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.