I'm Terrified of Happiness

There are only a handful of time where you come across words that depict what you're feeling so well that it leaves you speechless. Those rare, precious moments when what you read describes you so well that you're in awe and left hanging, wondering if you have a twin out there, somewhere.

***

I am happy. I am in love; I have a roof over my head, parents that love me, a 4.0 GPA…yet tonight I cried. I cried because I’m terrified I will lose it all. I’m terrified to be too happy. I am haunted by that Charlie Brown quote “I think I’m afraid of being happy because whenever I get too happy something bad always happens.”

How do other people let themselves be happy? My Instagram feed, my newsfeed, my friends…they boast their happiness. They are not ashamed or scared; they do not think that if they embrace their happiness it will disappear. So why me, why am I like this?

I feel all my life I have been cautious. I was scared to be myself, worried what others would think, worried they wouldn’t like me. I was called annoying when I was younger; I guess that taught me to not be overly enthusiastic about anything. I found myself turning into an extremely cynical person as I entered my twenties. Love is not real, life is slavery, everyone is programmed like robots fed the same bullshit its all lies lies lies. Sometimes I believe happiness to be equated with stupidity. You can only be happy if you’re blind to the infidelities of the world, to the sickness of human nature. How can one be so keen and enthusiastic about a world that promotes so much death and hatred?

Besides filling every stereotype of the worldly educated English major, I found myself ashamed of my cynicism. I think its good to see the world through a realistic lens, but then again rose-colored shades are not that bad either. Today I am in love; I am free to be my true self with someone for the first time in my life. I am so extremely happy that I am absolutely paralyzed with fear. I wish I could embrace the corny things in life, post love quotes and pictures of us kissing, but if I show off my love…it will leave.

I’m not sure if this is a condition of my upbringing or just something every postgrad experiences. Sometimes I feel as if our generation is taught how to wallow around in self pity. I mean how many articles do you read telling you its ok to be a sad depressed lazy bum, that not having a job is OK because no one else does either. I’m not sure how much this has an affect, or if I’m really alone in this feeling.

I know no one is alone in this world, but sometimes I wish I could really embrace the happiness of life, hold it so tight that it should explode, but believe it wont. 

by Emory Ann

***

I take no credit for the work posted above. It echoes what i feel so accurately that i just had to share it here.

when told you're not pretty

Pretty is a six-letter word that can’t encompass your entire being in its arms. You were born to a mother who wore pain like trees wear their rings, as marks of fierce bravery and battle cries. You almost split her insides open coming out, wailing so hard the plaster cracked, but she grinned and bore it like a champion, even though the walls of her womb felt like one giant cigarette burn that no one cared enough to put out.

You are Icarus incarnate, with a body stitched from wings, flying toward the sun every day no matter how low the storm clouds hover. Pretty is not a synonym for learning how to put together a body that fights itself every day with pocket knives, like assembling letters to form words that flame in the mouth. That’s called survival. Pretty is an ugly word. It leaves behind a bitter residue that apologies cannot erase. Pretty is just an excuse for playing darts with a woman’s confidence.

When told you are not pretty, always remember how your body expanded to fit its widening cage, its blooming hips, how the growing pains were less like pain and more like cracking fault lines. How your body turned itself inside out and spilled over and over again. Getting emptied is not pretty. It is dark and wounding and it requires strength enough to move mountains.

On your worst days do not look in the mirror and call yourself pretty. Call yourself trying, call yourself surviving, call yourself learning how to get through a day, a week, a month or year. Call yourself still learning. Pretty is just six letters for lipstick, false eyelashes, combs for hair that never gets tangled, not for women who earn a victory every day just managing to exist.

When told you are not pretty, do not suck in your stomach. Pretty is a discriminatory word, but having a body that knows what it wants and gets what it wants is not a hate crime. It’s a healing hymn.

Don’t forget how trees shake their last leaves in winter like they’re shedding skin from the old year. Shed pretty. Shed it now. Teach yourself to replace it with heart-wrenching, brilliant, clever, artistic, unique, understanding, fighting. Always living.

When told you are not pretty, don’t fall in love with the ground. Get back up. This is not an apocalypse; this is not the end of the world. A six-letter word doesn’t have the power to burn down every building in site or freeze the entire world in epic proportions. Your body is not wreckage or refuse left over from a world on fire. Your body is just fine.

