Blah.

At times, I turn off airplane mode to check if anyone has called. It still surprises me that I am disappointed everytime, when no vibrations from the voicemail box come to return my expectation. Not even the scammers dial this number, which I suppose I should be grateful for.

What is the purpose of a mobile phone again? Being in my possession, it certainly does not live up to its most basic
raison d’être of making and receiving calls, sending and receiving text messages. Must I deprive even a device of its purpose!? Imagine the kind of essay I'd hand in now if you dressed me up in a bright blue pinafore. Back when things used to be things without 101 functions, their lives also seemed to be just as simple.

I was born in a factory somewhere along with a dozen others. Shiny and full of enthusiasm, I waited to be loved by one who would find me utterly useful, but sadly, I could only watch my fellow shiny things get picked up by their human masters one by one, leaving me behind, every damn time. So I weep in an impossible way, no tears come out because I am a thing with no liquid in me. Then one fine day some bloke came into the store and chose me, because there's nothing else left! Oh, was I delighted! Finally after all that waiting somebody BOUGHT me! I will pledge my life to you, Master, and swear that I will please you in every way. Happy days ensued where my Master would use me everyday, and I thought they'd last forever, until some tragedy befell me months later when the capitalists came up with an upgraded version of me. I was left in the drawer to rot and collect dust, never to see the light of day. I should be upset with my Master, but in the end I am simply disappointed in myself for not being able to live up to his expectations so I shall gladly spend the remaining days repenting in this musty drawer.

Usually, that is the flow of every essay titled "If I am a Thing" because our teachers told us (at least mine did) that tragedies move hearts and score points. If at 13 I thought that my essay was special, then I really ought to have asked the rest of the class what they wrote. I wonder if the kids these days still follow this simplistic plot? Teachers really do have it tough.

It's been about 30 minutes since I turned on my Wi-Fi and enabled calls to come in. The sky is still cloudy, the fan is still spinning, and my phone is as silent as it is when it's turned off.

My nose is itchy.

I don't suppose I should be studying, and working on my thesis? Ah, what is life? What is now? Living from day to day and indulging in nothing when the pace of society quickens with every second, it's exhausting to think about catching up when I know that I'll never get there.

I should shave my head and renounce the world.

I Have Nobody to Talk to, Only to Myself

I will go through this again, and again. The first time, I already thought was traumatising enough that I never wanted to experience it a second time, but only a little after 2 years, enveloped by the same glow of dust-eaten fairy lights, I scream, while pressing a fistful of blanket against trembling lips. Only 2 years past the age of 20, asking for the emotional stability that comes with the life of a 75-year-old widow seems as if I am begging for 80 years worth of work experience without earning any myself.

Was it raining like that last time too? I don't remember shivering so much, nor smelling the industrial mix of rainwater and development waste.

Newly recovered from my previous break up, with the cast taken off not too long ago, I had started to strive with confidence. Yet, only a few steps out of the hospital doors, the ambulance runs me over and I am back in the ER. So awfully close to Christmas, too! Talk about bad timing.

Instead of 'All I Want for Christmas is You' my playlist is comprised of sappy mando-pop from Eric Chou to Jay Chou. The sentiments of us Chinese can only be best expressed by the same kind, in the one-syllable-at-time language that makes wailing the lyrics of sad songs less taxing and physically demanding. Crucial to everyone's backdrop of regret is this one verse from Eric Chou's 你，好不好：别用离开教我失去的人最重要。 Do you feel it? Even when it's not a breakup, I choke on this everytime.

Immobile in bed, I can only feel the stream of tears, and look utterly ridiculous with a face plastered with tear-dried hair. Why, if only I could die of asphyxiation due to a blocked nose, I would be less troubled, much less. Untroubled by both the realisation that I will never find someone to tolerate me and the impeding doom that is my final year dissertation.

Yes, if I have the time to cry and to blog, I have time to work on my dissertation. Mind you, I did about 2 hours (or maybe a little less, who knows?) worth of scrolling and annotating before I decided that all this pent up anxiety and whiney self pity needed to be let go. The best resolution would be to continue staring at the screen and furiously sieving through academic articles with puffy eyes all the way until the sun rises. If my life's a mess, the least I could do is organise my research, if only a little. Piling up on that is another 3,000 word essay which I honestly have not even the slightest hint of motivation to think about.

I am now forcefully fitting Lego blocks together even though I know they aren't even the right pieces. But what else can I do when my brain is loaded with mashed potatoes on fire? Instead of bacon bits you might sometimes find in variation of mashed potatoes, you can find individual Chinese characters of loneliness in mine.

If I focus on the melody, on the synthesised violins and soft plucking of strings, my mind won't wander too far off in the wrong direction, where the extremely unlikely yet highly likely (to me) possibilities lie. Who said that a bear will not climb into my room, or if a suicide bomber decides to blow us all up? Or if, all the empty promises took physical form and turned into nothing but lies that one can only deny.

Some people are Godsend, even if they texted to ask about the dissertation instead of my general wellbeing. Now is not the time to burden anyone else with talk of my own mistakes, and baseless fears which I have no right to be affected by.

I am alone now, completely.

Cold Tea

When there is nobody left to whom "I told you so" could be directed, we come back to the beginning. The journey, long as it may seem, is roundabout in every way.

Full of doubt, I watch the steam rise up from my cup of tea. By the time your words and reassurances reach me, they are really half as serious as you meant them to be. The wall of steam filters all intentions. I've waited long enough to say that I am right, but when the tea is no longer steaming, behind the rising steam sits no one in particular. Only an indentation on the cushion signifies the weight of a person just only arised.

Like any other evening, I can hear the crickets calling out in search of a mate before sunrise. I don't suppose that even as a female cricket, I'd notice the singing of my beloved. Would I be contented with a brief life crushed by the soles of someone's work boots? I'd never even dream of them, work boots.

I've packed my things and left, because the warmth of my hands isn't enough to reheat the tea left unattended.

Puffy Eyes

I should have left my phone where it was after coming out of the shower. If I'd done so, I'd be asleep by now, undisturbed by whatever noise the party-goers are making at this time of night.

My eyes are puffy, and are irritated from I don't really know what. It could very well just be the air, or the dead skin cells in the folds of my blanket. Googling the problem seems to be way to go, though I'm pretty sure I'll need an eye transplant by the end of my search.

I'm tempted to drive home right now. Maybe I would have, if it wasn't my screeching pink car that's sitting in the parking lot, shivering. My nose is blocked, and chest clogged, so I'm sure my car is experiencing the some problem, somehow.

Waking up early and beating the traffic tomorrow seems impossible now.

Good Food?

After half a year, my dad finally returned.

As is customary of any Chinese family, all we've been doing for the past 2 days is feast. I say feast, but that may be too grand a word to use for indulging in simple meals at the hawker and small kopitiams. Bobbing on the waves months after months, never once sailing close to even the border of his birthplace, the food cravings were-- in every sense of the word--overwhelming. Thus, we proceed to stuff ourselves accordingly, even though the rest of us had no good reason to. My father said that the Chinese are greedy beyond what one can even begin to imagine, though I doubted that as I slurped on the noodles when I wasn't even hungry.

Having starved myself for a good period of time, my stomach was able to retain the illusion of flatness. Though it's now bulging again, to much disappointment. I suppose the statue of the Laughing Buddha embodies universal truth.

Between a plate of RM10 fried noodles and one that costs RM40, which would you eat? With refined taste buds such as yours, do you think the expensive one will be more satisfying?

But of course, in actuality the noodle doesn't cost RM40, serving it costs RM40. Sitting on cushioned seats at a round table that's covered with a soft golden coloured tablecloth, a lazy susan decorated with glitters turns at the centre, and the waiters pour your tea for you, substituting used plates for new ones without having to ask them. You're still having the same RM10 noodles, in fancy packaging.

Recently, I was compared to another woman whose physical, sexual appeal is 1000 times higher than mine. If she is the clouds that float up in the sky, then I am the mud at the bottom of a polluted river. She's #1 sushi grade tuna, and I'm the salmon sashimi they serve at Sushi Mentai. I don't suppose that this statement, or comparison, is terribly cruel? After all, if one is going to judge the quality of women's bodies so, then I suggest that they should just continue eating fish in a world without women. Salmon may be cheap, but it's just as sensitive as any other sliced seafood exposed to the prying eyes of men.

I am thankful that I never liked eating raw fish to begin with. My family isn't too keen on Japanese food either, so I think we won't be dining at a Japanese restaurant anytime soon. It's a bit of a relief.

Sprachenlernen macht Spaß!

What is the point of learning a new language when nobody understands each other? I thought I'd be able to express myself better, and to understand other people a little more if I added extra presets to my communications system.

Sprachenlernen macht Spaß! Oh, ja, es macht Spaß, UNLESS THAT LANGUAGE DEUTSCH IST! Grammatik? Was ist das!?

