CIRCUSITCH

A senior in my uni once asked me – do I know the meaning of voyeurism?

I can’t remember what I wrote.

Today, I fell in love. Spent the best 2 hours of my life marveling and loving quite possibly, the only 2 people in the world who get it. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. Do I want to know them? I feel like I already do.

I found their photo album by chance. You could say that I’ve been there before, but I only manage to stay for a few minutes and then moved on to whatever struck my fancy then. Today though, because I had a lot of time to kill, and because it was just me and my perfect lonely self, I explored their world.

Their pictures told me stories. They took me to way back in 2001, when they were yet to be married, still courting, him looking way better looking than now, her totally luscious and sexy. They shared the same passion and unconditional love for the great outdoors and the physical exertion that beckons us. Over pictures of them roughing it over dirt bikes and mud tracks, climbing over the steep jagged gray rocks to catch the sleepiest sunrise ever, I fell in love. I fell in love with the couple I’ve always wanted to be, even if I had to do it alone.

Their travels wrapped my senses in China Silk. I saw them eating goree with the locals in Kerala, hiking up the trails in Scotland, swimming with the elephants in Vinh, feeding monkeys somewhere in Egypt (do they have monkeys in Egypt? Apparently their Egypt does). They even took the time to catch the same music festival for two consecutive years, with the likes of Ronnie James Dio and Anthrax. I love to see how their hairstyle changed over the course of one year but their sleeping bags and ‘festival’ boots and affectionate gestures remain the same.

The best pictures are the ones that are close to home. They took their kids (3 girls) deep into the stomach of Gua Tempurung, in which I remembered to be super dark and eerie and you can literally feel the little thin water snakes squirming under your palms while you crawled your way out of the darkness. They spent a night in Manong, a sleepy, very very tiny town deep in Perak and just surprisingly, 30 minutes off Kuala Kangsar. Year 2007 was the year I saw their beautiful journey to the land of the Holy, 40 days seeking solace and some soul searching under the beautiful guidance of God. They must have been 33 years old. I saw her looking touchingly pretty covered up in abaya and the hijab, and recalled a picture taken of her in 2001 with a black and white string bikini reading a book by the beach. In Hawaii.

Looking at their pictures, I felt a longing I can’t describe but can perfectly place; I have felt it so many times before. I think my unexplained need to dig deep into every corner of the world is shared by no one but myself, and I have come to accept that. It is amazingly awesome that in this world, someone like them got so lucky to find each other and be able to quench their thirst of totally being. I, on the other hand, am perfectly content to experience, and perhaps one day to be experiencing, the joy this world has to offer to me, alone, or with a like minded individual.

Been meaning to write a something something to the second man I ever loved: my George.

For those in the dark, George is my 15 year old car. Yep, he’s taking the PMR this year.

This love, like my other relationships, be it friends, or boyfriends, fools the society. They see nothing but how mean I am to him, how couldn’t care less I act, how I prefer to leave him rotting and smelly and ugly and thirsty. I don’t have to defend or explain myself.

My love is not measured or shown in how I bathe you, or feed you, or caress you or show you off to the world. Just like others, my love is apparent in how I let myself unfold and unpeel. I am the person they read at in Facebook, or this blog or hang out with and have dinner and what have yous. But you, and a select few, have seen me cry and whimper and quit and feel stupid. And that is the best kind of love for me, because I can be my stupidest, weakest, naked self without having to worry about anything.

A lot of boyfriends have been inside George. (I mean it in a non sexual, non anal way)
And no one dares to grab his stick and guide him to move until my current boyfriend.

Best memories:
1) Me and George under a tree in a deserted space at my university, and having the biggest sob fest ever.
2) Long distance driving to anywhere with only my voice and the wind.
3) That big accident that left you warded for days. sorry

” Dear Big Daddy George,

I know you smell like a cross between a musty gym and an old taxi. And that your left eye has gone senile. Your mouth needs to be taped. Your vocal chord is shot. But you took me from SPM era to CGPA era to PPA era. We bypassed a hot gay dude, an interesting fashion designer, an ex-fatboy rocker, my first heartbreak (sorry I flooded your interior with my angst) and current love. I know I love to leave you drained and my friends have to charge you up at random places; the hospital, the mpsj, besides Carrefour, etc. I know you love virgin girls who’d never ever touched a stick before. You let them stroke yours until you jerk and had to be restarted. This is why I love you and never want to replace you with anyone else.

Till you leave me literally on my feet,
rocket queen.”

This is me 3 years back at the start of my 54 days of traveling with a huge bag and only 5 pairs of underwear. I bring them to the shower with me and dry them on top of my bag. The sun bakes them dry and stiff.