Look in the mirror. Tell yourself, Pretty is not me. Pretty is an ugly concept. I am more.

Say it. Say it.

***

I adore this woman and her writing // credits: writingsforwinter

Is it enough to love?

Placing the last hanger in the wooden contraption in front of her , she took a step back to take in her masterpiece, and boy was she pleased. Each and every article of her clothing were now coordinated according to the shades and hues that they belong to. Just as a grin broke out on her face, a sound beeped out of nowhere and interrupted her reverie.

Stomping her feet to where the sound came from, she saw it was his phone that had light up with a notification for a text. Seeing that it was an unknown number, she was emboldened to swipe her finger to the right and only to be greeted with an incriminating message that sent ire down her spine:

Miss you darling, xox.

Like a matador bull, all she saw was red and not a second of hesitation later, his phone was thrown across the room, collided with the wall, and a deafening sound was heard before that small piece of electronical device broke into smithereens.

On cue, he hurried into the room with his brow furrowed together.

 "What happened?" he asked with concern laced in his words.

Without missing a beat, she threw objects within her reach at him; the more he tried to fend for himself, the faster and more vicious the objects came at him. Clothes. Vases. Books. Hangers. They all came flying at him until finally running out of things to throw, she slid down exhaustedly on to the floor.

Looking at her dejected form, he knew that her raging fit has ended. However, it was not a time to proclaim victory nor was it a time to huff a breath of relief because knowing her as well as he did, he knew that the battle might have subsided but the war was far from being over. Isn't there a proverb along the line of, it was always the calmest before the storm?

Thus, he knew that he needed to tread cautiously. Traipsing carefully through the strewn clothes, shards of glasses, torn books, stray papers and overturned table, he was halted in his steps when he heard her.

"Let's end this," she whispered so meekly that her words came out bereft. It was as if all the fight had seeped out of her with every object that now lain perilously around the battle ground that she has just so recently waged.

"What?" he croaked.

She did not raised her head from her vantage point of the floor, but she knew that if she would just lift her chin up infinitesimally, she would be able to see confusion and disbelief plastered on his face. It would be hard for him to accept her decision, she conceded internally, but she's done trying to salvage this wreckage of a relationship.

" I don't want to do this anymore. You. Us. I'm tired of living in this web of doubts all of the time."

" Baby," he pleaded, "don't do this. I promised you that I'll ch—"

" Stop! Just stop...please...let me go."

A heavy silence descended and cocooned them in a blanket of insurmountable tension.

"Are you sure?" he implored, after much hesitation, in a last attempt to convince her otherwise.

"I don't believe I have ever been surer of anything else," she stated without a hint of emotion.

Standing at the threshold of the walk-in closet, he took one last inventory at her. She could sense the intensity of his gaze on her but she stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. With an audible, almost strangled, sigh he acquiesced with her wish for freedom and left.

It was only after his footsteps were no longer heard that she gave free reigns to her tears to cascade freely down her cheeks.She has finally gotten the license to do as she wants.

But was she really happy about her new-found independence?

on being alone but not being lonely

My parents tell me that I spend too much time by myself, upstairs in my room, alone. But what they don’t understand is that being alone is different than being lonely. The distinction between the two is like the separation between the ocean and dry land, the line between loving someone romantically and loving them as a friend.

Being around too many other people makes me feel almost claustrophobic, tense; at times I get the urge to break through the crowd of people, shoving them apart with my elbows without apologizing just to get away from them. In a sea of living, breathing people, talking and eating and laughing, there are so many gestures. Every second someone blinks or touches their mouth or brushes their hair back; the next second someone else is licking their lips, adjusting their shirt, swallowing. When I’m in a sea of people I fidget awkwardly; I don’t know what to do with my hands.

Where do hands go? Do I shove them in my pockets, cross my arms, put them on my hips, clasp them in front of me? What am I supposed to do with my hands? I don’t feel lonely by myself; I feel lonely with so many other people packed in tight like sardines around me. But sometimes I even feel like my hands are lonelier than the rest of me; they’re always trying to find something to hold onto, but they never quite can.

My father once told me You spend so much time upstairs that it’s like you’re barely even here. But spending time by myself is like a ritual, a slow dance in the middle of the kitchen at night when everyone else is in bed. Being alone is like peeling apart an orange and finding all the hidden layers inside it, or stargazing with the most expensive telescope in the world and even being able to catch a glimpse of Mars while I’m at it.

