Fifty, fifty

  Know what it feels like to be split in two? To have a fine dotted line spliced right down your center and having both halves trade punches. Both sides bitchin' it out to come out on top, to give you a right and ready ultimatum. Problem is, they're so equally matched, like Son Goku and Superman. Attacks and counterattacks fire between them in rapid fire succession, leaving your battlefield of your body ravaged and tired, exhausted from all that turmoil. With less than a month away from my big departure, and nothing describes it better for me.

  Everything feels like it's on a clock now. My heads on a permenant stopwatch. A big countdown till it's all over. ' One month left.... One month left... One month left...' it's all I can hear, it's all I can think about! One month left to play with my siblings. One month left to swear and joke around in my Saxish accent. Hell, I can't even have a Döner in peace without smacking it with a one month left label. From the moment I stumble out of bed till the second I lay my head down at night, this maniacal mantra of panic is endlessly looping round my head.

  A side of me wants to stay so desperately. It wants to anchor itself down and reap all the fruits of its' hard, bloody labour. Learning German. Making new friends. Understanding a foreign family. Dealing with withering looks from strangers. To not let all that blood, tears, and effort be in vain. It wants to carry on the way things are. To enjoy the four seasons. To speak this peculiar German dialect. To be finally fit itself in the big Jigsaw puzzle after having to adapt itself for what seems like forever.

  Meanwhile, the others side of me is having this massive erection at the prospect of homecoming. To finally be able to see friends and family again. To walk my dog again. To come home retuned and renewed, ready to take on the big bad world and start anew. A fresh start. To, after all this time being a fish out of water, finally be able to dive right back into familiar waters. Finally be able to get on with a life that I've been having on hold for 10 whole months.

  And so thy bicker. A regret here, a sweet memory there. All the up's and down's resurface from my memory bank and go all out on each other. A racist remark versus the Alps. A scolding from my guest mother versus my first kiss. Being alienated from my classmates versus playing with my siblings in the backyard. Finally when the dust settles and I take a good look around, it always comes out even. Like two huge battalions blowing each other to smithereens leaving nothing but empty land. Neutral. Blank.

  I hate this feeling. I hate coming out even. I mean, I should be feeling awesome right? I should be doing cartwheels and backflips whilst yelling about how epic this year was. I should be. Strangely enough, no. Instead, I'm lying down on my bed, staring blankly into the ceiling. Trying to soak it all up. Trying to wrap my head around the idea of leaving it all behind. Family. Friends. Food. Memories. Let me savour these last moments. Let me breathe before I take the plunge.

 

Technological middle-man.

  Plug in. That's what I bet you'll do. Block out everything else. Close the blinds on the natural scenery outside. Shut out the foreign conversation going on behind you. Occupy your mind with trivial things like todays Potd or Candy Crush. Create your own little imaginary bubble, where everything is secure, and nothing goes out of plan. Doesn't even matter where you are, be it on a train , in class or having a five-star dinner. Go on, I bet you will.

  Technology and I have a bittersweet history. A romance, if I had to put a label on it. It started off sweet and innoncent, me playing with my Gameboy Color, catching Pokemon and beating Gym leaders. Got to the point where things turned bitter, me skipping class for days on end to jam on some DotA. To where I stand now, the insecurity of whether I should return to it or not. Like an ex-girlfriend that I never got over, I don't know if I should go back to technology.

  I'm on the fence with this one. That plain white-picket fence between the great dilemma of the century. Embrace it, or sack it entirely. A part of me just wants to jump right back in and stop being left out. To start playing the newest installments like 'The Last of Us' and 'Grand Theft Auto V' and revell in the new technological revolution. Another part of me doesn't want to get hooked again, to go back to old habits.

  On the sunny side of things, technology has made so many things possible. We are breaking new ground on a daily basis. Whether it be gene-splicing crops to give us more yield, or implanting robotic-action-organ-transplanting nanobots to repair dead cells in our bodies, we are achieving more and more of the impossible each day. These scientific advancements have become the core of our lives and how we live it. You couldn't even take a bite of food without technology playing it's role.

  Consequently, all these headways in our lives have come to make us smug. Everything is fed to us. We need not lift a finger for anything nowadays. Want to buy some furniture? Well, screw Ikea. Just pre-order some authentic Asian furniture online and it'll be here in 2 weeks, along with assembly crew, if needed. Unnerving thing about this is, it's that the costs are indistinguishable and you need not even step out your front door.

  You know what, I think I like where I stand. The line between Technological Junkie and Outdoors Woodsman. The tightrope between the old and new. Being able to recognize the newest memes and still be able to distinguish the edible mushrooms from the ones that'll make you spill your stomach. To be capable of beating noobs in a friendly game of DotA 2 and still enjoy a jog in the woods. That's what I want to be. A technological middle-man.

The climb.

  Right foot up. Halt. Left arm outwards. Index and middle finger into that small depression. Pray. Don't look down. Hold on tight, for dear life. There's a time in every man's life where he finds himself asking ' What the hell did I get myself into? ' And as I kept repeating that statement over and over again in my head, I held on tight to that cliff. So tight that my fingers chaffed and my toes swelled with what looks like it'll turn into blisters afterwards.

  Couple of days earlier, I recieved an innoncent-looking invitation to go climbing. A Sunday get-away to the Saxonian mountains where all you could see or hear was Mother Nature herself. Fresh air. Hiking. Sunshine. Not to mention the prospect of doing something novel to me. Why not? Impulsively, I jumped at the chance and promptly confirmed my enthusiasm for the idea. Next thing ya know, I'm slumped in an empty bus, trodding towards the mountains.

  So here I am. Roughly 30 meters off the ground, plastered to the face of a sheer drop. I couldn't help myself as my breathing got heavier and heavier. The cold numbed my fingers and made it even harder to get a good hold on the harsh rocks. In spite of the safety line securely fastened around my waist I was still having a hard time not shitting my pants all together. Stealing a glance backwards, I saw my others comaradies all the way down there. Ants would look bigger.

  Sitting pretty on top of this monstrosity of a mountain was Sabine, half-amused at how scared I looked and half-worried I might actually just slip and tear my spine in half, living my life paralyzed waist down. She was leaning over the edge, yelling instructions as to where to put my limbs and how to pull myself upwards. The encouraging look on her face was the only thing holding my wits together at the time.

