“You’ve Changed.”

Nov 19th, 2009 10:49:00pm

I can not tell you how many times I have heard those words uttered to me these past few months. And every time, I ask how I have been altered. And every time, they do not have an answer, except for the fact that I am different than I was before.

A few days ago, I was on the phone with one of my best friends. I heard them again. Just two words. “You’ve changed.”

I wonder how many others have faced a similar situation. You’re changing, but you’re also the only one who doesn’t notice it happening. It’s sneaky, like a lioness hiding in the tall grass, getting ever closer, until it pounces. Everyone else sees it but you, until it’s too late.

Why is it so, however? How does it happen that your inner self; your personality; everything that makes you yourself, is slowly being turned into something else, and you don’t even know it?

People tell you. They say you’re different. They’re not sure in what way, and neither are you, but it’s true. At some point in your life something clicked out of – or into – place, and you just aren’t the same anymore. You can’t be sure what triggered it.. What exactly happened. Or when.

Frustrating? Definitely. Tiring? Completely. It does depend, though, on whether you’re changing for the better or the worse. If it’s for the better, then that’s great. It’s a wonderful feeling, waking up in the morning one day, and realising you’re a better person. Someone who’s happier. Someone who smiles more, laughs more, is kinder, is more generous. It truly is.

If it’s for the worse, then your only hope is to change back before it’s too late. Before those subtle alterations become a part of you, things becoming a million times harder. Before you stop caring how you turn out. Because that’s when it all goes to hell.

Unfortunately, there is a middle ground as well. One that is the most exhausting of all, once people point it out: just.. changing. Not for the better, nor the worse. You’re stuck because you have no idea what’s happening to you. No idea whether you should stop it or not. After all, it could be bad at first, then improve with time, could it not? Or perhaps it’s the other way around? You’re losing touch with yourself, completely confused as to whether the new you will be a better version of yourself.

Not sure if you’ll even recognise yourself anymore the next time you look in the mirror.
So, voice cracking, tears running down my cheeks for the first time in the longest time, I admitted something I had not yet told anyone: “I’m scared.”

Once Upon A Time…

Nov 6th, 2009 1:32:00pm

Books. Anyone who knows me will tell you I am in love with reading. I love stories. Mysteries; fantasies; tales of love and woe; of demons defeated and heroes born; of the creatures of the night and those that hide among us in the day. This column is inspired by a single book (or rather, the movie production of it): Inkheart.

Those of you who’ve heard of it know its story. The story of a man, Mo, and then later his daughter, who have the ability to read characters out of books. In the movie [which I happened to watch before wanting to read the book itself], the books whispered the words within them, calling out to be read. My question is: Is that so impossible?

I was at a bookstore last week. It is apparently the largest bookstore in the world, and heaven on earth for all bookworms, myself included. So, so many choices.

Overwhelming, almost, this variety of selections. So how do people make their decisions? After all, the books are not displayed with their pages open, so you can find out if you’re going to like the story or not. You have to pick something that looks interesting first.
So, ever wondered how you do it? Run your fingers over a bunch of books squeezed together then suddenly and randomly pick a book you think you might like? Some do it by reading the titles, others just let their fingers do the work. So how is it done?

Excuse my childish imagination, but I believe we all have Mo’s powers to some extent. Ever feel like some books just… call out to you? You haven’t read a word except perhaps for the plot summary on the back cover, and yet you find yourself unwilling to leave without it. Or you cross a few shelves and something stops you mid-step. You look, and you just grab a novel out of nowhere, then a few pages later you can say, “I’m so getting this.”

Perhaps it only is the ramblings of a dreamer who believes in a world more magical than that we live in now, but I like the thought of some stories being meant for us. We’re supposed to read them, love them, dive into them for just a little while and escape the “reality” we’re going to have to face later on. Perhaps I’ve been reading far too many fantasies, but it is comforting to me.

I love books. I love the pages that capture the tales of amazing characters in between the covers. For the longest time, they have been my escape. Whenever life was pressing down too hard, they were my friends. They let me forget, even if it was not for long.
So is it so strange that I also love the idea that some books are destined for me? And that others have books destined for them?

Then again, perhaps it only is the ramblings of a dreamer who believes in a world more magical than that we live in now.

Tapestry of Beauty

Oct 9th, 2009 1:43:00am

Music. Something that has affected so many people in so many ways in so many places. I am listening to music as I type this, and as always I am struck with the impact it has had on my life. Music was there for me when I used to have no one else. It still is there for me. It describes my feelings better than I ever could. I have been moved by music- touched by it. And now? I cannot imagine life without it.

