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.  

12:38

Do you know how it feels like having your whole world torn apart,

Disintegrating, falling straight through the gaps between your fingers?

When loneliness creeps behind you,

Intertwining, spreading throughout your being,

As jealousy brings forth another tide that consumes everything in its path.

When every audible sound you make shatters fragile bonds and return them to ruble,

As you struggle to cope with the crippling depression already engrained within each of your cells.

When even your family turns tail,

Shrieks of silents, 

As they leave echoes of criticism, that bore into your head, driving and controlling every action in hopes of change. 

And when your strongholds are too far away, and you alone on a hellish island,

As the waves of terror slowly drag you into the abyss. 

I wrote this

“Am I allowed to write about this?” I asked, doubt sinking into my gut.

“Ideally, you have every right.”

 He had a point. I do. I have every reason and I had every possible motive to write this. But the feelings of reservation and worry lingered within.

 Maybe, it’s because I’ve been told time and time again, by a society so hateful and set within their ways that what I believe in and what I am is deeply wrong. It always feels that I am split between realities, one of caring acceptance and the other of hateful confinement; and it’s dangerously easy to believe the one you have been raised within.

 I never, and have not yet felt at home within my family. Sometimes I just wish I could tell them, and for them to love me for who I am and I just want to be open and safe, but I can’t and I don’t. It is tragically comedic the way I fear the act of exposing myself and it doesn’t help that I hear first hand the way some have reacted to the same news. I dread the possible outcomes, the way they would blame everything and everyone, the “westerners, and their ‘liberal’ thoughts”, the “media and their influence on young minds” and even “the devil himself”, and as archaic and tired those beliefs are, a small part of me believes it too. And possibly worst yet, the way they shall choose to fathom the information, “it’s just a phase”, “you need to change your mentality”, or worst yet, “no”. 

 Nobody likes a sad story, so I don’t tell most people; and in place a façade of unimaginable glee, and mask my insecurities with jokes that diminish myself.

Solitary and alone I hid. But as the cliché goes, the truth set me free. For the first time in my life, I could say and be who I truly am, to feel whole and candid about my emotions and feelings. And even though it’s my intentional secret to keep, for now, from my family, I am fortunate to have discovered another in my friends and right now it is enough.

 But, it’s not. It’s not okay to have to put up with relatives hounding you on when you’re going to finally get a girlfriend, having friend’s parents say, “be careful” when they hang out with you, and for my very existence and who I am to be illegal. And neither is it okay that others are able to dictate a woman’s right to wear clothes they decide to wear. And it is not right that some are forced to marry and lack the access to education. And yet, we are still forced to live with it.

 While everyone has the power and capability to form their own opinions, one must not forget that so is everybody else. And by limiting each other and forcing upon other people an opinion, especially from a position of power, has absolutely devastating impacts. Psychologically, constraining and pressuring people to change and conform, potentially, has the power to effectively, pull someone into depression or worst to becoming suicidal.

I write this in hopes that I manage to evoke at least a tinge or slim sliver, of emotion, sympathy, regret, anger, comfort, something, anything that makes you different and that this effects you in whatever insignificant way. My hope for this, whatever this may be, isn’t so you feel sorry for me, it’s beyond that, I wanted to break the boundaries, and the glass celling, that maybe I have created for myself, and the taboo surrounding real issues effecting real people. Like Lauren Myracle once said, “What I find cool about being a banned author is this: I'm writing books that evoke a reaction, books that, if dropped in a lake, go down not with a whimper but a splash.”        

Another angsty post about how much I love this person

I wanna make it better
Make you feel loved always
Make sure nobody will ever hurt you again
I would do absolutely everything in my power to love you harder

But you don't see me in that way
And I get that you're in love with her
And that it is impossible and completely stupid
But I imaging our wedding on the beach and you smiling at me and I smiling back

I really think I fell for you
Hard and fast and I don't think I'll ever able to recover from that or at least extremely
Hard for me to even try to do so because
I am so very much in love with you

Impossible reality

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you," I said as I laid in bed, with two pillows under my head, and I hoped he understood, understood what I said and meant, and how much he meant to me. 

I loved how he smelt, the way he always smelt like detergent, clean, fresh. His room smelt like him too, and I could spend days in there with him. I loved the small secrets he tells me, like how he has to tuck his pants legs into his socks before he goes to sleep, and keep the bigger ones safe for him. I loved his hands so large and solid, I would hold them forever. I loved how he would smile and laugh at stupid things, and random jokes, how little things made him so happy. He was enough and more for me. I loved spending time with him and just be within his immediate company.

Smell

Today,

Everything smells like you,

And I hate how,

Everything, wonderfully, smells like you do

It’s everywhere.

In the places we’ve been and places we haven’t.

Places like the cracked and uneven pavements,

Like the rooms that stand in infinite silence

Your scent lingers and clings.

To the clothes I wear,

To the trees I walk past,

Every leaf saturated by you.

You don’t know how much I love you,

And I don’t even wanted to admit to myself the extent

Because it’s only your smell that stays with me,

For you that scent is someone else.

Infection

The sensation of removing something completely, 

For me is,

Fascinatingly and euphorically satisfying. 