A sentence in German to the non-speaker is like one of those word-rearranging exercises in kindergarten, where as a kid, you see absolutely nothing wrong with sentences like "apple is like I to eat". Yet everything you think is right in German, is wrong, and the things you thought could have been wrong, are actually perfectly fine. When does the verb move to the end of a sentence? 🤷‍♀️

A lot of times, the only answer to "why" questions regarding language learning is the rather frustrating "because it just is like that!" While it is true that I can't blame the living for not knowing the truth that's been brought to the grave, I can blame them for not asking the dead when they were still alive and well. This reminds me of a story I heard somewhere, sometime ago while scrolling through my Newsfeed like an immobile imbecile. So it goes:

One day, a girl's mother was frying fish in the kitchen. Before putting the fish in the pan, her mother cut off the head and tail of the fish. Curious, she asked her mother: "why did you cut off the head and the tail?" and her mother replied, "well, I actually don't know. I do it because my mum used to do it!"

Unsatisfied with her mother's half-assed reply, the girl went and asked her grandmother instead. And again, her grandmother gave the same answer, that she doesn't know, that she did it because her mum used to do it!

The girl didn't just stop there.

After asking her grandmother, she went to her great-grandmother and asked the same thing: why did you cut off the head and tail of a fish before frying it?

Great-grandmother laughed and said "cause back then Darling, my frying pan wasn't big enough to fit the whole fish!"

If Grandmother and Mother had asked properly, then they'd know it makes no fucking difference whether they cut the head and tail or not, so long as the fish fits.

Language is more like an inheritance and a tradition, I suppose, where its heirs do not question it, but merely accept it, preserve it, and pass it on.

It has barely been a week since the new semester has started, and my angst is already overflowing. I wonder if it is possible to make it through this semester, when at its earliest, I've already given into despair.

Lunch

Sometimes, just sometimes, I think my life is kind of sad.

I poured hot water over 3-day-old rice and topped it with a handful of shredded seaweed fried with olive oil and seasame seeds. Sitting on the floor, I ate my meagre meal from a plastic takeaway container with "Micriwave Safe" written at the bottom. The blank face of my old minibar, and the printed cast of Dokkaebi were my lunch dates today.

The rice my aunt cooks is always just right, but having kept it in the fridge for 3 days, it's lost all moisture. In exchange for a prolonged life, the quality of it was staked. Isn't that just like me? In order lengthen my time here, I'm trying to adhere to health standards and forsake my love for fried chicken.

It isn't as if I look forward to a long life either. I suppose this is what they call survival instinct.

Returning 3rd Year

As a returning 3rd year student who will be starting my final year at the University, I still haven't the slightest clue regarding the formalities before the new academic year begins. If the students in our course chat aren't overbearing busy-bodies, I probably wouldn't have known that returning students are required to complete some kind of online registration form.

Will my uneventful University life come to an end, without ups but only downs? Think of the grass that withers under the scorching sun during a prolonged draught, they've never even had the chance to tremble in the passing breeze-- so goes my days at university.

I'm not complaining about the unchanging lack of excitement in my life. Most sentient persons in their 20s would like to live their life by the motto "young, wild, and free" but I have to say that I prefer to live only freely, where I could do nothing, enjoy doing nothing, and thus experience all the freedom that only doing nothing can bring. Sipping tea from a teacup bought at a used-goods store and admiring the same old view that stretches itself outside my balcony door, I think the kind of peacefulness found in a still painting is under appreciated.

I suppose it is true that I'll have enough time to enjoy the life of a retiree once I actually retire. Should I go out and break a bone or two? I've never actually broken anything, except for tableware. Youth is all about breaking things, isn't it?

The new semester, I wonder if anything will change?

Bangkok XI

"It's late, why aren't you asleep yet?"

"Because, you always need someone to talk to at night."

I suppose some people understand ourselves better than we do. Tonight, when my lifeline is out of service, I am left with only one subject of confrontation: myself. The nighttime peace augments my melancholy, and I feel my breathing becoming heavier, though my eyes have already dried up.

Why do I continue to listen to Back Number at times like this, when my chest already hurts. His voice is drawing out the desperation that I wish I could suppress, and waste away without acknowledgement. Even if I turn down the volume, the melodic streams still penetrate into the deepest part of my heart. Like thick wreaths of invisible clouds, this pleading voice coils around my limbs, tearing me apart.

胸の奥の奥が苦しくなる…

I resonate with your regrets and unspoken words. As you watch her back disappear past the ticket barriers, joining the faceless crowd, the cowardly silence that has kept your lips sealed now sinks its teeth into your delicate wound. The ripples of regret spread their electrifying rings, and you feel yourself tremble in the night wind.

Nobody is there for me to wave goodbye to, and I don't have to see their silhouette swallowed up by strangers. But when I close my eyes, there is someone walking away from me. Powerless, I can only watch them dissolve into a faceless sea of wandering souls as I stand behind the steel grille.

So I talk to exhaustion every night when the skies are clear, without watching anyone leave. But tonight... To-night...

Bangkok X

Souvenirs, I think, should be as useless as can be, like a magnet or a key chain. One may carry a coin pouch in their pockets but key chains! Who would buy such trash on their own? I remember receiving one too, in the shape of a turtle.

Buying such a worthless souvenir puts my mind at ease. A coin pouch may never be used, but a key chain may always be hung, somewhere, not necessarily on keys.

Other than this trinket of little significance, I've bought another one that is not only smaller in size but also more impractical in nature. If something can be said to be lesser than a key chain, then its significance wouldn't differ from that of a rock by the roadside. Nonetheless, I paid for it.

Cabbages and Condoms is a restaurant catered to white people. If you're Asian, you'll be disappointed by the food. Sweet, and not spicy in the least, my last supper in Bangkok left me dissatisfied, craving for Tom Yum that would leave my lips swollen, nose dripping.

The Lovebirds have gone off to some night market around Siam Square. Too tired, and a little short on funds, I've retreated back into the cool space of the hostel.

Lazing around the common room, I smell the sweat drenched socks of a Japanese man. From the sheen on his uncut hair comes the betrayal that he hasn't washed it for a day or two now. I'm reminded of how Yoshioka and Nagashima lived during their university days, submerged in filth and only visiting the public baths every so often.

That oily sheen could really just be his hair styling product, but that's none of my business. I just wish he'd change his socks.

Another American movie that I've already watched is being screened. It's the one with Matt Damon and space travel.

For once I see the receptionist away from her post. She's lying on the couch, playing a phone game. Even while resting, those eyes are peering into the blue lights of a screen.

Nobody is paying attention to the movie.

Bangkok IX

It's my second last day in Bangkok. Up until today, what touristy activities so common on the Bangkok tourist's checklist have I crossed on this trip? To the me from neighbouring Malaysia, I don't see the need to dress in a singlet and loose elephant-print trousers when I come to Thailand. But, I have of course gone to markets, and massage parlours.

People might say that Thailand is cheap, but with the economy as it is, Malaysia is in actuality cheaper than Thailand now. While they celebrate this haven for shoppers with its tempting prices, they leave out the fact that Bangkok is a city where one will undoubtedly overspend. I see myself holding a papercup, squatting by the street in disheveled hair and smelling of piss.

Indeed, the only touristy activity I've busied myself with in these 3 days is overspending. Just now, I bought some soap at Terminal 21 from a cute Thai man more perfect than the member of a K-pop group. Whenever I scrub my dead skin, I shall nourish the lather with the tears I shed for my fate that has been written without pretty boys. Perhaps when the matchmaking diety was scripting my path of love, pretty boys had not yet existed.

As a boring person whose only excitement stem from unrequited love, my day alone was spent browsing the shelves of secondhand book stores and reading Korean Manhwa while waiting for the rain to quiet down.

Bangkok is a cauldron of melted culture. There are street vendors, and hipster cafés, exuberant malls and dirt cheap markets, but the one place where all traces of identity are wiped clean is a secondhand bookstore. The doors aren't just ordinary doors, but ones to a different dimension.

English books, Japanese books, German books, French books, Scandinavian books...!? With English songs playing on the speakers, I had to wonder if I was really still in Bangkok. The traffic outside remain unchanged, and the honks indicated reality.

If like me, you are a worm, intolerable and likes to be holded up, I suggest you visit Dasa Book Café when you're in Bangkok. The closest BTS station is Phromg Phong, but Google Maps will lead you straight to it. An old wonder of creaking floorboards and 3 floors worth of books, one can easily spend half a day there. To complement the cozy experience, they serve coffee and tea, since they are after all a café. The third floor, which holds the foreign and horror sections, is painted purple, and the most quiet floor with the least visitors.

For Japanese books, go to Sun Books. It's unassuming entrance made me walk past it, but I reconsidered and turned back. This was one of my best decisions since coming to Bangkok, as I found several Ogawa Yoko novels. For those of you who don't know, Ogawa is the first Japanese author whose book I came across, and who opened up the world of Japanese literature to me.

