What we desire most, we cannot simply achieve. There, sacrifices have to be made. In many ways, it's comical, how throughout history, people fight and die in vain for the same things. Money, freedom and equality. We don't learn-- we NEVER learn. Though the latter may seem to be for the greater good, they are not-- not in the slightest way-- for their roots also stem from the damnable seed of selfishness that bloom within every single one of us. Ask yourself then, why are people willing to shed blood for money? Because of the power that money brings? If so, ask yourself again, why do we strive to break free from whatever that's holding us down? So we could become more, do more and live however we want to, be our own masters? Isn't that the same as being greedy, yearning for money to be powerful, to rule? Equality, too. It doesn't exist, and it never will, for equality doesn't mean justice. It's just another excuse to be acknowledged.

If the world is indeed a stage and we are all but muppets and fools, then I curse the puppet master who wields the strings. It is not funny. It's not-- that's what I have to tell myself, anyway. Even so, I find it hard to keep my inappropriate laughter to myself. Ridiculous, absurd and undoubtedly maddening. It seems as if it is embedded into our very nature that we strive for what we know will never be ours. It's sickening. At the end of the day, I ask myself again, why... Why do I have to be so selfish? You too.

Because nobody will have it any other way than their own. I will not compromise my pride, nor will you. An understanding cannot be achieved when neither wishes to point the gun at themselves. What for do you fight with a being who will bring about its own destruction? Violence is not always the answer, but then, peace does not exist. Then, we follow in the footsteps of the other, which is to use their own weapons and weaknesses against them, the way they do to us. How... However is that productive..? Another man's meat is another man's poison. And though I prefer my own poison to your meat, your taking to my preference is ludicrous. 

If I am to admit defeat... That is very unlikely. The same seed of selfishness and pride dwells within me, and it is forever blooming, all the more so with the extra raging fertilizer that's been supplied to it in the recent months. If pain is a sense of glory, then I would kneel before my own flag and shed plain tears of defeat of yet another loss that I have brought upon myself. I am never satisfied, that much I know. When you can't love right, you're going to be the only one left-- that, I know too well. But I don't mind. Solitude, and the touch of the soulless breeze could be so comforting, yet intimidating at the same time. At that, I shall shudder as my regrets come by me once more. 

The same problem persists. Neither will let their guard down. 

Suffer on... Suffer on... or end it, only to get caught up in the cycle anew. 

It's Not Much of a Life

It's all so perfect. Yet circumstances can make it even more painful that it is now. It's not up to me. It's not up to you. It's not up to us. It is our lives-- yes it is-- but it is not in our hands, what we can or cannot do. So then, is it still our own lives when the choices are not up to us, when we are powerless against power, when our hopes and dreams are taken away from us right before our very eyes as we are held down by weighted chains of the perspectives of other people? If it is, then it is not much of a life we are living. I never said we were living very much to begin with.

So what if warm blood flows through these veins? So what if I breathe in this filthy air through my nostrils every second of my so-called life? So what if my heart beats and my brain works without fail each and every moment? What use am I, what is the point of my existence if I am told what is right and wrong, what I should and should not do, the way I should and should not behave, who I should and should not love. Why am I still alive when even my right to trust and love is stripped away from me.

You believe in God. You love jesus. You thank Him everyday.

You think it's wrong to be gay. You think it's wrong of me to be in love with him. You think it's wrong of me to even be talking to him. You don't trust. You don't believe. Yet you are a believer. If it is possible for you to love something which existence you cannot prove, then why is it not possible for me to love someone who I am sure of?

It is unfair.

Nobody said the world was fair anyway.

Disappointment overwhelms me.
I am upset-- that much I know.
It comes from the insecurities which I own, the fear of losing a seemingly strong yet fragile relationship which lives on waves.

The day our gap is finally closed is but weeks away.
Yet it is not my choice to make, whether or not our hands touch.
In my mind, things are laid out perfectly: you are holding me close to you, whispering into my ears how you would never let me go while a teardrop escapes from the corner of my eye and a rivulet trickles silently down my cheek in the middle of the night.

In the dim lamp light we would lie,
Staring at the plain ceiling the whole night.
Admiring the warmth and the surreality of each ticking second,
Appreciating the silence of each other's company.
...
It is all possible,
Yet it is too much to ask for.
Close to reality it may be,
but do not forget, my love,
it is not up to me.

