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.

Monday, May 7, 2012

Confessions of An Amateur Pariah

Some mornings you wake up and it's clear and nice out, the sky tinged with color like blush on a baby's cheeks. Those mornings you sit in the car as it cruises down empty roads, slippery with morning vapor and twisting and winding in silence all the way to school. Those mornings you contemplate why you're going where you're going, and you're angry. You will never forgive them for making you do something you do not want to do. But some mornings, it's a storm, out and in, and the roads are wetter and even more empty, the twists and winds sharper, the silence seems to stretch out longer as the rain slaps relentlessly, on the roof of the car, and on all four sides. Those mornings you stare straight ahead and it's more than an unwillingness to forgive. You're not angry anymore, or even sad. You're just bitter.

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You hit walls. Walls you built yourself, out of unwillingness and out of indignation, mostly out of pride. You aren't privy to the little ins and outs, and it's been ages since you've tried to understand them and what they stood for. Your silence, in this case, does not speak volumes because floating from one to another, you are invisible. You're a ghost. And you question why to this day, it's still this hard.. (And you should have understood, you're my friend. You were, at any rate. You should have known this is why I despise them so much, not because of what they represent or who they are, but because of the walls that I put there myself and my inability to forget about them.)

There are walls around everyone, but whatever is to be seen is perceived through the eyes of the beholder. So you see them in their group, walls springing up around their entirety, tall, like towers rising and reaching for the skyline. And they talk, and you listen. (And you talk as well.)

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There is more than one wall. There are plenty, each of them with different things spray painted on, signs to let you know that even if you manage to break down on wall, or temporarily render it invisible, there are still others standing in the same path, and you are still just as invisible as you were before. Signs like 'network', 'Facebook', 'tuition classes'. Signs you thought you had made abundantly clear were never meant for you, and yet you still simmer. (Maybe I simmer because I have a right. Maybe I simmer because I feel like I've been betrayed, and that's nobody's fault, really.)

And in the darkest, where only few can reach, you think of all the times you've aired your doubts out for the world to eat, your insecurities for them to take advantage of, and you think of when someone would come up and put their hands on your shoulders, calm, steady, deep breaths and close your eyes. But it's a dark that you can't be pulled out of, and that can't be pulled out of you, not this time, because there are no longer hands that are willing to guide, to shake, to embrace. Now it's just air, (and even you're not there) and it feels like an empty room, even though it's an open space.

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But I guess it just goes to show that you can take the world by storm, you can do it all and be the person you were meant to be, because you can pretend for at least six hours a day.

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