Sup3rnality

Facebook.

You're like a window to the lives of many friends and acquaintances. 550 in my case, and counting. Reading about the exciting to the mundane. Looking at pictures from the silly to the downright insane.

Sometimes they fill me with happiness. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with longing.

And sometimes I wonder, am I just the watcher, looking out the window and scrutinising a world that I feel like I'm part of but actually apart from, or are they the ones watching me, looking at me through the window of my cage, scrutinising me?

I wish I knew how to tell you where I start and where I begin. Tell you how I sleep and the thoughts that rush back to me when I awake.

You used to know.

I wish I could let you hear the monsters in my head, the crying in my bed. I wish you would not add to the voices, add to the tears.

I wish we could be the way we used to be.

Simpler gets harder before long, and from then on it's an uphill battle. Will you be next to me, hand in hand, or are you the thorn in my side, weakening me slowly with each step I take?

Words pierce me harder than any sword can.

Time is a fickle friend. Sometimes I want more of him, sometimes I wish I would see less. But in the end, there is no running. The ticking hands count down the moments of your life passing you by.

I wish you would stop shoving it in my face.

I love you, but like Time, sometimes I wish I could choose to run away.

People may say I'm indifferent. Oblivious. Ungrateful. Irresponsible.

Why? Because I refuse to vote. Someone registered me without my permission and I hate it that they did that. It's not what I want for myself and I shouldn't be made to do it.

Maybe I am all of the above and more. But I've said it before, that is your opinion.

Like how you should not force your beliefs or religion on another, you should not force your opinion on others as well.

It's invasive. And it's offensive to force people into doing what you want think they should do.

I don't make you listen to the music I like without you wanting to. I don't force you to read the books I like, so why should you? My life is mine, yours is yours.

I'm sorry we are so different but isn't that what individuality means?

I'm tired of people forcing me to do this and that even when I tell them I don't want to. Why can't they just take that statement and leave me alone. They even force me to listen to their sermons. That alone is offensive enough.

As if I cannot make my own decision. Well, this is my decision. I do not want to vote.

I understand what you mean. I see your point. But I do not care for it. I used to be interested, but I am not anymore.

Because you know what? The turmoils in my life is inside me. The monsters are in my head. In my life. Not sitting in cushy govt offices with fat wallets. I need to fight the war within  my own self before I fight a war in anything else.

I have come to point where it is hard to care about anything else because it's tough enough to balance all there is in my own life.

So no, you cannot make a soldier out of me. Not when my own battles cannot be won.

I do have opinions, you know. What I don't like about things, what I would love to see changed. People up there who I like or don't like. But not enough to care to do anything about it.

But like any other opinion, it may change. Maybe next month, next year, or maybe never. I'm not saying I will always feel like this, I may change my mind.

But that would be then. When I'm ready.

For now, keep your opinions to yourselves and don't think yourself so terribly smart next time you try to sit me down and lecture me on things I have told you not to bother me about.

I'm saying this nicely now. I won't be the next time.

Only You know how it is, the way it is, how it will be.
Only You can give me the patience to see it through.
Only You can hear the voice in my heart of hearts.
Only You know the pain of the sting, the emptiness within.
Only You know my calmness is slowly wearing thin.

But I trust that You know what You know, and for now I won't know till You let me know.
And You always know what's best. And I know better than question the course of things.

Don't rock the boat
The seas are already choppy
Land still too far from sight
And I feel like sinking
I've already been drowning
But I'd rather do so in your eyes
Take me ashore,
Place the sand beneath my feet
You know you're the only one
who can save me from myself.

Random memory: I played Listening Ear to many relationship problems some years ago. One particular friend used to confide in me often when he* needed to rant and gush about all that bits and bobs that come with package called Love.

 And all of this was when I was single.

Is it because the free time I had when I was without commitment gave me the opportunity to be there and together with a friend, analyse words and actions of love and affection? Or did the 'borrowing' of emotions make the absence of somebody to in my life less apparent? Maybe both?

Or perhaps my six years of contemplating (I wanted to say dwelling but that was too depressing) and going over as to why my previous relationship failed gave me much insight into the mechanics of a relationship.

But you know, it's like something Fidzy and I once talked about, something along the lines of how textbook definitions and theory are just words that  make intangible things tangible. It helps people grasp at things that otherwise cannot be understood right off the bat. And for all the things I say and advise and no matter how matter how much thought I put into the crazy little thing called Love, none of them actually apply when I am in the driver's seat.


