I’ve been together with Cherane for three years, going on four now. Even though it’s not a particularly long time, it has become a pretty unique relationship, with its own unique set of challenges.

Every chance we get to be together becomes extra special. The idea of just having breakfast together, one that many couples take for granted, becomes that much more meaningful. It gives me new appreciation for what we have, but it also becomes that much painful and heartbreaking when the time comes and we have to be apart again.

That’s what I did last weekend. 1,629km between us disappeared for 3 days and 4 nights.

It was wonderful, and it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough, to be honest.

Taking off from LCCT. The benefits (or is it a disadvantage?) of having only the kit lens to play around with.

Cherane stretching and warming up before her netball practice.

We decided to have a barbecue on Friday night.

It was a very easy and relaxed night.

Oh yeah, she can draw real good. Do check out her blog if you have the time.

There are many popular curated Twitter accounts out there that you should follow. The account could represent the people of a city, or even of a particular country. Accounts like @WeAreAustralia, @PeopleOfCanada and @hellofrmSG (to name a few) are a pretty good indicator of what’s going on in that place. Not to be left behind, we also have our own curated account: @twt_malaysia.

The curator would be given one week to talk about anything he or she wants, to create discussion and engage in debate with the Twitter community (or “Twitterjaya”, as it’s affectionately known in Malaysia). Nothing is too taboo or too “out there”; it all depends on the skills of the curator to make the topic interesting and engaging.

This week’s curator is Faisal Fadzil a.k.a @the88thkaiser. The conversation he started last night that piqued my interest was about bicycles. Bikes, cycling, the whole shebang.

Amidst all the replies and anecdotes and mentions about Shimano and Le Run and fixie bikies that were coming in, I suddenly realized how much I still loved cycling, and how much I missed it. And a particular incident that happened to me on the very last day of high school popped up.

My (former) high school (Sekolah Menengah Kebangsaan Kepong, SMKK) is actually across the road from the Forest Research Institue of Malaysia (FRIM), so students who cycle to school would use a backroad that cuts through FRIM to get to SMKK. The last stretch of the back road is a pretty sharp incline, so all of us would use the opportunity to zoom down at pretty insane speeds. “Look ma, no brakes!” and all that. It would give us the rush of adrenaline we need to get through the sleepy mornings, but it’s a bitch to cycle back up when heading home.

On the very last day of school, I was cycling with a friend to pick up my school leaving certificate. We soon reached the steep incline part of the road. Of course, we took our hands off the brakes and started cycling even faster, accelerating like. I mean, who wouldn’t, right?

Just at that moment, a big-ass tank of a Volvo started coming from the opposite direction. The driver saw us, but didn’t slow down, not even a bit. We had no time to brake, so we quickly got off the road to the grassy patch at the side. The car went past us. We shouted and cursed at him as he drove past us.

See, the thing is this particular back road has been repaired and tarred over so many times that it’s actually elevated from the ground. In the chaos, I completely forgot about that fact. I stupidly tried to get my bike back onto the road. It didn’t work out that way.

The wheel hit the elevated part of the road at breakneck speed, and made a very sudden stop. I, however, didn’t. Next thing I knew, Next thing I knew, I was face down on the road, followed by a flash of light, followed by so much pain that I blacked out for a few moments.

When I came to, the sky was purple, the leaves of trees and the grass were all yellow. I had a bitchin’ headache. I looked at my friend. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him at all. His mouth was moving, but all I heard was a constant buzzing sound that felt like it was drilling into my head. My mouth felt funny. I was spitting out pebbles. Soon the sky slowly started to turn blue again, and I could hear my thoughts over the pounding in my head.

There was still a funny taste in my mouth. I looked around for my bike, and noticed a trail of red that went down my school shirt. Turns out I cut my chin pretty deep; I couldn’t stop the bleeding. My mouth still felt funny. Instinctively I started feeling around the inside of my mouth with my tongue. I soon found out what the funny taste was.

Instinctively I started feeling around the inside of my mouth with my tongue. I soon found the problem. I was actually tasting bits of enamel. I chipped my tooth. That tends to happen when you land face-first on a paved road at high speed.

So here I was. Last day of school, with a bloody and torn school shirt. Bleeding chin, chipped tooth. What’s a student to do?

