If you’ve ever seen any sort of beauty pageant - be it Mr. World, Miss Universe, or even Putri Indonesia - you’re probably aware as to how similar the participants look. Smooth skin, symmetrical yet angular faces, toned arms, defined abs, perfectly white and straight teeth, you catch my drift.
It is obvious that the reason why these people are considered most beautiful, physically attractive, or even sexy is because they all follow the beauty standards set for them. The beauty bias refers to how individuals who have attributes of said beauty standard receive more benefits.
Fun fact: “beautiful” people tend to be more popular, they’re given higher grades and work performance evaluations, they’re more likely to be hired or promoted, and they make more money compared to their less attractive co-workers. In addition to that, descendants of the beauty standard associated in crimes are both found less likely to be found guilty and are given less severe sentences.
ALSO, you will always find that the protagonists in movies are much prettier as compared to their sidekicks or anti-heros. Why? Pretty people get better treatment. They get better resources, education, healthcare, and most of all: opportunities.
For thousands of years, humans have constructed these ideal standards of beauty, and have been doing everything imaginable to try to attain it. The most curious aspect of the beauty bias is that it’s a permanent concept; it has always been there and it will always be there. It’s no wonder that people have been altering their physical appearances for centuries now.
To prove the steadfastness of this phenomenon, here are some ancient beauty rituals, followed by their modern day evolutions:
Ideal: Porcelain skin
Old beauty ritual: Lead face painting
Evolution: skin whitening creams
It seems like fair skin has always been preferable. We see the first usage of white lead face painting in the Ancient Greeks, who found light complexions desirable. At around 1000 BCE, they replaced this with chalk, as they found women to be suffering from lead poisoning. Apparently, women of the Elizabethan era didn’t get the memo, because even up until the mid 17th century, the beauty treatment was to apply a powder-mix made of white lead, calcium carbonate and hydroxide to any and all surfaces of skin that was exposed. As the Roman philosopher Plautus said, "A woman without paint is like food without salt." (cringe!)
I'm imagining that most of you reading my blog know me on a personal basis, and if you do, you must be knowing my love for crafting scientific playlists that follow the ebb and flow of moods and emotions. Recently, I've been in a lot of anxiety and unexplained sadness, so I've found two go-to songs, that must be listened to one after the other, to cry to.
I will admit, this is entirely the work of Anthony Gonzales, the "mand" (or one-man band) that is M83. However, I feel like I've created a meaning of my own to it and I would love to share it with you guys.
Trust me, guys. This is beautiful. This is science. Let me explain to you how these songs essentially push you into a state of utter catharsis. Jeez, I'm so excited.
Okay, so, we've all encountered that shitty pre-cry feeling wherein you're stuck in that in-between area of suppressing your emotions and wanting to let it all out but not exactly having the tears for it. I like to refer to this phase as "the numbness," because, well, you are fundamentally trying to numb yourself in this confusion. You're also probably approaching the stage of not understanding why you're feeling these ouchful feelings, and punishing yourself for not having it figured out already though, so you can excuse yourself for it. This is literally a page right out of the chapter of Jaanu's books on how to go through life without actually knowing how to function as a capable, responsible, and contributing member of society.
The first song, America, is just for these feelings. The aim is to catch you at your current mood, and transport it through music. From about 00:00 to 01:25, it's just this noise, this really irritating gibberish. It makes you feel just as shitty as you already do, which fulfils the purpose of matching the atmosphere of your emotions. I feel like this not only syncs with my thoughts and anxieties, but also externalises them. It's not a noticeable part of the journey, but it's definitely significant.
At about 01:26, there's a very short silence; a dramatic shift in the character of the sound. It's almost as if that's it - that's your quota for being anxious or angry or messed up in your head. The sound of birds and moving water show up, followed by kids swimming in it, with a long ringing noise at the background. Let's go one by one. The moving water and birds pull your focus away to whatever was bothering you, and with the clarity of the sound bite with the kid swimming in it: it's practically impossible for you not to imagine it happening right in front of you. You find the purity in this kid, so oblivious to the harshness in this world, and you somehow draw some joy from it. This joy is only momentary, which is perfect because the ringing noise makes it such that you've still not fully let go of the bitter emotions your heart is still clutching on to. It's a brief bittersweet moment, and then it's only the ringing. It builds up.
