I am not white and that is not fair

I have no issue with white people, in fact I know secretly deep down I have a craving, a desperation to become one of the humans of anglo-saxon heritage. Why? Because of privilege. 

Western media has indeed shunned us repeatedly, insulting us, our features, our eyes, our height, our dick size; while highlighting their superiority over other races, having better noses, better hair, coloured eyes. Western media is presented far across their native white habitats. Asians completely exposed to the completely westernised ideals on beauty, fashion and most importantly, their western appeal. We crave it, we adore it, we need it. Maybe it isn't as obvious as apartheid, no visible devisions, yet the disparity is unquestionable. It shows through small things, the top models of the world white, the way we call them "expats" not migrants because they are white, that there are little to no Asian representation in western culture, it is all white. And I understand that those whom benefit from it had no say in their birth given privilege. It is all numbers and all odds, but to deny the fact that they don't subconsciously leach off this unhealthy system, now that is my problem.  

It is hard to admit that, but don't pretend that it doesn't exist. We know for a fact there is a thing called 'racial profiling', we know that there is significant psychological impact on many colonised countries due to the whites. Not wishing for it is not the same as already living and benefiting from it. I don't hate you, I hate that you won't admit to this disparity between the whites and the rest of us, that you have more privilege that me, and you dare call me a victim, when you have boxed me into that position. You have gained when I have lost. Admittance is a virtue, yet so many cannot see, perhaps it's because of the 'white lens' you wear, taking them off would be too painful, yet the rest of us suffer in your wake. You are privileged not us, admit it. That's all I want, acknowledgement of deeds done against us, for the benefit of your race. It is easy yet you will not do it, because you cannot handle that weight, the pain you have caused us, because you are selfish and self-delusional. I don't hate you, just what you have that I don't. 

Yes I am victim, of a system I have no say in, yet you have gained and I have only lost. Admittance is my way of bridging that gap, and then perhaps I can stop play the victim card. When I am no longer a victim of your making. But why would you? Sharing rights might as well be seen as stealing them away from you. These are the things you cannot see, these are the things that are ever present and for you constantly shoved under the covers, for you to pretend it is not there. But it is, I see it. 

The silence was not deafening

The silence now took on the moan of a dying something, low, excruciatingly lengthy cries of pain.

News like that hits hardest, and hits the most sudden. 

"low voices, in loving memory of," 

"bowed heads, my condolences"

"sorry" 

The silence was not deafening, it was the sound of reluctant acceptance.

The silence was alarms ringing, sirens blaring, trying to out noise the other, white noise against white noise.
Bigotry is bigotry when nobody stands up

"typing, you are not trans you are gay"

"mocking, Mr or Mrs?"

"stop"

The silence was not deafening, it was the sound of reluctant defeat.

The silence was never quiet. 

Loud and hurt, never quite quietly hidden.

The silence shows more, is more, tells more

Than me showing you my pain, my suffering, my scars, my wounds, my sores.

The optimistic cynic

After listening to ideological dronings of mediocre speakers, them talking, teaching and dictating us on how to live our lives to the fullest, through, get this, giving people a chance and understanding them, all fantastic, all beautiful, all rubbish. Today, on my blog, I ma be takin' 'bout why we all don't have to strive for such 'relished' aspirations, today, I will be taking about the modern-day cynic.

The original cynics were, well, a bunch of bitter, old, Greek, men. Today, well, they are a bunch of younger, gayer, Asian, men. Well, a modern day cynic can be anybody, to be honest, I am not trying to tell you what to be, or define and box what it means to be a bitter person. You do you. But, I am also bitterly happy. Because for me, a cynical mind, allows for two amazing things. One, to never be disappointed and Two, often, as a result of one, usually, pleasantly surprised.

You see for me, the philosophy I have on life is simple. Keep you hopes low, and always expect the worst. That my friends, is what I like to call the optimist-cynic personality. An oxymoron maybe, but all contrasting ideas can work in union, a unique balancing act if you will, two weights complimenting each other. And like scales and weights, it all requires equilibrium.

A modern-day cynical optimist, knows risk and the taking of it well. Calculations taken, resources opened, factors considered, all to ensure the best result of any given obstacle. We by doing so, aid in the process of supplying that situation the appropriate amount of shit to give. The optimistic cynic knows that shit ain't free, and is not at the liberty to hand it out like hot shit-cakes. Big shits will be handed out due course, once the new cynics have concluded that it is safe, a probable success, an most importantly, deserving of huge shits. Little shits similar in the process of shit-giving. Thus, the value of our shits are exponentially greater than those who simply give, care, offer them at a wimpsy.

That is for me what it means to care little, but resulting in optimal results. The opportunistic way of remaining content, through realistic expectations.

Clocks

"Should I feel bad for feeling nothing; yet wanting something?" He asked as he held me in his arms, as I laid in his embrace, in the living room of his parents house. I did not answer.

It was a hot-ish day in the middle of April. In the cluttered but appropriately so living space of a family I've never met, even the boy, holding me I did not meet till today. Sprawling across the rattan sofa with sun bleached yellow pillows, I in his arms, he holding me. We had been tickling each other for some time now. How long? Well according to one of the four clocks ten giggling moments, another for seven. 

But now, I'm here wrapped in another boy's heat. It mixes with the stagnant weather of a Malaysian sweat, pleasantly discomforted. I start telling a story I don't remember what, probably about my friends that I don't speak to anymore I don't tell him that we stopped talking, but I continue to talk about them. I do not look at him, I look out the glass door, outside the balcony a lush tree suffocates the late afternoon sun between its leaves. The clocks move independently. 

