New Year not so New Me

 This year, I'm not going to try to become a better person, consciously. I've decided that it'll be a year where I'll meet up with all the people I've missed, and be honest with everyone. Let me make it clear: I'm frank but I'm not always honest, and even though I don't tell a lie, whatever I say isn't always the truth. Maintaining relationships require some empty words at times. Even though I don't see a lot of people, rarely drop anyone a text, or have anyone strike up a conversation with me, of the times that I do have the occasional human interaction, I filter in my head 99 horrible thoughts to find the 1 sentence which is inoffensive. As you can imagine, it's exhausting indeed. 

When somebody tells me how great somebody else is doing, I'd say wow, good for them! but I would like to have answered with 'so?' instead. Both of them are conversation stoppers but the former doesn't offend whoever is speaking. I still have so much rage inside me, and if the lid comes loose, there'll be wafts of smoke: I Don'T CaRe FFS stOp tAlKing aBouT oThEr peoPLe yOu MiseRabLe BiTch

Over the years, the container which houses my salty pettiness and rage has gone through many significant upgrades that now, even if its contents manage to leak, there's a filtration system in place to ensure that whatever gets out still does minimum harm. Like 'so?' 

It's nothing more than an excuse at this point, but in order to see some of the wonderful people in my life, I'd have to fly (though not very far but still) and spend some time where they are. So I've also added travel to my short list of new year resolutions. I haven't any savings but as I've always found a way to survive, I'll make it through-- at least I hope so. 

One country I've put off visiting for too long is China. I wanna go eat fruits in XiAn, explore the ancient city and take photos of the terracotta warriors! Then there's a friend in Zhejiang who said she'll bring me to Wuzhen, also a historical town with much of its ancient charms still preserved. How much should I save for my grand Chinese tour? If I start now, I'll be able to go in 2024. Which brings me to my third resolution for the year-- Grand Chinese Tour Piggy Bank. 

I prefer travelling alone since I'd have nobody to bicker with, but it gets lonely, and I'd have nobody to take photos of me. Counting the very few friends I have off the top of my head, even if there are people who I would travel with, I doubt that they'd take a month off work just to go on holiday with me. Plus, would they even be able to afford it? Not saying that they're troubled financially, but unlike a certain someone, people have great plans for the future. I am irresponsible at best. 

Fantasies of a wonderful holiday aside, I've been thinking of going back to school, getting a masters in something. The only reason is because work is under stimulating and reading non-fiction or research papers in my spare time simply makes me feel like a psychopath. A masters in literature would be a disaster, considering what happened the last time I decided to study literature. Folklore would be nice, and since the stories aren't 3000 pages long, I should suffer a lot less. Then I start thinking, what on earth am I supposed to do after that? Imagine how it'd go at my next  job interview: 

So you quit your job to get a masters in... Folklore? 

Yes. 

Why? 

For fun. 

...

...

If you're reading, I think you know what field I'm in these days. Maybe I should just get as many external certifications as possible, and ruin my life further by crawling deeper and deeper into the hole of IT where the deeper I go, the less sleep I get. The future is dark, cold, and sleepless. I will admit it's fun to figure out what's wrong, and telling your clients NO YOU CAN'T DO THAT YOU DUMB FUCK in polite Japanese, but I'm not sure if I'd like to go down this path. What I enjoy most is still working at a cafe, or at a place with nice decor where I can dress up and blend in with the shop interior. Isn't it perfectly fine to want very simple jobs...? After all, we're working to survive, and not the other way around. 

I'll be 27 this year and I'm more lost than I've ever been. When I'm in a new place, I just walk wherever the road takes me and make a turn at a corner I think looks cute, or walk into a street with a funny name. I'd get lost and anxious but I'd never admit it because anywhere, is somewhere. I've applied the same philosophy to living my life and you may laugh at me now, for having no sense of direction whatsoever, vulnerable and insecure from all perspectives, be it financial or professional. 

Oh, and a lot of the people I went to school with have gotten married, pushed a baby or two out of their wombs, and lead a seemingly nice life playing House. Meanwhile, I'm eyeing the ungrateful mutt who lives with me, asleep with his belly exposed at three in the afternoon because he spent all night barking and headbutting the sliding doors. Do I seem happy on social media as well? I guess I'll have to find out from the people I'm going to see. 

For now, life's not all that bad, if I don't think about what lies ahead. 
お互い良い一年を 

720 Days Later

It hadn't occurred to me that it's been two years since I last visited. 