A quiet day well spent, I am now back under the blankets; content, but starving.

Bangkok VIII

I don't suppose this bag of 20baht guava shall be tonight's dinner. Adding to the list of things that gives me a headache, is eating guava on an empty stomach, nearly dehydrated. An even more peculiar reason that sends my head throbbing is walking under the sun while wearing sunglasses-- don't ask me why.

「青春ですね~」is what I gathered from eavesdropping on the table of Japanese guests playing board games. I'm seated at the counter, same as yesterday.

Do you know why I prefer counter seats? It's because each individual seat is designed for the lonely, facing the empty kitchen space instead of guests never lacking of company. Here, it's also closest to the water dispenser.

Clutching my bottle of warm water in hopes that it would keep my fingers from hardening in the cold air, I'm reminded of my student who would always come to my table and similarly wrap her hands around my bottle in search of warmth.

"Why don't you fill up your own bottle with warm water?"

"Because I only like touching it, not drinking it!"

Kids.

The receptionist has already become accustomed to the temperature at which the AC is blasting for she's seated comfortably wearing a t-shirt. I'd have wrapped myself in two blankets, slipping on feet warmers and winter gloves if I had to sit in this room for 8 or 12 hours a day. Having just come in from the rain, my defense against today's artificial blizzard has been considerably weakened. Heck, I just realised there's 3 super ACs working on this winter simulation in the reception area that's about the size of my bedroom!

This evening's playlist is comprised of cheesy love songs from the 90s by those blond-haired boy groups who all sound the same. After a lazy Google search of what lines of lyrics I could remember, this song is identified as Soledad by Westlife.

Actually, last night, one of my readers complained that my Bangkok posts were quite... I can't remember exactly what he said, but I interpreted it as lousy. Of course, I'm not a professional writer, but I do try my best. My "immature techniques" are something that I'm working on improving with each book I read, and each time I attempt to write something.

Thank you for reading until today.

Bangkok VII

The receptionist is always at the front desk, behind the monitor. When we arrived in the evening yesterday, she was busy clicking away. After coming back from our evening excursion, she was still there, smiling. This morning too, as we left the hostel, she was already seated, freshly groomed. And now, at almost 9PM, she's still sitting on that black desk chair of hers, looking at the screen while I placed myself by the counter with my 40baht chap fan I'd bought from a street vendor with dreadlocks and piercings.

I stopped in front of his cart, looked at the dishes, then up at him and said "Well, I've only got 40baht left!" I wonder how this tourist with the bowl bob must have appeared to him.

My companions have gone off to eat Moo Kata. If I were to describe what happened with historical accuracy, then it would be more appropriate to say that I left them on the train and came back by myself. It isn't that I'm being a considerate sister who knowingly leaves the lovebirds at the peak of their youth to their own devices, rather, they had already spent what little tolerance I have in me. With the Moo Kata, it was because they never bothered looking up the address of the restaurant properly, and relied on me to lead the way, the me who similarly haven't a clue as to where the place could be.

Google found me an article of how to get to this 36 Moo Kata On Nut, and so we rode 9 stops from Siam Station to On Nut. A barbecue place called 36 Moo Kata On Nut would obviously be in On Nut, right? Well, the Thais need some education on logic and rationality because the restaurant wasn't there.

I suppose it was partly my fault for failing to check the date of the article, but it should have been their responsibility to double-check before we left, mainly because it was where they wanted to go. Like After You and the 100baht wantan noodles that were drier and lumpier than my expired love life-- they just had to go dine at the places their friends, and the rest of Malaysia have visited. In my experience, hyped up food is never worth the wait nor the price so I never bothered looking up restaurants.

Young people these days are the sheep that God has dreamt of, but they seem to be worshipping social media instead of this great diety. He's going to have to make it rain for 40 days and 40 nights a lot sooner, and drown this hopeless generation of pampered hype beasts.

The receptionist is probably a Rihanna fan. Tonight's playlist is Rihanna, Rihanna, and oh, Rihanna.

Having finished my peasant dinner, I'm chilling--literally having my body slowly frozen underneath the flow of the air-conditioning--in the common room where a huge flat screen sits above wall racks of DVDs. Someone is watching an American movie that I've already watched. I've forgotten the title but it is one of those dramatisation of real-life stories. This one in particular is about how a few men made millions, or billions, off of the housing market crash in the US some years ago.

A bookshelf stands upright in an unlighted corner two steps away from the TV. Surprisingly, there is a selection of old Japanese novels.

Rihanna's Te Amo is playing in the reception hall. It's been a very long time since I've heard this one. A little more, and I'll move my icy feet to climb up three flights of stairs.

Bangkok VI

I doubt that there's a mall more crowded than Siam Paragon on a Tuesday afternoon. Tourists, of different colours and alien tongues wander about like dumb prey who have forgotten the dangers of the world. If every one of us could walk about with such carefree expressions, the world would be at peace.

After You. Have you heard of this dessert café that's born and Thailand? Their logo is of a mountain goat with its horns curled up, resembling puff pastry, or the snails Kindergarteners draw when they're given instructions to "draw your garden" during art class.

I must tell you never to come here. The quality and taste of their dessert is unknown to me and I am not curious to find out. Yet, here I am, waiting in line among tourists for our number to be called. It is quite ridiculous how people fly here to eat Bingsu. Eating it is alright, but waiting in line for 18 tables just to eat it? I cannot understand what goes on inside the minds of 19-year-olds.

Unhappy, my back is turned towards my sister and no attempt at communication has been made. It is easy to sense my displeasure. Growing up with me, she's very clear about my temper and how trivial details like waiting in line for something I never asked for elongates my face. The edges of my lips sink downwards as the seconds continue to tick.

Compromise... Compromise... Compromise... This word, in my brother's voice, is somehow ringing in my ears. Funny how I should think of such a word in such a selfish person's voice! It makes me less willing to compromise. Unsurprisingly, this family is made up of only the finest brats. On certain occasions, we are nice, and our commendable sides differ greatly.

On this trip, the thought of buying souvenirs never surfaced much. When I chanced upon a coin pouch with the print of a tuna smack in the middle, the name of such a friend who appreciates quirky designs surfaced. So I picked it up and reached for my wallet.

My hands never reached the zipper of my bag, and I put the souvenir back.

I walked on. The image of my friend's coin pouch was drawn from the memories of us going shopping. What good is a coin pouch when they've already got one?

We have been given a seat at the café, though a rather tiny one by the outer wall. The wait continues however, as their dessert will take 20minutes to be served.

Bangkok V

Sitting by the stone steps of Krung Thong Plaza entrance, I wait for my sister, empty-handed. Having bought not even half a piece of rag, I sit here, breathing in thick discharges of carbon monoxide and wonder when my enthusiasm had died.

There is a semi-blind lady with a speaker hanging from her neck that's blasting Thai music. An empty plastic container rests a top the speaker. What else can she be but a beggar? One of the many who lie, and sometimes roam, on the busy streets of Bangkok like discarded garbage being pulled along by drafts of soot-filled city wind. Theirs is indeed a pitiful situation, but the us who come to this city in search of a getaway that doesn't demand too much of our nearly emptied pockets, are but beggars with a roof over our heads. As these disabled citizens have chosen to roam the streets with a paper cup in hand, we, a little more able, have chosen to sell our existence to our faceless masters whose feet we grovel at for money.

Bangkok IV

It is a little past nine in the morning and I can hear the soft snoring of my companions on the beds across the room.  The air conditioner hums gently, a steady stream of cold air spewing forth from its mouth. Outside, I can hear the faint chirps of lively birds. From the gaps between the blidnd, a greyish light filters into the room. Is it a cloudy day, or are the windows tinted? Coupled with the tenderness of the duvet that I've cocooned myself in, this morning that greets me makes one very lazy indeed.

I notice that my sister and her boyfriend are sleeping on different beds. What an odd couple! If it had been Sarah and her boyfriend, they'd no doubt huddle close to each other under the same blanket.

What am I doing here? Aren't they absolutely fine on their own? The boyfriend has been here four, or five times already so I found it odd that my sister should ask me to come along. Perhaps, I am the excuse, the object placed between the intimate space of the two so that my father wouldn't question this trip. Suddenly, a kind of sadness has overtaken me as I realise that to my sister, I'm only a flimsy piece of condom. The distance between our beds seems to have stretched further, and I hear a tear somewhere, the rift between us an oblivion with jagged teeth.

I should just wake up and leave.

Bangkok III

After an evening of walking along Sukhumvit, we're now back at the hostel, sipping cultured milk drink from a local brand. What is it called? I certainly can't read Thai. But it tastes better than Yakult, and even Vitagen! The bottle itself looks cheap, with faded print in red and light blue. If it wasn't for my sister, I'd never have bought such a thing.