This build up is your frustration moving up your spine. At maybe 02:06, the beat drops, but the ringing doesn't stop. This is your catharsis. This is when you internally scream AAHHHHHHH. It even brings back the irritating dialogue so you can combine the initial shitty feeling with the internal yelling. You just can't take it anymore.
America ends with a screeching noise and about two seconds of ocean wave noise that flow directly into On a White Lake, Near a Green Mountain. You will not be able to tell when the song changes, which is possibly the best part about this because it's one entire journey. The sound of the waves crashing against the strings and the wind bring you into a meditative state. It's all this love from nature, and sometimes you don't feel like you deserve it, so this is when you actually start crying. The tears come pouring down your eyes and within a minute into the song, you've done it. You've exorcised this crap.
The beat actually kicks in at around 01:06 into the song, and it subconsciously sets this calm pace on your breath. It brings with it some alien-like noises, but they somehow comfort you, and if you still feel like crying, there's some more ringing. Only this time, it's more to release rather than to intensify your frustration. Okay, this all makes sense in my head, but maybe it will in yours as well when you listen to the songs.
On a White Lake, Near a Green Mountain is all the love from the universe that you didn't get. It brings you the peace you need with the combination of nature, strings, and beats. It brings you back to life. Heck, this song can even put me to sleep.
It ends with the sound of a jack being plugged into a speaker incorrectly. I feel like that's a reset for your day. Like, okay, this is it - you've come in feeling like shit, you got frustrated, you screamed, you felt the love, you cried, you felt at ease, and now you must go back to your everyday life. This is why I've chosen these songs to cry to. M83 man, you are a genius!!!
You’ve done it before. You’ve sat on a bus, or a train, or a park bench, and you’ve seen that extremely attractive stranger, and you were convinced ya’ll were meant to be. You’ve noticed details about them; about the book they’re reading, the way they push their reading glasses up in that cute but academic way, the gradient of their nail polish, the russian red lipstick stain on their poppy-seed bagel . . . you know what I mean. You know every bloody detail about your perfect stranger. You know the scent of his cologne, his dog’s name, what his mom calls him, his dentist’s phone number, the way he likes his eggs in the morning, everything. You’re planning your life together now; holding hands, kissing, cuddling, watching disgustingly cheesy movies together, coming home to one another, but before you know it . . . your perfect stranger is gone. They leave you feeling empty and wistful, like they’ve left with a part of you. The worst part is that you know you’ll never see them again . . .
. . .and you also know that this happens to you way too often. Well, it does for me at least. About once every couple of weeks I catch myself messaging my friend saying, “man, I’ve done it again.” At this point, I’ve been told to “slowly let go” after hopelessly pining for days one too many times. I am hungover with the remnants of my broken dreams, and I am getting to the bottom of this endearing but also acutely irritating phenomenon.
There are two essential forces that push you to think this way. The first, is attraction. There’s something about physical proximity and a similar circumstance that influence you to draw the similarities between you and perfect stranger. The idea is that even though they say opposites attract, we are biologically hard-wired to search for people that are complementary to us because they bring with them empathy and sensitivity, which is what all of us want in our lives. One of the most challenging things in the world is completely understanding somebody else’s exact emotions, because one hasn’t undergone the exact same experiences (past or present) as another. Thus, we are attracted to people who seem like they’ve had a couple of adventures or mishaps that match ours. Take for example, being infatuated with someone while waiting in the doctor’s office; both of you are in the same physical setting and the same circumstance, and because of this you often assume that perfect stranger understands how you’re feeling.
The second principle, though, is much more interesting because it has nothing to do with your mind’s baby boo. It’s when you’re lounging around and thinking, “Oh, she’s so smart and successful, I bet she has a 401k!” The problem here is that simply by one’s appearance, we, the hopeless romantics, assume an entirely different character to them based on our ideals by extending their attributes. We look at an expensive-looking watch and assume they’re filthy rich, we sneak a peak of a book in their tote bag and we assume that they’re aficionados of fine literature. Since we’re building our own versions of these people, we’re fundamentally falling in love with our own ideas. We know nothing about our perfect strangers, we only know our projections of them. What intensifies the gut-wrenching feeling is that we know we’re doing this, but we do it anyway because it gives us a false sense of security. We imagine them to be our flawless fit, so that we would be that for them as well. In truth, it’s a simulation of our insecurities and deep-seated yearning to be loved.