But most things never do so. 

They grip and cling and hold on. 

The more you pull,

The more they tear off the pieces you want to keep.

And so you think you should just keep it where it has chosen to stay,

Hope that it won't hurt you anymore,

Hope that eventually with time it'll fall off,

A hollow shell of what it used to be.

Of course, it will not.

The more you leave it the more it takes away,

Infecting and spreading and decimating everything else.

Fall

Fall for an asshole 

Fall for someone that puts you down

Fall for someone who takes and doesn't give 

Fall for someone who won't love you back

Fall for the person who uses you

Fall for a person that leads you on 

Fall for someone who is in love with someone else 

And after you fall yourself hopefully you realize you don't need to fall for assholes anymore.

You don't need to feel like shit 

You don't need to take shit 

You don't need to pretend it doesn't hurt 

You don't need them 

Fall to stop falling 

Prayer

Bless the unfaithful and the questionable souls.

For they require most and demand only what is precious to their selfish lives. 

Give him the strength to find himself, and to quit his vices,

Give he what he truly desires, for something as pure as happiness cannot be reserved solely for the hearts of peace.

Give him the love he so wishes to keep.

Give her the health beyond her years, and to find calm in choppy seas,

Give her the joy and elation of fall for someone who loves her tender and sweet, and to let her believe it to be so.

Give her the strength to love with what she already has within herself and give that love him.

Give me the power to love them both, and to wish nothing but the best upon them.

Give me the ability to function without selfish intentions and self-loath, to be happy within the light of their happiness.

Give me the chance to move on.

Amen. 

Coffee

It's a bit tragic how the poems dedicated to you aren't even non-fictional.

It's like as if I process events unfolding with a romantic filter.

It's as if I brewed coffee with tea leaves and expect the same result. 

The words let me live out fantasies.

And the rhyme makes it seem as if there was a reason to thinking this way. 

And when there is no rhyme I like to think it's the emotional fiction taking over. 

And I don't want to think that there is no reality in my words.

Or in my rhyme and no rhyme.

Or even the filters put in place. 

But the tea hints at a stronger, nuttier, more caffeinated brew.

Pink

I fake painted your nails once.

You wanted them yellow. 

And carefully I traced my fingers around each nail,

As we sat on a pale pink blanket. 

As the sky shone with new light,

As the clouds rolled over. 

I painted your nails yellow. 

An ant crawled across the pink blanket 

And your nails still wet,

You flicked it away

And you said don't kill it

Because it could feel pain.

And then I imagined the fake paint 

Splattered teardrops on the pink.

And then I laid down,

And let my body finally sink.

And I sighed without a sound.

Happy

Am I happy if you are? 

Or am I too selfish to put you in a jar,

On the shelf? 

I want to be happy for you cause you're finally happy with yourself. 

But still I wanna kiss you and have you for myself. 

I, I, I, I, I, all I really think about is myself.

My wants and my needs and my desires.

I should let you go,

And I should be happy cause you're happy.

But I'm not. I still can't get over myself loving you. 

I still want to feel your hands on mine,

But you rather hold hers.

And I wanna run my hands in your hair, but you rather her do so. 

Yeah, I still can't get over you. 

And it's stupid. 

But my heart is selfish and desperate.

And I can't help but believe that you in a very small way love me too. 

She wrote

Hearts on pink beds in front of pink curtains in a pink room

Dolls scattered on the floor, sunlight peeks through the window

She sleeps with a thumb in her mouth and a dream in her mind

Candy coated

Denim jacket, pink skirt, Barbie sneakers.

Beads up her wrists and sunglasses in her plastic hand bag

Hops into a car, jumps onto a train

And suddenly she’s on a plane.

Up in the air, she’s told where she’s going

It swoops past her, what could be more important

When her Chelsea doll’s necklace is missing?

5500km she flys

Hard candy to dark chocolate, it seems her life made a u-turn

From Barbie sneakers to New Look sandals, 

From plastic hand bag to fringe cross body

From dolls in her hand to music plugged in her ears

She lived so naive, so lost in her own hole

Surrounded by walls she built herself

Almost never bothered to look up at the clouds

Until she found herself flying in them again

Candy coating eroded off, hearts on her bed become uneven circles

Walls half smashed by her own fist

Lying, being the product of realisation

Of the reflection that lied before

And below furry coats and 6 inch heels,

Under the charm of misguiding idols,

Beneath the thick layers of mascara,

A young black hole

- Amelia Ismar

All in my head

The thing is I always get too attached and the only way I stop, temporarily, is when I try too hard and I hurt myself. But, I will always let you in again just because I think this time it'll be different and that it will not end up the same. I think and I know and I hope that you would love me like how I love you. But, you don't and I can't help feeling like you should, because my heart wants it to be true that you and me, were fucking meant to be, maybe I just don't go out enough or I haven't met the person for me yet. The crazy thing is I think I've already met him and it's you. Why do I fucking think that my love for the rest of my goddamn life is someone who doesn't even think so? Maybe I'm just a lonely sad person, and that the idea of you appeals to me. But the only reason you tread me along, is because it appeals to you to have an admirer, and yet I still hold that string with both hands.