Our first day at Bangkok didn't go as planned, but I suppose it was a satisfactory evening. If we had gone to Asiatique, I reckon I'd have spent and bought a lot more, feeling 2-times the guilt, but also 2-times the happiness. Instead, we headed over to Central World because Lisa came across a Facebook post about a much hyped-about bazaar (which later, when we got there, she admitted that she never bothered reading the post and only looked at the pictures). Sure, we found grilled pork, a variety of seafood and Pad Thai, but we also paid 70Baht for a cup of coconut water. I wanted to vomit it back up and ask for my money back.

Long bored of international fast fashion with price tags that aren't on par with quality, we wanted to leave the monstrous heart of consumers as soon as we finished our business. Due to the convenience of everyday life, details such as incompatible plug points completely slipped our dull brains so we had to find an adapter-charger to resuscitate our phones. Since our phones are directly linked to our livelihood and wellbeing, leaving them alone and actually bonding with each other is most unfathomable.

In hindsight, we should have just bought a random one at the Godsend 7-Eleven instead of browsing through Central World for a "proper" one. So we paid 400Baht for said "proper" charger, and on the way back, as we browsed through the shelves of 7-E for shampoo, we saw a whole section of adapter-chargers selling for 129Baht. Those 129Baht ones also came with Hello Kitty prints. But, of course, our malnourished brains didn't think that far ahead.

Have you ever put a sweat-soaked bra to your nose and took a deep breath? Even now, I can taste the sourness in my throat.

We circled the floors to find the exit, stepping into a few boutiques and felt for the price tags before kicking ourselves out of the overpriced stores. Elaborate malls tailored to extravagant tourists, in all their bright glory, is not where a 22-year-old wearing a thin linen dress from UNIQLO should be shopping at. Even the scents in that enclosed space of luxury smell more expensive than my tuition fees.

Hurrying to the exit, that's when I saw it. Matsumoto Kiyoshi. I've never been to Japan, but shopping there, at this over-lit drugstore blasting Japanese pop music by some tactless boyband, I felt as though I was no longer in Bangkok. I had never intended to buy anything, nor did I expect them to stock the LuLuLun masks that I've been obsessed with but there they were, hanging at the masks section with cheap price tags overhead; even the limited edition ones! I wanted to cry, because we never booked check-in luggage.

I hung all three packets of LuLuLun back where they waited to be taken home and walked out of the store.

I went back inside.

After further deliberation and discussion with my sister, I decided to buy just one pack. If I didn't buy at least one, I would have troubles sleeping tonight, and for the rest of the days I spend without LuLuLun.

Where am I? Indeed, I'm in Bangkok, yet my heart is elsewhere. Whenever I tell people that I've never been to Japan, they open their eyes so wide as if inviting me to gouge them out of their sockets. More than anywhere, I'd like to go there, but more than anything, I'm also afraid of going there. It's funny, but I'm scared that I'm not good enough for Japan. That's why, until now, I've only flown away from the land of the rising sun.

Bangkok II

There was an Ojii-chan travelling with two younger companions. I stared at him for quite some time, at his head of wavy hair that flowed past his broad shoulders, trying to discern whether he was indeed a man. As he hunched over to put his belongings on the floor, the fat around his chest, following the pull of gravity, seemed to sag further until I could see two distinct points forming beneath his pattern shirt.

"Ah, so he was a woman after all!" this is a blunder that anyone would make, I suppose.

I continued to observe this eldery being of a somewhat massive build that was seated diagonally across me two rows away, for lack of anything else to do while I wait the time to pass.

Then he spoke.

"Ah, so he is indeed a man!" I've just reconfirmed this fact with myself, because nobody else seemed to have noticed. Neither did they care, eyes glued to their phone screens.

I wanted to know more about Ojii-chan and his two companions, which dressed very differently. All three of them were travelling together yet their attire betrayed no hint of why they were together, as well as the purpose of their trip.

Ojii-chan looked as though he'd spent far too long out in the sun, living among tribal communities, while the potato seated next to him was in a proper long-sleeved shirt, buttoned right up to neck, complete with pointy leather shoes wrapping round his feet. The third man, one of a slim build, was in a simple black t-shirt which looked expensive to my semi-blind eyes. He most likely enjoyed baseball, beer, and soccer. But this all was none of my business.

As they continued to scroll through their phones, so did I, while keeping an eye on them still.

After they boarded, I didn't think I'd see them again but as I was walking down the aisle, there! The three of them were huddled together in three narrow seats. By the window, the thin one seemed to be enjoying the sunshine. Ojii-chan and the potato looked quite troubled as their layers of fat are coming close to overlapping, like unevenly kneaded dough.

It is rude to stare, so I kept walking, in case I should laugh.

I never saw them again after we landed, but I encountered different hordes of Japanese people at DMK airport all the same.

Bangkok sure is popular, huh?

Bangkok I

I used to never leave the house without a pen, and a book. The dread of not being able to fidget with the cylindrical tool as a distraction for my anxiety at times weakened my knees and tore out my vocal chords. Not even a squeak, while my body melted into the bustling crowd.

Yet, here I sit, on this cheap seat that's straighter than a board, without a pen. If I had given in to my greed and stuffed my face like a pig for the past few years, then undoubtedly, my fat would spill over the armrests and encroach upon the narrow territory of the traveller next to me, and the even narrower space of the aisle.

It has been a rather lonely flight, with the two passengers next to me failing to show up. At least I could cross my legs freely, and look outside, not that I would want to anyway on this 2PM flight where the sun burns fierce, hours before its descent into a warm glow.

Something is eating at the innermost corner of my chest. Slightly irksome, I think I have annoyed my intolerant self by not slipping a pen into my travel pouch. How stupid can one be? Stupit. Real stupit.

Not only is tapping, tapping, tapping on this smooth surface unfulfilling, but it would appear as though I am another one of those modern beings who have fallen terribly ill, contracting the chronic disease of technological obsession.

Kakak and Recess

The Kakak here is so good to a glutton such as I. Without realising it, I've started going down for recess as soon as the clock hit 10:30, or earlier, on days where the kids are behaving and I'm starving. Once downstairs, I simply sit in the kitchen and wait. Wait, waiting for the Kakak to come in with the plastic containers that hold the leftover snacks the Kindergarteners couldn't finish during their break.

Sometimes, she doesn't show up, or if she does, there'd be nothing left of the sugary treats that schools shouldn't be feeding our already hyperactive young. My greedy self would of course feel a pang of disappointment when my stomach growled, but the Kakak is also the only staff that bothers talking to me so our brief chat, in place of biscuits, acts as the refreshment before another round of sheep herding.

I don't think I've asked for her name. Actually, I have never asked for her name. The other teachers here, do they even know what her name is? Kakak, it's always Kakak. Kakak sini, Kakak sana, Kakak minta mop-- just Kakak.

She never asked for my name either.

Perhaps names aren't important, or they may be too familiar an address between two people who only talk to each other in the kitchen for a few minutes each day. Beyond her name, I know how many siblings she has, how she lives in a long-house back home, and the fact that she sent her adopted child to a Chinese school. But her name, I still haven't a clue about that.

I grabbed three pieces of Chips More Mini from the container when she took the lid off. They were crunchier than I had expected, so my hand went into the container a second time, then a third. Quite content that I've had my little fix, it was time to clear my bladder and go back upstairs.

Kind as she is, Kakak filled up a tiny takeaway container with the cookies, saying that they're for me. Just the other day, she stuffed one Taufu-fa sized container with Bayam for me to take home. They're still sitting in the fridge, unopened, since last Thursday. Nobody but the general waste bag is going to eat them now.

Six or seven pieces of Chips More Mini can't possibly end world hunger. But lunchtime is nigh, and my suffering shan't last for long.

Saturday Morning

I don't have much of a social life. It's a beautiful Saturday morning, where the clouds in the sky are fluffy enough to absorb most of the Sun's heat, allowing only the golden hues to shine through. Yet, here I am, alone in bed, listening to the flow of water filling up the toilet's flush tank and the sounds of unnecessary construction works nearby.

Get dressed, go out, stretch, and go about town in search of breakfast! If I were the kind of positively charged individual who would bother stretching my feet beyond the threshold of my cheap mattress, I would gladly do so and look forward to a productive day ahead where I'd also hear the voices of other people. As much as this bed is terrible for my back, I don't have anything else to laze on in this narrow student accommodation. There's a yoga mat under the table, somewhere.

What's a slothful lump of fat to do on a Saturday? Melt, in the heat of this tropical country. I said I would read Endo's The Girl I Left Behind, but I wonder if I could bring myself to reach the table it's lying on. Am I also someone who is left behind? I think so. If I read it, maybe it'd tell me something about the kind of woman, or girl, that men will undoubtedly kick off the boat. They say that if you throw someone or something into the sea, it'll be difficult to find them again.