When I ascend those stairs to my room and shut the door, when I break through the crowd of people and escape into the hallway, when I leave a school program in the middle of the presentation, I feel like a huge weight has just been lifted off my chest. The clock’s hands unstick and time begins to move again. The world starts spinning once again on its axis, its edges caressing outer space like a lover. It’s as if the whole world had been holding its breath, and then, with an audible sigh of relief, all that pent-up breath is let out.

So whenever anyone asks me Why do you spend so much time alone? Don’t you get lonely? I want to tell them that the two are separate, pro and con, black and white, light and dark. I want to tell them that alone tastes so sweet it’s better than the last chocolate eclair.

It’s every single slice of banana cream pie left in the world. It’s every triple-layer wedding cake ever made, complete with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

It’s fucking gold.

Reblogged from tumblr [http://writingsforwinter.tumblr.com]

Story of my life; all I want is to someday be able to write like her. Him. Them.

Wake me up when this year ends

Ernest Hemingway is my new found god.

And I would like to go on a Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn movie marathon, in addition, to curling up on my bed and reread english classic literature from Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Louisa May Alcott and the likes again and again till the world ends.

That people is pure bliss and what encompass my 2013 resolution.

Have a great year ahead and I hope that you'll find Mark Darcy as charming as I do.

Till then, xoxo.

Moments worth remembering

I can never willingly or unwillingly give my books away unless I'm really forced to. And by really, I mean really really forced like with a gun on my head, and I'm a minuscule step away from falling off the cliff with huge gigantic ugly rats on the bottom of the cliff waiting to kill me with their disgusting squishy body on the rare chance that I did not die from falling off the cliff. Or in a more normal and less dramatic scenario: when I moved and even then the books that I'll give away are the books that I'm really not interested in anymore (which is very few btw). Why you may ask. Because there are times when before I go to sleep I'll head over to my bookshelf and pick a random book to reread. After picking whatever book that my mood dictates, I'll then curl up on my bed and skim through the said book again. Pure unadulterated bliss I tell you. And it is during moments like this that I'll mentally categorize the books and authors into great, okay and so-so because to me, a great book is the one where when you read through the book for the second, third or fourth time and your breath still hitch at how beautifully written the words are and you're reminded again why you love that book so much; that for me is the definition of a great book and an author who is able to wove an awe-inspiring story with beautifully and thought provoking words will automatically be hail as an amazing writer too. And then I'll wish really hard that someday I will be able to write as beautifully as those had before me. 

Emily of Emerald Hill

an excerpt of the literary critique that i wrote for my drama assignment. this is posted just for the sake of updating my blog till i can compose my errant thoughts into a coherent blog post. 

From my own point of view, Emily of Emerald Hill is quite a riveting play. It tells the story of a girl who was abandoned by her mother to the mercy of her relatives after her father had passed away just because she was a female. She was then married off to her distant cousin in an arranged marriage and had to climb her way to the seat of the matriarch of the family. And also to earn the respect of the other family members using her intelligence and wit when she was denied the respect and acceptance that was normally bestow upon the eldest daughter-in-law just because she was younger than them.

It is also a tale of an insecure girl who hid within the facade of the matriarch of the family. An insecure woman who desperately tries to control and manages the lives of those around her so that they will always be dependent on her; so that she will have the assurance of knowing that her life has some significance and that no one is going to throw her back into the gutter. It is also the tale of how a woman who had achieved what she wanted and yet lost her husband and her son along the way. A tale of a strong woman who had weathered all kind of hardships in life and had stood tall in the face of tragedies and yet ended up alone in her old age.

It is a play that makes you ponder on whether or not one can really take destiny in their hand and emerge as the winner in this game of life?

I do applaud Stella Kon for coming up and also developing Emily into such a character that we love and despise at the same time. Emily is a woman who had to face one tragedy after another in her life but instead of submissively surrendering to the cards that life dealt her with, she fought for her own happiness and turn out to be one strong woman that one can’t help but to look up upon although at times her stifling need to control and boss the lives of those around her are frowned upon by us.

Painting a vulnerable girl who is struggling to strive in a modernized Peranakan Chinese family, who at times is still trapped in the traditional way of life in the ancestral mansion of Emerald Hill, as a setting is quite as captivating a background as it is. Despite being a one-woman play which might start off as a bit boring seeing that other than Emily the rest of the characters are invisible in the play but as you go along you are gradually encapsulated in this woman’s journey in life.

