The Exit (raw first draft)

The man stares into the faraway place where the sky touches the Earth's surface, fixing his gaze on nothing in particular. There's something about staring at the red sky as day is about to turn into night that makes you see your entire life playing before your eyes. Beautiful, powerful moments that has taken his breath away, like the day he first set eyes on his new-born son, and those good old days when his wife used to look at him in a way that makes his feel invincible. She never looks at him like that anymore, he has not seen it for quite some time now. Come to think about it, on the rare occasions where direct conversation is necessary, she never looks at him in the eyes. He is glad though, for that. That way he can see her without having to actually face her, consume the sight of her lovely face, now older and though always wearing that weary expression, still pretty as ever to him. He is afraid that if their eyes met, all of the unspoken words that she kept gated inside, will rush out like an angry tsunami, and he doesn't think he would ever be prepared for that. He would just die.

Sometimes he wonders what constitutes as being alive. The ability to breathe? Is that it? He heaved a heavy sigh of relief, as if trying to will all of his worries away but it only served to remind him of the pain that he has been carrying in his chest; the sharp slash he felt just to the left of his abdomen. The part of the pain which is physical, he can endure. He knows that something is going really wrong inside his body, he doesn't need a doctor to tell him that. Despite relentless prodding by his wife and son, he just could not bring himself to get himself properly checked. Desperate that all of their pleading seem to fall on his deaf ears, they had accused him of being selfish, in hope that that will get him to see the doctor. Didn't work. 

But it hurt, their accusation of him being selfish. Selfish. He lets out a dry chuckle. If only they realise that the only reason of him not taking their advice is the opposite of being selfish. But they do not need to know that. It is enough that he knows that they do not actually mean what they said, it was just a desperate attempt to help him. He knows that. But it doesn't make it less hurtful.

Even if time is not in his favour, even if he cannot make right of all the wrongs that he had made in his life, it comforts him to know that he had once been truly happy. Not that he is not happy now, he thinks he is, he has his wife and son that he loves so much, that he would do anything for, but knowing that his wife is not happy, that he can not do anything to make her happy, makes him feel powerless. Hopeless. 

Funny how people keep saying that love conquers all when love is contingent upon other things. Many other things. Money, among others. 

The voice of the muezzin calling for Maghrib's prayer broke the dusk. And his reverie. 

Slowly he walked back into the house, getting ready for his prayer.

*****

How did he end up here? In the hospital, with tubes inside his arm and machine hooked up to his body. One moment he was being his old defensive self, not wanting to go visit the doctor. But there was something in the way she looked at him just now that he had never seen before. She was afraid, as if she had seen a ghost. So he relented. He let her call the neighbour to take him to the hospital. And then everything happened so fast.

Lying on the bed, he saw the world in a different perspective. He saw his wife standing over him, crying, his son beside her void of any expression, people in white uniforms swooshing by, the white ceiling and walls which has been a witness to many ends. How sad and how beautiful, he thought. And then he notices that space is getting smaller and smaller, like the ceiling and the walls come closing on him, he is getting claustrophobic, he wants to get up but something seems to keep him rooted to the bed. Is this the effect of the medication they gave him? What is happening?

He can feel that his time is running up fast. He needs to talk to his wife. He needs to talk to her now. He opens his mouth but he could not make any tangible sentence. His wife who is witting on the chair beside his bed took his hand, her quiet cries begin to turn into uncontrollable sobs. He needs to tell her that he loves her, because there is not much time left, he is aware of that, that he is sorry that their life does not turn out the way they have imagined as young, smitten lovers, that he is sorry he could not make the business work as he had planned even though he has tried, God knows he has tried his very best, that he is sorry he took her from the other guy some 20 year ago, who might have been able to provide her a better life than what he had, that he is thankful for all the happy times they have shared together, though he wished he would have spent less time working back then and took her and their son more on holidays when his business was going great, when he had the means to do so but no, he kept on working, working harder everyday, being away from home, in hopes to provide them more, more than he ever had when he was younger; he is sorry that he has to leave them both now, but it is better that he goes like this than holds on while draining up their life savings on his medical bills, he does not want to be a burden to his family, he has failed them once, but not anymore, he hopes his life insurance and the house that and his car would be enough to help them through until they find their footing back, starting a new life without him, she should definitely find someone else who can take care of her and love her perhaps even more than he ever did, he is sorry and thankful for everything and that he loves them dearly, but why does the words are not coming out? Frustration takes over him and the guttural moans he makes turn into a howling cry, he pulls his wife's hands which are tightly clasped onto his right palm and a gnawed at it, hoping he can somehow communicate to her all the things, the final things that he wants to say..

And then he caught sight of his son who is inching closer to him..in an instant he was on top of him, hugging him, and he started to choke on his tears. He prays to his God that He will never abandon his son, praying that He will grant his precious son the best of what the world could offer. His son is the magic he helped bring into the world and that was enough, he felt a huge sense of relief, like his life is complete, that it is okay to finish now, that it is okay to let go…

He felt his bed was being pushed into a close door, a door which he knows he would never get out from again, his wife and son's faces are getting further and further, a sense of urgency in the people scuttling around him but he feels a strange sense of calmness..he makes a final prayer, hoping He would ease his exit...

…and perhaps he will be re-united again with his family on the other side and this words can be said between them. Until then, God bless them.