  With one last haul, I strained myself over the ledge and plopped myself on the plateau above. My breaths still heavy and damp with condensed mist. I didn't even care about the cold anymore, I was relieved. ' Enjoy the view. ' Sabine suggested. ' It's the best part.' And I did, with my palms facing backwards, I leaned onto them and took in the view. Trees and sunshine streaked the horizon, stretching far off my vision. Like poetry. Just as I was about to get comfy, she said ' Come on, it's a long way back down. '

Every exchange's low.

  Here it comes. They specifically warned me about this. They told me to prepare myself for when it hits. 'Be ready' they warned. It's the whiplash. It's the recoil when you fire a 12-gauge shotgun. It's the pain you get when you belly-flop from a 5 meter springboard into the pool. Cause every good feeling has an equally shitty one. And for awhile now, I've been having it good. Too good. Even if they made it clear, I still didn't believe them. Chuckled and shrugged it off. I thought this year was only going to be beer and pretty girls. Never have I been so mislead.

  An exchange programme is like a game of high-stakes poker. High profits. High risks. High losses. And once you place your bets, there ain't no backing out. Only difference is, instead of money, you're betting with your all. Everything. Your time. Your efforts. Your body. Your emotions. It's all on the line in an exchange programme. You're throwing yourself into the far end, where only your choices and wit can save you. And like any bet, you win some, you lose some.

  Out here, you own nothing. No family. No lovers. No friends. Nothing but the clothes on your back and the toiletries you brought along with you. Even the family you stay with, they can drop you like a sack of potatoes at a moment's notice. Send you packing to another family crazy enough to shelter you. There's no comfort zone. Every place another violation. There is no refuge. A small slip-up can well ruin your day and send you running into your room, crying for mummy, only she isn't there. No one is.

  The volunteers in Malaysia, they described it as a roller-coaster. A high-low trade kinda deal. Where the highs scrape the skies and the lows could literally break you, with all the little loopy-doops in between that churns you from the inside-out. There isn't a doubt in my mind, that the best and the worst experiences that I've had so far are all crunched up into these measly 10 months. From feeling the warm touch of young love, to being socially alienated, it's all here. All part of the package.

  Truthfully, there are days where I wish I never chose to come here at all. When strangers make fun of me and keep yelling 'Ni Hao' while slitting their eyes. When my classmates don't talk to me and leave me to sit alone in a class I barely understand. When my guest parents and I argue about house rules and how it should be carried out. On these days, I just feel like jumping on a plane back home where I'll proceed to hug my parents and enjoy a meal of Grandma's home-cooked food.

  But no matter how low it gets, no matter how shitty or worthless I feel right now, I know for a fact there'll be another high waiting for me at the horizon. And it's gonna feel like sunshine and chocolate cakes when I get there. I just have to wait it out. Wait out the storm. Momma told me time and time again 'Smooth seas never make a skillful sailor.' This'll be the last storm before we hit harbor. The last storm before we hit home.

 



  

This summer.

  An awkward silence fell upon us in the car as the blaring radio continued to fill us up with the newest pop songs. It wasn't because we didn't like each other or anything, quite the contrary in fact, we've come to be family. A moment of companionable silence as we pondered how fast time slipped between our fingers. 3 weeks in the bat of an eye. It didn't get much better once we reached the train station either. We hugged, and I left.

  There they go. Another family that blew my mind with their unprejudiced kindness and bold-faced hospitality. How easily they welcomed a foreign stranger into their home and treated me nothing short as a son of their own. A slitty-eyed, language-impaired son, but a son nonetheless. I wish I could thank them enough for their generosity, but I know no amount of gifts or material possesions could cut it. So I left them with kind words and memories. I'm a cheap bastard like that.

  I've been given a grand total of 6 weeks of summer holidays here in Germany. Six weeks to see it all. Six weeks to do it all. Six weeks of freedom before that prison of a school starts rounding up all it's convicts again. Five weeks in, and I'm already slumped in my recliner, half-dead from a blocked nose and a back that's screaming bloody murder from sleeping on a rock-bed of a mattress. But I still had that smug look on my face. A smug look that said :' It's been a hell of a ride.'

  Maybe it was the places I visited. From the towering trees of the Black forest to the actual towers of Berlin, and all the gooey bits in between. I've had the treat of seeing them. It's humbling really, when I realise how tiny my world really is. To have my definitions and boundaries of the world shattered bit by bit as I travel around this part of Europe. An occasional crystal-clear river or a perfect sunset over the horizon shows me how big the world really is, and how small my problems really are.

  Maybe it was the things I've done. They say novelty is key to a happy and healthy mind. There's been no shortage of that. Whether it's slaving over a hot stove for the family or strumming on guitar strings for the first time, this summer has been an eye-opener. It doesn't matter what you do really, long as you step out and take a bat at some new things. After all, it ain't about how much you know, it's about how much you know you don't, and making the effort to.

  Maybe it's the people I've met. An 18 year-old vegetarian bombshell. A rock climber whose also a single mom. An Argentinian photographer who plans on taking on Iceland. All sorts of people from all walks of life, each one sharing a bit of their story with me. A bit of their lives. And their stories have done everything from inspiring me to making me want to pull the trigger on myself. And to think, there's 7 billion more of them out there, each one special in their own quirky way.

  A big shame now that it's almost over though. There's something about having too much fun in one time. Once you get back to your normal routine, you're bound to feel the recoil of reality. Sorta like the monday blues. I guess I'll just cuddle myself up into a ball and indulge on all the Nutella I can until I get into the jive of things again. Momma did always tell me:' Don't be sad because it's over, be glad it happened.' And I'm damn glad I had this summer.

     

How big a sister.

  I chuckled pretty hard when you showed me this picture. Maybe it's the buck-teeth-monkey-grin on my face. Maybe it's that yellow floor-rag of a T-shirt that I was wearing. Maybe it's the fact that I've outgrown you so much since I was 12. ( You mad, short-stuff? ) Or maybe it was the sweet taste of victory that came shortly after winning our bet. Oh sweet, sweet Magnum. Remember how I didn't even like nuts in my Magnums' back then? Classic Magnum was all the rage for me.