This play has taught me not to put my judgemental glasses up all the time because there’s always more to a person than what he or she is showing to the world. Emily might appear as a domestic tyrant but deep down she’s actually just an insecure girl-child who desperately wants to belong. This shows me that no one has the right to judge another because what one shows to the world is actually just a tip of an iceberg of who he or she actually is.

 Emily has also taught me that it is better to lose a battle so that one can win the war. She was bullied tremendously by her sister-in-law, Susie, when she first married into Emerald Hill but instead of crying over it or starting petty arguments she instead put her whole effort and attention in trying to get into the good book of her mother-in-law which she successfully did. This strategy of hers taught me that it is good to sometimes employ patience and tolerance in the face of adversity so long as I would come out as the winner in the long run.

            Furthermore, this play has also taught me that you shouldn’t let your past rule your life. Emily is a dominant tyrant who was controlled by her sense of insecurity to do what she does in order to fill the void that was left gaping open by her anxiety of not being wanted. This resulted in her driving her son, Richard, to commit suicide and also to lose her husband. Although I can see where she’s coming from but that doesn’t mean that I condone what she’s doing. She let her past overrode her and that in turn mess up her future. It made me realizes that one shouldn’t dwell too much in the past but instead keep it as a lesson for future references.

            To sum it all up, Emily of Emerald Hill is a thought provoking play that probes on your innermost thoughts and make one questions on what is right and what is wrong. Is it right for Emily to push Richard off the edge just in order for him to be better than his cousin or is it wrong of a mother for wanting what she thought was the best for her son? Is it right for Emily to hold onto a husband who no longer wants her or is it wrong of a wife for wanting to keep her marriage intact?

            Emily of Emerald Hill is indeed a fascinating play. 

My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Piccoult

I never read any book twice which is why it is such a surprise that not only did I read My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Piccoult twice but on both occasion also it made me wept my heart out. My Sister’s Keeper is the first book by Jodi Piccoult which I read and which got me addicted to her writings. She is an amazing author who touches controversial topics in her writing. Be it a gun shot in high school or a gay relationship, she is the one author who manages to touch in-depth on these topics and yet never offend anyone. She is the one author who never fails to inspire me with her writings. If I were to ask to pick any author books to read for the rest of my life, I would pick her

In My Sister’s Keeper, Jodi Piccoult spins a fast-paced tale about betrayal and redemption in a family which are falling apart. It tells the story of Anna and Kate; two sisters who are bonded together by Kate’s leukaemia. Kate’s leukaemia is the sole reason on why Anna was brought into the world and also the main reason that are tearing the Fitzgerald family apart. For thirteen years, Anna was who the doctors and their mother turn to in order to save Kate from her never ending medical condition. Be it a bone marrow or leukocytes, Anna was the supplier.

No one ever asked her for her permission, they just assumed that she was willing to go through countless operations and growth shots in order for Kate to live. To finally be able to live her life without being overshadowed by her sister, Anna sued her parents for medical emancipation; to finally be able to have a say on her own body rights. And by doing that she unravels the threads that were barely holding her family together.

Not willing to let her Kate die from kidney failure, both of their mother, Sara Fitzgerald decided to go against the lawsuit. On the surface, Sara was described as the cold-hearted mother who was willing to go against anything against the odd to save her elder daughter from dying even if it means exploiting her younger daughter and neglecting her son, Jesse. Jesse was the neglected son. The first born that was forgotten in the midst of their never ending attempts of saving Kate and thus he grew up to be rebellious.

However if you look deeper, instead of seeing a cold-hearted mother, you will see a mother who is torn into two. A mother who loves her children so much that nothing she do will ever be good enough for them. Sara was put in a tight spot when she was asked to choose between her daughters; a daughter whom she had devoted her whole life to or a daughter whom she had neglected; a daughter who are dying physically or a daughter who are dying emotionally. Who will you choose if you were her?

It also makes us ponder on Anna’s action. By instigating the lawsuit, does it make her the selfish younger sister or does it shows a terrified and vulnerable thirteen years old who just wants to live?