The Place Beyond The Pines

Watching this movie gave me the same feeling I got watching Blue Valentine. Everything just comes together perfectly in this movie; the multi-layered characters in which the actors do not act the character but instead just become the characters, the plot which eerily resembles the way real life tend to sneak up on you to steer you away from the typical Hollywood happy-endings...

It's so good but so hauntingly real that I cannot bring myself to watch the movie again. Even how much I wanted to (...see Ryan Gosling's perfect abs). This movie gives you the goosebumps that linger around even after the movie is over.

That's two gold stars in a row, Derek, I can't wait for the third.

Homage

Forgive me,
For my lack of courage;
that I failed to reach out.

For not knowing any better - for being downright foolish;
Drowned in my own askew, self-conceited worries.

For never being present;
Neither in flesh, nor in spirit.

Forgive me,
for not doing more,
for doing nothing at all.


For not being able to grasp,
the meaning of responsibility and sacrifice,
and ultimately, the meaning of,
unconditional love.


Forgive me,
for realising everything,
a tad too late.

With love, respect, longing,
Yours truly.

Why I Am Not A Fan of Domestic Cats

Once during lunch time, I was scrolling through my Twitter's timeline and some random people I followed tweeted this:

"The saddest part about Malaysia is all the stray animals :'(" (I am still confused with that particular emoticon, is that a tear drop or snot on the smiley's face?)

My instant reaction was, "Really? You really think that the saddest part of Malaysia is the homeless cats and dogs, when there are kids living on the streets, exposed to all sorts of unimaginable danger, like being forced into prostitution or being sold to human trafficking syndicate? It is sad, but it's definitely not the saddest; be careful next time with the use of superlative, aight?"

And lo and behold, as I looked up from my phone, I was met with death stares by 4 pairs of eyes. I didn't realise that I has just opened the Pandora box. I was bombarded by all sorts of pro-feline arguments afterwards at which point I had tuned myself out (because it felt like they were talking in an exclusive language of which only feline lovers can understand; I mean how do you get your brain to understand the logic of a homeless cat being sadder than a homeless kid?) and mentally created the list of 'Why I Am Not A Fan Of Domestic Cats':

1) Cats are so vain and such attention-seekers. They like to be Instagram-ed, that's why they do the shit they do, because they know their human companion is just around the corner with handphone ready in hand to snap their latest, cutest pose. Please, we have our fellow Selfie-ers on Instagram for that; unlike cats, the Selfie-ers do not pretend to not care of the camera pointed their way. From the expression on their face, to the angle of capture, to the direction of the natural lighting, we know that everything is intentional; we know that the picture we are looking at, the final product, is at least their third attempt, and we respect that, respect all the effort that goes into it.

2) Cats drain up mobile internet quota. Have you ever waited forever for your Instagram to load on your phone only to find out that the first page has five consecutive photos of the same freaking cat within a time frame of 10-mitues doing some stupid thing involving a plastic bag, a basket, a plush toy, a door and a box? Non-feline-fans, I feel you.


3) Cat lovers can be very fanatic in their affection towards these hairy little creatures with the kind of enthusiasm, surpassed only by the ultra-devoted Bieber's fans. Calm down, people. There's enough cats in the world for each and single one of you cat lovers, perhaps even 20 or more

4) Because big cats are way more awesome, they roar, like a BAWS, not purr, like Bieber.

Oh man, I know I am so going to be chastised for this. If the friends at my workplace ever found this blog, I might have to start having lunch alone everyday.

What WAS The Paradox Anyway?

So I have made (yet another) a vow to resume my senseless ranting here, in this little space tucked in the virtual corner of nobody-gives-a-shit, in hopes to retain my writing-sanity. We'll see how long this one lasts.

Writing too much of the same boring thing at work is starting to get to me, so I figure a place to unload all this streaming diarrhoea of words which are work-unrelated and totally self-indulgent would be cleansing, sort of like a mind detox.

Thank God the internet connection is back in this household. It's no Unifi (thanks to the management for not getting the cable installed into the building before the tenants started to come in), but it'll do. For now.

However as I am writing this sort-of a comeback post, there's two things that leave a slightly unsettling feeling in my stomach:

#1 What in the hell's name is a girl's paradox?

#2 I'm too lazy to create a new blog despite #1.

#1 is bothering me because what was the paradox anyway? What, am I a female trapped in a male's body? Which raises the doubt if I actually had really grasped the concept of a paradox after all at the time I came up with the name or was I just trying to be a try-hard, kind of like hipsters who like to quote lines from indie films that no one actually gets?

Which brings me to problem #2 which is not a problem but an internal obstacle that can or may be crossed with a little wee bit more willpower than what I possess now. But that can be justified by 'selective laziness' (which is the good kind of lazy, yes there's also the bad one; only those who are truly efficient be it in time management and/or energy conservation are familiar with this concept), is what I choose to call it.

I recalled something that a friend of mine told me some time last week. He asked me how come I appear to be so happy everyday?

What?

I beg to differ. I am not. I am the dark, cynical Max in '2 Broke Girls', not the chirpy, optimistic blonde Caroline (despite what my husband maintains; he thinks I am more like Caroline than Max, pffft). I am the erratic Julia Robert in My Best Friend's Wedding, not the miss-sunshine Cameron Diaz.

Life's just way funnier (read: less depressing) when seen through the eyes of a cynic.

P.S: I still can't come up with the paradox.

P.S.S: Who am I kidding, I am definitely more of a Caroline than Max. There.