The last time I'd visited was when I'd been confined in a hotel room, overlooking the crowd of shoppers and not-so-carefree salary (wo)men of Bukit Bintang. Two weeks of breathing in the musty air-conditioned air of an old hotel; by the third day, I remember, I was pressing my face against the window trying to suck in whatever air that could permeate through the glass panels they use at 5-star hotels. 
I still find it a little hard to breathe when I think about those two weeks, but I would gladly be locked up in that fancy deluxe room again. 

Two years, two awfully long years, where did all the time go? I wonder, if I wasted more seconds that I could count. As they say though, no news is good news, so there might be that slight-- ever so slight-- possibility that I've spent the past 720 days or so dancing in the fields, flower behind my ear. 

No, none of that. Although, there might have been a flower behind my ear at some point. 

But has it really been two years? I remember long days at home: waking up next to my laptop and starting work, while still under the blankets, half asleep. Then I would go downstairs, go out into the garden and greet all three dogs. One of those days in January ended in rain and in sorrow, as the sun set, only two furry companions were left. 

We never really got over his death. My sister's lockscreen is a slideshow of the black furball, and my mother would look as though a wisp of her soul got sucked out of her at the mere mention of Casper.

 My heart still aches when I scroll through my camera album, and I see him, smiling, rolling around in freshly cut grass, but in the next photo, I see his round eyes glazed over and tongue purple. My baby died in my arms. 

I had no idea what happened in 2021. The whole year was a blur, or rather, blurred over by this film that wrapped itself around my days. The film, as you might have guessed, is called Work. Days blend together and suddenly we're here in September 2022. 

Far from being a millionaire, my bank account balance is still staying the same as it had been during my student days, even though I actually have a job now. It's one of my life's mysteries that no matter how hard I try, I cannot save. The Mystery of Rachel's Stagnant Savings Account-- both a horror and a mystery at the same time. My life is quite thrilling, in that sense. Now, I accept donations. 

In January, I'd lost my dog, but in July, I lost my grandfather. 

Ever since then, there's a sort of worry, a twitch in my eyebrows, and a knit between them. Can you blame me? If it starts to rain again one evening, I can't be sure that there's not going to be call, or a text, informing me that someone else has passed on. No news really is good news.

As time goes on, and everyone gets older, some a lot older than I would like, it isn't the fear of growing old that brings anxiety, but the fear that the days I can spend with the people I love are coming to an end. Those who took care of me, the food I will never get to taste again, and old traditions I will not carry on... These are the thoughts which would make an adult wail, and wail, and wail. 

 My grandmother sometimes forget, that my grandfather is no longer with us. 

She sits in her wheelchair all day, at times awake, at times vacant. There's still no telling what's going on in her head, if there's anything at all. I feel sorry, and can only hope that she'd been happy at some point in her life. What makes a parent proud? What makes a grandparent dote on their offspring's offspring? Love, as they say, is unconditional, so maybe, to them, we're just too cute. 

I don't claim to know how someone who has pushed a baby or two out of their bodies actually feels about loving their children, but I have a pup which I love. Even if it shits and pees on my carpet, gets a huge pile of shit stuck to its arse, chews my furniture, and eats my money away,
I find that I don't mind-- I do, but then it's too cute.

What else is there? 

Uneventful as my days usually are, I've probably mentioned the significant changes in my life since the last update. In case you might be wondering, I'm still not any closer to achieving my hopes and dreams (goals are nonexistent) so, if I may quote those unhelpful self-motivational "advice" giving assholes: hopes and dreams will always just stay as hope, and dreams. 

Do You Get What I'm Trying to Say?

 I tried scrolling through my dark history and scraping it out of existence but with this new layout, it's too much work. I can only stand being reminded of what I used to be for no more than 5 seconds. It's embarrassing. I'M EMBARASSING. At 23, I think I will have to accept that I am this delusional bastard who refuses to get a grip, despite having said that I will, eventually. But that time hasn't come, and I doubt it ever will. Once pathetic, always pathetic. Or something like that. 

I came across some old poetry. "Poetry". All this while, I'm amazed that I managed to click on the bright orange publish button and let these words float somewhere in the dense cloud we call the internet. It is likely no one has found them, and I hope nobody has. Actually, I think that it's more probable for someone to find a message stuffed into a bottle and thrown into the sea, than this blog. Like the test papers we keep under piles of old reference books, this blog is hard to reach, though in the first place it doesn't stir anyone's interest enough for them to even want to take a peek. 