Back Number is my number one go-to band recently. Can't the karaoke parlours here provide more than two of their songs? I'm grateful that they at least have two of their greatest hits, whereas they don't even bother with Spitz. Perhaps I should spend this day YouTubing Ayumi Hamasaki's songs in preparation for the next time I visit the karaoke parlour.

After a good six months or so since being with my Huawei Mate10, I still don't know whether I hate it, or love it. I've got no qualms about its overall performance, however, its lack of attention to the music and sound performance sector is a thorough disappointment. Such a huge phone, one that I can barley hold with one hand, one which I use as a stretching exercise for my thumbs in hopes that I can reach beyond an octave when playing the piano, its speakers, its lowly speakers, tiny and inadequate, sound like those RM10 ones they sell at the pasar malam. How now do I enjoy some quality time snuggling up with the lovely voices of my favourite vocalists? The sound quality makes my hair stand, in a bad way like that of a screech, where the longer I hear it, the higher my blood pressure rises. Having left my portable speakers at home, I suppose I should just listen to construction work instead of Back Number.

Why leave the portable speakers? Well, they're called portable speakers, but they're still bulky and weigh as much as my arm, probably. It's already been known that I make terrible decisions anyway.

So much complaints on a Saturday morning; tsk, tsk tsk! My eyes are starting to grow heavy again.

An Afternoon Where I'm Not By Myself

I had been silently planning my Friday afternoon activities inside my head. Scrubbing between my fingers, scenes of my usual shopping trips lined themselves up and I thought of the order in which I should go about today's lonesome outing;
which shades of Urban Decay's latest Lo-Fi products I wanted to swatch, whether I should make my leisurely rounds at the ever so welcoming Sephora; how many hours would I sit at dal.komm today, writing, since I don't have a book in my bag. The suds have receded, I don't suppose I've been lathering my hands for too long?

Flick. Flick. And I dried my hands with some disposable napkins.

Absent mindedly with my spirit browsing through Sephora's shelves, I walked out of the kitchen. The Kindergarteners were still having their lunch, one boy chewing his rice painstakingly slow as my aunt sat opposite him, monitoring his eating behaviour.

Looking at these sprouting beings serves as a wonderful dessert after a teacher's lunch. Before going back into the classroom, trapped, facing the children of Satan, I want to have my fill of toufu-like kids. Some of them have deep, dark eyes, like an endless well of soy sauce. Their innocence is adorable, though their personality is less so.

"Where are you going after class?" my aunt observed today's dressing, and my over-blushed cheeks.

"Oh, to ioi," I mumbled, still walking through the Sephora, of which layout is already ingrained into my soul.

"I need to go to the pet store to get some supplies," with this, perhaps I wouldn't sound like someone who is totally alone. A necessity, a chore, yes, that ought to mask my intention of spending 5 hours alone at the mall.

Well, it didn't. Somehow, my aunt managed to make plans with the other teacher and the three of us, along with both of their children, ended up in the same car, driving towards ioi.

Caring Samaritans have barged into my alone-time! Perhaps I was a little disappointed at first, since I did plan on writing the afternoon away while inhaling the aroma of freshly ground coffee. But company, being together with people, humans who speak the same language, an opportunity to talk to PEOPLE, and not myself or Teddy boi (the guinea pig of my sister's friend which has now come into my co-posession), is also a vital factor in improving my mental health. Physical health however, is debatable, for we end up eating too much, everytime.

We talked for a good hour or two during our meal, mostly about our colleagues, the school, and the children. But I suppose that's how conversations with colleagues go? That's the link between us after all, that prevents us from being total strangers. I won't go into detail here about the issues we discussed, save for the frustration that we wish the kids themselves would start to realise the importance of their own education and willingly do their work so that they can move on and graduate! I'm not in a position to criticise them though, for I am also a brat who lacks motivation when it comes to my own studies.

I offered some of my coffee to the other teacher. Declining it, she told me that she's sensitive to coffee and gets sick after drinking it. It was at that moment that I realised the best way to abduct someone of Hakka descent is to feed them coffee. Perhaps the children of God are blessed with weak immunity towards coffee so that as we wait for the ultimate judgement, with coffee being served, they'll send us drowsy ones straight to heaven.

Walking around with kids is much more leisurely, because they've got tiny legs that can't function well enough. I wasn't unhappy in the least, and I even thought that Jay Chou's absolutely stupid newest single sounded a little less cringey.

Sunshine in my eyes, stupid kids by my side, I let my fantasies slip and thoroughly enjoyed the presence of those other than myself. Sharing and accepting the goodwill of others is sometimes a necessity, even though we prefer to be left alone.

I should also rest, while I wait for the coffee to clear out of my system.

Udon, so Slippery

And so I turned into a back alley, looking for a way out of this clustered maze of shoplots in a town long established. How would I get back out onto the main road?

The food court, with its glaring florescent lights calling out to the lost and hungry, gleamed at the unevenly paved corner. That corner, which I have been circling to find again, seemed to retreat further into the sights of nighttime the longer my foot pressured the accelerator until finally, I lost it completely as my car shone its headlights on a narrow alleyway where old men gathered. Ah, I've never been good with directions but sometimes I wish that I could stop myself from being pulled by the force of oddity.

Backing away slowly, I slid into an available parking space opposite of an udon shop.

Why is there a cheap Japanese restaurant hiding in this alley? Situated right next to a dodgy motel which I assume caters to old men with an interest not in their wives, I wasn't sure if I should turn off the ignition. But the waitress waiting by the counter, wearing a bored countenance, is likely a university student waiting for her part-time salary to flow into her pockets while she leans against the counter, texting.

With ochre-tinted bright lights, and Sakura prints on its sign, I braced myself for disappointment as I grabbed the stainless steel handle of the glass doors, pushed it open and took a step into this empty establishment. Hisaishi's music filled the atmosphere, and I thought to myself, how generic can this place be?

Sliding away from my grasp, the slippery Udon dives back into the kimchi broth, and I am taken aback by the orange sprays that have splattered against my glasses. I sigh, and pull a piece of tissue out from the dispenser. Everything I try to hold onto, struggles to be free from my grasp. I wonder if it is a flaw, undeniably fixed, that my hands should never be able to hold whatever that may come into their reach.

Again and again I try to firmly hold them between my chopsticks, but each time, they effortlessly slide back down into the fishy waters. I sigh, and pull out another piece of tissue.

I'm reminded of the time I went on a date with a Japanese guy. After I greeted him at the station, we walked around in search of dinner and came across Hanamaru Udon. He said he wanted to try the Udon here in Malaysia. It wasn't until my udon slipped from between my chopsticks and fell back into the thick curry sauce with a higher than expected splash that I realised, sitting across my date who was leaning in to slurp his own udon, was a terrible idea. In general, eating noodle soup on a first date is a disaster. I never saw him again. Perhaps my chopsticks skills were unacceptable.

Having downed my third cup of green tea, I suppose I should pay and leave. They close in 15 after all.

好人，坏人，普通人，两头蛇，四头蛇

看看某一些人的朋友圈，他们到处的人缘关系，总会觉得他们应该很棒吧，能让那么多人喜欢跟自己相处。我并没什么羡慕啊，只是想知道这些被受欢迎的哥哥姐姐们，他们的长出到底在哪儿，是啥。

到了我们俩相处的时候啦。一杯咖啡在眼前，我一脸不满的样子。原来被他人疼爱的小圣其实是位虚伪的小丑。天上那么多颗星，人们就偏要看上一颗卫星。他的确闪得比已消灭了千年的小星星还亮，但这种光不迷人。眼睛好痛呀！我的双眼快盲了。墨镜刚好留在车子上。

热喷喷的面包出炉了 ，但是我闻到的却是狗粮。怎么回事？那还不是因为坐在我对面的是一条狗。吃吧，吃吧。很多时候，狗都是非常可爱的，但如果是一条人狗，那就不一样了。

对着世界说谎的人是你，是我，也是他。但是我们都应该还有一点点的尊严吧？看来，我面前只不过是一面镜子，那狗粮也是我的。想说一声我恨你，但内疚的玻璃心仿佛把碎片刺到了声带里，苟且的哀叹代替了露不出的真相。

好人，坏人，普通人，两头蛇，四头蛇。坦白的我就是面对不了事实。

Forest Fire

I came home to a forest fire.

The woods outside, choking on the fumes of their own burning bodies seemed rather unperturbed as the fire crawled higher. Under the evening sun which should have only been warm enough to kiss our tired skin, charred leaves fluttered, and so landed on the third floor corridor. Walking down the aisle that is scattered with waste, the clicking of my heels echoed and from far away, I could hear the crackling of burning wood.

From my window, before the clear sky is a wall of smoke. Painting the sky grey with its body, I am patiently waiting for it to rain. It is so bright that I can't keep my eyes open, but I'd like to believe that the sky is truly grey.

I wonder if the birds outside, having been smoked out of hiding, are panicking. Their high-pitched chirps tell me nothing. After all, I'm not a bird expert.

