Sup3rnality

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.

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.

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.

#26

These spaces feel
like open oceans
Waiting
Just waiting for
the ship to sail in
the waves to break
my heart to un-ache
to reignite this flame.
The wind whispers
your name, a teasing
tickle at the edge
of my seeping
drowning
conciousness.
Anchor me with
the weight of you
And never leave
me drifting again.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2011

oh hush
serpent tongue
preaching choir
horse's mouth
swim not
shallow pond
holed sieve
holds no water
mind you
flipped coin
different sides
reverse lies.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2010

Well, I think this speaks for itself. 

Love,
Linzy

Disclaimer: Picture entitled "Serpent's Tongue" is by elainedori from DevintArt.

I stumbled across some old, unpublished blog entries of mine in my old laptop. The entries that never saw the light of day due to it being redundant or irrelevant by the time I got around to finishing it, or it just never was finished. For the most part, it's the second situation I often find myself in.

But redundant or not, forever unfinished or will be completed some day, one phrase caught my attention in an unpublished entry sometime in early April 2008. It went somewhere along these lines: "...I've never met Linzy in Love, I'm sure she's someone I would love to meet".

Reading that put a smile on my face, because, almost two years on, and Linzy in Love is still standing here loving more and more, and I'm still getting to know her mysterious ways.

I'll tell you a little story:

Linzy in Love was at the beginning an elusive shadow. She came in the night and whispered words like secrets and gave visions of contentment. She enticed me with dreams of warmth and smiles and a fullness beyond anything I understood. And amongst the haze of happiness, a familiar face, a comforting smile held out his arms.

I knew him. And I felt the familiar tug at the heartstrings wanting to play. But I held back to ask myself if I could play this tune? Was it mine to take to the stage? And so I toyed with doubt. Let questions play its broken record. And I continued singing out of tune.

But Fate has her way with things. She orchestrates time and places to come together and make something happen. And in my story, it has something to do with a botched trip to the sungai, Yumi's backseat, and a lone pin embedded somewhere in Yumi's car. A weird combination to say the least, but it's one helluva story to tell the kids one day :)

And it happened. The pieces of bolts and wheels put in place ran like clockwork and played on. Oh how it played on. And who else be playing at the strings but Linzy in Love.

I've met Linzy in Love, and she redefined my life.

And my Asdil, the man whom Linzy in Love gave that love to, is the reason to why Linzy is in Love. No one makes me smile all the more than having him in my life. My days are wonderful, and stormy weather never stays all that long. His arms are promises of safety and comfort. Thoughts of him are accompanied by a tingling ache somewhere in the region of my heart. A lump gets caught in my throat as my emotions overwhelm me. And in my mind's eye, all my thoughts of the future has him as the feature attraction. And who am I to deny that? :p

This is Linzy in Love signing off. Off for more lovin'...

Love,
Linzy in Love

Maybe lakes will run
Break ranks and banks
Seep through the cracks
Bleeds dry and cries.
Maybe nightingales'll sing
Breaking dawns and dusks
Sirens beg and plead
Traction bends and gives.

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2010.

* A shorter, edited version of the original I wrote which had a slightly more comedic ring, although the purpose of this is far from it. This is the tip of the iceberg of emotions that is waiting for that ship to come. Not altogether complete, but will have to do for now.

Disclaimer: "The Lily Pond" by Lynn Andrews was taken from Fine Art America.

This feeling so wrong
I think I knew it all along
I just wanted to belong
But then I heard it: "So long".
And now, world at my feet
Nevermind a light sense of defeat
I can't help but wonder abit
A little wistful yes, but what got me beat?
My heart's full, and I'm content
There is no need to smile and pretend
I'm just wondering, if this light bends
Would we have chosen these same paths again?

(c) Hazlin Aminudin, 2010

Love,
Lin

If you break me down, strip all the layers that build me up and buffer harm from touching vulnerable skin, there will be nothing left but bone. Just the make-up of my being, but none of the substance.

I am the parts of my life that brought me to this bend in the road. Every single fiber that knits itself together with this bigger picture is the essence of what I really am. There is no use trying to digest me whole if you could not appreciate the details. The patch of red on my cheeks, the brown shade of my hair, the scars on my face, the burn on my right arm, the lines on my palms, the spots on my shoulders... These are what I am made of, and if you plan to perfect it, you'll find that I won't be standing there as the mist clears.