Now that I am happily attached, somehow all those words don't particularly apply. After all, we all know no one advise works in all situations. Basics may apply, but at the end of the day, we all need to apply different solutions.

And now that I am not single, I spend less time talking to friends about love lives. Why is that I wonder? For one, I do not like sharing my own love life with others. I feel it is personal and special and should be shared only between the two people ie Asdil and myself. And I also find my perception has been changed much as I get older, not to to forget the fact that time I have to spare are not as much as I used to have.

It's funny how times flies. How views change. How lives go separate ways. No matter how set it seem to be before.

*I miss him by the way, this friend. I'm sorry we grew apart and no longer close

I can't say I especially like this song. But the words... It feels like I've known them long before I read it. 

Sleep come find me. Please.

On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Flickering lights giving
shadows but a moment of life.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Teasing, a fleeting glimpse
then the darkness once again.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Strike a match in my heart
Let the fire burn and give it light.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2012

I just realised that I actually posted the last entry. It was written in the dead of night when I suddenly awoke and went into a ranting rage over people who complain about not finding love and look for love in all the wrong ways and with unrealistic expectations.

I don't know why I woke up feeling like that and decided to write all that in my groggy state, but well, I've done weirder things.

 If it reads weird (not that my other stuff doesnt), know that I wrote half-asleep and probably struggling to be coherent while my body fights to stay awake.

I know a grand number of people who, misguided by fantasies, have grand imaginings of what sharing a life with another means. Maybe for most, you'd smile indulgently and chalk it down to their age...if they are still young, that is. But what if the person is, for the most part, an adult? Not so cute is their naivete now, huh?

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to just lay down arms and let the battle come to me and consume me whole so I should never have to feel again.

I am often known among friends as the slightly off-beat one. Well, that's putting it nicely. Often they'd be straight-forward and tell me I'm weird. I never took offense, though.

Although, back then when I was among the first to own a Nokia N70 music edition, and people would excitedly ask to have a look so they can have a listen at the sound quality and the songs I have on the 2GB memory phone, the look on their faces would sometime make me quirk an eyebrow in fascination and a smidge of annoyance. They'd in one moment excitedly hold the phone in their hands, then, right in the next second, their face will change to that of realisation and say: "Oh wait, Hazlin kan suka lagu pelik-pelik" -_-^

 In any case, in this one week, I've been flipping through two particular books that I got from my colleague. Now, before I tell you the titles, let me say compare the two:

- Book A is likely to attract more readers because:
 1 - The writer is a pretty celebrity regaling tales from her promiscuous life as a teen, bedding anything with a good body (my spoonerism made me type bood gody at first *facepalm*) and a d*ck.
 2 - The language is simple, easy to digest and deadpan funny.
 3 - No heavy topics involved other than sex and booze and parties and her continuous unemployment.
 4 - It's a girl talking about sex life, usually a taboo, or mostly looked down on, so...most people wouldn't mind peeking into the mind of such a lady.

- Book B would most likely be the lesser choice because:
 1 - The writer is also a celebrity but of the err...less savoury kind and is also regaling his life of promiscuity.
 2 - While simple in writing style, the weight of his words lend more character and reality that he is indeed a normal person.
 3 - The topics range from heavy to light-hearted, and the heavy is enough bring a bit of tears to your eyes.
 4 - Yes, it's about sex sex sex, but it's about not from the eyes of the most good-looking of people in showbusiness.

But you know what, despite everything Book A is, I loathed it so much I stopped reading it by the third chapter and never even thought to continue --- EVER. Book B, which I read on a whim and out of curiousity of such a lifestyle, made a very insightful read that actually made me feel. I'm still reading it now, and I have to say, I can't put it down. Well, actually I do, but just so people can't see what I'm reading.

Now, this has nothing to do with my so-called off-beat tastes, but I know that people who know me are likely to attribute my liking Book B to this particular quirk of mine. But I do think anyone who appreciates quality writing would choose Book B over Book A, and I would think that the more casual reader who would never delve into real literature would sniff at the idea of reading Book B. That's what I think anyway.

Book B is surprisingly warm at times, especially when you think the cold reality is really that cold in the industry. But really, it paints a picture of real people living against a backdrop of fantasies who, despite the high life, would really just like to come back down to earth.