Suppose the wind, with its gentle fanning, has carried the smoke past my rectangular view. I can see how blue the sky is again.

Dog Children

It is obvious that in their eyes, I'm not someone who deserves to be respected. A temp, sitting at the front of the class, telling them to quiet down and to sit but this voice, without the slightest impact, dissolves into their cries of excitement-- as an adult, the situation is miserable, thoroughly so.

Quiet, sit down! But they say "stop treating me like a dog!" Of course, if they deserve to be treated otherwise, I wouldn't know how to either. Screaming, running around in a confined space, tumbling over, getting up on their feet only to chase after each other again-- if these aren't what dogs do? Ah, yes, human children are a special breed capable of causing more trouble than your average house dog because they are endowed with opposable thumbs.

Perhaps they can sense the powerless spirit underneath my heap of clothes, and skin. Much like how even puppies are able to exert their dominance over me once they smell my forgiving heart to all that is cute. Am I proud of myself for being children's pushover? I suppose it is insulting, but if I don't care about it because I'm only a temporary presence, then it won't affect me very much. However, if I were to be honest, it hurts. It hurts a lot and I want to cry.

Am I whining, complaining too much?

Silk Layered Barbed Wires

Have you ever had to sit in air-conditioned room with a damp bra underneath your shirt?

This is the second time I've had to bear with it, the soaked fabric cool against my sweat-stained chest. The first time was when I was 15 and stupid, standing near the doors of a subway train in Sydney, salt water dripping, as if I'd brought the ocean out on a train ride.

Did my perspiration reach the wires? Somehow, they're digging into my skin and I feel much more constricted than usual. If this goes on, they might just slice right through my ribs-- I wonder if it's what I wish would happen. Already, I hear the fat sizzling on the grilling plate, aromatic fumes rising up to meet the sooty ceiling where age-old grime spend their time idling away their intermittent existence. The end--or rather a new beginning-- for me is to become a blackened mass of grease.

As it bites into me, I am looking at the by-product of a failed relationship. Which is more irritable, skin being pinched by an inanimate man-made material, or frowns creasing into your skin by the force of a breathing organism? Though my inflexibility irks me more, along with the number of question marks present today.

I should go for a bathroom break.

70%

On some days, we have to tell ourselves that our grades are not reflective of our vast body of knowledge. Today happens to be one of those days for me.

Lacking in so many aspects, I now stand in front of uniformed children, holding a marker. Shouldn't teachers be... Amazing? Aren't they people who have answers to the universe, and score 101% on every test? My shoes are now the shoes of a teacher, and I find myself to be an utterly ordinary, half-witted plebeian who really shouldn't be teaching.

Perhaps the fault of a crumbling civilisation lies with its ambitious yet under-qualified (and also underpaid) force of teachers. What can I give them, as a teacher? With my empty brain the size of a pea, and a mere 70% on my Japanese exam, how dare I expect much more from those developing little children? I frown when they flunk, yet I'm not doing better myself.

A 70%, can you believe it? When I said I'd kill myself if I scored below 85%, I was stuffing my face with fried chicken, exuding confidence. Now that I've found out exactly how badly I did, I'm ashamed to even face my teacher when the semester starts.

Would my students be surprised at their teacher's academic results? I hope they never develop a curiosity towards my academic abilities. As far as I am concerned, I know nothing and can do nothing. Lying in bed after coming home from school, I wish I could close my eyes and melt into a pool of unwanted oils; Wipe me, wipe me!

Auf Wiedersehen.

Just a dream, dream, dream

This morning, the violence faced by the trees outside, even though fleeting, was enough to cause a ruckus that penetrated through the dimension of my on-going dream.

Only the heavy droplets remain to slide down the roof, and the tenacious leaves the storm failed to intimidate. It is quite rare that the birds should awake at this hour, so early in the morning. But perhaps these feathered creatures also have a reason to celebrate the end of a downpour on a Monday morning.

To all of those who were spared further tribulations in the sea of their unconscious mind, aren't we glad that we don't have to confront the truth anymore? What little revelations that might have come before the storm, already resonating with the chord coated in rust, sends the soft vibrations of feelings purposely unacknowledged to disturb the peaceful present that we have forged through a dozen lies and late nights stained with tears.

It wasn't all that unpleasant, to see you in an unbuttoned shirt leaning against the rocks. With the dark clouds overhead, you were the only being who still beamed with a warmth known once only to me. I think I was touched by your kindness, and sorry for my lack of it.

All has returned to the calm before the rain. The crickets have started to sing again. Basking in the ochre glow of my fairy lights, I will pull the lid over my eyes.

冷蔵庫に貼ってあるメモ

楽たんは仕事が始まった。私も同じだが、楽たんのほど忙しくないから帰ったら、ちょっと寂しくなる。誰と話せないし、メッセジももらわないし、話しがいっぱいレイチェルどうしたほうがいいなー

まあ、ここで何か書いてもいいが、書いたくないわ。

じゃ、今日のポストはここまで、かなー

鳥の歌声、夕方の陽射しに誰か、お花を潅水しているか？

届けない場所へ

｢ 私と結婚したら、毎日私の顔が見えるよ｣と言いた。そのとき、嬉しいかな。私と一緒にいたくて、ありがとうね。

でも、君のような男に信じられないと思う。ケイいちゃんもう奥さんがいるんでしょう？ケイちゃんにとって、私は…

言わない。言えない。

君の手を繋いで、寝顔を見つめている私は今、頬が濡れちゃった。暖かい場所が見つかったのに、まだブルブルしている。

ケイちゃん、初めて会った時に言いたのは、まだ覚えている？あの寒い金曜日の夜、雨が降ってた、ずっと。ブランケットの下でささやきした二人、息は重くなって、秘密もばらしてしまった。構わなかった私に｢喜んで｣と言いた。

日を昇ったら、君も徐々に消えちゃうんだろう？ああ、でも今回消えるのはケイちゃんではなく、私です。

春の風に乗ると、空の公園へ戻る。軽い花びらのようにゆっくり散って、別の幸せに探そう、他のケイちゃんと恋に落ちろう。

オカズ・Okazu

The East Asian tradition of serving multiple dishes at once during mealtimes, makes it unclear to those of us who are seated around the table as to which is the main dish. Is there even a main, or are they all simply side-dishes, which you pick at ease with your chopsticks? The pickled cucumbers, they make you tremble in delight as your appetite is awakened by its tantalising sourness, and you can't help but reach for more.

A bowl of steaming white rice, fragrant on its own yet lacking in the many tastes that come together to satisfy the insatiable taste of the diner, is never enough. Its purity is almost unsettling to one whose habit is to mar it with sauce. Only with the addition of these side-dishes, can one begin to feast, properly.

"Not enough, and never enough!"

That's because Okazu come in tiny, refillable portions. Treat them as an all-you-can-eat miniature buffet, if you must. At least if you can't pay your way into the international buffet at a 5-star hotel, Okazu, with the warmth of home, will always be laid out; even on the most run-down table at some dingy back alley eatery you happen to set foot in on one of your desolate night walks through the slums.

On a rainy day, you sit in the kitchen making Okazu. You think, wouldn't it be better to make enough side-dishes to get me through this season of endless rainfall? After all, to walk in the torrential rain in search of cheap dens is to debase that rationality which makes you You.

Albeit you trouble yourself by preparing your spread of side-dishes, some of which you pickle with care for days, maybe even weeks, rarely do you appreciate them with the same zeal that guided your hands at the kitchen counter. Perhaps as your blend of spices seep into the cells of the freshly sliced vegetables, you start to lose whatever appetite you had for what you'd originally chosen, for now, its taste has become one that is inherently yours, retaining little of that fresh crisp which had aroused your craving.

But the rain doesn't stop, and your fridge is still stocked up with Okazu.

Its indispensable quality with which you've associated with all those you've commodified, bind their silent resentment in unison and start to creep towards the neck you non-chalantly left exposed as you passed out drunk on the couch at 6AM.

The blasé montage that is your life numbs your tongue by the day. Do you even notice it when all you do is swallow mouthful after mouthful of rice seasoned with limp side-dishes?

...

As the Okazu ferment past their palatable prime, you throw them out, and wash your hands afterwards, with soap.

Surprise, Surprise! Another Creation of Neurosis

Countless times I've started a post with "I have nothing to say" simply because I don't want to go to sleep yet due to my damaged brain that only manages to wire connections seeking to disturb my emotional balance. If I am not in this constant state of fear and dissatisfaction, it seems that I'd grow restless and end up scared, and dissatisfied anyway.

Yesterday, I discovered a website which lets you have a chat with yourself. Doubting its effectiveness at easing the side-effects of intense loneliness, I had a short conversation with myself about the situation resembling Gestalt therapy. I laughed it off, but a few exchanges between Rachel #1 and Rachel #2 soothed my anxious heart.