As long as I'm happy, it doesn't matter, right? Going nowhere is absolutely fine. I like it better when I see the sights of rice fields and old houses pass by anyway, because then I wouldn't have to do anything, but watch. Then I reach my destination and I'd have to move, think of something to do, or look busy just to fit in when really, I just want to be leaning against a wall, staring blankly at the changing destination signs, my gaze following the stream of commuters that flow past the gates after each arrival. 

Hello, Pulis? 

I swear I'm not a stalker. 

Where do you suppose I'll be once I'm 30? Time seems to move faster, but our lives are somehow delayed. Prolonged studies, listless job hunts, late marriage, and an ageing population of single, melancholy sacks of meat past their sell-by date. If I die at 50, which I hope I do, I wouldn't need to worry about post-retirement since I'll be long dead before I can retire. Realistically speaking however, I will likely live past the age of 65 unless some (un)fortunate accident were to happen. That would be the biggest surprise I'd ever receive. 

There's no theme to any of this which makes it hard to end. Don't just say that I can cut it off with a "goodbye" or "goodnight" because it wouldn't feel right. Think about all the relationships that you've had, how did they end? Now think about all the people who you've made a connection with but decided that you'd be better off never seeing each other again, how did you cut them off? I'm thinking too much? Yes, I am, and that is why I can't find the proper goodbye. I don't want this to end, I don't want anything to end, but all things must come to an end. Goodnight. 

あなた、信じられる？

 最近ストーカーに関する短編小説を読んだ。その後、ストーカー被害を受けていた男に経験したことを語ってもらった。当時に住んでいる寮の鍵を盗まれたり、部屋に忍び込まれたりされたという話だ。ストーカーは女の子であった。あの女はどういう気持ちに行動したのだろう。彼の煙草を吸っている間に、涙でもこぼれてしまったのでは？

彼の優しさに触られたあの子、そして手を伸ばしてやった彼。あの2人の中に好意がそれぞれ咲いていた。と言いたいが、親切な彼にとって、好意は誰にも表すものだという。男のぬくもりの知らないあの子には、ほんの少しだけのその熱さが芯に火をつけた。燃えていく、燃えていた。

この話には続きなど一切ない。ではなぜかこの話をしていたというのか。さあ。何十年後、例の男はまだどこかで炎を煽いでいるのかもしれない。だって、男は信じられないもの。

Exhaustion from a Wave of Optimism that I should have known too good to be true

 Aren't we all too connected? I'm exhausted at having the world condensed into a 5.8" screen that weighs approximately 150 grams. It fits into the palm of my hands, and gives me no excuse to refuse participation in the on-goings of the world despite being isolated in a room I cannot leave, 8 floors above the supposedly busy streets of Bukit Bintang. Would it be irresponsible of me if I deliberately made myself unreachable? As I should be. 

Closed-off and shut in like a diseased pig, I should lose all sense of time save for discerning when it is day, and when it is night. Though that is not the case, as I can know down to the second this precise instant is. I stand by the wide panes, never once thinking that I should like to join the slow walkers and backpack carrying salary men.  

Scrolling through my WhatsApp history, what used to be a friends and family only chatting application now hosts a a string of unsaved, and unknown numbers, offering me jobs that were never intended for me, asking for details then never heard from again. And I sigh, losing hope with each breath. Since a young age, I knew I never wanted a life like this. So I thought I could write, write my way out of the socially paved order of things but that also amounted to nothing. 

To say that the future is looking grim when ever since the start of this year the planet has gone to shit, is I think, at this point in time, nothing more than a silent whimper. I had been hopeful. The blue skies of Hikone and its crying cicadas gave me the energy of an excited child during summer vacation. But now that I've left and can no longer hear the creatures calling out from the bushes, the echoes of city life that knock on my window day and night demand a compensation for that carefree summer full of optimism, loud with laughter. Now that good times have ended, I have to bear the weight that comes off as the flip-side of happiness. 

I have another 11 days to sort myself out before I step into the giant pressure cooker that's preparing a dish called 'Future of Rachel'. 