Anyway, dah dah I don't want to say anything more about these two books. But one day when the zombie apocalypse comes, and you've somehow managed to hole up somewhere and you get bored and happen to stumble upon these two books and only have space for only one book in your backpack, go with Book B, I'd say. In the absence of human connection and humanity, Book B will help you connect again and help you believe in the goodness of human beings. Yes, Book B talks about fake human connections that are exploited for money, but hey, it's more genuine that Book A.

So anyway, this is Book A:
 

I once made a promise to myself. It was so long ago, long enough for me to struggle to remember when, but not too distant an idea for it not to have popped up in my mind of late.

I made it after years of growing up never seeing a sorta peace mending the frayed ties. I made it after never having the assurance of... What's the word? A four-letter word, I'm sure. I made it because I never wanted to be her.

I admit, sometimes I wonder if we're doomed to commit the same mistakes. Sometimes I wonder if the world is just too far gone to have faith in it any longer.

I'd like to tell myself I'd prove myself wrong, that faith will prevail in the end, and in my heart of hearts I know it will... But sometimes, it's hard to lend weight to faith when you're used to being disappointed.

But I woild like to hold true to my promise, and if it isn't this, then it will be nothing at all.

Freddie Mercury would have been 66 today if he were still alive.

He may be gone, but his music lives on.

In memory of Freddie, and his AIDS charity, this is my contribution to the Freddie for a day programme:

Senang poke fun at people when you are not on the receiving end. The person suffering your taunts - Tuhan saje tau how hard it is to hide behind masks of indifference, of nonchalance - as if you planned to be like that.

I am dreading these next few weeks. Only He knows how I feel in my heart of hearts. I pray for strength and patience from these people.

Truth be told, it's easier to fill empty spaces with material trappings to immitate a semblance of contentment.

Softly tread
Let no one hear you
Pass by silently
Trying to fade softly
Into the unforgiving
Background where
All dreams stand still
Waiting to move
Ahead of feet
Dragging on these
Rocky surfaces
Heartstrings catching
On shards of broken
Promises and words
Forgotten with whispers
In the night-time
Silently searching
Blindly for the fire
To light up this darkening day.


(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2012

To you;
I whisper in the dark of night
Lying on my side,
This stranger I know so well
A Hope in the absence of light,
I ask you;
When will you be me, 
And I you?
I answer myself;
Not tomorrow I know, 
But not soon enough to soothe
This growing ache that echoes
in the silence of this hollow cave,
I think I hear you say;
Come a day, soon, Time will tell
When heartbeats share in the 
rhythm of the dark of night
And when you lie on your side
There is Hope and there is light.
When this stranger fills the empty spaces
and bridges the distance in between . * This is not a reflection of my relationship :)

As a child, I never once dreamt of being someone else. Living a life of adventure like my favourite cartoon characters (ie, Teddy Ruxpin and  TMNT), yes, but I never wanted to be somebody else.

Perhaps you could say I was happy as I was. Content. And my family, for all that it is, have always taught me to love myself and to never want for something that wasn't mine. I am told that He gives us what we need, not what we want. And He gives us only what He knows we can handle with our own two hands, and no more.

I believe that. I still do. And yet, at this age, now, past childhood naivete and teenage angst, only now I feel the want to be not me at times. Sometimes I ungratefully wonder how it would be if He gave me a different life, if not an easier one.

I mentally slap myself when I think like that. Because...in spite of all the stumbling blocks placed before me, He has also put in my path someone who will walk with me even if I stumble, He has given me a family who always cheers me on from the sidelines and He has given me much to be grateful for in terms of income, security and many other earthly possessions.

But in the split second of stumbling over a rock in my path, the flashes of thoughts that dash across my mind, tossed in with a bundled of confused emotions before the painful impact with the hard ground, I cannot help but think: What if my path was different?

Answers come to me readily: Then you wouldn't be you, my Common Sense chides me. I would not have the people I love in my life now by my side, it adds. And who says another path would be any better than mine, if not worse?

Many a time it has crossed my mind that I do not have peace because I am not wholly grateful for all He has given me. Well, that isn't far from the truth. But the thought that follows is, if that is the case, then why do others I love suffer as well? Why can't I alone bear the burden? Because I cannot see the people I love in pain while I can only watch from the outside.

But who am I to question God's plan? I can only hope He lets people I love find peace within themselves if not in the lives they have been given or chosen. I hope that He too grants me peace, if I may so undeservingly ask.