  But after staring at it for awhile, I realised it was probably none of those things that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Not the ice-cream. Not the familiar bugs-bunny teeth that I could drink soup with my teeth clenched. And sure as hell not that floor-rag of a shirt that's wiping up faecal remains back home. No, it was probably none of those long-forgotten things. It was you, zhe. The fact that everything else in that photo changed, but you sticked around.

  I know it's probably too little too late, but I'd like to apologize for how I made your younger days much harder than it should've been. First born's gotta always take the shit for the rest of the siblings, something I sorta picked up here in Germany.The way I whined and cried about everything. The way I bitched to mom about how you locked me out of your room with your teenage friends. And let's not forget how I air-guitared you all the way to the bathroom. No elaboration needed there.

  But, oh no, I didn't stop there did I? I had to go and mess up your teenage years as well. The way I slid across the living room floor butt-ass naked was more than enough to send your best-friends packing away in embarassment. Or how I was like the BIGGEST cock-block ever whenever you brought boys back home. Oh god, the more I think about it, the more I feel like slapping myself as a kid. I probably ruined a lot of plans you had.

  Not only was I a bane on your social-life, I think you had to bear the brunt of our family problems too. As the unappointed chief of our two-man sibling tribe, you probably cleared a lot of air with mom and dad about the do's and dont's to raising a teenager. You were the first. The first to hit puberty. The first to move out. The first to go to university. You were the toe in cold water before the icy plunge of childhood-raising. So when the time came for me to undergo the magic of puberty, they already roughly knew what to expect.

  Growing up, I never really had an answer to those :' Whose your role model? ' questions. I just settled for Steve Irwin whenever someone asked, cause he's all brave and shit. ( and he was actually really brave) But what's he ever taught me? The hidden dangers of stingrays? Well, it might be too late to answer those 'whose your idol' questions now, but I do have an answer. And I don't even need to look far, cause she's sitting right beside me in our little family tree.

  A writer, a musician, and more recently, a doctor. That's like the pinacle of our asian mentality! What everyone should be like. Damn, my sisters' actually a doctor now. How am I ever gonna match that? Way too ease off that inter-sibling expectation, zhe. Now I gotta be some PHD or something so Mom and Dad can look at us in the same room, haha. You're one whose so far up in society, and yet, so close to home. Who could make a better role-model?

  Other brothers probably buy expensive shoes or jewelry for their sisters' birthdays. Don't tell me you don't need those materialistic things, cause I know you like the bling-bling. But I'm just sitting here, 10000 kilometres away from home, typing on a keyboard for you. Another plain example of how I fail in the sibling-love category. I have still to match that PS2 you bought for me, someday I will, when I got the moolah. But for now, this will have to do.

  Happy Birthday zhe, kep rocking and stay awesome like you are. We'll see each other soon in Germany.

Lots of love,
Marcus



 

 

Much ado about death.

  Don't take me for a creep or anything, but I have a confession. Feel free to feel weirded out or judge me during the course of your read, but at least hear me out. I like walking around graveyards and reading other people's gravestones. I like reading the names and the lifespans of the long passed. No, I'm not a grave robber, neither am I some sort of sadist looking for his kicks. It's just something about graveyards that sober me up, you know? Like a cold splash of water in the morning after a night of too much sleep.

  In my defense though, the graves here in Europe and really pretty to look at. They're lined with colorful flowers and neatly trimmed bushes. Occasionally, when a dearly departed is still being payed respect, I might even spot a full bouquet of flowers lying next to the graves. It's the gravekeepers job to keep them fresh, even graves over 50 years old look brand-new. To top it off, the golden-lettered engravings etched in marble give me all the more reason to marvel them.

  Aw, who am I kidding, if I really wanted some marble and flowers, I'd have visited a florist or some fancy porcelain store. No, there's something a little bit darker about the graveyards that keep me visiting. Maybe it's the solemn atmosphere. Maybe it's the peaceful surroundings. Or maybe I'm just still trying to see if ghosts exist or not. But wait, there's more. I sort of have my own little game that I play whenever I visit graveyards. No, don't worry, I give the dead and departed ample respect whenever I visit.

  I like looking for the young ones. I've actually spent hours scrounging and combing graveyards, looking for a young death. A 10 year old boy. A 2 year old infant. It doesn't matter to me. Long as they're young. Long as they're young enough to feel innoncent. The youngest I've found was barely over a year old. An infant, barely strong enough to walk, ripped and taken away from this world. A soul, deprived of it's chance to live. Deprived of it's chance to love.

  There's just something about a young death that sparks my thoughts into flames. They were so young. So innoncent. So pure. Now, I'm not a man of God. But I like to believe that there's a little bit of karma exists in this world. Do good, get good, you know? But it's things like a young death that pull me into the harsh reality of the two  biggest things that make our world. Of the miracle of life and the tragedy of death. Of how one cannot exist without it's significant other.

  Sadistic as it sounds, I actually feel a tiny bit happier when I leave a graveyard. Happier in the fact that I can still breathe fresh air. Happier in the fact that I can still feel sunshine on my skin. Happier in the fact that I can still enjoy a breathtaking view. Happier that I'm still alive. Yea, I guess death is somewhat of a sad tragedy. But sometimes it takes a tragedy for you to realise what a miracle really is. The miracle of our lives.

Much to see.

  I'm sitting there at the passenger side of the car, my temples layed heavily on the window, smearing it with my oily-ass face. My gaze was lazy as I watched traffic and buildings pass by. Damn, this was boring. I thought I've seen all there is to see. Nothing left to explore. No spark. In a lot of ways, I was pretty arrogant. Arrogant in the fact that I never ceased the chances to explore. I was content with my little bubble of a world. Thinking all that's cool out there has already been seen and done. Truth is, I haven't seen shit yet.

  Adventure wasn't exactly my favourite word in the teenage years. That time was mostly spent drooling and droning in front of a computer screen cultivating a world that doesn't exist. Frankly, I was a sad-bag of a kid. And I wonder still what awesome things I could have done with myself and all that time. Then again, I wouldn't BE me if it weren't for all that time wasted. I guess you never really know how to appreciate time until you've wasted a lot of it. Better late than never, huh?

  Ever since I've had the priviledge of embarking to Germany for my exchange programme, I can honestly say, that part of me has changed though. Ever since I've stepped foot off that plane, everything changed. I was flung to the far end. The language was different. The weather was different. Heck, even the way people ate bread was different here. Bread is an art here. Everything so new, so novel. Everything's like a new page in a book that I've never even seen before.

