Sup3rnality

Sometimes I forget that in spite of all my insecurities, my imperfections, the flaws in my character, he drives me to where I need to be. He waits in the car for me to finish work late into the early morning. He tolerates my sometimes tasteless or dodgy cooking. He shields me from incoming traffic. He lets me choose where to eat, eventhough most times I just don't know. He makes up names for me no one else gets but we two. His tone of anger and worry when I don't pick up the phone after several rings. He lets me have my way, even when it's not the best way.

Sometimes it's not the grand expressions.

Sometimes it's the little things.

That's how I know you love me.

And I love you, too.

14/6 - Just realised how this might be interpreted. It's not what you may think it means, but I wrote in this way to not say what I mean. 

The way he looks when...
The calm
The crease of inquisition
Etching trenches on his forehead
The quite murmurs
The soft exhales
Silence but a breath catching
The way he looks when...
Makes me wonder if in
That place only he knows
If he knows
That he fills
the spaces between
Heartbeats
If he knows that
Sometimes I find solace
Staring into the Fire
To melt the coldness I fear
Are building fortresses
around my heart
The way he looks when...
He may not know, but I do
This moment that is mine
I use to memorise
the character of his face

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2013

Truth be told, 
Oh, yes it must be told
You have been like a lifeline
To me.
To you, 
I must be like kite
Way up too high, cloudbound
Without you, my kitestring.
And you hold me down
No, you anchor me
Like a lost boat 
Floating out to sea
But you found me
You caught me swaying
In the Wind.
Wind me down
I'm too spun around
Tight.
Not looking to fly high
Just enough to touch the sky
And then you ground me
Heaven meets the Earth
Everytime it's like the first
Yes, you're a lifeline to me.
Me -- hold on to me.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2013

* Written in less than two minutes with a tune going with it as each line flowed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A thought:

When it comes to me and you, there are no ifs and maybes.
There is only yes, and the sometimes no.
But mostly yes.
No, always yes.
And yes, there is no one but you.

Grief is a fickle friend. He visits you only when he needs to, then clings to you even though he has overstayed his welcome. I'd rather he never visit at all. And never lets his shadow darken my doorstep ever again.

Asdil broke the news to me this morning. His cousin I have gotten to know over these past two years passed away on Monday morning. She was only 19.

I could not stop this sadness in me, could not stop these tears. Memories of her, even if they are so few, plays over and over. Then the thought of her earrings that I still keep that will never be returned saddens me even more.

How cruel it is, that I've been thinking about her these past few months, wondering how she's been, and meaning to ask Asdil and never remembering to...

Life is such a fragile thing. It comes and goes so easily. So love the people you've been blessed to have in your life, and remember that the latest gadget you've been playing games on is - for all intents and purposes - a phone. Pick it up and call an old friend you've been thinking of. Don't put it off till it's too late.

Dear Anira, I may not be family - perhaps not now, insyaAllah one day - but, I miss you all the same. May Allah grant you peace in the afterlife. Al-Fatihah.

Yesterday I woke up cold, my blanket banished somewhere to the other corner of my bed in the throes of sleep. With my tippy-toes I tugged a corner of the blanket towards me and tucked myself in while the light of the morning peeked shyly between the curtains. My toes curled at the chilliness of the morning, fingers tucking themselves deeper into blankets to blot out the cold.

Then I turned to the empty side of my bed, and on the unslept on pillow next to my head, a picture of Asdil lay face up and smiling at me. It must have fluttered down from its place on the wall, come untacked from the flimsy glue that has held it there for months. The chill I felt faded with the sudden warmth of contentment.

No matter that it was some crazy random happenstance that the picture fell face up with him smiling at me on the empty side of the bed, I love the way he surprises me. And how he can make me smile even when I don't feel like it. And  how he makes me feel warm and loved, even in the coldest of weathers. And I love how he's always there for me, even when he is far away.

Other than the cash, the want to save it for that fast-looming future...
Other than the guilt of using up savings that should be more substantial...
Other than these trappings of life that are but distractions...
Other than these meaningless doubts...
This reluctance to go to China....

Yang sebenarnya, hatiku terasa sangat berat hendak meninggalkan dia.