I said “fuck it” and headed to school anyway. It was so close, I might as well pick up the certificate and get it over with. I think I probably freaked the teacher out. I still remember the look of horror on her face. But she said nothing and handed me the certificate.

It was a very long ride back home. The pain got so intense at times that I had to stop and catch my breath. But I got no mercy from my mother. She still smacked my head when she saw what happened.

So what’s the moral of the story? I have no idea. I have no idea. Don’t cycle too fast, perhaps? But that’s life. Weird things happen.

No, that’s not right.

I guess the moral is: follow the right people on Twitter. You’ll learn new things, and you might end up remembering all the crazystupidawesome things you did when you were younger and crazier.

Her breathing had returned to normal by then.

She closed her eyes and let the sound of raindrops hitting violently against the window fill overwhelm her thoughts. It was a welcome distraction from all the distressing things clogging up her head the past few weeks. The street light outside her bedroom window and the raindrops passing in front of it created a show of shadow and light that danced around in the darkness just for her. She was watching it in absolute concentration. It made her heart feel light, even joyous. She didn’t know why. She didn’t care why.

“By?”

Her undivided attention towards that show was broken. She turned around to face the man lying next to her. His eyes were still closed, but he knew she was awake. His hand moved around on the bed looking for hers. She reached out slowly and touched his finger. He touched hers. Their fingers intertwined. His warmth warmed her up.

“What’s wrong?” His voiced echoed in the darkness.
“Nothing, yang. Nothing’s wrong. I just… the thunder woke me up.”

His eyes were still closed, but he knew she was lying. “Liar liar.”

He rolled around towards her until he could feel the warmth of her bare skin. He lifted his head just enough to position his head onto her lap. She just watched. Their fingers were still touching. He nuzzled her tummy. She breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

“Tell me,” he asked after planting the gentlest of kisses on her thigh and breathing in the fragrance of her, “what’s wrong?”

She slowly ran her fingers through his hair, taking her time. He patiently waited. They had all the time in the world. The thunder and the rain and the street light outside were keeping them company.

“It was… a dream,” she said finally. “I can’t remember what it was, though.”
“Mmm…” He closed his eyes again, savouring the feeling of her fingers stroking his head.
“Sounds like it was more than just a bad dream.”
“Maybe. Many things have been happening. It’s all getting so confusing.”
“New beginnings…” His eyes were still closed.
“It’s… scary.”
“It’s supposed to be. You’re supposed to be scared. Because it’s completely new. You haven’t done this before.”
“Hmmm…” Her fingers now gently traced the contours of his face. Every bump, every curve, his eyelashes. Even the day-old stubble on his face.
“I’d actually be worried if you weren’t scared.”
“Why la?”
“Being scared means that you’re taking it seriously. You’re excited and nervous and a whole bunch of other things.”

She was silent. The raindrops kept falling.

“You’re strong, you know.” His words brought her back.
“You keep saying that.” Her fingers lay softly on his chest. She could feel his heart beat slowly, constantly, comfortingly.
“Because it’s true.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Tipu.”
“You are. You can handle this. You are. You are.”

She let out a heavy sigh, a sigh that carried the uncertainty and fear out from within her. He suddenly lifted his head up and steadily came closer and closer towards her until their lips touched and caressed. He tasted her as she tasted him. It was intoxicating. They couldn’t get enough. It was its own drug with its own addictive qualities, and they were all too happy to be slaves to it.

They lay down together, their naked bodies sharing the warmth, her fingers intertwined with his. She laid her head down on his chest, his heartbeat becoming her lullaby. His hand wrapped around her body, pulling her close. They had each other, and at that moment it was all they could ever want or need. They were together, in sickness and in health.

They slowly drifted off to sleep. The show of shadow and light kept on playing.

He didn’t even know how he got there in the first place. It wasn’t as if he planned it. It was a spontaneous decision to sit at that cafe, order a cup of coffee, and soak in the surroundings. What kind of coffee does one order when he doesn’t know what he wants to do? Because that was the one he ordered. Just something hot and strong to keep him company while he observed, something to make him feel like he belonged there with the other patrons.

