From Wednesday, I think.
I haven't mustered up the will to actually plonk myself down for a good half hour at least to think back and reflect. I had the chance this afternoon, when it was raining and hailstones were shooting out of the skies, and I was cozying it up at home, but I wasted it on watching half of Notting Hill. I can't even sit through a two hour movie nowadays - one that isn't good I guess. Not that Notting Hill isn't good, but it's just so surreal (yes I am quoting part of the movie).
Living in another continent altogether somehow numbs you from whatever is happening on the other side of the world, the part where you travelled seven whole hours just to get away from. If you thought it was easy and all laughs to be living independently, well, sometimes it can be. Other times, it's tough trying to get by each single day.
I admit, before coming over here, I had unrealistic expectations of what I would be doing. I thought that a new start would be enough to drive me to change, refresh myself like you would do a non-responsive webpage. And joining clubs or societies that would be interesting and cultivate an active social life. Perhaps I'm trying too hard in not exactly participating - that was contradicting. I cling on to every little chance and waste it away anyway. What's the point? How can I do this right?
You only get one life, you can't choose who you really are. Everything that happens actually shapes the person that stares right back at you in the mirror. Yes that's you. I think I can't accept that fact yet, so I avoid the mirror, the gaze at all costs. Because what I see when I look into it is someone who failed in every aspect.
I wanted to sing. I wanted to write. I wanted to do so many things. I never did. I never tried hard enough, I think the rest will concur. Who are they? Who are these voices in my head…
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On another note, yesterday morning was supposed to be a fun-filled day spent at the zoo holding furry animals close to my chest, fulfilling that maternal need that springs to mind when I see cute animals. Then I got a call from my mom. Her dad, my grandfather, passed away hours before. When I heard it I was like no, this was not happening. Not in that dramatic way, but in a I don't want to believe it way. The harshness of reality strikes when you least expect it. In this case it truly did. I have to say that the fleetingness and brevity of the news relayed over the phone just didn't really catch me in the way it ought to have.
At that moment, I just wanted to be back home - where I could feel the realness of the situation. I feel so numbed here, so anesthetized. Pinching myself to feel, if anything at all. Is it the distance? Or am I really a non-feeling human being? In shock? I don't suppose I was in shock. Death, is inevitable.
I don't know if you do it, but I sometimes play out the scenes in my head of my death, of a death of a loved one. Just the thought of that is enough to turn on my waterworks. Then give me the real thing - but how unfeeling can I get? They say absence makes the heart grow fonder; I say its bullshit. If it were true, I would be realizing the impact of this loss.
My grandfather was a … I don't have a clue what to say. He was a portly fellow. He was a silent man, a man of few words. He was an observer. He loved his food. My mom painted a picture of him that to me was of a cheeky, kindly old man. In every way, I hardly made contact with him whilst I was in their home, for all these years. No use regretting what one could have done though, that I know, because it only just makes you want to change the future, but in the end you'll end up running down the same route. I remember him driving us in his green little Mr Bean-ish Volkswagen down to the nearby wet market in the morning when I was younger and he could still hold his own; we would go drink soy bean milk, eat wanton mee. Or the kids would be hanging out at the backyard, wearing the ugly plastic olden-day slippers that were four sizes too big and looking down we'd see him in his makeshift garden, plucking stray weeds and whatnot.
Then fast forward a few years, and you see him grow a couple more wrinkles, losing that purposefulness in each stride, needing a cane, losing that weight but putting it on back again soon after, and just getting… in simple terms, old.
I have always been fearful of death. Its imminence has always weighed over me like a grey cloud. In the distance, but close enough for me to feel its presence. I know I can die anytime. I know death can befall anyone I know at any time. However hard I may try to push away that fact, it's there. It's happened once when my grandma died in 2008 (Not forgetting that one anytime soon - about 3 days before my birthday), and I was around when she passed.
Am I a bad person for not feeling the impact? I feel more sad that I'm not there for my mom when she needs some support the most. I've never seen her cry before, I don't think I have. The second half of 2011 just doesn't cut it. I mean, the first half was amazing, believe me, but it all went downhill after July - seriously, what is wrong with this hand I've been dealt?
Okay I can't do this anymore.
The conversation's getting stale
If you won't point it out, then I will