I love this book because it made us realize that there are always two sides to a coin. It also questions our belief on right and wrong; what might be right might be wrong and what we deemed to be wrong might be right all along. This book also portrayed that there’s only a thin line separating moral and law when love and compassion are involved in the equations.

Overall, I would rate this book 11 out of 10.

Cliché

if only its that easy

and just like that she crumbles apart. again. however this time there's nothing left for her to hold onto. the only thing which had kept her sane had been snatched away with just that one word. the only thing which had kept her happy and contented had been tainted with just that one word. and it is during times like this that she smiles her brightest smile and pretends that nothing hurts when truth is everything hurts.

Passion is what matters the most

Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”

— Text of Steve Jobs’ commencement address, Stanford University, 2005

Impulsive writing makes me happy (:

Its beeen a while since I really write. I wasn't into the mood to write since SPM's over which means it has been months but the minute I saw Pouleen's post in facebook, I knew that I have to continue from where she stops. Its good really to write again; to feel the words and plot just simultaneously flowing out as you type. Not to mention the satisfaction I get from this impulsive writing.

Starting of the story:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/notes/pauline-low/short-love-story/10150194598612450?notif_t=note_reply or http://iknowyoudontgiveadamnaboutmylife.blogspot.com/2011/05/tear-jerking-love-story.html


My ending:

Finally he hailed a cab to the airport after getting frustrated at listening to her voicemail over and over again. He got the earliest flight to Vancouver and looked for her as soon as the plane touches down.

He was grinning ear to ear the whole journey from the airport to her house. Finally, the cab driver couldn’t keep the curiosity to himself anymore, asked him,

“Where are you heading to young man? You look so happy!”

He smile sheepishly and said, “Chasing the love that I had foolishly chased away three years ago.”

“Good luck in that! Although I don’t believe that she would have waited for you; true love never waits for anyone,” sneer the cab driver.

Thinking that he was just an old and bitter man, he brushed off the cab driver’s comment and remains happy throughout the whole journey. Unshaven, grubby and jetlagged he finally reach Jane’s house and knocked on her door. No one answered. He knocks again and again and again. Finally her neighbour heard the knocks and approached him.

“Who are you looking for?” asked a fiftyish woman in her pyjamas.

He replied nervously, “Jane. I’m looking for Jane. Where is she?”

As soon as he finished talking, he realized that the woman’s face was washed with grief. She smiled solemnly and asked him to wait for a minute meanwhile she hurried to her house and took a white envelope and passed it to him. Without saying another word she headed back to her house.

Suddenly he seemed to be shaking with fear; He was afraid to know what was in the envelope. Could it be that Jane had found someone else and this is the letter that said she has moved on? But then again why Jane would write him a letter and not mailed it to him and instead passed it to her neighbour? He was confused. Contemplating no more, he ripped the envelope apart and read the letter.

Dear Alex,If you are reading this letter, it can only mean that you have realize how foolish you were by pushing me away and it also means that you have realized that I’m the one for you. I really hoped that you would have realized earlier because by the time you’re reading this, I’m no longer here anymore. Remember the time I professed everything to you and you pushed me away so cruelly. The afternoon before I professed, I was diagnosed with a stage four cancer. I had professed to you, hoping that you will be there for me during my last phase of life but sadly you made a choice that hurt me terribly and in the end you hurt yourself too. There’s nothing more I can say to you and there’s nothing more that you can do because you had made that decision long long time ago. Goodbye and I hope you will be happy.

Sincerely,Jane.

He did not break down nor did he shed a single tear. He hailed a cab instead and headed back to airport hoping to get home as soon as possible. He was terribly wounded by the decision that he had made three years ago and frankly speaking, knowing that Jane had died, he felt that a part of him had vanished along with her. He didn’t dare to ask Jane’s neighbour where she was buried because all he wanted to do was to burry all these behind of him and move on. He might come off as selfish and cold blooded but he knew himself that if he didn’t do what he was doing he would never be able to face life again and so he took the earliest flight home and move on.

He never found anyone like Jane and he never found anymore reason to smile again. He had contemplated to commit suicide the first few months after finding out that Jane had died but he never managed to do that. It was not because that he was afraid of dying but it was more of the fact that he knew committing suicide would be a pleasure death for him. Because of his foolishness, he had cause Jane to die alone and thus he believe that he should have the same fate as her. He took care of his health and lived till he was eighty. He too died a lonely death like Jane, with no family members or friends by his side.