The day was just nice. The sun was shining but it wasn’t too hot. There was a soft breeze, the trees lazily swayed. It was an altogether lazy day in a lazy part of a lazy town. Just the nice sort of day to wander around aimlessly. Or sit at a random cafe and have a cup of one of those fancy Italian coffee that you don’t know how to pronounce properly but order anyway because it’s the cheapest one you could afford from the menu and it makes you feel sophisticated for drinking it. Frankly, a cup of Nescafe tarik would do the trick just the same, but uttering it here might get him ratted out as a poser. So he’d rather not take that chance for now.

So he sipped his cuppa slowly, one short sip every few minutes. He looked around. Watched the people walking around, not really in a hurry to get to anywhere. He watched that cat at the corner of the cafe curled up contentedly, deep asleep but not really. A few step in its direction and it would be wide awake almost instantaneously. He was so tempted to flick its ears… but not just yet.

He watched that small boy trying to pull his frazzled-looking mother towards the candy stall in the middle of the walkway. The boy was on the verge of throwing a tantrum, the mother was on the verge of going postal. It could’ve been a trick of the eye, but he taught saw a vein on her forehead pulsate with barely-contained fury. He found himself trying to predict the exact moment that she would snap and the boy would get his comeuppance.

“…and now. Aand… now. Damn. Aaand… now.”

The timing was all wrong. She seemed to be holding on for just a while longer than his predictions. “…and now. Dammit.” He was concentrating at the spectacle far more than he should. He was focusing at all the small details; the mother’s deathly grip on the boy, the boy’s obvious attempt to stomp his feet every step of the way to the candy stall and make everyone notice him, the mother trying very hard not to hurl profanities at the boy and the world, the candy stall operator watching the spectacle in horror, hoping it would just stop, please, stop, you’re making people stare at you la auntie.

Any telltale sign that would help his prediction be more precise. Suddenly that was all that mattered. Not the cat, not the beautiful weather, not that buxom lady who walked past him in that impossibly short skirt smelling of apricots (and yet he somehow noticed all that in a split second). No, what was the focus here was that boy and the hell he was about to unleash from within the depths of his mother’s psyche.

The waiter was walking around, serving other people who needed serving. He watched mother and son with bated breath, almost willing the meltdown to occur, a sadistic gleam in his eye, relishing the popcorn-worthy deliciousness of the public drama, when…

“Excuse me sir, do you want a refill of that coffee?” No reply from him.
The waiter cleared his throat. It broke his attention. He snapped around towards the waiter. “Huh? What?”
“Sir, would you like a refill of that coffee?”

Wow, they give refills here? he thought. He automatically looked at his cup. Then his mind started working on its own. A refill, eh. Hmm, I didn’t drink all that much but the coffee is pretty good but if I drink too much I might have to pee later lazy jugak wanna go to the toilet wait wait if I ask for a refill does that mean I’m trying too hard to look cool because cool people won’t keep asking for refills kan wait wait do they even have refills at Starbucks and shit wait what am I thinking now do I even want the coffee or not well ya la the coffee is kinda nice also but kalau ada Nescafe tarik pun best jugak oi you’re supposed to be sophisticated and shit sophisticated people don’t drink Nescafe la ahaha that Nescafe parody scene in Ouran Host Club was kinda funny so maybe sophisticated people are okay with Nescafe also eh so I want the refill or not think la yes or no  yes or no wah this cafe not bad also the price is affordable and they have refills—

“Sir?”
“Oh! Shit. Um… refill? I—”

And then he heard the sickening thwack of flesh hitting flesh that made him wince by reflex, followed by a stunned silence. He knew what had a happened. He realized, as he was turning his gaze from the waiter towards the mother and child, that he missed the moment. He knew he had missed that moment forever, that it would never ever happen again. All that prediction, that wait was all for naught. As he fixed the gaze upon the little boy, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The boy slowly cupped his now-red left cheek, but he didn’t realize what had happened just yet. His eyes were opening wider and wider as he slowly registered the pain. The candy stall operator had a defeated look on her face. This was the inevitable conclusion, one that she had hoped would never come to be. Up until that rude interruption, the candy stall operator was was having a pretty nice day. Business was surprisingly brisk, everyone was happy, the soft breeze cooled her down, she had a fairly healthy lunch, she was in high spirits. All that ended the moment the mother’s hand ended up on the boy’s left cheek.