  Damn right it was scary at first. Terrifying, in fact. You'd probably shit your pants too if you're sent halfway across the world to a country whose language you couldn't speak. I had to approach everything with caution, even the simplest things like leaving a window open can get yourself a free verbal ass-whopping here. Not that I understood a word of it anyways when I first came. But then again, the constant fear was what made it so exciting. The novelty made me feel like a genuine 5 year old again.  

  I find myself doing things I never did back home. Sometimes, I'd just take a train down into town, find a nice shady bench and just watch people walk by. All different 7 billion of us, each one with a story to tell, each one of us special in our own quirky way. Not to mention the places I've come to see and love as well. Another town, another street, another story. The grafitti, the engravings, the tiles. Everything so novel. People and places, what other reason do I need to get off my computer?

  And the best part of it is, I still have SO much to see. I've only been to this one country, after all. Think of all the other countries and cities I have yet to see, the other people I hve yet to meet, the others unknowns I have yet to explore. True, sometimes I wish I was back home, furthering my studies like everyone else. But then I think, there's gonna be a good 40 years for me to do that. I think I can spare this one year. This one year to see a bit of this world.

 

  

Cages.

  I'm looking at our little yellow pet parakeet as it's striding along it's tiny metal cage. It's hopping up and down plastic tubes painted just to look like branches. Not like this poor guy has ever even grasped a real wooden branch with his scaly bird feet before. Never tasted the fresh air and sunshine outside. Never spread his wings to fly high up into the skies. Shit, that's probably the best part of being a bird, even he's been robbed of that. Robbed of his freedom. But no, he's singing and chirping along, happily rolling around in his own poop. He doesn't know about the world outside. All he knows is his cage.

  We all have our own cages, whether we're aware of that fact or not. Be it our cozy homes , our comfortable beds or our same close-knit group of friends, our cages are all around us. They keep us safe. They keep us sheltered. Our sanctuary when the big bad world out there doesn't seem to work in our favour anymore. We crawl into our cages. crawl in and wait out the storm. But the storm never dies, it never fades. The world is always going to hurt you, so you stay inside your cage, never braving the cold outside.

  I had a cage once, oh, and what a lovely cage it was. I holed myself up in this cage for such a long long time. Sometimes, I still wonder what I could've done with all that time, all that good time put to waste. For the first two years of my high school, I spent at least four hours a day gaming. Mom never knew, she thought I was doing schooly things or sleeping off the morning, like every good little boy does. In reality, I was spending all that time playing DotA.

  Believe me, I wanted to stop. I knew it was wrong. I wanted to get out there and do something useful with myself, like join the athletics team or get involved in school activities. But I guess I wasn't willing enough, I guess I just didn't have the balls, I was a little bitch. In my defence though, I was having a pretty hard time in my life. My acne started acting up, and my self-esteem was at an all-time low. So I turned to this virtual world, this virtual world where I could destroy my enemies and said I was a 'pro'.

  Like a serial killer on a murderous rampage, I killed all my time away for a good year and a half. I got caught eventually though. Needless to say, I got into real big shit because of that and I doubt my parents ever completely trusted me after that. Their trust for me shattered, and it took me a long time to gain it back. Even though I played less, it was still there, right up until I left for Germany. Even on the eve of my SPM exams I still went to cyber cafes to satisfy my needs. It was THAT strong.

  It was like a drug. My drug. It was my escape for the harsh reality of the big bad world. It was my escape from the big exams, condescending teachers, non-chalant friends and just plain stress. It's one of those :" Fuck it, everything's screwed anyway, so why even bother? " kind of thing you know? Even in school, the only topic we could bring ourselves to talk about was about last nights' game or if there were any upcoming cool games. I craved it. I needed it. Thankfully, not anymore.

  And it worries me to think that I was one of the lucky ones. I had a kick-ass mom who was strict enough with me to do what's necessary. Sure it was stressful that I hated her most of the time. Sure it was probably easier to just let me play away at the computer for 8 hours a day. I'd create less of a fuss that way anyway. But no, she stood by me, even though I never did realise it. She did what's best for me. What's best for my future. Love you for that, ma. But what about the others? The others still locked away in their comfortable cages?

  Computer games are only the tip of the ice-berg. What about the things that go unseen? What about those kids who spend 10 hours a day checking Facebook, and still think it's completely fine? Now, I'm not some idealist whose hell-bent on changing this world by ridding it of these things. No, I've given up being the hero a long time ago. In this world where no one wants to be saved, a hero is no longer welcomed. Maybe it's meant to be this way. Maybe we'll be stuck in our cages forever. And when we finally grow old and lay on our death beds, maybe then we'll finally look out the window and see the world outside. The world we missed.

 



 



 

The forest where we met.

  Swaying left and right on a rocking hammock, I'm looking at the clear blue sky above. The sound of running water and chirping birds are drawing me closer and closer into sleep. But no, I can't sleep now, not yet. I need to think about this. Think about the people here. They baffle me, and I don't like the idea of sleeping when something out there is baffling me. Especially when they're everyday normal People. Everday normal people doing something extraordinary. No, sleep can take a hike for the next week. I've got a week of discovery to make.

  To be honest, I had no idea what to expect of this excursion when I shuffled off that bus with my 200 pound rucksack filled with shit I probably didn't need. Frankly, I was pretty pissed at how I didn't get my first choice. A bike tour over 3 different countries sounded a whole lot cooler than cultivating mushrooms in a forest. Well, six days in a forest didn't sound too bad either, I could use some time to just rest and relax. I pictured it'd to be 6 days of laying on grass and just chilling out next to a warm fire at night burning on marshmallows. Hah, that sounds good doesn't it? 

  And that's when they explained what we had to do for the next 6 days. We had to work. 8 hours a day. 2 lunch breaks. No pay. At first, I was pretty dumbfounded. Well you'd feel like that too if you had to pay 100 euros just to haul your ass halfway across the country on a 10 hour trip just to work. But what the hey, I rolled with it. What have I got to lose anyway? It's not like I had any REAL plans for this summer holiday other than mentally starving myself at home. Might as well get my hands dirty and maybe, just maybe, I'll have some fun while I'm at it.

