Friday, January 28, 2005

the hypocrite

when i was in secondary school (this is what teaching has done to me: made me relive those years), i used to lament about how i was forced to live a "double life" - all bubbly, responsible prefect on one side, and lonely, stressed girl on the other. in fact, i even resorted to writing to big bro about it (why am i telling you this?) and got half of a page of the newspaper dedicated to my...problem.

since then, i have pretty much settled into my own identity. i didn't so much as settle on one persona, as i did accept that i am probably more complex than i wish i were. i embraced the fact that i love both the arts and the sciences, that i am both impatient and calm, and that i treasure my solitude but enjoy being around people. i blame it on my being a gemini.

recently though, the issue of me being two different people emerged to haunt me once again.

this time, it's not about having a public and a private personality, but more about being a hypocrite. it bugs me that i claim to love poetry, and yet how much poetry have i actually written, read, appreciated and understood? i also claim to keep track of interesting global issues, but when i read the papers, it isn't to scrutinise the news, but rather to skip all the pages straight to the funnies. worse still, i say that i find fulfilment in volunteer work...but how many times have i actually taken the initiative to approach one of the many organisations in need of volunteers to offer my services?

what a hypocrite i am!

it is as if i want to create a better person for others to ooh and aah over, to hide whatever weird childhood trauma that requires dr. phil to diagnose. i almost feel like i already am in my own internal daytime talk show, acknowledging these little...disorders in me. and i imagine pieces of myself, the pieces that know what the truth about me really is, with red noses similar to the ones on the faces of the women on the oprah winfrey show.

i just told my friend that the problem i've recognised in myself is that it takes alot for me to take the initiative, but it takes very little for discouragement to creep up on me. it wasn't something that i've ever really thought about, but at that moment, it just seemed like that was the best way to describe the hypocrite in me. i show off a side of me that is very enthusiastic, and ready to go. but i am actually a procrastinator that is actually, to my horror, content to live out a mediocre life. mellow, without excitement.

remember the entry i wrote about wanting to introduce adventure into my life? that's what i want, but it is not what i can truly do on my own. if left to my own devices, i wouldn't even be working in my former secondary school. i'd still be bumming around the way i'd been bumming since december.

know what? i disgust myself. i really need to do something about this. FAST!

lishun at 6:46 PM

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Wednesday, January 26, 2005

trampled grass

it felt weird that monday morning, as i walked through the gates of my secondary school. i was clad in heels and a skirt, instead of in the hideous green uniform all prefects were cursed in - the uniform i had last donned only 2 years ago. that morning, however, i stepped into school not as a geeky, tomboy head prefect, but as a young, bashful replacement teacher.

sitting through assembly in front of the podium is an experience i do not want to go through again. 1200 pairs of bleary eyes were transfixed on me, the "new teacher", as if they could see right through my put-on strong face, right down to the nerves that were not holding up well at that moment. some cocked their heads at me, as if they could vaguely recognise my face, their glares reflecting an invisible finger that could not quite place itself on the lost occasion their pupils have laid themselves on me. it was eerily intimidating...i felt myself shiver as i sat down with the other teachers - people who were once my teachers and are now my colleagues.

i have not been in that school for 2 years. yet the annoucements at assembly brought me back to when i was standing with the prefects at the back of the rows, directly opposite to where i was seated on monday. the same notices were read: please hand in your co-curricular activities' forms. do not stand outside the gate. beware of dengue mosquitoes. the prayer asking Allah to forgive our parents, our teachers and ourselves was read in the same drone i remember from years ago. i felt a collective rolling of eyes as the principal of many names stepped up to the podium to deliver her mechanical speech in her squeal of a voice. the sigh of relief as she stepped down was even almost audible.

it all made me feel so...uncomfortable. secondary school was not a place i remembered fondly. those days of standing, wooden at assembly were not missed. in those old, yellow buildings, i first had a crush on a classmate and never fully recoved from the heartbreak of unrequited love. i discovered the true meaning of being back-stabbed, against the background music of patriotic songs and chalky literature. people came and walked the sands of friendship with me, without leaving a single footprint. those who did, often left wrong impressions, impressions that i long to wash away with the sea of time. just sitting there, watching the bored faces of the students, was enough to throw me back into the lines with them, opening the gates and allowing all i hated about secondary school to flood into my hardened heart again.

i forgot i was in a black skirt and not a green one, that morning. it took a jolt from my former add math teacher to bring me back to the present. scanning the fast-dispersing lines again, i initially felt pity for the 1200 nameless faces that passed me by. i pitied them for still living in the sheltered world of secondary school, caring for nothing except recess and, perhaps, good grades. i was once like them, but i had dreamed of something more. something that i have yet to find, 2 years on.

but then it hit me. it isn't them i should direct my pity to. it's to my own sorry arse. i left the noisy hallways with nothing but bitter memories. in the eyes of my students, i saw nothing but regrets they have yet to feel, betrayals they have yet to cry over, friendships they have yet to disintegrate with their insensitivity. i had hardly changed since i walked through those black gates for what i had thought would be the last time.