He missed the moment of impact. He cursed under his breath, turned back to the waiter and glared. And glared. He glared until the waiter got the drift and walked away.

The waiter will never know why that particular customer glared at him on that nice, sunny, breezy day.

He turned back just in time to see the boy grasping the full magnitude of what had just happened to him, a split second before he delivered the proper response: an ear-piercing screamwailcry that destroyed the peace of that sunny, breezy afternoon for everyone in the nearby vicinity. Everyone, that is, except him. Was he glad that the boy got his comeuppance? Was he getting some kind of vicious glee from seeing that mother lose that thin veil of control and civility completely? He didn’t care. At that moment, he was completely enjoying the show.

He took another sip of that hard-to-pronounce coffee that came with free refills, never once taking his gaze off the two of them. He wasn’t about to miss whatever that might happen next. Indeed, he didn’t miss the horrible realization that came upon the mother when she regained her senses again. Nor did he miss the mother’s frantic and desperate attempt to calm the wailing boy with one of those over-sized spiral lollipops handed to her by the candy stall operator. He also didn’t miss the pouting and reluctant acceptance of the lollipop by the boy.

The boy stopped crying. The mother kissed him on the cheek, wiped the snot off his nose. He hugged her tight. She carried him up. That over-sized lollipop given to the boy was on the house. Everything was slowly coming back to normal. They slowly walked away from the candy stall, the operator waving at the boy who waved back, happy but oh-so-tired. And soon, everything was back to being sunny and breezy and lazy.

He felt cheated. He was expecting family-infused violence to go along with his cup of hard-to-pronounce coffee, but that sputtered and failed. He turned his attention back to the cafe. He thought of calling out for a refill, but his hand stopped moving, half-raised. He remembered the glare he gave the waiter minutes ago. He shouldn’t have done that. The waiter’s probably in there ranting to the other staff about the customer “yang kurang hajar nak mampus, aku tanya jer nak refill ke tak, dia jeling kat aku camtu buat apa, babi ar!”

But he wanted that refill. What would a sophisticated person do at a time like this? Swallow his pride and call out for a refill? What if that same waiter came out? Should he apologize? Pretend like nothing happened and thank him for the refill? Act nonchalant, disinterested? He still had half a cup left. Should he finish it, then call, or can he just call now? If he finished his current cup of coffee before calling out for a refill, he could get more with the refill. But if he drinks too much, he might have to look for the nearest toilet.

Where’s the toilet here anyway? Would there be one inside the cafe? If he heads inside, will he bump into that waiter? That would be awkward, right? He could just pretend like he doesn’t recognize the waiter he glared at and continue on the toilet, but he glared at the waiter too long. He recognized him. What if he heads inside to the toilet, and the staff mistakes that action as a customer leaving the cafe and takes away his cup and cleans up the table? That would be awkward as well. Would he have to order another cup? Sophisticated people don’t really bother explaining the whole situation to people, do they? That would be even more awkward, because people would be—

“Sir, would you like a refill?”
“—FUCK! Um!” He stopped. He went quiet for a few moments. He gathered his thoughts before softly muttering, “…yes, please.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Yes, a refill please.”

The robust, Italian aroma of that newly-replenished coffee calmed him down. A long sip cleared his head. He could once again hear the chatter of people, the clinking of cutlery, the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. He exhaled, a long one, audible. He reclined on his seat just a bit more. He closed his eyes and just listened to the world around him, fingers intertwined and resting on his tummy.

Perhaps he’ll just stay here a while more. Perhaps he’ll apologize to that waiter later. The coffee’s good enough, he might come here more often. Perhaps he’ll even learn how to pronounce the name properly. Then he could try out the other selections on the menu, maybe even the more expensive ones.

The waiter did smell nice. Or maybe it was the pot of coffee he was carrying? Nah, it was him. He was maybe 50% sure.

But he did have nice eyes. Mmm.

In a while, in a while. He just wanted to enjoy that sip of coffee warming his insides and the soft breeze and happy dogs barking in the distance and children laughing. Just for a while longer.