  And that's when I started to get to know these people. These crazy people. Their motives interested me. I mean who the hell would spent a whole entire week of summer holdiays working their butts off in a forest for no apparent gain? Hell, most of them are grown-ass adults who actually have to take time OFF work to be here. If I had known what to expect, I probably would have wussed myself outta there. Wussed out and told myself to stay at home and stone in front of the computer all day. At least, i'd stay comfortable. Thankfully, I went for it. Thankfully, I'm an idiot like that.

  And so we worked those six days away. Six days of little sleep. Six days of blisters and back aches. Six days of swatting off feasting mosquitoes. Strangely enough, none of us complained  about those things as we broke our backs under that blistering summer sun. In fact, we were laughing and sharing jokes about how fucked up our lives were. It was truly remarkable for me. It defied and smashed all I knew about people. Or at least what I thought I knew. I never knew people like this still existed, people who are willing to selflessly give themselves to a bigger cause.

  They say humanity reaches it's peak when men start planting trees whose shades they'll never sit in. Not wanting to over-lament things, but for the past six days, I caught a short glimpse of that. We paved forest paths that we'll probably never walk in. We fed animals we'll never see or touch. We did all these things for something bigger than us. The forest probably won't even notice we were there. We were like tiny little ants. Tiny ants who slaved their asses off for a huge colony that probabaly won't even acknowledge their existence.

  Maybe some people would call it stupidity doing something like this. Not like we got any money, right? Not like we got any gain, rihgt? Not like the rest of the world noticed or glorified what we did, right? Not like we became successful or anything. No money. No certificates. No proof. Just us and our efforts. Our efforts to work for the bigger picture. Our efforts to make this world a little bit better instead of bitching about it on Facebook or complaining about it to our friends. Even if it was only a tiny bit.

  And as we hugged and waved each other goodbye at the train station platform, I can't help but feel my heart getting a little heavier. Where else in the world am I ever going to meet people like these again? People who selflessly gave their time, sweat and effort for something nobody else wants to get their hands dirty for. It's a sobering thought. But I like sober thougts, they always surprise me. Just like these people have. These people who I met in the forest.





   

Outside my window.

  Smeared and smudgy with fingerprints and possibly dried snot, the bus window which I was looking out of made me rethink what I called dirty. I withdrew my hands before I could touch them, I'd rather not catch cancer today. A middle-aged man was leaning heavily against the railing in front of me, obviously being too cool to sit. His body was riddled with piercings, and he had tattoos on top of his tattoos. Whenever he had the chance, he'd shoot a withering glance in my direction, just to make sure I knew how much of a bad ass he was. From that distance, he could've heard my muffled smirking. But with the deafening volume of music he was listening to, I doubt he could hear anything at all.

  Not one of my best bus rides admittedly, but my mind was somewhere else. Through the filthy bus windows, the world outside had my full attention. Ever took a good look at one of those country-side post cards? Where there's a picture of rolling hills peppered with trees sitted so beautifully in front of a sunset? And birds, they'll always add pretty-ass birds in there just for good measure. Toss in a couple of farm animals, and I almost feel like buying one for myself already. I always thought that part of the world was a myth. Not because I was a conspiracist or anything, I just never saw it  with my own eyes before.

  Growing up, the big city was everywhere around me. Traffic jams were common as dirt  and the only trees you see are ones sprouting out of concrete. Even when I lay my head down at night, the distant sound of zooming cars and redundant fireworks was never too far away. Where the only things I scrape my knees and elbows on are tar and concrete. A concrete jungle. I remember spending my childhood in this. As kids, we'd stuff rolled up newspapers into car exhaust, just for kicks. We'd patiently wait for the owner to walk by and we'd burst out laughing when the newspaper roll shot out in black smoke after a million starts.

  Just going outside to play required adult supervision back then. Even then, I still managed to break a poor kids' nose off a bike. Somedays, we weren't even allowed to go outside. The air would be so thick with haze that our eyes watered and it hurt to even breathe. Even when it rained, the water would still feel warm on your skin. You've learned to keep well away. Get enough of that on your skin and you'd bound to be scratching a sleepness night away. From where I'm from and where I'm at, even the most simplest of things are different. Even the rain.

  But here, it's different here. Not the most happening of places though, malls and fancy cafes don't exist, and the only action you get around here is watching cows chew their cuds all day long. But at least I can breathe here. Here, the rivers don't stain the bottom of my pants brown. After staying in the hustle and bustle of the big city for so long, I guess I've overlooked some of life's simplest gifts. A breathe of fresh air. Beautiful scenery.It's the little things, you know? It's the little things that make this world all worthwhile. The world outside this window.



Candles.

  It's probably nothing short of plaigarism when I quote William Shakespeare's "Life's brief Candle". It's one of those poems that really stir your mind by throwing it into a blending machine. He puts it so well, he puts it so morbid, he puts it so real. I could never really wrap my head around his words back in high school. But now, as I think about his words again, I start to see them a little bit clearer. Of course, not as clear as the great poet himself, but somewhat clearer than my younger self. And that's reason enough for me to write. 

  Shakespreare poured out his thoughts on life with pen and paper. I've always been one for words and how they can invoke all sorts of images and thoughts in the depths of your imagination. Words prod and poke at your grey matter, making you think about ideas and things that are larger than you can grasp. It promotes healthy thought. Cause after all, what do we really have to call our own, other than the thoughts in our heads and the senses in our nerves?

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

creeps from this petty pace,

To the last sylabble of recorded time,

All of our yesterdays have lighted fools,

The way to dusty death.

  I'm shambling, crawling and struggling through each day like it's another curse tied to me. The days grow less and less significant as I progress, the days mean less and less, until they eventually mean nothing to me anymore. A petty pace, as he puts it. I'm trapped in someone else's life, living someone else's dream. Study hard. Get good grades. Have a job. Make loads of money. Have a family. Grow old. Die. All I'm really doing is dying then. I'm dying, and I don't even know it.

  Society makes me feel that way sometimes. You ain't nobody till you become successful. You ain't nobody till you make loads of money. You ain't nobody till you own a big house on top of a hill and fill it with a picture perfect family that you can brag about to all your friends. And so we set out, we set out to find these things. These things we THINK will make us happy. We spend our lives chasing fast cars, fancy clothes and huge mansions all in the name of popularity. All of us not having the slightest idea, our time in this world is short.