I know I am far from perfect, or good enough, even, but I hope I am worthy enough for His attention.

I hope that I can one day look in the mirror and not see someone too tired to be recognised as myself, with grey hairs aplenty at barely 30, dark circles under my eyes with hints of worry lines etched into my skin.

I may have never wished to be someone else.

But now I wish that this someone else would be me again.

At the fact that I've never had, and never will have, a shapely waist.

I admit, my headlines are not as interesting as this one.

Thought: To become a sub-editor, is a formal education on the English language necessary?

That was a topic of discussion, or rather, argument between Ash and me a few minutes ago before he dropped me off at work. Yes, we are both hard-headed and will keep on arguing to prove a point :-P Don't worry, it's my favourite part of being in the car with him, we always have some kinda something to talk or argue about.

Now I'm not trying to prove a point, but just using myself as a case study to explain why I think the education itself is not necessary. Instead, I think it all boils down to talent.

Big headed kan? But hear me out.

I've spoken English all my life. It's my first language, as in the first language I started speaking and the language I prefer and choose to converse in. I only started speaking Malay later around the age of seven or so. Until now, I have not been able to master it.

I read a lot. Not so much now as before I started working, but I definitely read more than the average Malaysian. And yes, I read almost only books written in English. I started reading at a young age, and spent a large amount of my time burying my head in a book while growing up.

On top of that, I love literature and pop culture. References and allusions don't go by me unnoticed.

I grew up being entertained by tv shows and movies. I was the only child and my father did not encourage me to go out, so besides books, tv was a constant companion.

Mix those key ingredients together and you have my brain, a non-stop pot of words boiling and mixing and absorbing each other. Granted, I'm not very creative, but my lifetime love affair with words and how they work has brought me right here at this desk at Setar.

Words have a certain flavour, you can tell when they don't mix or have been placed in the wrong order or combination. Sometimes I make mistakes, yes, no one is free from mistakes, okay? But the point is, I know if I'm wrong and know how to correct it. And in the face of my job, I know when words don't flow right or have a better way to be worded. I can switch them around and put them together again. And to top it off, I'll try to give it an extra punch with a catchy headline. It's not always possible due to space, but when the occasion calls for it, I can provide a noticeable punch.


Now, my argument with my significant other was somewhere along the lines of whether or not education enables a person to have my job or do my job.


For me, the answer is 'no'.

My job: Read. Edit. Layout. Write headline.

Reason? For one, I think I got this on talent. I may not be the best they've seen, but I'm one of the best they've got.

(Yeah yeah, perasannye)

Well, I'm not great at this, maybe not yet, but I can do this. I think this kind of work takes years of experience to get those creative juices on tap.

Two - At the end of the day, my degree is really just a piece of paper. Yes, I have a degree in English Language and Literature. I took it because that is what I have dreamt of studying since I was 12. I wanted to learn more, be among people who appreciated the English language and its literature (well, not quite), I wanted to soak in the ambience and discuss theories and lines out of poetry and research the history from when the words were written. Tough luck, my expectations were not entirely met, but in any case, I enjoyed IIUM. But...

In terms of learning about language and literature that I would later use in my career, that didn't happen -- much.

No, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying IIUM did not play a role in making me the sub-editor I am today. My literature classes and  sociolinguistics etc helped a lot in understanding the role of language in attracting readers. I learned quite a bit from Discourse Analysis about making words sound good but I hardly absorbed much from all that pure linguistics and have never applied anything I learned in my work (applied linguistics, however, I enjoyed).

Truthfully, at the end of the day, I just wanted that piece of paper saying I graduated so that I could get out and get a decent job to earn a living. I learned a lot in IIUM, but not really of the academic variety. More in the experience sense, I would think.

But...in spite of that, I do believe that I am here for what I already was before I started my degree. It was part of my personality, not education.

I mean, if that were the case, all my colleagues would be from an English degree background. Really, it's not just English majors who are in this line of duty. We have lawyers, engineers, scientists....all who, despite what they studied, found their calling in words.

And, if I were to ask any of my fellow undergrads from my course to join me in my sub-editor-ness, I can hardly even provide you a handful of names who would be interested.

So there you have it. That is why I feel I was not chosen for my qualifications, nor did I choose this job because of it. I was all in my innate nature.

