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.

Friday, October 14, 2011

The Problem With Paper

The problem with paper is that you can write down whatever you want and it still will never be enough. Oceans of ink, forests of notebooks and the gears still keep on spinning, the wheels neverend turning, the time never stopping. The problem with paper is that when you talk, it's not going to be there for you, it doesn't serve, doesn't befriend, doesn't support.

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There are days when things add up for you. Days when you don't need a calculator, don't need a buffer, don't need anyone but yourself to feel good. These days don't happen often but when they do, there's nothing you can do but just sit there and take it. Take it and know that it's probably not going to happen again anytime soon because these days don't happen often.

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The thing is, I know it. I know it like the soft seams of my mother's kaftans, the silky smell of her scarf drawer. I know it like I know the lines, planes the angles of his face, all sharp and thin and narrow but soft around the lips, the eyes, the anything that matters. When some people were born they were born with an innate something, a gift, and I know what mine is. It's talking. Loud or clear, high or dry, witty or quiet, pensive or joking, there will always be words ready. There will always be things to say. There will always be stumbling and finding, catching and falling, but at the end of the day, it's not writing that I was born to do. It's not type type type backspace. It's this and this isn't easy because it's never going to be easy to be asked a random question by a complete stranger and am expected to answer. It's never going to be easy to be stopped in the middle of just talking and have people you don't even know say, "Hey, you speak well." As it's never going to be easy to have someone say to you, "Stop making your face look like you hate the world so much."

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Maybe she remembers the day differently but you know what you felt that day and it was gratitude like you've never felt ever before. And because these days are so rare, because the moments so fleeting, why can't she remember it the way you remember it? Why is it you that's still stuck, why is it always you who's looking back on these days and wondering and pining and hoping, never stop hoping.

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There are things I regret. But the funny thing about regret is that you never know when it's going to be the type of regret that you're going to actually feel down to the marrow, when you lie in bed and think, "better, better, not good enough," or when it's going to be the type of regret that haunts you for so long even though it doesn't mean anything. Like a shadow. Like a memory. Like a life you thought you had left behind because what's coming up in the future for you's so much better. I know shadows, and memories, and looking forward to a new life, a new beginning. I know it because I've went through it, I remember it because I enjoyed the experience. And while I am the type to never let go of something I hold near and dear, it looks like that year wasn't all it was strung out to be for me, because I can't remember anything. And I don't want it back, because when I think, 'when, why, when?', I think, 'when we walked, talked, stopped, and she listened but she didn't really.'

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It's hard for now. When you don't know what it's about. It's hard for now because when you look at someone else, you see things that you've always seen before. Soft lips, kind eyes, encouraging smile. It's hard for now because when you look at her look at someone else, you see things that you've always taken for granted. A curious light that never stops sparkling. When she tilts her head and you can see, her laugh high and sharp and a wave of nostalgia crashing into you. When she talks, she does it fast. When she smiles, you know it's not for you. Not anymore.

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Like a faraway fairytale dream, like the mistake was fixable, like the slate was painted black. It's a wonder I didn't end up vomiting. There are some things that you tell yourself the world is not ready for but the world is as accepting as it is harsh, as kind as it is mean. There are some things that you tell yourself this world is not ready for but the only person not ready for any of this is you. Me. The collective amount of person that I am, the everything that I've gathered and the everything that I'm becoming. So maybe I was impact. Maybe I was imprint. As she was for me, as I am for her. There is nothing to say to anyone because this isn't something that should be spoken out loud, not something that should be, period. But these things happen. But we're human. And but I would stand with my back straight, keep eye contact, ask for an autograph, a picture, an anything, give him a something, and crack a joke. And but I would leave as we all leave as he leaves, and but I would end up crying myself to sleep that night.

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It's hard for now. When you go home and not everything's meant to be shared. It's hard for now because that's the way of the world. Whether you're brave, whether you hide or whether you just stand still, stationary, not moving, the people are still going to come  at you and they're still going to get you. They're still going to engulf you in their opinions and their thoughts and prejudices and what can you do? What can you really?

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So maybe it's about the past for her, maybe it's about the past for me. Maybe it's rain and thunder conspiring against your mental health. Maybe it's what's going on at home or maybe it's what's going on in there. There is too much, simply too much for me to be and become. Too much for me to ponder over because their words are like white noise, their voices washout, and I might still standout.

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The problem with paper is that it burns.

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