  And the worst part is, when we impart this dreadful dogma of ours to the next generation. Our children, our grandchildren, they'll live the same lives we lived, slowly die the same way we died and regret the same things we regretted. We'll be lighting a way for them. Lighting a bunch of fools onward to their dusty deaths, where they'll tell their children to do the same. A cycle. A cycle of dusty deaths repeating itself over and over again.

Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player,

That struts and frets his hours upon the stage,
and then is heard no more,

it is a tale,

Told by and idiot,

full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

  We'd all like to think we're somewhat immortal, like each day is entitled to us, and that there will always be more days to come. That's why we live the way we do, cause there's always another chance tomorrow, isn't it? Cause tomorrow, I'll finally do all the things I wanna do, I'll chase those big dreams I've always had. But only tomorrow, okay? Cause today, I feel like sitting around and think about all the wonderful and productive things I'll be doing tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

  In a methaporic kinda way, our lives are a lot like burning sticks of candles. We're burning away, our way dripping down, drop by drop, bit by bit, until we eventually burn ourselves out and fade away, fade away into nothing. Heck, some of us don't even burn out all the way. A draft of rogue wind, a drop of cold water, that's all it takes to put us out. To put us out before we eventually burn ourselves down to nothing. Nothing but melted wax on the floor. Melted wax that no one will take notice of, that no one will remember.

  And that makes me ponder. Makes me ponder about what kind of candle I am, and what sort of candle I wanna be. Frankly, I don't want to be the candle who burns the brightest, nor do I want to be the candle who burns the longest either. When I finally extinguish myself to the ground, I wanna be the candle who says :" That was a good run." I wanna be the candle who says:" There isn't a single drop of wax I would change." I wanna burn my ass down and not regret a single damn thing.

  It's amusing really how such a short jumble of words can stir all these ideas into my head. Wheter or not they were intentional, we'll never find out now. In short, just get out there and do whatever you wanna do with your life. Maybe you'll displease some people along the way, maybe you'll break some rules. But at least, you're living a life that's honest, and you're being true to yourself. And in my opinion, that's the best damn gift you can treat yourself to. A little bit of radcial honesty. Radical honesty and hot chocolate.

  

The Nomad.

  You travel. You adapt. You survive. Everywhere is home, cause home is wherever you lay your head at night. You've abandoned all the luxuries you've once took for granted. Video games. Good friends. Family. Your home. They're all thousands of miles away from your reach. Cause luxuries can't afford to exist when you're living like this. You thought it would be glorious, to move away, to break out of the norm. But gosh, you never thought about the lonliness that would ensue, never thought about the isolation, never thought how'd it'd be like to be disposable. A nomad.

  This isn't a dry and unforgiving sand dune though. This isn't a journey with a camel across thousands of miles of desert to sell and trade your goods. No. It's a city. It's a town. It's a village. There's thousands of people around, and yet you feel so alone. Because you're different, you're an outsider. They know you're not here to stay, they know you'll move on. So, they alienate you, they shun you and they exclude you. Cause they know there's not much you can give them, nothing to gain from a friend with a expiry date. 

  But you try anyway. You adapt. You blend. You change. You change into their ways and mold into their shapes. You start walking their walk, talking their talk and mocking what they mock too. Anything it takes. Anything it takes for them to see that you're human too, just like them. Sooner or later, you progress. You find yourself thinking the way they do even when they're not around anymore. But deep down, the timer is still clicking away, whether you remember or not.

  You're happy. Happy because you've finally been accepted. They mutually respect you now, seeing you as one of their own. Seeing you as an outsider who gave his all to be one of them. Part of the flock. They celebrate, they praise you. Praise you for your adaptability and how you're able to do it so fast. That's when you start to forget. Start to forget where you're from. You're lost in a soceity that finally accepts you after all that effort you've put in. After all those lonely nights waiting.

  You've finished packing. Tying up your shoelaces with your luggage by the doorstep, you don't say a word to the others. You leave. Not because you want to, but because the winds of change dictate so. Forces bigger than you. Forces out of your control. Forces that say it's time for your ass to get a move on. And so you leave, to your next home. Your home away from home away from home. This is how it is. You're disposable. You're adaptable. You're a nomad.

  

 

The stork.

   By now, my sweat has already dampened the running tee under my jacket. My breaths came out long and hard, the result of 30 minutes of a good pace. I've ran many roads here in my small town, but somehow, this road always appeases to me best. The way that it stretches for 3 kilometres straight to another small town and is lined by an abundance of trees and fields always keeps me coming back to it. Like a beckoning lover. Up ahead, a cleared straw field draws up, freshly cut and trimmed. My nose twitches to the light smell of diesel.

  I've seen this field dozens of times on my runs, but it was a little different this time, cleared and more watery than usual. Highlighted white among the yellowing fields, there it stood. Well stood wasn't really the right word, there it... leaned. Waddling around in the watery grass, ocassionally pecking away at the mud by stretching it's already more-than-stellar neck, a stork.  Not that I've never seen a stork before, just not one this close. I thought about stopping to admire it for awhile, but I didn't want to risk losing the Endorphins already pumping hard in my veins. So I ran on.

  I always have this funny habit of reaching this certain sign in town to before I turn back. After completing my quirky little ritual, I finally turned back for the return run, relaxed and satisfied. Needless to say, I came across the already yellower fields of cut grass. To my surprise, my acquaintence still stood there, pecking away aimlessly at the ground, clumsily waddling around with it's pinkish legs. It must've been at it for the full 45 minutes I was gone, seeing as how no other storks were squelching around.

  This time however, I couldn't help but slow down into an eventual stop and look at it. With the loud music blaring from my Walkman, I could've sworn I perked it's interests. It tilted it's head, just enough to set it's coffee-black eyes on me for a moment. Sensing this lanky young man was no danger, it went back to it's aimless pecking and waddling around in the already reeking muddish grass. And I just stood there, at the side of a bicycle lane, looking at it. 


  In many ways, this bird reminds me a lot about myself. Butt-ugly as it is, it could never match up to the fabled Birds of Paradise with their dazzling plumage and intricate mating rituals. It isn't exactly agile and graceful like the magestic Bald Eagle either, seeing as how it has been practically rolling around in marshy-filth just managing for it's next meal. But one thing about it does strike me about myself though, it's patient as fuck masticating around in that muddy crap, and doesn't really give a crap about whose watching him doing that. That's about the only thing I can hold to myself in this ever-competitive world.