What still troubles me, however, is that if we fall in love with our own brainchildren: is it incest, narcissism, pygmalionism?
So, friends, most of you know that I'm the type of person who would take every opportunity to forgo wearing a bra. I'd like to think of them as contraptions created by the patriarchy to constrict the movement of women because, obviously, women are meant to stay still and civil and serve these patriarchs gratuitously. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but considering that the modern bra's only function is to create support from over the shoulder instead of from the waist up (which is what the preceded 'corset' did) in order to "prevent sagging", I decided to take a hands-on look to see if they actually served a significant purpose in my life.
According to a French study conducted over a period of 15 years, researchers found that "medically, physiologically, (and) anatomically, the breast does not benefit from being deprived of gravity." In fact, they found that there is a restriction of breast tissue growth involving bras, in addition to weakening breast muscles.
This is exactly why I believe bras are an unnecessary evil, so I decided to go an entire week without putting one on.
Day 1: Out to the Beach with My Buddies
If there's something to admit, I've always wanted to wear this outfit without a bra on. My friends know how much I complain about wearing bras, so they weren't surprised at all when I told them about not giving enough of a damn to put one on today. They were actually pretty encouraging about it, and that's when I decided that I'd try and do this for an entire week. Also, my dad made me wear silly bike shorts under this dress. Okay, dad, it might be a little too short, I'll give you that.
For the last month or so, I've been going through a mini revolution. A disillusionment, if you will.
In this blog post, I'd like to address the repercussions of running away from the inevitable complexities you face in life, and the peril of forgoing intricate reflection. This is one of my natural tendencies; I'm a master procrastinator, and I avoid clearing my inquiries (especially in math class, dear god). However, recently I've come to realise how blinded this makes you . . .
In this month, I've been separated from an aspect of my life that heavily weighed me down. I felt no such obligations, nor prolonged exposure to toxicity. There was actually an absence of what I imagined my issues to be - which seemed odd - until I realised that I didn't own them, thus I didn't need to 'deal with' them. As I write this, I am slowly growing to be aware of how vague and diplomatic I'm trying to be about this, and how it's a stark contrast to the title of this darned post. In full tbh-honesty, I was entangled in an emotionally taxing comradeship. Having the notion that this was the meaning of mutual trust and support, I willingly took on a significant amount of strain. This was incredibly instinctive for me, as I am innately empathetic, so much so (in fact) that I literally perceive the circumstances of others as my own. For two years, I silently felt joy in 'being there' for a substantial string of incidents, and I was under the impression that this is what comradeship meant. In objective reality, however, this was not true.
Similar to how cells burst due to osmosis (forgive my IB-ridden thought process), there was an event in which I found my breaking point (it was much like how they describe finding a G-spot; a magnificent revelation). I additionally realised that there are times wherein you can't make sense of your own behaviour (and it may even seem like an overreaction to yourself), but it is valid and it will always be valid. Probably, you'd deem yourself a twat for thinking/feeling these anxieties and seek approval from your friends; twisting stories to make yourself seem like the victim; or invoking sympathy/empathy by injecting emotion to your narration.
The point here is that it doesn't matter how much you try to make yourself seem sane for feeling feelings, for you do not lose the right to feel your feelings, you feel? Nobody's encounters, testimonies, or opinions bear any substance in validating your needs and feelings. I should let ya'll know that when I say 'you,' I'm actually trying to teach myself and you these lessons (mostly myself).
With this post, though, I'm eulogising our comradeship and reclaiming my anxieties as marks of experience and understanding. It was an enthralling journey, but just as roller coasters do, rides must end, and often with a nostalgic satisfaction.