As upset as we are,
Nothing will change.
Young and foolish they may say,
Inexperienced and naive they may scorn;
Forever indeed I shall never be granted
The gift bestowed to the oldest of us all:
Of freedom, of rebellion, of trust.

You know what?

I give up.

Why Would Anyone Want to Leave?

I looked up from my drink, the straw still between my teeth as I mindlessly chew on it out of habit. I saw the waiter making his way steadily towards our table, supporting the weight of four freshly boiled bowl of noodles on a metal tray. Somehow, his clumsy, careful image reminded me of the many stories I've read, the heart warming visual novels that I've played. The blinding midday rays of the sun flooded through the doorless storefront where the battered bamboo blinds hung limp, half-raised, as if they have given up on shielding people from the sunlight after years of failure.

I began to think. The words of my would-be story flowed flawlessly, though they were without a beginning and lacked an end.

One by one, our noodles were served. Lisa slid mine over to me. As I picked up the chopsticks, clutching them like how a normal person would hold the Chinese calligraphy brush, and dug into my steamy hot bowl of brunch, strangely, I felt the need to burst into tears.

Why is that, I wonder?

The dark brown sauce, yellow noodles; slices of char sao scattered across the sauce-stained noodles which was complemented by the few limp but crunchy tao geh that lay helplessly among the abundance of springy noodles, while green and purple spring onions topped the lot. I mixed them all. Clumsily. My technique of using the chopsticks never did improve, and I never got it right. Not even once. Not even now.

I wanted to cry.

It wasn't because I haven't eaten konlo mee since I moved to the city. It wasn't entirely because I missed the food here, back in Sitiawan. No, not at all.

The scarcity of people, the serenity and the simplicity. It is surprising, how the genuineness of small town folk could touch a person. The superficiality of the people you see in the city, crowds of frowns and faces thick with powder and colour, they don't exist here... No... Not here, where excess modernisation have yet to mar the innocent, somewhat primitive civilians. It's only a matter of time though-- I frown at the thought.

Who would ever want to leave this place?

There is a man in a faded dark turquoise shirt leaning against the wall as he scrolled down the display of his smartphone. A tall, lanky figure, with pants that are too big for his thin legs. Though he may not seem like it, that man is a doctor.

A mechanic walks in. Black hair, dyed a golden shade at the tip. He must be from the motorcycle shop next door, hungry, starving, from work. He picks up a thick bundle of noodles between the plastic chopsticks, and shoves it into his mouth, slurping in the rest. How his cheeks shrink as he sucks the noodles in.

The few people that sit here in the shop, it's calming. There isn't an excess of humans talking, laughing and gossiping through artificially painted lips. We're all just... Caught up in our own thoughts.

I remember now... The eateries in the city. Breakfast in an air conditioned dim sum restaurant in Taipan. Chairs so close against each other, chatter suspended in the air, making my head spin. All the painted faces, the fancy clothes and expensive bags... I may not have noticed it during then, during the times I awkwardly force myself to sit in places I know I don't belong, but now that I am back in this comforting town of dullness, I realise that I am afraid of it all. I am a confined animal that has been released into the wild. All my life I have lived in my cage where things seem so normal and effortless, and suddenly...

The city is worse than a jungle in many ways. The most dangerous animal is not incapable of rationality nor does it walk on all fours. Humans are the most dangerous creatures you will ever come across.

It gives me nightmares, the place I am now in. Everywhere I turn, I see thick lips in unnatural shines; faces in layers of powder; eyes drawn out of shape and expensive clothes with the appearance of cut rags-- how the burn my eyes!

I don't want it I don't want it I don't want it

Slowly, it creeps up on you, the culture. Day by day, it worsens, numbing what humanity that exists within. It's tiring, the way you have to blend in and become one of them, of pretense, of farce and of contempt...

And so it is... I walk around empty malls with quiet halls, of deserted tiles, not shuffling feet. It is depressing, but I am not complaining. This, is better than a room full of people who put up lies.

The roads are empty, the cars are slow. Wide are the tarred paths, impatient I have grown.

Why would anyone want to leave this place?

I wanted to leave once, but not to where I am now. I still want to leave, but not to where I am now. If I could, I would sail away and never be found.

Why do I like to visit the things that upset me? Even if it doesn't snap a chord at first, I am not content until it does, and I fall into a state of dissatisfaction afterwards. If this isn't insanity, then I don't know what is. Angering yourself, time and again.