  Not to mention my legs are just a tad bit fatter than it's, and that's just me being positive. That's gotta count for some points on our relativity chart. Not wanting to look like some hillbilly hitchhiker, I slowly started up my pace again and made way back home. Because I'm running on a severely-underused bicycle lane, I could spare myself the luxury of looking at it a bit more while I trodded back. Right before my vision was curtained by branches and leaves, I could've sworn that stork pecked a fish right outta of the water. That clumsy storks' gotta eat too.

Spring, is that you?

                 "It'll get better next week." That's what my host father told me the night I first arrived at my new home. The memory still fresh in my head. That was the by far the coldest night of my life. Where -16 degrees of biting wind and light snow punctured me to my core and robbed me of all warmth. Don't get me wrong, I was all hyped up about winter and snow for the first few days. For the first few days at least. I rolled around in snow, had snowballfights and swallowed some of it just to see how it feels to have it melt in your mouth. But the cold doesn't let up. No, it's not some toy that you can pull out of a toychest whenever you want. I wish it was though. It's an everpresent thing.

   For those of you who have never braced the chill of winter before, here's a little head's up. The first time I stepped out into the cold, it was a magical experience for me. Having grown up in a tropical country where the coldest thing you'll ever feel is ice on your palms, having 2 degrees outdoors and misty breathes was magical. Well, magical for about 2 minutes at least. After that initial joyous moment, I shivered my ass back inside. Humidity is also a big issue here. It's only been 3 weeks, and I swear the back of my palms feel like beef jerky right now.

   Don't laugh at how much of a little bitch I am, but having grown up in a constant 30 degrees environment you'd feel the same too. But I think I'm managing well, I haven't bitched about it yet to anyone in person, so you know this blog gets all my hate. Thankfully, my host father's words finally came true this morning. It's shocking how fast the weather can go from total shit to perfect here in Europe. Just a few days ago, I was biking my way home in a shower of freezing cold water and today I wake up to this little beauty here:

Hallelujah!

                                                 
      The transition from winter to spring feels so novel to me. It kinda feels like one of those cartoons we used to watch where the main character frolicks around flowers and chirping birds. It also feels like one of those deep poems like Robert Frost wrote about. To finally have 15 solid degrees is relief enough for me, but let's hope spring doesn't turn its back on us. Well that's enough sitting around indoors for today, better savour this day while I still can!

Shock me.

   They say the secret to a long and fulfilling life is to immerse one self into novelty. Novelty being the face of everything new, new things, new experiences, new people and all in all, a new life. Supposedly your life will reach new heights and your perspectives completely mold into something else, and you'll turn out to be an entirely changed person. But what they don't tell you in the preview is the shock. That shock you get when everything around you loses its warm sense of familiarity and comfort.

   To describe my experiences so far as a culture shock would be a sad, misleading statement. Saying its' "culture shock" would imply that I am only shocked by the different culture. When actually, the culture is what shocks me the least. I could deal with culture. The culture part is easy. It's all the other factors that are shocking me right now. I'm like this little baby bird having to leave the comfort of his nest for the very first time. Oh, my comfy, warm, familiar nest.

   Over here, I'm like a huge deformed alien baby. Everyone talks to me funny. Everyone looks at me funny (especially strangers). Everyone treats me funny. And the fact that I can't communicate well with others is just more icing on my chocolate cake of shame. Right now, sign language is probably my most versatile tool for talking to others. It's an awkward situation all in all, having being thrown into the deep end.

   But the peculiar bit is, I haven't a clue if all this is good or bad. I mean yes, I have to adapt and change according to all these new circumstances and conditions presented to me. But on the flipside, I have a clean slate now. I have this chance to start anew. And let's be honest here, you almost never get to reinvent yourself in a familiar and comfortable setting. You'll almost always just crawl back into your sweet little shell when things get tough.

   Two weeks in, I'm afraid it's much too early to say anything credible yet. All I know is, they never tell you all this when you sign up.

 

Enough to go around.

   There he goes again, lamenting his glory, exaggerating his prowess, bragging on about every small accomplishment and every possible goal he's ever achieved. Rambling on and on about how hard he's worked for his small successes, like the whole world and all who inhabit it should stop and know about how much he's sacrificed and how great he is for doing so. It would seem that life is one big race to him. A race where only the winner's could win and everything else is considered inferior, second-grade, low-class, street-trash, ugh... you catch my drift. This displeases me, drawing up a frown on my face, and in doing so, puzzling me as well. Am i jealous? I'd like to think not. Truth be told, I'd like to think that there's enough success and happiness to go around.

   Many at times, we tend to fall into a delirious dogma where if others succeed, you would fail in their place. Silly, don't you think? Where in this wholesome world could a pitiful concept like this have sprouted? It's everywhere! And everyone! By golly, even I catch myself living up to this concept sometimes. I remember putting myself down the last time the results for our exams came out. I felt crestfallen when I looked at the near-perfect results of students who were better than me. Even though I progressed by leaps and bounds from the last examinations, I was too blinded by my need for praise and recognition that I felt bad for myself.

   In turn, I started to turn towards the poorer students for comfort. I would ask about their grades and feel alllll better about myself, giving myself an empty pat on the back for a job well done. I now realize how such a dogma not only made you feel bad, but also detrimented to your relationship with others. Detrimental in the fact that you're judging people based on their ability to be successful in terms of grades, charisma and general like-ablity. But really, are those the only things that make a person successful? We should really look further than that, and not be bogged down by such redundant details.

   I'm definitely not implying that good grades and a competitive nature are bad things to have around. When looked at and treated in the right way, these two things can be such a great driver in the ever-competitive society that exists today. We ought to be smart enough to not treat life as one big race. Life is probably too short for that. It ought to be be spent on having fun, being happy and enjoying good coffee. Then again, who am I to give good advice on life when I've only lived it for a measly 17 years. Ah, such arrogant of me.

   "Life is not a race, but indeed a journey." It's so corny, yet so true. Why should we treat life like a big race? Are we in such a hurry to get to the end?

       

   

    

Not all it's cut out to be.