Earlier today, I was thinking about how two of my closest friends are awfully skilled at blogging. They have such wonderful abilities to make me feel precisely what they feel, despite not having lived through those exact moments. I had an envious moment with myself then, and resounded, "oh, how I wish I was passionate enough about something to articulate my feelings so well," in my mind. It's no surprise to me, though. The three of us, as a part of Humans of GMIS, the community project we started, interviewed a teacher we kinda-sorta revere. As I condensed half an hour's worth of conversation into a paragraph, I found that these lines really stuck with me:
*said close friends Paxia and Rasagnya
"If I’d have lived my life once again, I’d stop worrying about the future, and I’d live more in the present. You see, work is only a means to earning a living, but the passions that don’t translate into money are the things that you value in your life. My passion has always been writing, and I struggle very hard to revive the time for it. There are only twenty four hours in a day - you’re not going to have more than that. So, wisdom lies in devoting some part in those twenty four hours everyday to something that you’re really passionate about."
All of a sudden, I felt a certain pressure to document my life as of now. People keep telling me how this is going to be the highlight of my life, but in all honesty I didn't think I had anything significant enough to remember. Until now.
Side note: we graduated high school!
Latching on to the inspiration I drew from Hannah Hart's video just a few minutes ago, I had an impromptu series of reflections. Self awareness and intra-personal intelligence is something I really pride myself on, but I - just like any other Sheila - am not perfect. I gradually realised how the words of encouragement and pieces of sage advice I give others are reminders to myself. It takes heaps of patience, love, faith, and positive energy to conquer the negativity and doubt and fear that noodles up inside of you. Thus, instead of suppressing my inherent vanity by overcompensating with so much humility to the point wherein I think my actual achievements are unreal, and soaking myself in these shortcomings alone, I would like to grow together.
As I scrolled through my Instagram feed, I got quite mad at natural selection working its way into our daily activities. What sort of emotions are biologically ingrained in me that I innately turn someone else's happiness into an almost-need to watch them suffer? Why is no one else allowed to be happy but me? Why do I have such a sadistic attitude? Do people feel the same way about my happiness?
This is what I'm talking about, and while we're on the subject, I should share some thoughts from mom while we were having a chat over masala chai. We talked about the different dynamics between our generations; she said hers was tight in the sense that they didn't have money nor freedom, that they listened to both their parents and their children. She raved about the opportunities our generation have, and how theirs never dreamt of leaving their countries for jobs or a foreign education. Heck, women weren't even allowed to work. Granted, we do have a lot of opportunities, but at that moment I began to rue the distinct happiness that is forgone; the carefree sense of living specially reserved for one's Salad Days. I felt such contempt towards what was in lieu of this sense of living today: the premature air of heavy stress (as I'm not sure if I'm at the liberty to use the word anxiety).
I can jabber on about the loss of my time, about the overpopulation, and the self depreciation, but with this blog post I am determined to be a source of positivity. I do hope to form more codependent relationships that are just as unique as the people I share them with. To the best of my ability, I intend on making them feel as 'them' as they will ever be.
As Mr Ashish says,
In spite of all the chaos and the violence, there is still hope for all of us.
PS - I've set a long term goal to consistently journal in hopes of making a book of it one day.
You look across a room of people you're about to meet. You, like a scanner, view everyone that catches your eye from top to toe. Infinitely frightened, infinitely exhilarated; you approach some people. You mingle. You engage in small talk. You chat with a group of people.
In the midst of a conversation your eyes drift off to the other edge of the room, and you see a girl laughing. It's as if you're looking at someone you've known your whole life. You know everything about this person; their usual hangout spot, the shade of lipstick they always wear, the kind of cigarettes they smoke and why, the movie they watch over and over again but never get bored of, their favourite ice cream flavour, the only breakfast food they know how to cook - everything.
But you don't approach them. They will never want to speak to a low-life like you. Or maybe they will. Maybe, just maybe, they'd make chit-chat about the weather with you, fake a smile at you, and one-arm hug you. You know you could be more than that, because you know this person. In and out. So you try your luck. You're two steps away from this person but no air resonates through your voice-box.
And you realise that you've no idea who this person is; that your silly mind has made up a projection of what you want this person to be. And if you're lucky, you'd realise this before you douse yourself in this friend-lust for too long, before you gather the strength to coax this person into being friends with you and you realise that this is a lie.
I arise in the wee hours of the morning, just as the sun peaks out and greets me. A sense of mild panic dawns upon me; but wait . . . it's Sunday. I go back to blissful sleep knowing all is well with the world, and wholly wake up about two hours later. It is sufficiently morning this time; right on the brink of afternoon. I am fully rested, I'm laying down recalling my suspenseful dream, and I'm thinking about breakfast.