#LoveHiko

 The last few days before leaving is the absolute worst. Is it excitement that I feel? Anxiousness? I may even be a bit sad. As I hear the rain prattle on, I think of all the things I wanted to say to those I will not see again, for a good while at least. Having spent almost a year in a town which at first glance can offer absolutely nothing worth staying for, its treasure-- aside from the nationally recognised heritage site of Hikone Castle-- is its tranquility that can strengthen bonds, because if there is nothing else to do, best enjoy the company of each other. 

One year. I wouldn't say that this is enough but I wouldn't say that it is, either. Especially when the better half of my life here coexisted with the peak of Covid-19 and I had to spend everyday in my room, attending Zoom classes seated on the floor until I couldn't feel my buttocks, or legs. At some point I started to lie down in bed, or did stretching exercises. By tilting my laptop screen upwards, they could only see my head anyway. Besides, I doubt that anyone really paid full attention after the first hour.

During those months of beautiful spring weather, the only places I bothered going to were the 7-Eleven that's 3 minutes away, and the supermarket. Even the Cafe/Bakery I worked at took a month off, stopping its eat-in services for a while. I was called in again once they decided that it was probably safe to let customers dine in again so my workplace was added to the rather short list of places I go to when I'm not in bed feeling bitter about the pandemic. To be honest, I thought I was going to get infected at some point and die in Japan without seeing my family, but I'm glad that didn't happen, and surely, won't happen. Even if I get it now, I'll die on Malaysian soil. 

It is now nearing the end of summer and the hidden gems of Hikone keep popping up on my Instagram feed. When I said that at first glance, Hikone appears to be a deadbeat town with little to offer, this is what I meant. Retro Machiya turned cozy cafes, artisan chocolate, a good number of French Patisseries-- all tucked in random alleyways under the shadow of Hikone Castle. One such gem, which is rather conspicuous considering its strategic location that's next to the castle's outer moat, is my lovely place of Arubaito, Pomme d'Amour.  The owner is as sweet as their dessert and the always welcoming temperature paired with the aroma of freshly baked Croissants, has made it one of my favourite places here. That is to say, because I spend 3 to 4 days a week working 8 hour shifts there, it had become a place of familiarity and on my off days, I can never even finish the leftover goods I bring home so I rarely ever go to other Cafes. Though stumbling upon Pomme through the recommendation of a dear friend, has been the biggest blessing, and also one of the main reason why I was able to live out a satisfying life as a short-term exchange student. The love I felt, is real. Which brings me to my next wordy point full of the gratefulness so uncharacteristic of me: 

My time in Hikone would have been an absolute hell if it weren't for the people I've spent most of my days here with, whether it be those who came with me, or those I met after arriving in this town that's obsessed with a fat cat who wears a Kabuto. There are a few people I have in mind, and when I think of them, this urge to thank them over and over again rises like a wave, but I can only do so much as smile. I wonder if they know, that they are the reason I'm happy now. Some I sent letters, others I didn't, or haven't.  

Of all my experiences living here and there, meeting whoever and whoever, Hikone has been one that I cherish and hold dear the most. This, I can say from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for teaching me that happiness exists in being kind and being able to laugh together. It's no wonder that the people here are hippies who live for all things organic and all things vegan. Biwako's glistening waters may have their own secret after all. 

一年間、ありがとうございました！

#LoveHiko 

「い」

 汗まみれの体に虫だらけの真夏。3週間前、庭に植えた草はもう枯れてしまった。今の降っている小雨、もう少し前に訪れてくれればよいのに。で、私も水をやればいいのに。毎日クーラーで作り上げた涼しい環境で外の生き物を眺め、眺め、眺め続ける無責任の私は草に申し訳ない。

罪悪感を感じた今、私は水筒に残っているわずかな水を外に持って行って、あの救えない草にやった。飲んでたのかな。もう完全に枯れ切ったなのに。この哀れな荒廃した庭、ちっとも気に入らない。にもかかわらず、トンボはあっちこっちに飛んでいて、庭で鬼ごっこでも楽しそうに遊んでいる。こんなのは見たくもないのだが、目が引かれている。

「ろ」

 残暑の下に、私は久しぶりにアスファルトと向き合った。その眩しい昼間に琵琶湖の強い風、紙で作られたわけでもない私が自転車から転んでしまった。幻ではないかと思う私は後ろからの「大丈夫ですか」をはっきり聞いていた。今でも、脛に貼ってあるアンパンマンデザインのきずテープやももの青あざが証拠として残っている。