i say that i had dreamed of something more. it was all i had done. i dreamed. and dreamed...and did nothing to realise them.

underneath my neatly pressed striped shirt, i'm still wearing the trampled grass of secondary school.

lishun at 11:01 AM

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Friday, January 14, 2005

before i die...

i was watching oprah two days ago (amazing how many of my entries are inspired by that woman!) and it was a show about taking risks, overcoming fears, and living a life of adventure.

i looked at my life in despair. how many times have i let go of a chance to let go of myself, and just have pure fun? i've always blamed my parents for my accelerated maturation (like a fruit), and for stealing my childhood away from me by teaching me the ways of the world too soon. as a result of that, i've always played safe, rejecting almost every notion of fun as dangerous or "simply not practical".

oprah got me thinking. what am i holding back for? i am, after all, only 19, and in good health too. so what am i holding back for?

i do long for a life of adventure. the thought of spending my youth within 4 walls scares me. and yet i am always making excuses for myself for not participating in the activities that my friends engage themselves in. things like OBS, rock-climbing, hiking...just being in the outdoors and perhaps putting myself in a tiny bit of danger. i love all that. or rather, i love the thought of all that. but i haven't done any of it.

so, i've decided to list down a few things that i will do before i die. they're all do-able, all "safe"...things that i will regret not doing while i am able to do so.

1. bungee jump (*gulp* am afraid of heights)
2. abseil down a waterfall
3. scuba dive
4. kayak
5. eat haggis (odd, i know, but am just darn curious)
6. backpack across the US
7. skydive (double *gulp*)
8. touch a live tiger
9. watch an erupting volcano
10. ski

i guess these things are not what some may call "adventurous", but i sure hope i can accomplish all of them before i die. when i was thinking about this whole thing about adventure and whatnot, i know i cannot possibly do any of those things alone. my "practical" mind would stop me right in my tracks.

and that just makes me kinda...sad because i can't think of anyone who would readily come and hold my hand while i take the leap of faith into the unexplored territory of a life of adventure.

anyway, wish me luck in accomplishing every item on my list.

lishun at 9:54 AM

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Sunday, January 02, 2005

must/should

Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write?
- Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Letters To A Young Poet


must i write?

i first asked myself this question a few months ago when i stumbled upon a website that published all 10 of the letters rilke wrote to a young poet. in the months prior to the discovery of this website, i had been enamoured by stephen mitchell's translations of rilke's work. i was enchanted by how rilke dove into the very centres of the subjects of his poetry and became their voice. to me, it was like he was delving into a forbidden world of secret thoughts, thoughts not unlike the ones we often find ourselves formulating, only to dismiss them for an unknown reason.

must i write?

whenever i feel the need to come to the computer and type out my thoughts (my written journal has, sadly, been neglected for weeks), i find that i start to question what i want to write about, during the 5 minutes it takes to connect myself to the internet. very often this results in me not writing what i had initially planned to. instead it finds me staring blankly at the input form at diary-x.com trying to think of something else - hopefully something witty - to write about. eventually i give up, and pray that the few faithful ones who regularly visit my blog will forgive me for my silence. whenever that happens, though, i feel a deep sense of betrayal to myself. it's an emotion that is hard to explain, and it doesn't help that i don't forgive myself readily.

must i write?

a friend of mine, who is currently studying medicine in india, was online today. i asked her how she's holding up and she told me that she is perfectly happy despite the inevitable stressful moments. at this time when i am laden with doubt over the medical profession, i asked her how she came to discover such passion for medicine. "it came to a point when i couldn't imagine myself doing anything other than healing others".

must i write?

it was discouraging when my mother told me outright that she did not want me to be involved in any media-related field. her main reason is that i am not born to write. i do not possess an innate talent for putting pen to paper, for expressing myself, for empowering my words to take flight and touch people. i held back tears as my objective mind nodded its silent agreement.

must i write?

i asked myself this question again a few minutes ago. another friend, currently in england, had set up an internet portal to link malaysian students studying away from home. he asked me to write an article or two about any topic i like. honestly, i am terrified. i have never written anything real: real in the sense that the article is backed up by facts from reliable sources, and contains my opinion on issues that i care about, ala marina mahathir's musings. i am terrified. i can see myself giving him lame excuses in 2 weeks' time instead of turning in the articles as promised. and yet, at the same time, the thought of me hitting the "send" button with a look of satisfaction on my face in 2 weeks' time seems equally plausible.

--------------------------

i don't know if i must write.

perhaps that alone is enough to show that i am nothing but a fraud when it comes to writing.

but i do know what commands me to write - that inner voice i suppress, the very voice rilke brings out in his work. its roots are spread into the very depths of my heart. it would slowly gain control over my sanity if i were forbidden to write.

i don't know if i must write, but i know i...should.

lishun at 6:20 PM

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