My writing poetry by the age of 7, keeping a journal since I was 8, collecting newspaper articles to read over and over at about the same age, and correcting grammar, even my own teachers', as soon as I entered school..It was all part of my tightly-wound nature of wanting things to be in order.

Yes, I admit it, I'm anal like that. But that's just what I am.

Take me to another time when ignorance was blies. That wasn't a typo.

Take me back to when fake smiles were better than tears, better than living in fear.

Take me to a time when becoming older meant another candle on a cake, not the whitening of hair, the lines on my face.

But with that wish is the price of not being with the one person who makes it all bearable despite it all. It would mean not having his arms to hide in when I feel the world threatening to break me.

How cruel, to gain one comfort then lose another.

I used to hate you so much. I wished someone else was you. I was you were someone else. I used to fear you you. Still do. The thought of being alone with you filled me with dread.

I could never really say what I feel. I was not allowed to sing. I was not allowed to joke. I was not allowed much trust.

It would be easier if I could hate you. But I couldn't. Because at the end of the day I'd still see you for the good that you mean. For what you are to me.

But sometimes I do. Like today. Like now. But I would love you again and ask you for forgiveness in my heart.

Today as I heard your voice, hate mingled with love and fear of you.

And let's just leave it at that.

When they said the words, it was his voice and my name I heard.

Happy 27th birthday, my one and only... Words cannot express how much I love you. I'm thankful that you exist and that you are mine. There's no place I'd rather be but next to you.

I found an old notebook with carefully written transcripts of messages and notes he wrote me many years ago, before there was a you and me. They were written lovingly, cursive and fluid, like calm waters flowing gently out in blue ink onto paper. Beneath his words were tiny scribblings noting the date and time his carefully-thought out expressions of affection reached into my heart to take it captive - a reminder of when each momentary breath was lost. There was a time when those words filled me with hope that I was indeed a desirable enough girl - in all my awkwardness and questioning uncertainty. Even long after the expiry of that relationship, I held on to his words in hopes of finding them whispered to me again - by him, by anyone.
I read them all. I let myself smile at the memories.
Then I tore them up.
I've long ago forgotten the words he once said to me...drowned by your sweet whispers, teasing jibes, gentle rasps, your endless supply of words that can fill me a for a lifetime. Adamant. Reassuring. Comforting.
I wish I could write down all the words you say that sets my heart to a staccato beat. But baby, you say them so often I remember them by heart. And I believe I'll hear you whisper them to me for a lifetime to come.

Where are you when I need you?

My shaking hands ache to close around the steadyness of your wheel, to drive you around the twists and turns of my mind and visit the lonely roads of my heart.

I want to escape with you. Need to. My wanderlust a throbbing dull ache hammering against my chest seeking completion. My skin stretching to contain the person in me who longs to be free.

Take me where my feet will take you. A tired warrior and her silver steed. Let the endless tarmac take us further, even if it is my heart and mind I need running away from.

Let's just go til we run out of road.

Jealousy is a four-letter word.

How so? Common initial reactions to an incident/occurrence/occasion that invokes bouts of jealousy include damn, gosh, crap, sh*t, f*ck.

It is a many-lettered word too, and a hearty congratulations through grit teeth often accompany the litanies of swear words in one's head.

It doesn't make it insincere. Less sincere, maybe, but sincerity is there with the green-eyed monster poisoning the words with with its acid tongue.

F*ck. Sh*t. Damn......

Jealousy is a four-letter word.

And above all, it spells out E.N.V.Y.

Everyone, but NeVer You.

F*ck. Sh*t. Damn.

Have you heard of 8tracks?

It's hand-crafted radio - meaning a mix of songs chosen by a user.
It can be a compilation following a certain theme, genre or just a plain ol' mix of your favourite songs.

For my 4th anniversary with Asdil, this mix suited me really well: 

This one's for you, dear

You know that kind of book? I think you do. The kind we hear mixed reviews about. Some say it's good. Some say don't bother.

Your interest is piqued, and you know you need to read it for yourself to decide whether it really is worth the hype. The little voice in your head tells you that you shouldn't be part of a passing fad, and yet, another voice asks you "What if it isn't?".

So you search for it in bookstores, URL and IRL. Bookstores and Amazon. Under every possible category, you look for this coveted title. Everytime you think you've found it, it turns out it's a similar book but not what you were looking for. Or, it is a mere rip-off masquerading as the real deal.

