to close the blog now.

Back to what I was saying; time flew by. When I first got here, I thought I’d kill myself (well not literally, I’ve gone down that road before, so I’m not doing it again) because of how isolated this place is. And then I met a bunch of people that I felt made my stay here worthwhile. At least for a while they did. But then after a year, you start to learn how hypocritical, judgmental and ugly a lot of people are…especially within their own race. It is a shame really because we could all have accomplished something big together. A lot of things happened while I was here. They are memories of moments kept locked inside the vault in my mind of the bad, the good and the wonderful things that has happened to me (to us) here.

Coming here, I had an impression in my mind; one that has been etched there thanks to the stigmas I’ve heard about going to a remote place to study and people’s expectations of kids studying foundation (especially for science and law foundation students). I was never really smart, in fact I was a below average student and when it came to social life, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I had none, but I’m not really that cool either so I guess I had quite a few assumptions coming here to complete my foundation in law at an isolated campus, 400 kilometers away from home. I thought the people were going to be divided into ‘weird rednecks’, ‘religious folks’, ‘the cool people’, ‘the brick behind the wall kids’ and then the rest of us; who don’t really fit anywhere but somehow just exist. Which I was not completely wrong about by the way, they were all divided into exactly those groups of people but what hadn’t expected was that they would all merge into one and be one big, ball of shallow, narrow minded human beings hating on people of their own race.

I can’t recall how many times people here have mocked us Malays that use English as the main medium for communication. The typical snarly comments like ‘Bajet mat salleh la tu speaking’, ‘aku Melayu, tak reti cakap bahasa Inggeris’, ‘Tak reti cakap Melayu dah ke?’, ‘Lupa la tu bontot sama hitam macam aku tapi bukan main lagi speaking dia’ and my personal favourite when I start conversing in English; ‘Oh, kan kau dari KL’.

At first, their words did get to me. I kept thinking that I must have made the worst first impression in the world, that everyone must have thought that I am some city slicker who refuses to speak in my mother tongue just because I feel like I am better than them and that made me so inferior for a while. It’s not like I didn’t know how to speak in Malay, I just feel more comfortable speaking in a language that helps me describe what I want to say more accurately.

Bukan tak boleh aku nak cakap bahasa Melayu. Mungkin tak sefasih korang semua kat luar sana, tapi hakikatnya, aku tetap anak Malaysia, aku tetap berdarah Melayu, mustahil lah kalau aku tak reti cakap Melayu, cuma, apa yang susah sangat nak terima apabila orang Melayu fasih berbahasa Inggeris dan memilih bahasa tu untuk jadi bahasa utama bila berkomunikasi. Apa yang susahkan korang sangat kalau orang tu reti cakap bahasa Inggeris pun. Aku mengaku, kalau ada unsur unsur bangga diri bila aku ‘speaking’ then it’s just how I speak, I swear, if I am an arrogant person, it wouldn’t be because I can speak fluent English.

Jujurnya aku menyesal sebab at first I conformed to the peer pressure here… Pressured into suppressing what I have always done all my life; communicating in English. I could speak fluently in English, but I wasn’t as good as I’d like to be, I needed to learn and expand my English but coming here stumped that process. Sekarang, it’s like I’m back in primary school… Basic English pun boleh salah, grammar tunggang langgang, vocab dah tak kuat, susunan ayat dah lari kemana entah. Sedih, sebab takut sangat orang ingat aku ni berlagak sampai sanggup memundurkan diri sendiri.

Anyways, it’s 2.01 am and I’d love to go on tapi I’ve class in the morning tomorrow and I have a feeling y’all are also sick of reading. InsyaAllah, I will be continuing this long rant in my next post. Until then, take care.

Monday, August 1st 2011

It’s been a while since I last wrote. Now isn’t that always the case? It’s always “been a while” since my last whatever but it really has been quite some time since my last. It’s not like I haven’t been writing… I have. But somehow, I save them, all my unfinished drafts hidden in a folder on my hard drive where it will never see the light of day. I don’t know why I don’t publish them, my thoughts, when I know it’d satisfy me to know that there are people out there (like you, right now) taking a few minutes off your daily routine to read on what I have to say here. Well maybe that’s just wishful thinking, maybe no one is reading my dusty, old blog. Maybe I’m just ranting to myself like I always have. In which case, I’m talking to myself right now. Haha. That’s sadly entertaining to me, reading my own useless musings. Posting it here, hoping that someone, somewhere out there would stumble upon my blog and find me interesting, at least interesting enough to want to get to know me and then subsequently keep coming to my blog to find out more about who I am, what I like and what makes me tick. All done not to gain followers or popularity like some of the people I know but to gain self confidence, to (sometimes) be in the spotlight because I guess that’s what matters to someone who writes, regardless of what they’re writing, that even just for a couple minutes, someone out there is reading the words they so carefully or thoughtfully chose to put together, forming sentences they cherish so much as a result of their own creativity.

That’s it. I want to write. I want to write well. I want to tell stories about my life. I want to tell stories about how I wish my life was. I want to write stories for those who can’t write for themselves. I want to write. That is what I want to do with my life. I miss being that person I used to be when I was younger. I used to write so effortlessly. I never cared about how it would turn out or get worried that people would judge my choice of words or analyze my grammatical errors (I was never good at grammar), I just wrote and wrote with such gusto and fire.

It’s not true if I state that I am old because truth of the matter is, I am a young girl with such a long path waiting ahead of me, but in other aspects of (my) life, I am old. I lost my flair; at least I think I have. Friends would tell me that I’m rusty, that I just need to practice, that writing, expressing myself through words is just like riding a bike, “once you start writing again, you won’t stop!” they would say. But it has been a while since I last (properly) wrote something worthwhile and to say that my lack of inspiration has dampened my artistic being would be a tremendous understatement.

I miss writing, I miss writing well, and I miss writing for the sake of writing. Sometimes, it sucks, growing up because you hardly ever get the chance to spread your wings and fly like you once could when you were young and free. Now my wings are confined within chains of responsibilities and constrained under the locks that comes with growing old and truth be told, it really is starting to hurt under this self-made prison that comes with age. So please, dear God, help me. I want my muse. I want to be inspired. I want to express myself. I want to write.