I worry a lot. Many know this. I worry about things beyond my control, worry about things I cannot fathom, about things that have yet to come.

My body is often tense with anxiety, muscles at the ready, bones set to fight or take flight.

And among these path of thorns filled with worry, there lies the ghost called Doubt.

I admit, sometimes I unknowingly let myself wade knee-deep in Doubt. And it creeps up to my heart like venom.

My heart's been hurt too many times, been made to question the truth in truthfulness. Sometimes I feel like I cannot believe. Like faith is a fool's dream. Like dream is only possible in sleep.

These....things happening around me feel like a knife to the chest. Buried in my back only to exit through my bleeding heart. I feel my soul draining from my severed thread of life. And yet I cannot reach behind me to ease this pain. In the mirror I see the faces I trust holding the handle to the dagger.

I admit, sometimes I ask myself questions like, is he the one? Or, will he hurt me like everyone else? I hate myself for asking that, it's like a slap to my own face asking, letting doubt breed free. I know he loves me, and yet, this ghost haunts me with words of doubt that turns into fear.

Despite all that, I love him. I do love him. And I believe in him. His strength gives me strength. And I believe he will be the one to prove me wrong.

Hazlin

P/s: I cannot continue writing any further, this is upsetting.

Some days are better than others.

Some days are not.

While we all live different lives, see things in different perspectives, live lives with problems distinctly different from one another, the point is, we all have problems. The difference between yours and mine, mine and his, hers and yours does not make any of it less difficult for the person surviving it.

What matters is how you deal with it.

My life is difficult. But if I were to tell you why, some people (maybe you?) are likely to say: That's nothing, you haven't heard what happened to me, or, I've been through that before and I'm fine. Buck up. Someone is bound to counter it with their own problems in a game of one-upmanship. I've already got troubles, do I really need to be burdened by yours?

The secret is how to survive.

I work with the media. Some days are good. Some days are crappy. You smile and you cry. Life goes on. Just as you're about to recover from one shock, another one rolls in. News come and go. Some old, some new. Some old but in new wrappings. Some new, masquerading as old.

You don't agree with me? I never asked you to.

I'm just trying to survive, and if I make it through alive, maybe I'll spend the time to thank you for putting that hurdle in my way and thus making me the stronger person today.

There is an art in looking for that silver lining.

For me, it's the constant smile he puts on my lips when I'm with him. The loving hand he offers for mine that lends me strength when I'm at my weakest. Asdil has saved me in more ways than he will ever understand. He is the fire in my heart that stokes the flames, urging me to go on. We have our bad days, too, but love always finds a way out of darkness and into a new dawn.

A family that has more faith in me than I ever deserve. A strong mother whose heart is gentle but is as solid as rock. A kind-hearted sister whose unfailing trust, witty banter and disarming frankness never cease to amaze me. A brother whose big heart is a warmth even though it is often lost on many in his stumbled words. A father who despite it all, an amazing figure.

And friends, near and far, whose words of assurance, no matter how little, lifts me from the lowest of lows.

God challenges you so you can ascend to a higher plane of thought. If He made everything easy, we'd never put in the effort to be better versions of ourselves.

The trick is to walk in other shoes to see new perspectives.

And remember why it's worth everything to keep on going.

I keep on writing this again and again so I never forget.

Life is hard. Some days are good, some days are bad. But I keep on fighting because I know it'll all be worth it in the end.