So what is it about this thing? This set of sounds, words, and beats, that gets to us all? Whether you love classical, country, rock, death metal or rap, there is no denying that at some point you have been through a moment where all you can say is, “Wow. I’ve felt this. I feel this. I’ve thought this and wondered about this.” Some people just listen to music for heck of it, others to appreciate the symphony of instruments working together in a way us humans never could, and others still for the way it relates to them. You may be one of the above, or all of them, but no matter which, your moment has happened or will happen.

Music has this way of not only affecting your ears, but your eyes with the images it provokes, your mind with the memories it may bring to surface, your body with the urge to get up and dance away your inhibitions, and your heart with the emotions sent coursing through it. How is a question I doubt I will ever be able to answer.

It is not unlike writing, don’t you think? Writing, too, has a way of getting through to a reader. Think of art. Paintings, sketches, and sculptures. How many times have you heard someone say that the Mona Lisa’s smile makes them achingly curious? Or that Evard Munch’s “The Scream” expresses to them a feeling of frustration, or sadness, or fear?

It isn’t just music. It is the power of creative art. No one may ever truly understand why it has such an effect on us, but does that matter? In a world where the tenacious ivy of logic and realism is creeping up and grabbing us by the ankles, we could all use a bit of artistic relief. Art. True art. Beauty that has been captured, yet remains free for us to gaze upon at our leisure. Emotions that have been expressed for you, when you can’t seem to get them out yourself. Words that have been spoken for you when you couldn’t find the right ones. Screams when you weren’t allowed to scream. Tears when you weren’t allowed to cry. Rage when you couldn’t let yourself lose your cool.

We are all around us. Doesn’t make sense? Read it again. Think about it. We are all around us, in our art. Our art contains us in them. We pour in a little bit of our souls, for the world to see without really seeing.

Those who create, do it to reveal a part they would normally keep hidden. Those who do not create observe the art of others. They find that part; relate to it. Then comes feeling of specialness. Feeling as if the artist has peered into your innermost core and made this for you. A quiet relief: I am not alone.

Perhaps this is the answer. We need to know we are not the only ones who think the way we do, who see things the way we do, who sense things the way we do.

You are not alone.

And the Arts.

The beautiful, beautiful creations of the truest part of ourselves.

They prove this.

The Thing about Writing

Mar 14th, 2009 3:10:00am

The thing about writing is you can’t just babble on about complete nonsense. Unless, of course, you’re inclined to do so. You have to have something to write about; a story to tell. A tale to ensnare a reader’s imagination and take them to a world completely different from their own. A writer has to say the right thing in the right way to produce that right effect, and that isn’t always easy.

I don’t claim to be an expert. At all. In fact, I am probably the worst writer there is. But I know what a writer should do, even if I don’t know how to do it myself. There’s just this way about all those accomplised authors out there. It’s amazing how they put their words together and for an hour or so [depending on the length of the book] make you forget completely about the rest of the world. It’s amazing the depth of their imagination and creativity. I mean, how many people can take you to another place entirely simply with their words?

I admire those who possess the talent required for the art of the written word. And even more, I admire those who made it into the publishing world and have managed to stay there for years. Anyone can write. But only the great ones make a successful profession of it. Examples include Diana Wynne Jones, Neil Gaiman, Nora Roberts, and even the writers of old such as Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters. These people have captured our imaginations for years.

The thing about writing is that you have to have a story to tell. The people I mentioned above did. And hopefully, someday, so will I.

Because the thing about writing is that you can never get enough of it. There’s always another world to explore; another battle against evil to be won; another mystery to be solved; another set of lovers to be reunited. There’s always another tale to be told.

Makes Me Think

Sep 5th, 2009 9:29:00pm

When reuniting with someone you haven’t seen in years, there is always one thing [for us teens anyways] you can be sure to expect: the exclamations of “Look how much you’ve grown!” or “Last time I saw you, you were this high!” or possibly “My, how the years pass!” You smile and you nod and you laugh politely at any jokes, in the meantime thinking that apart from a few grey hairs, a few more laugh-lines, and maybe a slight loss/gain in weight, they look the same.

I can’t help but wonder whether when they see us kids, all grown up and not the kind to sit on laps anymore, they are reminded of how much older they’ve become as well. Are we symbols of the fact that their generation is thinning out, and soon it’ll be our turn to venture into the world? Or perhaps we are reminders of their own youth, when things were so much easier for them? Do they reflect on how much time has passed between our last meeting, and see the signs on our faces?