Yet, what I need isn't more of my own companionship and understanding, but that of others. If I continue to retreat into myself, into my mind, and into my own world, I will really forget about the laws that shape the shared reality we all know. As it is, I've already lost the functional skills of socialising. Never looking anyone in the eye, and refusing to acknowledge the individuals that swarm society, I myself have become a part of the moving images that blur in the eyes of those alive, but not living. Saying that I am forgettable is an overstatement, because I am never noticed from the start.

In the memories of those I've known for years, a lasting impression is etched. An impression, fixed and unchanging, is the me from long ago, one that has been left to rot somewhere along the river of toxic regrets.

Funnily enough, I take on the persona of my dead self whenever they chance to fix that impression onto my current self. What am I, a doll they strip and fashion by themselves?

It hardly matters.

I long and seek after...

The complexity of life is a false belief in itself that's imposed upon our deeper unconscious by the experiences, the let downs, the disappointments, the hurt, the fears we have come to known. Without them, life isn't hard at all, and without them, I'd know how to live. For now, I'm only running, and not living. Ironically.

Projections of...

ああ、普通だね。

悪いことをしてしまった。 悪いかどうか分からないが、今の気分はちょっと不安で、変だと思う。事実に、昨日があった事はそんなに重要的な問題ではない。ただ…何っていうかな…

Perhaps it's because I haven't felt like this in a while, and it reminded me of... Things. But to call them things are to do them injustice, for they were without form or body, only lingering thoughts and the residue of a fervent spirit that still dreamt a hopeful dream. So, like a wraith of the memories that I refuse to recall, those whispers in the dark were needling themselves through the far too exhausted defenses of this wistful being, who for the longest time, had waited for an accident exactly like this.

For fancy, and the sake of my future as an author worthy of the Akutagawa Prize, I will continue to dwell on these feelings that exist nowhere else but within myself. Because we know, that in a desensitised, pornified society of lonely 20-somethings who cannot face commitment, nobody will look within themselves and ask themselves this: beyond carnality, does there exist even an ounce of purity that makes me feel a warmth akin to love?

A mutual connection expressed through the projection of our own idealised failures and regrets onto each other; the disturbance of such an affinity, makes me shiver even now as I walk on, after the rain.

Rachel is in Singapore

As a Malaysian walking around Singapore, I find the resemblance to home uncanny, and the prices absurd. I could pay much less for what they're offering, and my appetite withers away.

The heavy air of capitalism is the air that one breathes along Orchard Road. Even though it doesn't cost to breathe, the well-dressed, desk-sitting-ass-kissing employees of nearby offices who just so happen to be on break, will snicker, ever so conspicuously, using eyes dulled with contempt. However, the most judgemental ones are not those who earn a stable, medium to high pay, but those standing by shop entrances promoting their businesses.

Having slept for a total of 6 hours, maybe less, over the past 2 days, and being slapped across both cheeks continuously by mishaps after mishaps after mishaps, I would like to die right here, right now, at the Muji Café in Paragon. My disappointment while can be expressed, is too much for words. From an invalid passport to a re-scheduling of flights and walking around Orchard all afternoon in search of lunch... INNER PEACE!

It is now 1620 and I still haven't had lunch yet. Sure, I'm at the Muji Café, but I only ordered tea and pudding since the main looked absolutely disgusting. With whatever that's left chilled on display, it's as unappetising as it can get.

Maybe I've offended an ancestor, or a spirit, or perhaps it just isn't my month! I wonder if my grandmother's innate talent of making terrible decisions got passed down to me along with her looks. In this wide corner of a quaint eatery, I managed to sit exactly where the AC is blowing. And we know how Singaporeans like to also replicate the superior weather of the North.

Delayed by an hour is my flight, but where else is there to go on an island so heavily reliant on capitalism? Everywhere I turn, I don't want to see anything.

If I must say one thing that I've enjoyed today, it's my short time at the national library. Why? Go figure.

I want to crawl under a kotatsu.

目の前に広がる

Every night, I'm kept awake by the things I don't know, and frustrated by how little I actually know. What does it actually amount to, my inexpertise in every field? You can't make a living out of doubt, and definitely not ignorance.

Hold a book, leaf through the pages one by one as you go. Words, words, words, how many are registered? And in between the lines, every pause, every comma, do I really understand the silence of what's been left out? Do I even understand what hasn't been omitted, that which stares right back at me?

It is easy to go through the day while spending hours reclined on a cushioned chair, seemingly idle, yet always conflicted in thought. Eight hours have gone by, though not one word has been written.

Self confidence is like an earthquake. Only, I wish I could predict its surge within myself so I could break the cast of doubt, locking me in place.

Do it, just do it!

And I realise I know nothing at all.

If I were cut by the paper moistened by the humidity of age, then maybe I'd believe that I could scratch the surface of wisdom with my own nails. It isn't for that reason however, that my nails are kept long.

Sleep is an escape, but I end up refusing the cure. Flawed as I am, this is the consequence of having only one meal a day.

"Can't be bothered, I really can't!"

In the spirit of Confucianism and the teachings of my forefathers, I shall continue to suffer in this oppressive structure revered as morality. Under the sky, yet above the ground, I owe my life not to myself, but to everything else.

Oh, I'm tired. But when I eat Topokki with a roll of Gimbap, I'm grateful again, for being alive. And you know, I don't even like Topokki!

振り返りはしない。草。

Adulting.

As an adult, there are so many things that I've forgotten how to do. They say the older the wiser, but with this wisdom, I've lost the skill of expression.

8AM on a Wednesday morning, the sun is in my eye, and a teardrop trickles down my cheek. It's a beautiful morning, to be driving to university, while crying.

Crying alone, this seems to be the past time of most adults. Why not cry together, like when we were kids? Is it necessary to put away the thoughts that make you sad, and compress your feelings further into your packed chest, just because you are an adult who is expected to act the exact opposite way of how a child would?

Dad left for work this morning.

I used to cry, while hugging him. Not alone in my car after he's left. Where, how, has my honesty gone?

I wonder if he's disappointed in us too. We  didn't even tell him we love him, nor spent too much time with him during his leave. The Chinese New Year ads start to become reletable, now that we don't stay at home anymore.

"Neveerrr will I be like those people who don't go home!" but I turned out worse than them.

Ah, I have to wipe away all these tears and make my way to class.

流れ星が落ちなくても、お祈りする

｢ 紹介してあげましょう？｣

実はその時、本当に｢ぜひ、お願いします!｣と言いたかった。でも、あの人は妹の友達の兄さんじゃない？結構だが、妹は本気ではなかったでしょう？

...

Why am I even considering a non-committal proposal from a conversation I've already forgotten? She was driving, we were talking, and... What had led to that? The talk of Mori's birthday celebration? I really can't recall, except when she asked if I'd like to be introduced to him.

However apparent the misery of my current solitude, it was the first time someone had thought about pulling me out. I've heard only one stock lie which all those who comforted me spat out: that I'd find someone, surely, eventually, one day.

Instead of saying this to you, I'm saying it to myself now, silently inside my head. Yes, I'd like to get to know him.

A successful business man at the age of 2X with green thumbs who simply adores animals, his heart is as soft as the tofu which his complexion comprises. I've always thought that his younger sister is the cutest, and had a crush on their cousin for the longest time; a girl whom I truly found beautiful, unrivaled.

Small as this world is, I wouldn't allow myself to be caught in the grass-roots of close coincidence. Far away, I'd like to go far away from here. And I will.

I'm sleeping on the couch tonight.

...

誰かが欲しい。声が優しい人、心が広い人、笑い声が可愛い人、私が考えたら胸は暖かくなる人。

You

You stand as you're having dinner. The porridge, left too long to cook has become soggy rice instead. Fuu, fuu, you blow a spoonful after you had your tongue burnt. Staring down at the bottom of the pot full of scratches, you play with the rice and listen to the sticky mound of complaints being pushed to the right side. It's hot, and the lenses of your spectacles fog up with the rising steam's last breath. Your face, you think, must probably be flushed now. Then you chuckle, because your cheeks are coloured artificially anyway.

Rip, there goes your last packet of crispy laver. You've had it stocked up since last year, so you had always wondered up til now when you'd actually eat it. There are no lingering regrets attached to it, because once you go to the supermarket and walk down the Korean and Japanese food aisle, on the bottom most shelf, you'll see it there, sealed in a transparent film with 13 other. But even if it is no longer there, waiting for you on that rarely disturbed rack, you wouldn't feel sad. The last time you walked down that aisle, you found something better, didn't you?

Still standing, you continue with dinner.

In your left hand is a thin layer of laver, in your right, a soup spoon which you use for every meal simply because you think its rounded head is cute. Actually, you really hate eating with the spoon; it doesn't fit. Scoop, a quarter is enough. Spread it on the laver, fold it in half, then put it in your mouth. You hear the crunch, but feel only the bloated grains of rice suffering from overhydration as you chew. 

You've finished the laver, but half a pot of rice is left. 

