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.”