You’ve always felt different from a young age. You grew up being told you weren’t enough. These would be the voices of a permanent gloom, a cloud that would follow you for the rest of your life.
Yet you try outrunning your cloud. You pick up self-help books. You play motivational podcasts on repeat. You adopt the billionaires’ morning routines. But nothing changes. You’re still you. Only now you take cold showers and meditate as soon as you wake up.
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You know how I started my blogging career? By writing about my heartbreaks. This was during the Geocities days where you had to manually write each page’s HTML through Notepad.
You know what would’ve happened had I been lucky with the girls? I wouldn’t have had any reason to share my collection of cringe-rants. And I’ll tell you, my posts were so emo they could’ve fronted for My Chemical Romance.
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Photo: Toa Heftiba
Floaters are funny little things. They disappear when you don’t pay attention, but the moment you spot one, you realise just how many there are, drifting quietly in your vision, just waiting to be noticed.
That’s how lovelines look like to me. You can’t really tell until you consciously keep an eye out for them. Don’t bother Googling what lovelines are. It’s just a term I came up with, one that you’re probably curious about right now. I certainly was.
I used to slip her little notes,
In her closet, her bags, her pillows and clothes,
“Surprise!” the words I’d begin to pen,
“I love you. P.S: You’ve good taste in men.”
She’d laugh at these small novelties,
She loved the lil’ discoveries,
“I’ll get you back one day,” she’d say,
With a smile in her eyes, “There’ll be hell to pay!”
Been years, since we’ve moved past that mess,
Since she left me for someone else,
And I’d dust the coat I’ve not worn in a while,
And in the pocket a sheet would lie.
“I got you back just like I said,
“You’re cute, you’re sweet, and you’re really great,
“You’re my only one, my Mister Right,”
And I wept myself to sleep that night.
Photo credit: Boris Thaser
Sometimes my mind plucks out memories at random, and as part of the collateral, visions of people who’ve left a mark on my life without actually being a part of it get pulled out of the muck. These are strangers whose names and faces have escaped me through the passage of time, with only their actions serving as proof of our acquaintance.
I call these people randies, and I was thinking about one as I opened the door to the Jiu-jitsu gym. The thought barely even matured before Josh waved a phone at my face. “Hey! I heard Sandy’s getting married?”
“What?”
Your Friendly Malaysian Writer 