Freedom

• - Selamat Hari Raya, everyone :)
• - And happy Merdeka, too.
• - To those who know what I mean, the phases are over. I'm on my own. Liberating, yet scary. But here's to hoping I'll hold my own.
• - Setar was not forced to shut down, thank God. Was already teetering on the edge, but we were pulled back. So yes, salary salary salary. I can pay for my car, rent, petrol... I can afford to give my parents cash, to my siblings and my grandma, too, and help my mum with some funding for her trip to Holland. Alhamdulillah, that was a very huge sigh of relief. 
• - Thinking back on a previous entry and other scathing and unapologetic commentaries, I am not sorry for what I said. I feel what I feel and I cannot be sorry for them, lest I be a hypocrite to myself. It may hurt the feelings of some in the process, but as I've said, I write these words here as it is solely a medium of expression. I'm not interested in feedback or reactions towards what I write. And though it is for all to see, I write them thinking as if these are for my eyes only. So whatever nerve I may have struck, if anybody read it for that matter, you are entitled to your opinion and me, mine. Just don't step on my toes while you're at it.
• - Again I say, no matter what you think of me, I love my job, and I love where I work. In the same vein as the above point, if you have a problem with me, well, then don't talk to me. We'll get along so much better that way, by not communicating. I'm tired of rude/insensitive/ignorant remarks on my profession or the company I work for. You're not the one working there, so just shut up la right? Let me earn my living the way I see fit, and if you don't like it, then don't follow suit; and even better? Don't talk to me and criticise me. 
• - Looking forward to an impromptu trip to Langkawi (my colleagues and I impulsively bought a voucher off Groupon for a night's stay in Langkawi, we bought two for a two-nights' stay) in early October :)
• - This Raya, it had been nice being able to give than to receive. After so long, it's nice to see the roles reversed for once.
• - As these years pass, it's getting harder to explain the absence additions to the family. It's easier in my head, but not as easy on the ears of those who expect reasons.
• - On the first day of Raya, I woke up to the voice of the other half of me, separated by distance, but at one in heart. My Asdil's words never fails to light up my day, and it surely did.
• - Merdeka was almost forgotten, as predicted. A little sad, even though I'm not particularly one to celebrate it. 
• - My feline son Freddie went missing for 10 days (4 days before we left for KB and 6 days while we were in KB). Went into a state of sadness that I couldn't help feeling irritable for the first few days in KB. For that I was sorry. But my heard leapt when he was there starving in front of the house when we came back. He was so light and oh so manja. He most probably got chased by the dominant male cats in the area and he got lost and couldn't find his way back. He's been so scared to leave the house and his fur is constantly half fluffed up, like he's ready to get into battle mode. Tonight he got chased again and he got so scared he crapped himself. Poor baby. 
• - I like taking photos of things, and of myself with friends and family, but not really the type to ask someone to snap a pic of myself. I feel so odd doing that. I will camwhore alone in my own privacy, but never ask someone to take a pic of me if I can avoid it.
• - Back to work in a few hours. Time to save the nation. 

Those little moments, his small gestures, the simplest of words; they play again and again in my head like a melody you cannot get out of your head. It makes me hum along and smile, like an inside joke only I understand. They are the simplest kind, something as forgettable as your next breath, a moment so fleeting you'd miss if you blink. But only to another person. To me, these are the moments that make time without him fly by. They keep me warm in my chilly office and caresses my heart to comfort the tense nerves. These are the moments I treasure, a catalogue of intimacies between the two of us that closes the chasm lying in the middle when we are apart. His gestures like a tattoo burned into the expanse of my skin leaves a lingering warmth that I wear on me like a second skin. And when we're together again, he renews these emotions, stirs them up again and set me on fire anew.

It's been a little quiet here, because, it's been a little quiet in my head. Just a little, of course, those whispering ghosts never do cease their haunting, but save for that, a somewhat calm has taken over me.

I find that calmness renders me uncreative, and words don't come as freely as when emotions come rushing to the fore. They stay dormant, waiting at the edge of my conciousness when I am but a still figure in the middle of an empty room.

I've moved house in early May. It's a much bigger, more comfortable...it makes me feel like I have a much wider space for my thoughts to float in. I feel small in my room, lying in the middle of it with a book tucked in my hands and pillows against my back and cushioning my head. The house is somewhat expensive, yes; a worry that is at the back of my mind. But for the moment, I do not want this worry to mar the peaceful surface of my calm.

In my quietness, I've been feeling content. Put aside all the worries and the troubling outside my door, and I am in a little piece of solace. A part where no one can hurt me. Like I say so many times and never tire of saying, I have a wonderful family who loves me in spite of it all, who is always there for me. A significant other who tirelessly stands by my side, loving and giving, and is my rock who keeps me grounded. And I have friends whom, despite the length and breadth of our separation, care for me.

Life is always good if you take the time to find the things that make you happy. Sometimes you have to close your eyes for a while, and let them sink down into the depths of the recesses of your mind and let them be forgotten. Instead, hang on to the floating lifelines at the surface. Quietly but surely, you'll reach the shore.