私は「ごめんなさい」と言った。「大丈夫」じゃなくて、「ありがとう」じゃなくて、落ちたぼうしを拾ってくれた人に「ごめんなさい」と言った。あれ、なぜ私が誤ってたのか？痛いのはこちらなのに？知らずに私は私を責めてしまった。弱くて情けない、もっとも嫌な気質がまさか最初から身に付けているとは。その後、体が震えている原因は擦り傷の痛みではなかったかもしれない。

「は」

 私、20年遅れたかもしれない。かつて子供たちが持っていた夢、なおさらこの瞳の奥に輝いている。希望は光っているのなら、その陰に眠っているのは絶望。誰かが送ってくれた幸せはいずれに去っていくのだろう。どのくらいかな、微笑みの飾れる時間。

わたがしのように、貴方への思いが甘く、柔らかく、たまらない。すぐ溶ける糖分が体中に盛り上がり、これが幸せだとばかりに雲より遠い場所まで連れて行く。けれど空に飛んでいても、見つかるのはただ白い白い飛行機雲。金色の雲はどこにある？

いつも手に入れないものばかりが欲しい。目の前に伸ばしてきた手をよそに、私はその伸ばそうともしない腕しか望んでいない。

「に」

░独░り░で ░考░え░て░し░ま░う░よ░ね░ ░か░す░か░な░明░か░り░が░身░を░照░ら░し░て░い░る░ ░隣░の░空░い░て░い░る░部░屋 ░誰░も░歩░い░て░い░な░い░廊░下 ░今░夜░は░意░外░と░寂░し░く░感░じ░て░い░る░ ░何░も░か░も░ ░思░い░の░な░い░夏░休░み ░刹░那░に░開░く░花░火░よ░り░短░く░て░眩░し░い░ ░目░覚░め░な░

Ghost

In memories shrouded by cigarette smoke, on hazy nights lost in the incessant hums of the air conditioner where my mind's eye can barely see the line between being awake and being asleep, I feel your warmth on my cheek, the beating of your heart, and how your chest rises and falls with every breath. You, are very real. Yet when it comes to knowing you, only fleeting instances of the coffee you ordered, that doughnut we shared, barely make up who you are.

Two bodies sharing the same bed. Nothing more. The TV glows late into the night and your eyes, streaked with red, are fixed onto moving pictures. Your rough hand cups my shoulder but do you feel it? Impenetrable as you are, as tight as these thin lips stay.

Somewhere in the dim light, there is a sound of a click. A fire flickers. I hear the Marlboro seep deep into your lungs, as though you want to dye your soul in its minty fumes just as well. Every bud that burns through, who are they burnt for? I pretend to be asleep, listening for answers in the smoke you exhale.

We are connected but shut off from each other's world. In modern terms: the Wi-Fi that connects to a device but fails to grant access to the internet. Yes, that is exactly how we are. I shouldn't let it bother me but I get stuck on the possibility that you might be thinking about it as well-- if you are indeed, like me.

And perhaps because you are like me, we can never open up. Beyond the clandestine curtains of our meetings, there is a lover that cannot be abandoned. Still, we seek that pleasure again and again, lost and frustrated, taking the blame out on the reflection of our misery. It doesn't matter if we like each other or not, because we feel the weight of our fault as we rest against the other.

I think, on this Spring morning where dark clouds loom and the winds of Biwako cast its timely wrath against the branches of trees still in winter slumber, I have come to accept our meaningless connection. We are but drifting souls caught up in each other's thread for the time being. Once my time here is up, so shall we slip past our memories and the sensations of a dream so real, never to materialize again.

I CAN'T

Another 3 years have passed.

I've reached the edge of the cliff, and from now on, the next step will fall on air, a steep plunge into the realities of independent adulthood. A plant extends its feeble branches through the cracks in the rocks. Will I catch it in time? Or am I going to continue falling, but with a piece of leaf that's snapped in half between my fingers?

My lack of talent, I can't fix it. We're either born with or without talent. Born as an empty sack of meat, we are taught that skills can be obtained through learning, perfected through practice, but there exists things that can't be obtained. Like talent. You learn how to write once your clumsy fingers can grasp the pencil properly, and so does everyone else.

On the 11th of May, 2019 at 3:10AM, I have finally stopped believing in myself. It's time to stop pretending that I can be something which I can only dream of becoming. The embarrassment that is my writing, and I call it 'writing' only because of its form, doesn't deserve its own space. I have nothing to say.