"What are you thinking about" he whispers. I realize I faltered mid-way through my story, I was not thinking, I was just looking at the tree, it's leaves, the light shinning through, the black branches, the blacker shadows. "I'm thinking about nothing." I look up and make eye contact, to prove my truth, to negate any falsehood. Tick tock goes the four different clocks. 

I notice the tiles of the floor tinted slightly grey, but mostly white, the grout fairly clean. I notice the stacks of random objects on the multifunctional, multi-compartmented tv closet cum display beige monstrosity; a vintage relic. It was so full of the most odd things. A price tag, a tape measure, old newspapers, VCRs, a cassette tape, the main compartment was jammed full of books and various other things it couldn't be closed shut. "Thanks for today." I said.

"No worries," 

Thinking back as the clocks tick by, the day was uniquely different from other days of mundane existence in a coastal town where the sun movement and the Moon's rotation cycle without anything happening. Karaoke was fun but lack luster, I couldn't sing, I was flustered, I couldn't muster to scream jagged keys into cheap microphones, next to this guy who could hit notes better, longer, stronger. 

Tea followed soon after, it was an empty coffee shop in the heart of tiny Chinatown, a place that played Chinese music, a place that served tea sweet and the coffee sweeter. He paid for everything, he didn't have to do it. We drove to the beach right after where we climbed rocks placed to stop the beach from eroding, from the sand swashing away, I nearly lost my sandal; he rescued it. He held my hand as he skipped and I tackled the large boulders of granite. I showed him the quartz imbedded in them, I showed him the mica as well. 

Then we are here, in the apartment which the mango tree is shadowing the cluttered living room, me in is arms, his arms around me. Tick tock the clocks struck. 

Things to bury:

Forced bouquets; demanded questions that had predisposed answers; white lies and white carnations that die with time.

Unintentional results from intentional actions; fake laughter behind genuine shrugs of shoulders; empty words laces with calculated purpose caught between breaths of sound unwillingly hidden.

Mistakes done and mistakes in the making; promised dances that met uncomfortable fear; scenes of scenic sunsets that suddenly but surely end; tears dried and replenished once again.

The warm and harsh glow of defeat

It seems that I cannot escape the cloud of controversy that always looms around me, and it feels like the bitter after-taste of medicine; and this time more so than ever the true intentions are overshadowed by shame, ignorance and the fear of tainted reputation.

But every cloud, as they say, is lined in silver, and this time, possibly, it’s no mere argent, but gold.

It is often fruitless and painful work to try to convince and alter some, but very much also harder to refrain yourself or, in this case, myself from doing as such. To change means some level of acceptance prior, and without the willingness and desire, one tends to side with what oneself feels safe. Maybe for me, it is the sensation of never truly ever being safe or completely voided from attack from oppression that fuels me. It burns a fire within the folds of my mind, to challenge the status quo, to strive for the different. Maybe because of this, I am willing to go tooth and nail, to fight, to fish out from within the opposition, change, and when met with obstruction, often resulting in brutish replacements for negotiation.

Then, there are times where you just question yourself, “Was it worth while?” Would I one day think fondly or even look back at the hilarity of matter, or will I feel the same guilt that my defiance should have continued to stay within the confines of the compartments of a cupboard. In darker times, I think even more so into my real persona, delve into my real ‘modus operandi’ of sorts and it feels like I am stuck within a never-ending loop of guilt and acknowledgment of varying success. Many suggest positivity as the remedy, but positive thinking is tiring work, and sometimes I question how much of that energy I still have left within myself. Usually thinking that way makes the cloud even more ominous, as if I may well be consumed by it. 

Being a spark is being a match that lights a bigger wick, a slower burn, and a longer and consistent fire, but means a small part of myself is charred as a result. A sacrifice? Or maybe it is arrogant thinking. Although I write this, I know I am no poster boy, no symbol, and I never intended to be so, in all honesty, the mention of another motive other than my simply desire for the original aim was part of the package that I know well and sure that could and became the fatal flaw in the whole situation. But a small meek voice suggests an embracing of such a challenge and though the shoes are hard to fill, at least for a brief period, that shoe can be moved, to kick-start a bigger ball rolling. A legacy, built upon discrimination and obliviousness, may not seem like much, but maybe it is still foundations for growth.   

We all have influence, and we all can and will evoke something, influence someone, alter a situation, scales big or small, we will all leave a mark upon this earth. Maybe this is myself coming to terms with that, maybe it’s a huge humble brag, maybe I wrote this to inspire, but one thing I can say is this, you are slightly different now from when you were before. Irreversible? No, not entirely but a small inspiration, a flicker in the back of your mind something now is different and that is truly something we should not take for granted.       

Ultimately, intent is an objective, a purpose, achieving it is the ultimate goal. And in all truth, I’ve done it, maybe, though in a way that has made me feel unease and guilt, while simultaneously loved and undying support. I am infinitely blessed to have the backing of numbers, through sympathy and unwavering encouragement. That cannot be forgotten. Loss sparked words, sparked conversations, shone light in long oppressed shadows. Thus, in smaller or bigger ways, the collectiveness, the odd but comforting sense of comradery lessened the feelings of defeat, for within failure, was there growth, and with new growth there shall always be new light; it is not an end, it is an alternate beginning.

Again

"Do it again," I said breathlessly, "maybe it's the atmosphere, but I can feel everything even in my toes."

And just like that, two restless spirits intertwined in bands of spirally colours, underneath the speckled sky, above the timid earth. Our sweat was golden and our tears were a vivid copper and our lips a burning red like ambers of a fire. The earth did not go unheard, the wind beneath the branches gave a hint of presents, the music a faint thump. The immediate air, nuclear.

Then, two auburn cravens collided into a singular, scorching embrace.