Knowing me, the hours of the day shift by about +3 on Sundays; I do about everything 3 hours late. I play jazz music as I walk to my kitchen. After ditching the aesthetically-pleasing but gustatorily revolting traditional breakfast and making myself either Belgian waffles topped with white chocolate, brown sugar, and cinnamon or a chorizo-mozzarella toasty with dashes of balsamic glaze, I retire to my bedroom to binge watch TV episodes of whatever I happen to be engrossed into at the time. The day goes by smoothly, I eventually take a refreshing cold shower (spoiling myself with the bath products I can't stop purchasing), and by the time it's afternoon (adjusted to +3 timing; evening), I head out to meet a friend for coffee. We talk for hours - giggling about ridiculous incidents that happened over the week. By this time, a bunch of other friends join us as we grab a bite, walking around the green-and-gray city and stopping by shops to buy clothes or groceries on the way.
The day ends with a movie. Either it's me watching it on my own at home, or with my friends at the local cinema. It's one of those films I just can't miss; be it from scratching one off my
list or catching the latest blockbuster. I conclude the day with reflecting and writing in my journal - I collect the thoughts that swirled around in my mind, and end with a note of positivity and gratitude.
And then I swear as I realise that tomorrow's Monday.
with the struggles in my line of work, many develop an insensitive approach towards life. they find a way to care only about the things that need immediate attention. i'm a paramedic. well, i was, at least.
i've known i've always wanted to be a servant of some sort since i was a child, and i'd watch CSI reruns with my dad. he'd often ask me, "so, what do you want to be when you grow up?" without fail, my answer would be more or less like, "a person who helps broken people." heck, what did i know? i was six; but, it still mattered. at least to me. i'd usually wander off playing with my toys - making my action figures speak - by this time.
determined to fix cross-sectioned hearts and treat simple paper cuts, i've been a the go-to person from the point of puberty of my year. i listened to all the stories, clutched all the heart-break, and carried my friends and family to and fro dark places. the selfishness of doing a good deed was my secret; the feel that you're the good person in the scenario, that you were the one who helped in a time of need.
the early years of being a paramedic were the best. the thrill of rushing people to ambulances, providing them with CPR was one i never found boring. it wasn't until that ill-fated morning that i began having nightmares...
it wasn't unusual to hear alarms at odd-timings; i've acquired light-sleeping over time. the car accident that took place was quite close to where i was, so i hopped up and drove as quickly as i could. what i witnessed was the most frantic scene i had ever - two cars crumpled into each other as one of them caught on fire. the driver and her friend on the passenger seat were put to death instantly.
on the back seat crooned the worst sound i will ever hear. it was inhumane. a girl was stuck in the vehicle, her flesh being grilled and her skin melting; sticking to the maroon leather seats of the wreck of a car. it was like a ball of paper being set on fire. a pyromaniac's dream. she yelled and shrieked - her vocal chords, death-growling, were amidst a field of high-pitched attempts at survival.
for forty-five seconds, i felt my eyes roll back and my stomach flip, then harden. it was as if i was watching my very own suicide video. i could feel her anguish. i could, but i was frantically frozen. please, i said, put her out of her misery, lord. take away her life! when my colleagues managed to remove her from what looked like her hell, i saw her.
it has never been this hard to describe an image. it still resonates within the bleak corners of my mind. like a checkerboard, her bald head was glowing with a red passion. she was almost unconscious, yet i could still feel the stings of her skin. this woman had lost everything - her nose, eyelids, ears, hair, fingers. she was a perfect, unrecognisable tandoori roast, and i could never muster the courage to look at or cook meat again.
with the struggles in my line of work, many develop an insensitive approach towards life. they find a way to care only about the things that need immediate attention. but not me. i'm an empath. i can still hear my screams when it's a bit too quiet. i can still feel my skin bubble and pop. i can still see myself being scorched. i can still taste the burn.
Whenever I pick up a delivery menu at the bubble tea store, I actually take the time to read it and analyse it. Weird yes, but there are so many possibilities that can be created with these tapioca bubble things everyone is just so crazy about. It's a lucrative business, I tell you.