Years of practice have amounted to nothing. Not that I tried. Do we lose sight of our dreams as we lose our vision with age? The thicker these lenses become, the cloudier the dreams appear.

I wonder if it's the same for her too. I wonder if she has anything to say, because those thin lips are always pressed together.

If another 3 years pass by and I'm still here, then you'll know that I will be seated on a cushioned chair, breathing, having achieved nothing.

Dinnertime

I'm sitting here at the UV cafeteria, waiting for my plate of cheap rice and a side of sweet and sour fish. To create the Illusion that this cafeteria is more crowded than it really is, the volume of the TVs have been cranked up until one can hear it from across the street. For months I've avoided this place thinking that it'd be full, but now I know, it's really just the TV.

Even so, with all these empty seats, the staff sure are having a hard time accommodating the very few of us who actually need to eat. I think 3 sad little stalls are open for business, but coincidentally all of us have decided to order from the same stall today; what are the odds!

Starving since lunchtime, it's anyone's guess that I'm not exactly in my best mood. I could make good use of this wait time by reading relevant research articles, or complete some pending tasks required of my part-time job, but why be so productive when I can come here to escape my responsibilities for a while longer?

You know, we're supposed to start a blog for one of our classes. A blog, eh? But of course, unlike this dump here, it has to be professional, and appealing to readers. As a woman of very little talent, and even lesser hobbies, that sort of thing is particularly difficult to set up.

A fake blog, targeted towards a fake audience... Now that sounds very much like this one already.

Ahem.

At any rate, I think I could fake my way through the semester by blogging about skincare and makeup. I've always wanted to know if I could potentially crawl into the beauty industry after graduation, do write ups on cosmetics, so I suppose now's my chance. I thought I could write about my time in Kyoto, but we need a video, a podcast, and lots of pictures, which I don't have enough of.

Ah, my fish, my fish is here!

Chasing Silhouettes

この目にバレたらあの人の姿は離れないようになる。

Since when did I begin chasing the heel of your shoes? The you who I have never breathed a word to, nor smiled at, has grown into a thorn that is piercing through the delicate film that separates desire from thought, expectation from reality. At the sight of you, I involuntarily become drawn in, and at a loss for words, can only from a safe distance let out a sigh then watch it turn into air. For a brief moment, my stare follows the traces of my breath, and I find myself wondering if you will also disappear before these eyes. I can't catch the vapours my eyes can see, but I could have held on to the hem of your shirt sleeves.

Yet, like watching my sighs, I silently watched you walk out the door. The heel of your shoes are moving further and further away, but my eyes haven't a voice that can tell you to stay. If in these deep brown eyes my longing was apparent, then I wish I had looked into your eyes.

I avoided them, I avoided you, just as you had avoided mine and avoided me. Grunts and perfunctory nods were the only indications that my existence was acknowledged. Did I do anything to offend you? But never mind now, because the seat that you had sat on has already grown cold.

And so I grabbed my coat and chased after the you who I can no longer see. The streets were cold, so was the glare of the moon. Pointing in neither the direction in which you've gone nor the way back to the warmth of laughing strangers, its pale glow then got swallowed by the passing clouds, and I was left there, not even with the company of my own shadow.

I crossed the bridge as I listened to the stream of water that flowed with time. Drops of rain began to fall, and together with the flowing river, they never turned back. I thought of getting onto a paper boat so I could sail to where you are, but I know, all I will be able to see is your straight back. Always three steps behind, I can never reach you.

To the you whose beauty is felt through the warmth emanating from your heart, please turn your head and notice the outline of my restless figure. Look at me too, even if all you can remember is a red cloak fluttering in the distance.

Love in the Family

It seems odd to wait in line and receive cash from my dad. While I am still sponging off of his salary, the physical exchange of it makes my inability to contribute to his life all the more apparent. My parents still have hopes that I would one day buy them a fancy car. That day will surely come, because if I cannot afford one when they're still alive, I can always burn them a paper one when they leave this world.

But looking at my mum makes me marvel at the position known as someone's wife. How can one so shamelessly spend money that they did not earn? As a product of their unity, I understand that they have the responsibility to feed their children until they reach a certain age, but my mum and dad are two separate beings tied together by vows alone. Is the role of a wife so troublesome that being married to someone grants them a kind of salary from their husbands? I suppose for men it is a small price to pay, in exchange for the constant ego boost.