After all for us, adults are constant. They may vary slightly from our memory, which is to be expected, but still, in essence, the same. We however, almost never bear the same features as they remember. Perhaps the only thing to remain intact and untouched by change is our eyes. Even then, contacts or glasses could have altered that as well. However, for adults, we are change. We are those who stand to replace them when our time comes and theirs ends. We are those who can make a difference where they could not. Discoveries and achievements await us. We are the new, the different.

So maybe adults don’t see us as signs of their age after all. Maybe they see us as the catalysts of change in the unseen future. We don’t know what’s going to happen, and neither do they, but the one thing we both know is it’s going to make a difference to all: the older generation, and us, the new. We decide our future, just as they chose theirs. And just as they altered the world, so shall we. For better, or for worse, who knows? The constant here is change, and the impact it has on all our lives. Perhaps they see it in us, after those months and years apart.

Biting Your Tongue

Sep 26th, 2009 11:22:00pm

In my last column I spoke of silence. The sweetness of it; its benefits and its rarity. This column too is about silence, but one that is nothing like what I have just described. It is not sweet. It is not beneficial. And, unfortunately, it is one of the most common things in the world.

A wise and amazing person once said, “Hearts are often broken by words left unspoken.” Another such person started a blog in which she wrote all the things she’s never said to the people in her life. Why? Because they were never said out-loud, and they have to be let out somehow, in some way. Hence the blog; hence the quote.

There are times when the only thing to do is keep your mouth quite firmly shut- just grin and get through it. Then, there are times when things just have to be spoken out loud, even if it’ll just make it worse, for your own sanity. We don’t do that. Not all of us, at any rate. We keep things bottled up, or just say it in our heads while either imagining throttling the living daylights out of the person involved (in the case of those who got on your bad side) or imagining holding them in your arms and never letting go (need I even say I mean your loved ones?). Words that are left unspoken are like acid on your tongue- bitter, burning, yearning to be released from your lips. It amazes me the amount of will-power it takes to hold them back. Why do we? Why can’t we just say what we want to? What we think? What we feel?

I look around, sometimes. At people passing by. At my family. At random strangers on the street or in the mall. And I wonder, “What are they not saying? What are they going through, right now, in this moment? What are they thinking? And why can’t they just come out with it?” Now, I am being completely hypocritical. I am the first to admit that when it comes to “making with the words”, I am not exactly what you’d call expressive. I really do taste acid sometimes, and it makes me think about all the other people who do. People like me, who go day after day not speaking up, speaking out. Speaking loud, speaking proud. There are such people, yes. People who are not afraid to divulge what’s on their mind without shame. I am not referring to those who have no tact whatsoever, but those who know the right time for the right words. For people who don’t hold back unless they realise they might needlessly hurt someone. I admire them. I look up to them. I’m sure everyone who’s like me has. Yet I keep silent.

And so do my fellow sufferers.

We live in an oppressed world. There is no such thing as “freedom of speech”. Some things are not permitted to talked about out loud. Whether this unspoken ban is in one’s home, in one’s school or workplace or even in one’s very own government, there will always be that little weight pressing down on you: “You can’t say this. You can’t. You’re not allowed. It’s not appropriate. They won’t like it. Keep quiet. Keep quiet. SHUT UP!” Everyone’s heard this voice in their thoughts. Some people ignore it, and some people submit and begrudgingly taste that bitterness. Swallow it down. Move on. Not. You might swallow it down alright, but there’s no moving on from those things you didn’t say. They fester in you, and as the quote goes, “Hearts are often broken..”

Guess what, my readers? Someone needs to defend the rights of us people to say what we think. Tact is important, yes, but keeping silent all the time isn’t healthy. It isn’t right. Relationships are torn apart. Some never even begin. Innocent people are killed. Men and women are sent to needless war. Yes, sometimes action is the only way. But find out why. Ask questions. Speak out. Speak proud. Say something someone might not like, if it needs to be said. Let your feelings out. Let it out. Stop biting your tongue and speak. Scream. Shout it out.

I truly hope I live to see the day people don’t taste acid on their tongues anymore.

I hope I become one of them.

Golden Silence

Sep 18th, 2009 5:36:00am

We have the Stone Age, the Middle Ages, the Bronze Age, and so on and so forth. This age is, though I am probably wrong, considered the Technological Age. Personally, I think it should be referred to as the Age of Noise.