So it started off with milk tea with bubbles. Honestly, if it wasn't for the english and/or indians who magically decided that they wanted milk in their tea, this whole fad would have never existed. This is what I mean when I say weird things/habits have the scope of creating opportunities for future entrepreneurs. I mean literally, every time I open my instagram page I see at least a few posts dedicated to bubble tea from various places all around town. If you look up the hashtag #bubbletea, you'd be amazed. Moving on, we find other types of tea including the famous green tea which is known to make you slimmer. Yes, because adding several ladles of tapioca pearls, a big spoonful of sugar, and half the cup of ice would obviously trim that burger off your muffin top. Geniuses! Black tea, green tea, and flavours too now?! Let me start off with the fruits. Mango tea, orange tea, lemon tea, passion fruit tea, lychee tea, strawberry tea, grap tea, plum tea, peach tea, apple tea, mulberry tea, kumquat tea, ginger tea, roselle hawthornberry tea, honey aloevera tea, wintermelon t- ARE WE ON THE SAME PAGE HERE?! This is a boatload of variety! Who wouldn't wanna go to a store and stand there for fifteen minutes deciding if the matcha milk tea with grass jelly (I'm not even sure what this is) sounds better than the papaya tea with rainbow jelly and pearls?
Oh and speaking of toppings, let me give you a list of the toppings I've come across so far: black chewy bubbles of course, the mango version of the same, the lychee version of the same, aloe vera (I'm not even sure how they fit a giant thorn in the cup), egg pudding, caramel pudding, chocolate pudding, vanilla pudding, mango pudding, taro pudding, milk pudding, and red beans (I must stress on how weird this is since I'm used to having them the savoury way, but if that floats your boat then okay). Now let's move on to jelly (you jelly? Haha! Not funny? No? Ok), grass jelly (which isn't green, for all of you curious cats out there), coconut jelly (sometimes known as nata de coco), maple jelly, glassy jelly (lol whut?), coffee jelly, lychee jelly, rainbow jelly, and han tien jelly (which I'm guessing is some sort of taiwanese traditional jelly).
One of my favourite stores would be quickly, that's because (and I can't emphasise enough about this) of the fact that they have peppermint tea there, WITHOUT THE MILK. Do you know how good that makes your mouth feel? That's like a mint and a drink and a snack combined. So you could just walk up to a guy/girl holding a perfectly amazing chewable drink in your hands and your breath won't be all sweet and, well, humid!
Although contrary to this brilliant idea of theirs, there is one business venture I think every bubble tea shop is missing. It's no doubt that selling coffee there is a minor controversy everyone has their opinion about. According to me, they should sell coffee with bubbles! I don't know how it'd taste since I'm no aficionado of the bean, but then again, people like weird things. It's true! Who would've created the whole bubble tea fad otherwise? Imagine having a caramel machiato with some chocolate pudding below. Yes? No?
it is 3 in the morning, and i sit in the quietness of my closet - it matches my thought. i hold a lit candle in one hand, and my other is on top of it. i'm begging for something i once had and despised; something i dragged along with me throughout my career.
it was the commencement of the skeptics' search that drew me into the coven - the witches' circle. no one from the outside world knew we were what we were. we held a bond close to blood, we were sisters who sought to protect each other from the heretics with our small myriad of powers: telekinesis, divination, pyrokinesis, concillium, transmutation, descensum, and vitalum vitalis. only the supreme could perform seven of them, and the supreme i was going to be because i could feel it. they say that a new supreme is known when she has radiant health, which i can feel rushing through my veins as Fiona Goode - the current supreme - gets weaker and weaker. we grew friendly progressively as she saw a reflection of her perseverance and severe distaste for bourgeois people with a lack of ambition in me.
succeeding into a series of empowering women, i knew i wasn't deserving of the title of supreme; and so did Fiona. on the eve of the night of the Sacred Test for the Seven Wonders, she drew me into her cloud of portraits of previous supremes. she unravelled the story of her and her preceding supreme, how she slit her throat to obtain the Sacred Power. i knew it was my turn. it was my duty to take on the role and lead the coven into my glorious reign of elegantly intimidating witches. before i knew it, she did the same thing she did to Anna Leigh - to me. my blood was cascading through the rims of the rug and into the polished wooden panelling. my vision blurred, my skull weary. i don't remember anything further than that.