Disappointment fills you. You wonder how others have found this book but somehow not you. Perhaps you should have latched onto the bandwagon when you first heard the whispers about it among friends? Perhaps now that it is so popular, it makes it all the more unattainable.

At this point, you either settle for a wannabe version of this book, just to get an idea of what the real one might be like, or, you forget it altogether, popping by bookshops every now and again hoping to catch a glimpse of what you would really prefer. Or, for some, you give up altogether.

But then you find it. I don't know, perhaps at the bookstore where it was waiting all along. But there are those who find it hidden in the nook of a hole-in-the-wall shop, or a second-hand book at the back of a car, or someone's forgotten copy left on the train. It could be anywhere. But when you find it, it's likely that you feel like meeting an old friend, like someone you've been waiting to meet, and yet never had the chance to until now.

The thing is with this book, the way some books are, you can't find the synopsis in the back. Nor within the sleeves. Not even in the preface. You don't know what it is about. All you know is that many people have good things to say about it. But every person is different. How do you know whether you will like it or hate it?

So, do you read it?

Perhaps you will dare to venture onto the first page, and maybe you won't.

Whether or not you regret it, that is up to interpretation.

Love...is like that book.

People talk about it all the time. From the moment you are old enough to have the stirrings of emotions for the opposite sex, you've heard the stories, how wonderful it is. But then some tell you it's all not worth your time, sometimes they say it's just a ploy to get into your pants.

And despite all the horror stories, the cliches, the glorified tales...you want it for yourself. An understandable decision with an almost impossible solution.

Now you have to look for it.

Sometimes you find it, and sometimes it finds you. But what you find can sometimes be what you need and want, or it could also sometimes spell heartbreak.

But when you do hold the promise of Love in your hands, the synopsis is not written on the back. You don't know what you're getting. Will you be happy at the very end, or will you be left crying? Sometimes you do cry along the way, but it doesn't mean it will end badly. Sometimes it'll be happy all the way through, and sometimes you won't. It's how you read it, how you live it.

Love and me, we've had our ups and downs.

Once someone found their book in me, or he only thought he did. Because I could not give love in return, not in the way he wanted at least. We have always been good friends, but I to me he was always just that, and could not see him as anything more. I closed his book for him.

And when I thought I found my book, and he his, in each other, we found that while we shared common themes, we never really complemented one another. And in the end, we ended up drifting apart until he found another book to read and left me to find mine.

He was the way some books are. Not a bad book, but not entirely easy to read either. And at the end, he was the moral of the story, a lesson to be learnt. And while it took me about many years to realise that, I never did hold it against him. 

And then I found a book. My Book. He was sitting in the backseat with me. He was sitting across the small metal table from me at the Karak highway McDonald's early one morning. He had his arms tentatively testing the waters, slowly wrapping around me underneath my brown jacket that covered us one cold morning while out with friends. And he gave me my first kiss.

Try as I could, I could not find the synopsis to our story. I was scared I would not find what I wanted. I was scared of just reading for the sake of having the book. I was afraid of being hurt yet again. I was afraid I would find happiness, then have it change to sadness instead. I was afraid of a good many things.

But I would never know what was in store unless I smoothened out the pages and read the story with my voice, tasted the words on my tongue. And so I read on. We read on.

This is our story. And I never want it to end.

Certain people tell me to get married fast because I'm getting older and I would not look pretty anymore in my wedding dress.

I've cried many times over such words. I've thrown things around out of frustration.

Me? The day I am married to Asdil will be the happiest day of my life. No matter when, no matter how long it takes, finally being with my soulmate is worth the wait.

And the way he makes me laugh, giggle, blush...will always make me young at heart, even if not by way of looks.

Happy 4th anniversary, my darling Asdil.

It seems like it was only yesterday and yet like I've known you forever.

It's been four years of much laughter, smiles, calming conversations, hand-holding and many expressions of love. And I look forward to fourteen, forty, forever with you. For eternity.

Thank you for being mine.

I love you.

Happy 4th anniversary, Sayang <3

Accident on Saturday.
Today, I'm waiting by the side of the road for the tow truck because my car just started smoking as I was about to head to work.
Asdil is on his way. And I forgot all the insurance stuff.
It's 2 days to our 4th anniversary.
Times likes these I wonder how he stays patient with me. How he hides his exasperation when I do something so foolish. Four years on and he's so level-headed in these situations when I'm losing my head. And on top of that, he then finds a way to put a smile on my face or make me laugh.
I don't know how he does it. But what I do know is that I'm beyond lucky to have found a man like him. Words can only say so much but I hope he knows how much I appreciate him for all he does. And I hope he knows I love him beyond the capability of human words.
But still, I'll try:
I love you Asdil.