It's quiet, you think, and for a moment you wanted to smile but then the screams of your housemate and her companion spread across the boundaries of two doors. You want to sigh, but the heat only swells up inside. Perhaps, it was the warmth of the rice?

The counter is a mess, and so is your desk. You look at the contrasting colours of all the things that you own, collecting dust while on display; strewn across the table because you couldn't be bothered to find a place for them after coming home from class. Everything is so bright. The walls, a lime green, and the bright reds and yellows of the figurines on display. Even the glass bottles you bought last month are red and yellow. Yet, this cheerful palette fails to brighten up your life.

As the evening comes to a close, your make-up hasn’t been removed but you’re already in your sleeping dress. All evening, you’ve been under the blanket, with the fan turned off. Last week’s laundry is still drying on your balcony door. You know, you’re never stuffing them into the cupboard because it is already so full that the door isn’t able to shut properly.

Your phone is an arm’s length away. Its black screen, a mirror of the void that is eating you up. Even the notification light won’t blink, so why bother keeping it so close? There are less spams on the family chat too, that chat which you had un-muted because for a long time, their inconsequential chain mails were the only light blinking in the dark. It vibrates, sometimes, and you set up your hopes even though you know it’s just CNN bothering you with the latest updates on US-Russian relations.

Confidence, you wish you had it. With it, you could do anything. But all you have is an unnecessary lump of fear that’s stuck in your throat. You can’t speak. The words won’t be voiced because you have lost yours. So you write, because then, you can’t hear how your voice trembles once it leaves your mouth. Only when you use your voice to speak the words of another does the fear disappear.

You should sleep, you want to cry, you need to shower.

My Pathetic Weekend Behind Closed Doors

During my early morning Facebook scroll, the trailer for an upcoming live-action adaptation of a shoujo anime somehow appeared on my screen. Shoujo, huh? It's only nine in the morning; plenty of time to binge watch the anime series.

It is rare that I would do so, even if I had nothing planned for the day ahead. This fine morning, with its chill, and my lack of glucose mixed together hungered my depraved heart. One way to soothe it is to feed it unrealistic expectations of romantic encounters. I fed it well, with 13-episodes worth of romantic content that my 21-year-old self will never have the chance to experience. Cram schools, national exams, and school uniforms-- I'm past my prime. If 17 is the age where the first bud of spring peeks through the melting snow, then 21 is when it is only starting to bloom. For that reason, I think I am a cactus. There is no spring here. All year round, I'm this prick made up of internal screams, standing alone and way too proud in a barren desert.

But cacti do bloom, only to wither away once the night is over.

Six hours of high-school romance later, I finally settle back down into the state of indifference. な～んてね。As if it were that easy. The result of my in-bed marathon of 「となりの怪物くん」was carrying my Bluetooth speakers into the shower and playing Back Number's ハッピーエンド on loop while I unnecessarily conditioned my otherwise clean hair just because I wanted to let the water run down my face. Singing, and at times banging my fists against the tiled walls, I couldn't bear to look myself in the mirror because I knew how pathetic I would look. With my cracking voice, I sobbed, 「大丈夫、大丈夫」along to the tune.

I later found out that my after-shower skincare routine takes 1 and a half ハッピーエンド , which is pretty damn long.

For me, presently, there is nothing to be sad about. Yet, I am. So don't worry about me, it will pass.

Over this uneventful and unusually emotional weekend, I've learnt that having my own concert in my room makes me genuinely happy. For the 2 hours that I sang while using my water bottle as a mic, I felt light, and I started to dance, like an idiot. I think I loved myself then, more than I've ever had. My head felt clear, as if I hadn't a reason left to care for anything, except for the lyrics that were to follow.

Well, it was fun while it lasted. I slumped into a depressive pit afterwards no thanks to my intelligent phone's choice of music right after I stopped queuing my selection.

平気、平気、大丈夫だよ！

Sometimes, I wish I was concerned with world domination instead.

SNL: SATURDAY NIGHT LONELINESS

This afternoon I checked my Outlook just to tick off university spams as read. For the lack of activities on a leisurely Saturday, I thought I'd kill time by filling out research surveys for those final year procrastinators-- isn't it a kind gesture of support? By the time I finished the questionnaire, the lid over my pent up frustration had already been tossed somewhere far away, to a God forsaken pit of hate.

Answering the questions and admitting to myself my own loneliness is... I am HAPPY these days, but days turn into nights. Everytime, I would watch the sky through my balcony door change, from that unbearable blue to a warm orange, then twilight comes, and only after a sigh, I am greeted by the night sky. The moment I hear the crickets, my strength to smile leaves.

Friends, are friends. As friends, they can only do so much. How long can you hug each other before it gets awkward? Can I hold your hand because I miss the warmth of someone else's palm in mine? I like kisses too, so is it okay for me place one on your lips, or even your cheek, maybe just your forehead?

Even if the answer is yes, it wouldn't change the way I feel. Without meaning in those touches, how can I possibly be touched?

The packages that keep arriving at my door, the addiction in which I desperately cram materialistic consolation into my heart-- it's never enough. I don't want what's real anymore, only the scent of roses that waves me off into sweet reverie.

Midnight Searches and the Real You

I'm ashamed of my browser's search history not because its contents are embarrassing but because they are the base desires that drive me. It's the truth, thoughts thought in the middle of the night while lying down with the lights turned off. Dreams are the closest to our unconscious that we will ever get. If so, then the moment before we take a 8-hour stroll through the amusement park that is our unconscious, that sleepless moment of consciousness, establishes a link to the unknown. For that brief instance when our desires make themselves known, we pick up our faced-down phones, connect to the WiFi and type them all down in the search bar, irresistibly, bashfully, and maybe even apologetically.

"Why am I like this?" this thought has probably crossed your mind during one of your nightly searches. Yet, you hit search and scroll down regardless. It might be that you're stalking someone, or reading an article about whatever you think is wrong with you, or you might simply be looking up things that are now legal to your adult eyes. But what is this feeling? Even though you are already executing the cues of your desires, fulfilment and contentment do not make themselves known to you for you to placate your desires. Insatiable, are they? Is it pure greed?

Obviously not. By Googling what you want, you are merely damaging your eyesight and nothing more. Our desires, are in no way so easy to please. If by looking at search results could appease them, then a picture of fried chicken could end world hunger.

Let's one day play a game where we write one of our recent searches on separate pieces of paper, shuffle them around, and each pick a random one. Wouldn't we become better friends?

The searches that had me ashamed of myself, and here by way of distraction, tell me that I am a weak woman, the kind that I despise. Apparent truths are plain to see, but when it comes to accepting them, I'd stall their arrival and look everywhere else for a possible justification to refute them.

My sense of morality is supported only by my indolence and lack of self-esteem. If I happened to possess a strong will, great motivation and overbearing confidence, I wouldn't be writing this at the moment because I wouldn't have bothered Googling what I did at 1AM.

It's nothing bad, and it wasn't porn.

After I fall asleep, I'd like to have a slow chat with my desires.  The conversation that will take place can only be of use in the waking world if I remember it after coming back to my senses. If I can't recall anything, at least let me have sweet dreams.

On the Kind of Clothes that You Can't Really Wear

With a cupboard that's almost full to bursting, I'd thought that I'd be ready to dress for every occasion. Faced with the agelong question of having nothing to wear despite clawing through a mountain of garment that rests piled up from the darkest corners of my wardrobe, I was rather unpleasantly surprised, offended even, when the fact that my clothed arsenal isn't supplied with attire to kill every social appearance forced itself onto my defeated obstinacy.

Skimpy, body-hugging, attire in which the socialite goes clubbing or bar-hopping in-- this, I lack. Am I embarrassed by my light coloured collection of laces and frills? Never. A mini bodyfit dress that sparkles and reveals the bottom of my panties is just not something I'd waste money on, or could squeeze into.

Now, before anyone starts to think that I'm desperate enough to grind against some random, sweaty, drunk stranger on the dance floor at 2AM in hopes that that same intoxicated animal would turn out to be a prince, I better explain myself: I need nightlife-worthy garment for a performance next Wednesday.

Somehow, my explanation only served to imply that I am now working as a stripper on Wednesdays.

We know that isn't true, for who would like to see this lump of inactive meat on a stage, naked?

The more I explain myself, the worse this is becoming. Yet, I'm supposed to "have a way with words". I think even words have now abandoned me.

To state it simply: I am in involved in a theatrical production next Wednesday in which I play a character who is having a drink at the bar with her three friends. Hence why I am despondent, that I own not the inappropriate outfits young girls love to wear.

What does this say about me as an adult? That I am not, and never will be. Even if I do one day get led astray by my alcoholic contemporaries to go bar hopping, or clubbing, I will wear my pastel coloured skirts, and bunny-ear collared shirts.

I doubt it's where I belong. Besides, I'm actually quite proud of my closet of useless clothes that's not meant for the everyday.