it wasn't until i was resurged by one of my sister witches that i was impaled by the groggy sensation tap-dancing over me, the gruesome, sandy taste, and the pungent smell of apparent death. i was still in pruney condition, though i managed to keep up with the day-to-day activities; then did it come to me, like a sudden storm surge, that i had lost something i once had. food tasted bland, cold showers weren't as refreshing, time went by particularly slowly, and boys didn't excite me much. i could stick my tongue into the throat of one and not feel a thing. i had lost my ability to feel.
so here i am, still trying to burn a hole through my hand. i probably have a third-degree burn now, but what's the point if you can't feel? i've just eaten everything in my pantry, yet i can't seem to be full. i have no thoughts, no ambitions anymore. i had always thought pain was the worst thing anyone could ever feel; the guilt-ridden, mind-eating type. i was wrong. it's the absence of pain.
we take a look at the human body; divine in nature and defining god in all means; since we no longer have a need to argue upon whether or not one's art defines him. we have all these perfectly interlocking body organs like the brain and the nerves and muscles and skin and blood and our lungs and how we breathe and how our bodies automatically crave the products involuntarily and biologically.
aside from the organs working in an assembled unison, we accentuate on the organs we hold less of an importance of; be it our tonsils or appendices or even our sexual organs. i would like to emphasise the intensity of using sexual organs as a term itself.
it is not uncommon to be fearful or shameful about the 'parts' we all posses, for what reason, however? who taught us to hide half the fate of the continuum of our very own species away?
say we bring up beliefs and mythology. in an aspect, we could say that our ultimate goal in all our reincarnations is to pick up a little something from each life, apply it to the next, and go on to the point of being inert - want free. on the other hand, we can all agree that each religion has messengers, or those who are free enough from their worldly problems to block out the noise and stay in touch with god.
how many of you are skeptics? let me just say that i too question each and every thing before it occurs to be in the clearest way possible. i began reasoning with how these people know that they are calm enough to be able to rid themselves of what is human nature - problems. problems are a part of learning - and how will the people of god link us to him and help us, when they can't even help themselves? does god help them directly, or can they not hear him due to the persistent voice of the pessimistic part of the mind?
this is where i come to. apprehension and pessimism. we all have it; even the optimists who like to shove how good their lives are in our faces, and our lives need not even be in a plummeting shape to feel such affliction. over the years, i've noticed that it is not only me who feels an extensive awkwardness that is a sort of sensation that there is a conspiracy flying against you whenever the degree of satisfaction in your life is very much above average for a long period of time. let me cut that down, how many of you have ever felt that something bad is going to happen because life's just so damn good?
i do. everyone does, or at least the majority of people. the purpose of my statement is that our realist minds move close to pessimism, but we as humans are designed to clear that. remember when i talked about the divine design of the human body? yes, how is it that not many have realised that there is an organ we speak of in hushed tones that is created purely for pleasure. and of course, making babies, but that's a whole other topic.
in this way we see that we, as humans, can deplete our own tensions (if you know what i mean) because pleasure was hand-delivered to us by our creator.
now, why would the 'people of god' or inerts keep this hushed? why do they reprimand a god-given gift to us by saying it is a sin? are they defying god? how dare they? why would they keep the secret to being inert (or balancing out the human nature to encounter problems by using biological pleasure) to themselves when they are supposed to be of help? how do they know they are qualified to do this?
The celebrations commenced, but none of us would know our future shortcomings. Not even the clairvoyants.
It was a strange roadtrip to the wedding of our friends, there was an apprehension in the air as the love of my life placed his arms around me. I think I squeezed his chest a little too hard, but he was warm and I was cold. I was always cold, and I frequently debated if I was really endothermic.
There were mice in our car, in a cage. They didn't really like us, but they were part of the wedding, and they didn't even seem the slightest bit weird at the time. At least, I was with him. He meant the world to me.
As we partied all night, and were on our way back to our hotel rooms - it happened. I don't think anyone else realised it but me. The world was ending, and ending, and ending. Again and again and again, on a loop. But it ended differently each time.