Just caught 'The Hunger Games'.

Reaction: It did justice to the book...if not a little on-the-surface. But what can you expect from a movie? It's not like they can play Katniss' inner monologue over each scene.

The Reaping made me teary-eyed. And Rue's death.

The District 12 mass salutation was not moving as I'd hoped.

I wish they played the romance up ever so slightly because like I said, it was a little too on-the-surface. And I wish Cinna had more screen time.

Nevertheless, I might go watch it again.

Dear Hazlin,

Does pain find you, or you just like to find it?
Give up the ghost.
Your hair is already turning white prematurely as it is.

The date looms closer. 19 more days more or less.

It's amazing to think about. 4 years. And with every day that passes, just when I think it's impossible to love any deeper, I fall in love in love with this man just a little bit more.

Never a day goes by that I don't thank God for making me patient, for making me wait and go through so many heartaches because He wanted me to finally meet someone worth waiting for.

Four years. It feels like I've known him forever.

And I look forward to forever with him. I love you, Asdil.

At times I don't feel it and sometimes it overwhelms me, this realisation of sorts.
Work has consumed so much of my time. The hours spent in the office almost equals the time I have to myself. And minuses the precious moments I have for my family and Asdil to its bare minimum.
It's hard thinking I am not giving them all the love they deserve, and even harder thinking about how I'll take care of them if I don't earn every single ringgit I can.
It's a tough battle in which no one can fully be victorious.
When Asdil holds me and everything melts away, I feel the weariness leaving my veins. I'm grateful for his patience and unconditional love. All I hope is one day God will let me find comfort in being forever Asdil's, so I may remember being me, even when I've forgotten.

Happiness is a warm gun. Whether pointed at my head or yours, they both seem legit.

People keep asking me that same damn question. A question I don't have an answer to. And it makes me what? Want to scream, cry, throw things around, laugh hysterically, shout obscenities? Sometimes all of that at once and more. It pains me that as hard as I try, an allusion to an almost-certain future never gratifies the question marks. It pains me because the only one who hurts is me. The hollowness echoes through the void that should be filled. Need to be filled. These blanks with words unwritten. A digit without a band. Empty words hang in the balance meant to soothe the flames. But flimsy letters only set the fire roaring. This want to close the spaces only wedges a wall between us. Please stop laying bricks. Please stop.

Love stories like these touch my heart so deeply. But out of all these stories, ours is the best.

My heart leaps at the sight of him, the 16-year-old in me blushes at his smile, the depth of his eyes that reads me like I was written only for him, makes my heart race. My hands are drawn to find his, to find completion in his gentle grasp. And with every syllable that tumbles from his lips in greeting, he closes the space between us. No space and time can divide us, the man is mine, and I won't leave his side.

We played footsie over guitar and coffee
But just a cuppa tea for me
Smiled across the metal table
We didn't think, ignored the warning label
Backseat laughter in the early morning
Made way for tentative lips in meeting
Window talked over confused minds
Bought tickets, wondering what we'll find
We took a ride, untangling riddles on the train
And given the chance, I'd do it all again
--- exactly the same.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2012

*Written after the word "footsie" made itself present in a comment about runaway shoes (I like to walk barefoot in the office). The word brings sweet memories to my mind, like it only happened yesterday.

My thoughts don't run as wild or as well as they used to. No time? Heck, I think these are just excuses. But a sliver of truth rings true; the lack of opportunities to sit down and put pen to paper - so to speak - has left my mind idle, with no fan for the flames to burn.

I refuse to say that I am consumed by work. My work is not me, I am my work - or so I believe. Perhaps I really have become my work, letting it define me. But no, I am still me, just that in my pursuit for a better life, I have not yet been able to find that gap in time to smell the roses.

But these thoughts, these words are a dying art. Perhaps not dying. They are still there. But swimming in this sea of news words - politics, murder, rape, corruption, death - I have lost the words of abstraction that lets loose the intangible thoughts.

If there's a time that you should return, it is now, Words of Mine. I miss you. I miss putting you down on these slabs of blank stone.

I'm trying so hard to catch up with life and be everywhere I need to be. But the harder I try, the further everything gets.