Is it an innate trait of humans, to revisit those that they ridicule, and find absolutely ludicrous? Or it is just the natural behaviour of Rachel Cheong?

I am a cynic. A bitter existence; eccentric. I find disgust in other people's... How should I say it? Never mind. You would hate me for it, if I said it out loud. Let's just leave it at that.

As much as I would like to snicker, scorn at those who claim that they are deeply, MADLY, in love with his or her "significant other", I would refrain from doing so. I don't have the right to do that, I suppose. I am in love too, I suppose, though, I do not tell the world about it in smiles, with rainbows and butterflies that make me sound like a four-year-old girl who is foolishly drawn into her own fantasies; she, a princess.

Have you ever come across the story of how, and when 'we' first 'met'?

I don't believe so, unless, it is in one of my handwritten journals, my diary, that is supposedly private. For you are the one who violates that privacy, then there is no right to say that I too, share the stories of my love in the open. I rarely talk about it even. I don't see the point.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, of course. They can do whatever they want, and it is not against the law to upset minorities-- bitter minorities. Also, it isn't a crime to be cold and disagreeable. If you can tell me to loosen up, let it go, and smile, then I can do the same: tell you to shut up, get lost, and leave me alone.

Why can't I just be HAPPY for people?

I do not go "awwww" and "I am happy for you". Whenever I do, it is a lie, it is something that I do out of common courtesy. Once it comes from me, you can be certain that it would be the last time I would ever talk to you. I don't fancy lying to people, but in some cases, fools cannot be rejected.

You are excited. You are nervous. You wonder how it will go. You tend to not share your thoughts aloud for fear that people might think you are petulant, annoying and stupid, so you find a place, a place which community is originated from people like you-- lonely, excited and head over heels in love. You share your excitement. They congratulate you. They embrace you. You have become a part of them, a community of scatter-brained idiots. You feel welcomed, you feel loved. There, there is that sense of belonging which every human seeks.

Feel offended, as you like, for I am calling you a worthless being.

"My goodness! Rachel, just stop!"

"No."

It runs in the family, this undying fire that strives to burn everything that it deems spiteful.

Brrrr...

Why is the CPU building always so cold? I know it's a Canadian-based curriculum and all... BUT THEY DON'T HAVE TO IMITATE THE WEATHER AS WELL! AHHHHH! Shiver. Shiver.

This is Reality.

A gift. It always starts out with a gift. A small one, mostly. A colourful box, printed stripes of green, blue white and pink lines its body. Neatly, a ribbon of glittery gold is tied into a fluffy bow, its legs dangling by the side of the box. Pull it open, see what's inside. No. I should just leave it, and give it back. After all, wouldn't loosening the seal be a sign of acceptance? I can't possibly have that.

Fantasy and reality must be separated. To stay sane, I shall let my rational mind make the decisions for me. Reality is a boring place. The truth is an ugly thing, revolting at times. Fantasy however, it shall always be sweet. Sweet sweet reverie. Even if it involves the forbidden practices of everyday life, actions absolutely perverse... It shall never be wrong, for it is only fantasy.

A world without boundaries, a universe without truths, where you make your own conditions, and bend the elements to do your bidding. Events, people, places. Love, infidelity, reflections.

I could be whatever I want. Do whatever I please. Come up with excuses, make people forgive me. It's entirely up to me.

Spoiling myself to the core. Blackening my body, my heart and my soul thoroughly, until every vein, every drop of blood that runs through them are blacker than the night, viler than poison, soot and smoke.

This is reality. Where I abstain myself from certain things, to make sure I am a presentable human being that can walk among the other self-restraining psychos and be a part of this superficial society.

It is tiring. It is getting old. I am sick of it.

When a person fully lets go. Is it happiness? Or utter sadness? Do people laugh when they are happy, or when they have lost their minds?

Just this once maybe, I would make a mistake. Deliberately make this mistake, because I want to be wrong, to feel guilty and the rush of adrenalin that comes with it. The pleasure of guilt. There certainly is pleasure in feeling so.

I don't mind.

At this point, I hardly mind anything.

Hah. What am I saying? This is reality. And in reality, there is no gift, not even a small one in a colourful striped box, with a fluffy gold tinged ribbon holding it together.

The truth of the matter is, I am going to bed. There is no story to be told.