We live in a time where there is always some sound or the other playing in the background. Whether it’s the tap-tap-tapping of one’s keyboard or the hum of the air conditioner, the rushing of cars driving by outside or music blasting inside, there’s always something. I believe very few people nowadays know what real, proper silence is. After all, there are few places in the world nowadays where there is such a silence; one so penetrating, the only things you can hear are your breathing and the steady beating of your heart. However, in my opinion we need that kind of quietude sometimes. We are so surrounded by clamour that our thoughts are drowned out, or more accurately, repressed, distracted with the noise of this and that. What would it be like, not having so much buzzing in our ears?

I had the opportunity to have this question answered slightly less than a week ago, and it was in fact the inspiration for this column. Life got in the way, hence the lateness, but I digress. As I was saying, last week we were faced with a power outage. I was asleep at the time, but upon hearing the sudden “zing” of the electricity disappearing into nothingness I was startled into wakefulness. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. No CD playing, no humming of the air conditioner, and none of that hidden noise associated with electricity running through the walls of our building. It was like all the energy had been sucked out, leaving only silence.

At first, this newfound hush was oppressing, pushing itself against my unaccustomed ears. But then, as I started getting used to it, I rather liked it. It was this lovely feeling of calm that washed over me. Sounds that were normally nothing compared to the other noise we had going on were amplified ten times, making me realise just how loud they were. The legs of my loose jeans brushing against each other as I walked, my footsteps on the tiles, these were all things I would not have thought anything of in usual circumstances, but was forced to pay attention to. It was like my hearing had zoned in on whatever sound it could find. It made me realise just how much noise is in our lives.

When the power came back on, I was both disappointed and relieved; after all, four hours without air conditioning in the middle of a blistering hot afternoon is not exactly comfortable. I did, however, miss the silence. The contrast was almost staggering. Its memory was quite fresh in my mind, and I found I could think clearly the entire day. Amazing what a little bit of peace can do, isn’t it?

So, next time you think it’s just too quiet, avoid turning on the TV or turning up the music. Instead, listen.

Hope Floats

Sep 12th, 2009 3:19:00pm

Expectations are strange things. They are those ideas you have formed in your head about what a certain someone or something or someplace might be like, before having seen the real thing. I call them strange because our assumptions are usually nothing compared to reality, and yet we constantly make them despite how many times we have been either pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised.

Case in point. A relative of mine, one whom I have not seen in more than a decade, came to visit last night. Now, I am not one of many words – not in person, at any rate – and couple that with the awkwardness one feels after ten odd years apart, you may have rightly mistaken me for a mute. It was apparent I was not what he expected. I do believe he thought I would still be the same chatterbox I used to be, and that we would have many a glorious conversation talking about this or that as of old. Sadly not the case, as guilty as that made me, and his notions of renewing the close relationship we once had were dashed to pieces.

So why do we continue to suppose, presume and conjecture? Why do we continue to hope things will turn out the way we’ve imagined them to in our minds? After all, an expectation is a form of hope. So why do we do it? We are let down time and time again, with occasional reward, but still we hope.

The way I see it, it’s basically because we are only human. We need something to look forward to, something to keep our spirits alive and afloat when the rest of the world keeps pulling them down. When you have lost hope, you have lost any will to keep fighting, no matter what battle it is. It is that light at the end of the tunnel that everyone of us, however you may deny it, keep moving towards. It’s what keeps us going. Even the most cynical of people dare to do it sometimes. They’ll deny it when you ask, I promise you, but they do. It can’t be helped. It’s a part of all of us, this thing, our little whisperer that says maybe this time things won’t be so bad; this time things’ll turn out okay.

So when we make those assumptions, have those fantasies and raise our expectations, it’s because we hope that sometime soon, we won’t be disappointed, regardless of how many times we have been before.

Depths of Despair

Sep 11th, 2009 2:41:00am

You know what I find truly interesting about us humans? Our ability to feel so awful about ourselves at any given moment. Everyone has felt it at one point or another: that sinking sensation that is not in your stomach, nor your heart, but in every part of you. There is that immensely heavy feeling in the core of your being that weighs you down; you feel lifeless, defeated, destroyed.

This could be triggered by a small mistake, or a whopping failure, a simple comment someone made to you or to someone else about you, or blatant abuse. Whatever the cause, there is no denying that there are times when we feel lower than low, with no hopes of ever coming back up. When cynicism and apathy rule supreme and any bit of optimism you have is shot down by the aforementioned cynicism and apathy.