Or maybe, it is just love, that which defies all reason. Buying presents for loved ones, and supplying one with a lifetime's allowance are different. How much do you need to love to be willing to share so much?

As a by-product of their love, I do not know my parents at all. Especially my father, to think that he could have been captivated by a woman of such little appeal. Her strength is her unwearable thick skin, and that burst of positivity I find all too annoying. Perhaps if she wasn't my mum, I'd love her too. Whenever I'm next to her, I become aware of my own solemnity.

I ought to try harder. It isn't that I don't love my mum, I just find her radiance hard to look at. Since arriving in Chiang Mai, I've only attacked her, without really listening to her. Being a mother to such a bitch so full of angst must be tough indeed. My sister seems to realise that and advises me to take a gulp of water and swallow my words instead of firing them at my already wounded mother. Ah, the thoughtful child. I wonder if her skills of observation aren't so poor after all.

They've retired to the room, while my brother is watching some videos on his phone. I'm sitting at the table alone, quite upright.

Sigh.

Everyone is cautious around the me who never smiles. My temper needs to be fixed, and I should learn how to smile. I'm not angry, but everyone seems to think that I am, except for the Thoughtful One who has studied me closely throughout the years. Her understanding of our family members is profound.

The reminder this trip, and one that has to be said every 5 minutes when we're together is "two sentences less". Saying two sentences less can potentially save us from more arguments and make this vacation the ideal family holiday we can all use to deepen our bonds. Keeping my words to myself won't keep that frown off my face though.

Having drank a jug of water, my bladder has reached its limit. I wonder which food is the culprit, that msg coated bastard. It's definitely the grilled pork.

I shall arise and go now, to the loo.

New Year's Day with the Snoring Fam

No more hugs and kisses on both cheeks as the neighbours light up illegally procured fireworks. Instead of the alcohol that bathes the mood in its festive glow, only sleepiness accompanied me at the start of 2019, and the unspoken tension between me and those who I once opened up to.

I fled as quickly as the fireworks, with a bang swallowed by the atmosphere. It hadn't even been 8 hours since the smog of coloured explosives declared the beginning of a new year, and I am already lying down on someone's couch in Northern Thailand.

Yesterday melded into today, and today joined itself with the end of yesterday. If there were indeed 48 hours in a day, none of us would survive. Only a little after 36 hours in and my family has been knocked out cold. Their snores contend with the silence of a rustic evening, and the sound of my distant relative's father watching cable TV.

I can't remember the last time we went on holiday together as a family, the six of us. A decade and a half ago we were always sailing here, there, and everywhere, threatening the livelihood of miserable seamen as we nearly burnt a ship down, among various other incidents which now, as an adult, I would like to apologise deeply for. Oops?

With my dad at sea 3/4 of the year, me getting myself lost in some corner of the world at any given moment, my siblings all living in different conditions under the same roof and my mum rooted to the old house as caretaker and sole babysitter of my dad's two fur children, a time where we can actually take time to go somewhere and waste more money together, is rare. I realise this now after close to 4 years of neglect. At the age of 22, I suppose I should be grateful for discovering this so soon, in case it should pile itself up onto the mountain of regret, guilt, and shame, that cast the shadow of depression over my life. Preoccupied with chasing the Western philosophy of individualism, I failed to consider the fact that all those old Bastards killed themselves in the process of overthinking, and accordingly have moulded myself into a being whose existence is fuelled by inferiority, and whose only reason for living is to complain about not wanting to live. Always trust in Rachel to make the worst out of every possible scenario.

Learning how to let other people into my life, as well as mustering the courage of knocking on their doors, should be my top priority this year. If I start now, maybe I'll be able to become a confident salesperson by the time I graduate! And what better way to start than by taking a week-long family holiday on the very first day of new year? If only they weren't all snoring.

At 2200, my father awoke and joined me downstairs as the second person to be awake. Not much to do, we sat eating Kuachi, each looking at our devices while I read distractedly. If afternoon naps continuously prolong themselves into 12-hour regeneration processes, my dad fears that the two of us will have to spend our remaining five nights sitting on the couch eating Kuachi. I suppose the Khoo family, other than carrying the high-blood pressure and depression genes, have also perfected the practice of sleeping like logs. During the hours that they'd have slept by the time they open their eyes to the first rays of the sun, a dynasty would have fallen and they'd probably have already learnt the secrets of the universe in their dreams.

Drunk on Kuachi, I think I too shall see pleasant reveries. Goodnight!

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.