Imperfect memory, please, stay, tell me more.

Anticipation can be rather underrated at times. I like when it comes as a soft feeling of delay, whether it is looking forward to the warmth of someone’s presence or for a short shining moment, being able to imagine a myriad of open possibilities. In gentle doses, I find the feeling rather delicious, such as in my recent attempts at reading serials according to their original release timeline. It has been an exercise in discipline (which I admittedly don't have much of), but the outcome is a disproportionate sense of wonder and satiety – especially in works like Middlemarch, The Pickwick Papers and Black Box (a short spy story by Jennifer Egan I highly recommend. Reading it periodically makes the suspense utterly gripping). 

I have also been prone to bouts of guilt when using a kindle. It is especially acute when in the midst reading a book, I realize how much I am actually enjoying it. While I still visit bookshops occasionally, I don’t feel quite as safe leaving the house without the e-reader. It has become this dirty little secret, and if books had eyes, they would all be staring accusingly at me right now. I try to justify this by saying that books are the mere physical embodiments of a piece of work, and the content – its soul, so to speak – is what really matters. But the fact is I buy/borrow less books, because of which authors get less compensation. Sadly, the thrill of finally being able to read everything (it certainly feels that way) is wilfully trampling over whatever pained regret I feel.

I wonder if it’s natural, that when we get older, we also become more cautious in decisions and more materialistic. Not in a money-grubbing way per se, but by becoming more status conscious and more driven toward financial security. Some people earnestly seem to be looking to prove something – as if by working crazy hours and being paid relatively more, other things in life will fall in place. I’m not disputing this philosophy (it’s their business, after all). It’s just that I wasn't sure how to react when I realized this little facet of a friend - when someone you thought you knew becomes just that – only someone you thought you knew (if that makes sense?)

Today, I went to visit my grandma in Johor again, where I found an old photo of my mum in her student days (turtleneck sweater, large horn-rimmed glasses etc). In it, she is smiling happily in what looks like her dormitory in Newcastle (thick books on the shelves, an atlas on the wall). But intriguingly, behind the photo is a note from her addressed to my dad, the first part of which says: 
“To Chan, 
With Warmest (3 degree c) Wishes and Bright (Ahem!) Skies
Always.” 
It’s strange and wonderful to know this side of my mum. 

The only people for me are the mad ones

In exactly one month, it will be my five-year anniversary with the great Land of Oz. In tribute, I have written a letter to my 18-year-old self, in the hopes that a passing time traveller would pass it along to her:

5th July 2007

Dear silly, impulsive, 18 year old me,

How wonderful the world must look to you! The naïve gloss that comes with teenage hood – all bright eyes and easy smiles; how intoxicating it is to just indulge headily in that freedom. The freedom to rage and love, to refuse yet persist. And I know better than to counsel you restraint.

It is thus quite improbable that you would heed much of what I have to say (stubborn creature that you are, I doubt it would make much of a difference anyway). But I will still say this: loneliness is not a sin. Repeat it to yourself. Like sadness, it is maybe more akin to an annoying companion; inasmuch as the more you try to drive it away, the more it clings. Be as present as you can in your happy moments, so that when the sad and restless times come, you have something to weigh them against. And you do have a few perfect memories that even time cannot distemper.

The years will roll on, and the world will gradually seem to grow more austere and mellow. I will not lie: there will be times when you feel no heater is strong enough to warm you. Your silence will carry the world that happens within you, even when it's so far away. (Remind yourself in times like these – that if you can take the dark with open eyes, you will survive.)

Life appears to have a healthy sense of irony sometimes, doesn't it. But it doesn’t seem to be having a laugh at your expense, so just relax! Let it go. It doesn't matter what they think. The future may yet to be explicable to you, but don’t worry. Those answers will come.

In the meanwhile, be patient. The world is your autumn sonnet.

Sincerely, 

R 

P.S. Call home more.