The glorious and triumphant return of now-19 year old Blogger, the revival of a once-grand and dare I say influential webspace that produced daily content, and the crippling anxiety of a young woman who no longer has any time or motivation to write, and feels like any ability she had acquired in the past through repetition and sheer will alone is now slowly slipping out of her grasp. Brief history of the Blog and Blogger can be found here.

Here be personal journal entries, observations, slices of life, questions and conclusions, as well as exploration of social and political topics seen through the lens of a Malaysian Muslim, feminist, lesbian, Marxist, and horse enthusiast.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

In A Minute

Love isn't a word. It's people. Like, when I hang out with my sister and then say something completely rude and inappropriate that apparently rubbed her sensitive heart the wrong way and then she says something that makes me want to punch her in the face but in the evening, when she's all packed up and ready to go, I still give her a hug because she's love. 

And my mother, even though she gives me hell and cleans up my room even though I told her not to and has me running around doing all these pointless errands for her and also, she turns the computer off when I explicitly told her to leave it on, in spite of all of that, she's still love because I can't imagine what my life would be without her (well, I can, but I'd rather not). And my Dad, too, of course, because he pressures me into doing and being so many great things but I know at the end of the day, it's all in my best interest and to me, he's love. 

And my cat even though he poops on the floor and pisses all over the place and won't quit following me around the house asking for more food an hour after he's eaten, I still want to sleep and cuddle up to him every night and some of the best nights I've had so far are so because he was there by my side while I read fanfiction on my iPod. He's love. 

Hanna, regardless of whether or not we have each other's backs and in spite of however many times we've drifted apart, she's love to me because she's never purposely made a reason for me to hate her. A, you're love to me because even after everything I told you, you were still willing to be my best friend. D because you can make me feel so terrible sometimes and you can treat me horribly, too, and no offense, but all in all, you're not a very nice person; you're still love. N, you're love because I know that whenever I see you, it's never not going to stop feeling good. 

I look at all these people and they're love to me. It's not just a word, you know. It's not just something you can look up in the dictionary. It's not just something you can whisper every night and it's not just something written on a card. It's actual, living, breathing, eating, drinking, other-bodily-functioning, people whom I have met and I'd never once categorize them as just a word I stumbled upon. Because they're more than that. They're love and if you read Harry Potter, you'll know that that's something that's bigger than all of us. 

(God isn't mentioned because love for God is all levels of different. Plus, I've decided that I will no longer talk about religion here. Maybe. We'll see.) 

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