    Checking through my accounts paper for the last time, I finally decided to pack up my things and walk out, before I started doubting my answers. Strutting out that classroom, I swore I was shivering and shaking as I stashed away all my stationaries and calculators. (Yes, I brought in more than one). And with that, I walked out of that exam hall, never to see the likes of one for a long time. I heaved a heavy sigh of relief, one of the heaviest I've heaved in awhile, shuddering for one last time before I did so. An euphoric feeling swept over me in an instant, as I thought about all the awesome things I'd do and how much fun I'd have now that SPM is over. "It was finally over" I thought, little did I know things had only just begun.

   Of course after that, I proceeded home to 'enjoy' by drowning myself in match after match of DotA 2 and many various outings with friends. I did everything I pictured myself doing when I was stressing myself out in that exam hall. "I'd have fun" I said, "I'd screw SPM and all the books..." I thought, "I'd enjoy myself sooooo much..." I supposed. And so off I went, doing a couple of stupid things here and there, thinking that it'll make me happy and that I'd enjoy myself at last. Needless to say, I did enjoy myself for a night or two, but what's next? Was I supposed to be enjoying myself for the rest of my life? Even enjoyment in overdose would turn out to be a dreadful bore as well.

    Hey, what is this?! I thought I was supposed to be living the life, the life of carefree-ness I have always dreamt of having after that dreaded examination. Isn't that what we all dreamt of? Being care-free and having all the fun you want after that one last examination? Instead, I'm sitting here ranting around like an old man. Truth be told, I've never felt this fun-less since I got my heart broken. And right now, I feel like more than my heart has been broken. What is this?! Clearly, you can sense my dissatisfaction and disappointment by the way i put a "!" at the back of my "?". I feel like I've been conned and scammed by some man in a corny business suit. Isn't life supposed to be fun and full of bliss after all that hard work I've pumped into my final examinations?!   Sadly, it would seem that no answer would come to emotional predicament, and I was left to ponder alone. To all SPM candidates out there, I'm sure you're feeling the way I do, and if you have yet to finish your examinations, here's a slight preview on what's about to come. I sighed to myself again, not in relief this time, but in a slight dissapointment. I feel it fair that somebody should've warned me about this. You'd think that all those post-SPM candidates would have something to say about this when they finished. But nooooo.... They'd watch you suffer from afar and laugh about over a cup of coffee and a bagel.

     
   So, here it is, all my labourous work and effort, awaiting to be thrown out. All my physics notes, my chemistry references and all lovely add math formulas, gone just like that, like dust in the wind. All that knowledge, prepared to be erased from my short-term memory for all eternity. Of course, with this ending, comes a new beginning. Hopefully, I'll be a tad more optimistic about my new phase of life. Just optimistic enough to get by. 

A gift of words : Mom.

"You come home with me right now!"

    Startled by the sudden ring of a strangely familiar voice, my fingers froze inches above the keyboard. I stared blankly at the computer screen as I registered the voice my sensitive ears picked up. It took me awhile to process the information, cause my mind was numb from the icy grasp of Warcraft III, but when I did, warning bells immediately started ringing in my head. As I slowly rotated my head around, I was greeted by the most horrific sight any teenage boy could ever imagine : Mom's icy stare. Aside from soiling my best pants, I swear I had a mini heart attack right there and then. Usually, I'd come up with a witty excuse to weasel myself out of trouble, but there was no escape this time, I was caught red-handed. As a son, I committed the highest act of distrust, I lied straight-faced to my mom and gamed all day at a cybercafe. The other players watched distastefully as I got up and skulked all the way back home, to receive the scolding of a lifetime.

   That embarrassing bit of flash-back was exactly five years ago. Back when I was a careless, hairless 12 year old who was addicted to cyber-gaming like his next fix of cocaine. Sometimes I still laugh at my younger self. About the stupid decisions I made and at how I would always get my mother to erupt like a super-massive volcano. Consider yourself lucky that you didn't know me as a child, here are but a few of my mischievous misdeeds:

a) Broke a boy's nose.
b) Started a fight with a girl on the first day of school.
c) Opened my Christmas presents before Christmas day ( I was THAT badass )

I takes a real woman to survive a child like I was. Looking back, I shudder at the thought of how I would turn out if she hadn't dragged me out of that cybercafe. A blessing in disguise was what it was.

   Come to think of it, I owe a lot of good things in my life right now to Mom. The good food, a comfortable house, a working computer, a hot shower. Even so, these material must-haves are dwarfed by the changes Mom brought for me in my life. If it were not for her firm and strict guidance, I would still be lost in the desert of my addiction. If it not for her nagging and endless ranting, I might not have learned my lesson and I would still be in the dark. In fact, it's because of her (and dad) that I exist today. And so, I would like to dedicate this small crumb of cyberspace to my mom. I know it may not resemble much in the material world, but I hope you enjoy reading this mom :)

Dear mom,
   You once told me that there are only two things in the world that worry you. Your son and your daughter. Although I found it hard to believe at first, I took some time to ponder about it. I mean come on, there's gotta be tons of other thing you're worried about right? But every little worry I managed to bring up led right back to us. Your over-demanding children. It didn't take me long to realize how guilty I was. Oh, guilty on so many charges. Guilty for not feeling thankful about you investing your Sunday afternoon's on me for that "A" in accounts. Guilty for how I didn't acknowledge the fact that you forked out tons of money so that my feet wouldn't hurt when I ran. Guilty that I didn't apologize to you when I made you mad and high-strung.

   I've been through a lot during my past 5 years of adolescence. Fickle friends. Raging acne. Heartbreak. But no matter how many obstacles I overcame or how many changes I went through, there was always one thing I could count on when I needed it. And it was you, Mom. I didn't even have to say a word and you'd know that something was wrong, like a motherly sixth sense. It seems that for every failure that I've been through in my life, you were my cushion. A cushion that would bounce me right back up every time I fell down. You'd pick me up and brush me off with your encouraging words, words that I hold dear to. "Don't waste your time on someone who doesn't appreciate you for who you are." I may be heartbroken and trampled on, but that managed to put a smile on my face.

   No words could possibly describe the gratitude that I and this family are indebted into you. I can honestly admit that this family would be in shambles if not for your efforts and love. Even though we don't see eye to eye at the best of times. I just want you to know that I love you mom. I might not say it everyday. I might shy away every time you try to hug me. But deep down, I know I owe a huge chunk of my life to you and I appreciate you for that. Do remember to set aside some time for me this Saturday. We are going to pig ourselves out. Happy birthday mom!