Congratulations.

 

It is the end of the road. 

We sat and reminisced; recounted the days where we had laughingly foreseen the end of the road for all of us. It seemed so far away, and yet here we are, sitting together again - and half have ended this journey that we started on together. 

It seems strange.

The journey has been long, and arduous. For some, standing at the end of it, there is just a sense of tiredness and just wanting to get it over with.

Congratulations nevertheless.

It is not a road that everyone walks, but you have made the trek, and now stand at the next fork. To what the future holds for each and every one of us, I do not know - but I hope for one, and only one thing.

I hope many years in the future, we will meet again like this - all of us, together, reminiscing, laughing, recounting our memories together once again. Regardless of the journey we will take after this fork, I hope that we are able to meet at intervals like this one, and laugh like we always have.

Sometimes I question my sanity.

The way I write is a reflection of myself, of the light and darkness that exists within.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm entirely sane, and it seems as if I am myself but not. Sometimes it feels like I am removed from myself.

Are any of us entirely sane?

We are built, programmed a certain way by the virtue of our lifestyles and the experiences we are beholden to. We learn from our past - to react, to analyze, to cement that perception of who we are and build in our minds the person we want to become.

Sometimes I wonder if my constructs are falling apart - if I have lost sense of myself. Is this the cause of this disjointedness, this uncertainty? Like anyone else, I have received my share of challenges in life, and like anyone else, I have reacted.

My psychiatry professor once mentioned that people work along certain lines, according to their personality traits, with strengths and weaknesses from each type. Those with certain traits worked best a certain way, but were crippled by those very things that made them so strong. I often wonder if I am reacting outside a way that I normally do, because I have been crippled by my own thoughts and actions.

Who knows?

Fate acts in strange ways.

I somehow feel at a loss - as if his presence is a chance to do something, to say something. It's a strange thought thinking that I am, perhaps, responsible for the wellbeing of someone who I hate so much.

Because I do.

I hate him for the things he has done to her.

I don't know if I can ever forgive him.

I hope she never reads this because I know she loves him, and the neutral part of me tells me to be gentle with her, and gentle with him - and advise them for the best, because life is but a learning process and everyone needs to learn.

Even the bastards of the world.

Love is blind indeed and god works in mysterious ways.

It is beyond me to be intentionally cruel - as much as I try. The worse I can do is feign indifference, but my natural inclination is to be sociable, as I've found out.

I could be cruel. Very cruel.

I could leave him to fend for himself in the streets of Melbourne, to sleep God knows where. I could let him lose himself and wander around in fear of getting lost in this strange new country, and let paranoia dictate his actions so he never really fully enjoys his stay. I could exact revenge in so many other ways - to let him stay but extract a price for his lodging, and to make it very clear that he is at my mercy. I could make things very very uncomfortable. God knows I've watched enough bad American TV to do a pretty good impression of a bitch.

I could be cruel.

Part of me wants to exact revenge for her, because if she doesn't and she never will, and someone else pretty damn well should.

A part of me knows his actions spring from ignorance, and she remains a part of that for letting him treat her that way. It is obvious in the way he speaks, and the way he thinks - obvious in their relationship together. Sometimes things are so bloody obvious that I want to throw up.

At the end of the day, people need to learn from their mistakes.

It is not for me to judge. At this point, I am merely his hostess. For some twist of fate, I have opened my hospitality to him, by himself, without her - and I am not only forced to grin and bear it, but also extend the same courtesy as I do to others who have graced my home. God works in mysterious ways.

I can only pray for their happiness.

But part of me doesn't want to.

It has been slightly over a week since we celebrated Malaysia’s Independence Day.

Here in Melbourne, the talk has been about harmony and unity; or the lack of – and the problems we face with embracing our multiracialism.

It is difficult to run away from the fact that we are a multiracial country, and through history and social circumstances, the face of Malaysia today is one that stands on that racial divide.

Back in my schooling days, it never seemed to be a problem. Race never seemed to be at the forefront of anything. It just seemed silly to segregate when we were all learning the same things, it didn’t seem to be a problem that one of my closest friends is half-Chinese, and another is Punjabi, or that the cliques in our classroom were never really divided by race.

It seemed something that seemed to jump out at me when I left high school, and as naive as this sounds, it was something that surprised me.

After all, I just didn’t see it happening.

Although I am of opinion that race should not be a big issue, much more considering how common intermarriage is, I suppose it is something that we cannot run away from.

I have no problem being Malay. It does not disable me, or enable me in any form – it is just something I happened to be born into, with genes that dictated I look a certain way and a certain ethnicity. I appreciate the cultural aspects of being Malay, the little rites and traditions that we do, it brings a sense of identity, almost, to who I am. I also appreciate that there are the stereotypes of being a certain ethnicity, and sometimes I wonder if people pander too much to these stereotypes.

At the end of the day, I believe we will all try to move towards betterment, and I believe that building bridges among each other is the best way to do so.

Sometimes I feel it’s strange that this remains a place that I oh so rarely talk about the things that affect my everyday life. I write in layers of prose, winding in and out of my own self-indulgence, as one might wander aimlessly through a hedge maze. Perhaps it is this that is my escape.

Sometimes I wonder why I choose to do so, considering how I always have an opinion for everything, and it would be interesting to record my thoughts for years to come, and reflect on how they’ve changed. That would mean breaking silence.

Perhaps I should.

You wonder what it feels like.

It feels like blackness.

Like the dark side of darkness.

It feels as if my body’s a shell, and the entirety of my strength is pushed into putting on this face, this farce to the world, where the strong, resilient person that I used to be still exists – not the weak excuse that I have become. It feels as if I am split in two, where a small part of my still rages with the ineffectualness of my other self, while the other me sits wrapped in this blanket of apathy, not even managing to muster the strength to respond to the rage within.

The feeling is enveloping, and only manage to cope by putting my energy into this facade, and by forcing my mind to deal with one thing at a time – one thing at a time.

It feels like a struggle for the most menial of things.

To wake up.