It was as if I was paralyzed, but I could see everything. It was the clairvoyants who conveyed the message that this world was over and done with. To be specific, his name was Kevin. He froze all of us, and told his community that we have died, except for the telekinetics or higher powers. I began to wonder why I could hear that.
"You're a telekinetic," he said.
But I couldn't reply.
"Wanna watch me ruin the world?"
He pushed the room we were in to the ground (to be fair, we were already on the ground. He pushed us further down the crust of the planet, like there was an elevator shaft and we were going down.) My brain was melting.
He moved everything back to normal, with the simple control of his mind, like he was guilty. We thawed, as if nothing happened.
The second time he threw the world out the window was with a special gun. We froze again, of course, but this time I covered my face with my dress. Despite knowing I did so, I could still see. Shit.
He shot the people with his silent gun, and when it was my turn, he simply skipped me. He couldn't shoot me, probably because I was telekinetic. This time though, I could speak, just by thinking. Why didn't I realize that before?
"Why aren't you shooting me?"
"I did, you were immune to it."
"Does this mean I have to watch you undo all of this and watch the apocalypse again?"
"Yes, your gift wasn't used when you were alive, so here you are."
"Where, where am I?"
"Limbo."
I lied through it continuously; as he drove the world to the sun, imploded our species, and caused us to stab ourselves impulsively.
Of course, I didn't feel a thing. Except for despair.
After about a month since I've taken a liking to the man and his words, I looked at the date on the calendar. It was my birthday. I've spent heaps of time cyber-stalking this man, drinking his thoughts in and acquiring a taste for it sentence by sentence.
I woke up to an average day at school. Nothing much, just play-rehearsals and strangers noticing me for the one day of my life. During this month, I would often strap on my gladiators for an hour or two to rehearse my moves for my upcoming musical. My practices on the stage continued till after the school bell rang. I was eager to watch Mr. E (or, as I like to call him, mystery) walk down the corridor with his innate edginess and his immaculate ability to stay calm and collected. At all times. This infuriated me, but only made me more and more attracted to him.
I remember blowing out my candles the night before, hoping for a chance to get closer to him. It was not until later that day that I was in for a surprise . . .
I decided to have a simple dinner with my family. A barbecue, if you will. We had all kinds of food - and I even baked a turkey breast for the special occasion. My family loved it. Or at least they said they did. I was sitting at the corner on the balcony with the picnic blankets placed side to side, staring at the magical buzzing box that is my phone, and replying to these:
"Happy Birthday! May god bless you, stay pretty! x"
"happy birthday :)"
"happy birthday, have a blast"
"happy bday, mgbua, enjoy"
"Happy Happy Birthday! Hope it will be a good year."
"hi dear have a nice birthday today"
"OMG, Jaanam, happy birthday you're so gorgeous i love you have a bomb your hair is nice . . .
You get the point. These were wall-post formalities, I dreaded them each year. A different sound came out of my phone this time. It wasn't WhatsApp or Facebook Notifications or Twitter or WordPress or Tumblr or any of these social networks. It was Facebook Messenger.
His named popped up. My inner fangirl was unleashed. He said, "happy birthday jaanam / hundreds and hundreds of congratulations (well, that's what it sounds like translated)." I was on top of the world, already. We began making small talk when he revealed to me that his driver had miraculously quit and how he needed a ride for school on the next day.
I cannot accurately describe the feeling I had inside of me. But, here's a list:
1. I was smiling like an idiot. My face split into two.
2. I was already overwhelmed with the love I felt that day.
3. I was all, "universe, I see what you did there!"
4. I cried because of the perfect timing.
5. I was looking forward to being the age I am now.
6. Everyone was asking me what was wrong with me.
7. The fact that I had to cover it up made me grin even more.
8. I just wouldn't buy it, I was practically dreaming.
9. I was away from my little party for a while to look for better signal.
10. ALL AT THE SAME TIME
I was rather dismayed when he told me he no longer needed rides to school, because how life surprised me was just too perfect. I dealt with it though - enjoying the few minutes I spent with him from home to school; I would even dress in his favourite colours, put on some good smelling stuff, and look like anything other than my usual hobo appearance. Two weeks later, his driver quit again . . .