Some people call it being “down in the dumps”, while others more crudely refer to it as “feeling like shit”. Therapists, psychologists and the like may term it “depression” or perhaps the milder but no less impacting “low self-esteem”. It goes by many names, but that feeling remains the same everywhere, for everyone.

What really gets to me, though, is how… silent the emotion is. Think about it. Anger is all chaos. It’s a torrent of roarings and screechings, hissings and spittings, clawing and tearing that takes over your insides. Sadness is this huge gaping pit; a black hole that sucks away any joy with the a sound reminiscent of the last swirls of water going down the drain in the sink. Happiness is buoyant, bright and bouncing; laughter and music, Jealousy similar to Anger, but on a different level.

Losing faith in ourselves, however, is a quiet thing. It’s like an early winter morning of thick fog and mist, and a slight chill that makes you wish you were in bed under the blankets. It’s feeling worthless, useless, a waste of air and space. It’s not bothering to do anything because you feel there’s no point – you’ll just screw it up anyways, right? It is not the sudden going off of a light bulb, but the flickering and subsequent fading out of a candle. It is all those things, yet it doesn’t make a sound. Not one peep. As swift and as agile as an alley cat, with the silence of a ninja making his way through the night, it just comes over you.

And then you sink further, deeper, until you choose get yourself out. No one else can do it for you. They may throw you the rope, but only you can pull yourself through it. It’s all a matter of rousing up enough determination, enough hope, and not letting them get attacked, until you are not thinking of yourself as anything less than you truly are. I freely confess I am being completely and utterly hypocritical here, by giving out advice that I myself refuse to take. However, that doesn’t make what I’m saying any less important, any less true, nor any less necessary for you to read and remember.

Masking the Truth

Sep 8th, 2009 3:43:00pm

It has recently occurred to me that I have been described as “cold” rather frequently this past year. I am sincerely hoping, as I had not the heart to ask, that they meant it in the context of me being very calm on the surface, and not referring to the less flattering description of being unemotional and robotic. I find it amusing they call me that at all, for in truth I “freak out” quite easily.

This brings to light how often we hide our true selves, our real emotions and reactions to the things around us. Why? Why do we wrap the cloak of a whole other personality over the one we have now? Smiling when all we want is to cry, keeping a stoic face when all we want is to punch something, laughing when inside you just want to curl up and die… Everyone has their own personal reasons, but did I not say in a previous column that everything we do has no true reason at all? One could say they put on a mask because they are afraid of others seeing them for who they are. What if who they are is more amazing than what they pretend to be? The argument would be, “What if they’re not and are just hiding a horrible, evil self?” Well, we won’t be able to figure that out until the disguise has fallen apart. We won’t be able to help the person, if help is possible, unless we see what needs that help.

The desire to keep things bottled up is present in many, many people. Sadly, probably more than there are people who are not afraid to be themselves. We feel other’s emotions are more important than our own; our emotions are invalid, unjustified, and stupid. We quell them, keep them at bay, suppress them and push them down into the farthest recesses of our hearts. First, it’s hard, having to hide what makes you you. However, as time passes, it gets easier, until it has become second nature. At this point even if you wanted to you wouldn’t be able to bring those emotions to surface, so deep have you buried them. It starts to build, after a while. All you have kept inside for so long, never letting go, begins to demand release, pounding harder against the container you imprisoned them in, and you have to explode, let it out somehow. Sort of reminiscent of a volcano, no?

Sometimes even our talents can never be displayed, because we are afraid of being teased for them. Also because we are scared they are not as significant as we thought they were, that they’re not special, and that if we show them to someone else those suspicions and doubts may be confirmed. We might even be ashamed of them, as they may not coincide with the expectations and desires of others.

It all boils down to fear, doesn’t it? Fear of being ourselves, because of fear of ridicule and mockery; fear of us not being good enough; fear we’ll never be good enough; fear of not being as “perfect” as we think people want us to be. So we build walls, we wear masks and hide behind them. We act. And what a draining performance it is.

Maybe one day, no one will ever feel the need to act anymore. Maybe one day we can all unashamedly, unabashedly and completely be ourselves, without dwelling a single thought on what people might think or do or say. Maybe one day, we won’t put on a whole new face for the world, but display our own with pride. One day, we might be able to remove our veils completely, instead of just bit by bit, or not at all. Maybe one day we won’t be so afraid.