My ego is what makes me me. I am built on it. Layered and coated by the hurt that pained me as I passed along in this existence. It is the scar tissue that healed itself time and time again to create an armor of webbed defenses. Take that away, and I stand as only a shadow of who I am.

Me. My confidence. My knowledge. My wit. My humour. My sympathy. My empathy. My love. My friendship. My intelligence. My thoughts. My everything... is built on the basis of my ego. I grew up being constantly criticized by my peers and by people whom I thought would know me better than that. Hurt as I was, I always knew I was better than that. And as much as I bled inside, I let it slide and heal over. I did not, no, could not let them beat me down and leave me in the dirt.

So I took the hurt and molded it into sympathy for the lessers. I took the pain and made it into insight and knowledge for things people would never understand. I took the accusations and turned them into love and trust. I took the jeers and developed my internal beauty. I took all the bad, and made it to good. It fed my ego. For without my belief in my superiority, I would have never have gotten far.

As years pass me by, I learned not to take crap from people. I developed an intense hatred and apprehension towards anyone who wanted to break me down, who wanted to humiliate me into submission, who wanted to shame me into compliance. No one could tell me I'm not good enough. No one. Cos I am not, and you cannot tell me otherwise. You can try, but I would not listen.

I am Superego. And you are?

Do not ask me if breaking my ego is what it takes to make me see reason, what it would take to see my errors, feel ashamed and worthless and drive me to do better to impress. This is not boot camp. This is no Full Metal Jacket. Breaking down and humiliating one's pride does not make for reverse psychology that will put me back on track. That is not how it works. Not with me anyhow.

You take down my ego, and you'll see every talent you ever thought I had stripped away. I'll be left with nothing. Whatever you thought I had would be gone. Whatever you thought I could do would have been raped away together with my armour. I would be nothing. Pointless. Meaningless. You would be throwing away all that I work for by taking my ego away from me.

So let me be. If this wasn't meant to be, let it be on my terms. Let me triumph in failure. Let me be. Let me see how this goes. Let me see how far I go. And if I'm lucky, I might join you all on the other side. If not, then I'll leave before the tide comes in.

Love,
Hazlin

Breaking the sound barrier, we are condensed to be one, moving united at a speed to the chagrin of the dropping pressure. We are supersonic. We boom.

But we all know I'm no pilot. No captain. No first mate. I was tethered to the seats as this plane took off for a ride. I was strapped in and was forced to watch the flight attendants put on their wordless pantomime of how to not die. Thinking back, I wish I could have passed out at least and skip straight to the landing. I didn't book this flight. I just happened to be in transit.

My ears popped as we came in for touchdown. Words so clear and no longer a muffled irateness that left me yelling to be heard. Trying to speak over the din of the pilot chattering on as the plane sways dangerously through the turbulence. But now we're here. We are at our destination. The beginning of an adventure. Where do we begin? Damn well anywhere we want.

Because me, I'd rather fly low. Have my feet on the ground. I like knowing that I have not far to fall. So that I can walk when I need to. Crawl if I have to. Run when I feel like it. And jump when in joy. For I am no pilot. I have yet to earn these wings. Still learning the ropes. Still practicing the controls. I wanna soar; but let's take it slow, and make it a flight to remember.

Love,
No Pilot.

I have never been one to
Love just anyone as I believe that
Only time will fulfill this
Violent need to be loved
Entirely by the 'one', as I have
Yearned for years to
Obstruct all insecurity
Underneath the scrutiny of
Many an unforgiving eye who are
Yellow in and by their ownself
And could barely comprehend
Some, if not all the various
Diversity that life offers
If one ever takes the time to
Look because it is no
Mystery; for life are choices that
You made in search for
Something to believe, something to
Abbreviate the loneliness that
Yields the soul to all that hurts; but now I
Am glad to have found you; the
Narrator to my everyday who reads me
Gallantly even through the storm.

Love,
N.e-Q

This feels like war.
Incessant.
Inescapable.
Constant.
Unfair.
Unnecessary.
For what?
I thought waters flow beneath your bridge.