I like this picture because I like the me in this picture. There is nothing wrong that I would like to change. The hair was too short for my liking when I had it cut, but a lady in the fabric store told me she loves my hair. I made the bag myself. I found the fabric in a huge roll for a sale at a steal price and I bought the whole thing. I still wear the bag to work. In fact, just last week. I stenciled the tshirt myself too. The tshirt is actually by Byford, in the mens department, and I bought the smallest size. The words say, “Wanna put my tender heart in a blender,” a line from Eve 6’s song. The song is just brilliant. I love the pants too, but they’re torn in many places now, and too thin to provide some sort of warmth or comfort. Believe it or not I actually enjoyed my crocs too. I have no idea where they are now.

I had yellow masking tape on my camera that I bought second hand. It’s big and clunky but has this swiveling display thing that everybody loves. I took a lot of pictures with this one. I don’t have it with me anymore.

I don’t know what I was thinking when this picture was taken. I was heartbroken so it’s not really hard to guess.

Enjoy the sun shining on your neck from the slit of the windows in your office room. Eat lunch on your own, savoring how tasty it is when there’s no one to interrupt. Your have this 60 minutes to be by yourself and ain’t that a fine thing to have.

Think of ugly thoughts in the car, especially when you’re stuck in the traffic jam. Like, how you once thought you’d be married at this age, or at least happy, or well, fuck it, with two kids in tow. Think of how different life is from the one you thought it would be at 18 years old. Then feel sorry for yourself and pop the CD you reserve for tender moments like this. Be glad that your tinted windows hide your tears from the lady in the car next to you. With her husband and kids.

The art of being alone is essentially embracing the beauty of being lonely. Losing your voice after a day of talking to no one, with only the sounds of clicking mouse or flipped magazine pages to keep you company. Sometimes you’d go to the kitchen to fix yourself a drink – juice, or maybe a mug of hot chocolate – and that’ll be the only exercise you get for today.

Look yourself at the mirror and I dare you say it, “I’m the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.”

To be alive.

the need to be with my own self and foreign currencies and the feeling of being unsettled. soon, i promise.

the guy I’ve loved silently since I was 19 is writing again. I love discovering lost lovers. i’m the kind of stalker people don’t mind having, because i don’t impose nor do I make a sound, let alone demand stuff. i just love you silently, and will not share you with anyone else.

i missed him so much to the point of suicide. another guy i loved reading but lost touch about 3 years ago; we found each other again through the social network media for sports enthusiasts. i took a look at his surfboard and felt a twinge, and sent him a message and the rest was history. it felt weird to put a face to the person whose thoughts on love, life and more love has consumed me in between assignments and tests.

im as trustworthy as a leaking container. i’m also brooding like a scorned chicken right now. there’s nothing i love more in the world than absolute solitude. i feel better when the only sound i listen to is my own breathing. id rather be a workaholic than green eyed monster.

the right word is forgiveness.
askew, haphazard, unharnessed.

here we go again.

It’s a pretty dangerous setting for me to write right now.

I feel it should be nighttime, because it is dark where I feel. I hate sounding like a 19 year old discovering angst-ridden music for the first time (read: jeff whiny buckley anyone) but the truth is that: I feel as cheerful as a morgue. So many things add up to it, but to tell you the truth I’ve been feeling kind of angsty for quite some time now.

Rewind back to this Mick Jagger lookalike we shared a room with in Berlin. He was thin, all limbs and tight muscles, with scraggly hair and did weird stretches before bed. He scared the shit out of my traveling partner, who probably never met an aging rocker with a scarred face before. After an hour of conversation he said that I am angsty. I hated to be coined that word because I felt it was trendy – who did not want to be angsty if you’re listening to Bjork, Sigur Ros, or whatever that is cool right now. But then I recalled a conversation with my housemates before we graduated and I would rather be called angsty than downright depressing, which is, to me, the pinnacle of being trendy and hip – think Girl, Interrupted and Angelina Jolie. Wait, was that like 6 years ago?

I am so old-fashioned.

One of my closest friends argued a point about me which I think is valid. And very scary. There’s nothing that makes me happy than doing some cardio. And finally, I have to agree with her. It does make me happy. To be honest, IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME SOME SORT OF A BREATHING SPACE. I think it works like some sort of a escapism. I NEED to do it in order to make my life feel structured, and orderly. And the more I do cardio the harder I push myself. I’m no longer satisfied with only 30 minutes of working out. That’s merely a warm-up to me. I feel better when a workout exceeds one hour. I love it even more if I do double workouts in one day. It’s like the only time when everything in my life is going right. And I finish doing it feeling on top of the world, and I am ready to face whatever’s being thrown at me again.

I am a believer in taking control of your own life. I have no patience with people who complain about their stupid irritating problems and do nothing about them. Life is all about choices. CHOOSE, or shut the fuck up. I have a 23 year old male cousin who has everything in his life stripped away because he’s fighting his 4th? relapse of leukemia, which to be honest is just… final, and he would like your chance at life if you’re so inclined to hate it so much. You guys are all assholes, seriously.

And because of that, I am going for a run. Until I’m satisfied and then probably going for some kickboxing or something.