Make no mistake, I have been writinglah. Some of them even got published in one form or another. But when I talk about writing here, it’s for this blog. It’s probably the only place where I can write without having a specific goal. I can write without it being be about a product or a service. I can write here exactly the way I want to.

So why don’t I write more often?

When I started blogging way back in 2004 (almost 10 years ago, good Lord!), there was a certain effortlessness that came through in my writing. I could construct paragraph after paragraph of complex sentences without thinking twice. Wordiness was never an issue. I personally didn’t know how it happened, even till today.

I had some people who followed my blog on the strength of my writing, even when my insecure self starting changing blogs; first on Blogspot, then to Blogdrive, then back again to Blogspot before having my own host (which died after existing for about two months).

I eventually ended up here, and I have stayed here ever since.

The me who wrote at age 19 will never come back. The me at age 26 will never write as fluidly or as effortlessly as the me at age 19. This is the irreversible truth, and it’s something that I must accept. It takes more work now, I’ll admit. But I think that’s due more to the rust and the cobwebs in my thought process more than anything else.

Then again, I don’t really want to write like the me at age 19. He covered his inexperience with life under a veneer of long complex sentences. He made a misconception that verbosity equals intelligence. He liked to beat around the bush too much.

The me at age 26 still has oh so many things to learn about writing, though. He needs to get back the spark that he had once before. He needs to get over the fear that people will end up finding his work boring/dull/not good enough. He needs to realize that the experience and life lessons he has gained since then can help enhance his writing, no matter what the topic may be.

So I’ll write. I’ll keep on writing. I hope I can write as consistently as I want to, but who knows. How could I possibly stay away? It has, for better or worse, defined my life over the last 9-something years.

This blog might end up being more random than it ever was before. It’s just me trying to find my groove back. Some might be serious to the point of being dry, others might be pure fluff. But that’s the point; it’ll be me just writing away, about something or another, looking for that spark, that zeal, that passion back.

I’ll get that fucking spark back. It’s long overdue. I think it’s starting to get tired waiting for me.

There was a time, not too long ago (probably last week, I reckon) when I enjoyed relished “the art of the troll”. Just one well-placed, well-timed response to an article, situation or discussion had the potential to change the tone of the entire discourse into something totally different.

Thing is, the satisfaction I get from a successful troll becomes too fleeting for me to properly enjoy it. I keep seeing the ugly side of humanity come out so often that I begin to wonder if that fleeting satisfaction is even worth anything.

This morning, I got tired of the whole thing.

That trolling action. Does it inform? Does it correct a mistake? Does it elevate the level or the quality of a discussion? Does it contribute anything positive or enriching? I haven’t seen that yet. What I have seen instead is people getting angry. I have seen people get worked up. Their arguments falter. Whatever good points they might have gets completely sidelined. The replies become more and more irrelevant, in the quest to one-up the troll quotient of the reply before it. They become a sexist, a racist, a bigot. Nothing gets achieved. One side laughs their ass off, another side screams bloody murder, yet side group sighs in defeat.

The discourse completely breaks down. Yes, I am guilty of all of the above.

We lament the moronic actions our politicians take, and bemoan the death of intelligence among Malaysians when it comes to responding to serious issues, and yet we can’t resist the urge to come up with replies and hashtags that just fast-tracks whatever serious discourse we might have about… whatever, into a complete and utter farce. The cycle repeats itself, again and again, a cycle that fuels itself on cynicism and skepticism. Repetition becomes the norm. We become jaded too fast, too soon.

Even radio personalities do this.

It stops me from gaining more knowledge and accomplishing goals that I know I must accomplish. You could say that I’m just over-thinking the entire issue, and I shouldn’t get my panties in a twist. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am just over-analyzing the situation here. Does it make anything I wrote down here any less relevant?

I’m tired of getting a momentary chuckle at the expense of others, is what I’m saying. I want to know more, find out more. I want to enrich this generic life I have into something unique, not muddle it up even more with vapid drama and trolls and inflated egos.

I can honestly tell you. I have absolutely no idea what any of this means. It’s not an epiphany by any stretch of the imagination. Who knows, maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and “become normal again”. Right now, I’m exhausted by it. It makes me tired. It saps away my strength. It distracts me.

I’m not growing up. I’m not getting old. I’m just… tired of this.