The Way We See Things Makes a Difference

Guess you really can't stop yourself to envy others, huh. No matter how nonchalant you make yourself to be, no matter how unconcerned you try to look in front of other people. Despite of all the efforts, you really can't fool your own heart, let alone suppress the bitterness of it.

You envy those who get better opportunities, or even opportunities that you wouldn't dream of having in the first place. Your friend gets married early, right after college graduation, with a Korean guy and they seem to lead a content life in Korea. Or another who already expects her second baby. And another who frequently travels overseas just because she has money. Your ex who's now in a relationship with a beautiful girl (prettier than you are) and that they might already talk about taking their relationship into something more serious. Engagement? Marriage? This friend who has settled down in one of the most expensive cities in the world and now has a job there. That friend who pursues education to America and seems to have fun most of the times (at least from the pictures on Facebook). Or your female cousin who is a popular brainy, excelled in drawing and playing guitar and singing and not to mention, has a combination of model-like figure because she's fond of swimming with a beautiful face. Or that cousin who has a successful career history and is still in the process of making it even more glimmering.

Suddenly you feel so stressed out, so frightened, insecure of your own future, you start having doubts all over and all these mounting doubts make you feel so little, so discouraged.

Well, now I'll be honest:
1. The above examples are actually based on real people... in my circle of friends.
2. Which is why... I have had these moments before. Feeling discouraged and all, stupidly comparing myself with others.

But it'll be never ending, you see, if you keep your eyes on them. On other people. No one didn't really tell me how I handle and manage these feelings; I guess I just figured out by my own at that time, that:
1. I can be awesome too!
2. If you have that so much time to feel envious of other people, why don't you use that time instead to look into yourself?
3. Because well, it IS your OWN life. Care about yours more! I think it is definitely alright to have a certain degree of egocentrism in us.

How we see things, will make a difference.

Devoid of Expression

The day was late afternoon. The sweltering heat started to wear off. Gathering my hair and tying it quickly into a messy ponytail, I decided to drop by at a nearby mini market ahead to buy myself a cool drink or ice cream. I strode purposefully, covering my face with the back of my hand - the exhausts from cars and motorcycles from the busy thoroughfares and pollutants as well as other unidentified yet equally just as harmful particles were so intense, almost unbearable.

So it felt really really really nice, to finally set my feet inside the mini market; their air cons were blowing cool air - the hum of its engine was quite loud - and immediately my hot skins were soothed. 

Only few people walked about between the aisles. I walked to the cool beverages section (it was cooler there), choosing something refreshing, and was torn between a flavored tea or a juice or simply a mineral water, when the front door was open. 

The mini market was small, and there was actually a round mirror attached on several different and interspersed spots within the small room, high up against the wall, almost to the ceilings. I absentmindedly looked into one of the mirrors, and from the reflection could see a girl - still with her school uniform (that must be around the time school was finished) - entering the mini market. 

She went to the beverages section, and came to a halt a small distance away from me. 

She was pretty. She was also young, so young, and looked so innocent that I was somewhat remembered of my school days - and wondered if, back then, I looked as innocent as she was or at least gave a more or less similar impression. 

I stole a glance or two at her, and it was exactly at that moment... that I came to be surprised. 

Her face was devoid of expression. 

Why, I don't know. I was confused. It was completely different with people's usual face expressions. For example, let's say, those office workers who flocked the street as they just got off from work - and while they didn't particularly display any apparent expression or emotion as they briskly walked or hailed a cab to go home, their faces and postures were still ones that depicted a story, or at least clues to guess a story - that perhaps work had been rough and demanding, or that certain vibe of anxiety and weariness from their simplest gestures, telling that they dreaded the mounting and awaiting tasks to be done at home. 

But this girl... you would think she was at least pondering, what kind of drink I should choose, or anything. But no. There wasn't a single hint. 

Nothing. 

Her face, as I said, was devoid of even the barest hint of expression. It was something akin to a porcelain doll, I think, or a mask. A mask that was destined, for the entirety of its life span, to bear only a single, fixed expression stripped from anything else. 

The girl quickly took out a mineral water and dashed into the cash register.  

I also went to the check out my drink (Pocari Sweat), and queued behind her. 

The man behind the cash register was friendly - young, perhaps in his 20s. I don't know if he found the school girl pretty or what, but he smiled at her. And while he was working with his cash register with the girl's purchase, he cheerfully said, "What a lovely day outside!" 

I thought, it's really hot and dusty outside and you call that lovely. But of course I kept quiet. 

He then continued, "Aren't you with a boyfriend?"

Perhaps he meant, it is a lovely day outside; why aren't you spending your day with your boyfriend?

I could see he only asked this out of friendliness, not of curiosity. At least... no apparent intention. But still, I didn't know what prompted him to ask her that question, out of many. Perhaps she was just beautiful - and that all school girls these days always went out with their boyfriends after school, and the very sight of this girl - so pretty and beautiful - was strange enough to the man because she only came by herself... was that it?

While it would prove to be so random yet funny (if he really thought that)... 

I was disturbed by the girl's response. 

The girl - one moment before had been devoid of expression - suddenly pursed her lips in a hint of smile. And then, slowly, ever so slowly, the muscles in her cheeks moved upward, and that small line stretched into a longer line - the smile then became visible and grew even wider. 

It was a sweet smile.

Not a plastic smile, but definitely not a real smile either. 

(What was that smile?)

Yet... she didn't utter a single word for further response. Not a single word. 

(Why?)

But she smiled nonetheless, so the man could only smile. 

(What was it with that smile?)

I was filled with a lot of questions. But of course, the girl, and the man behind the register, were oblivious.

After receiving her change, the girl took her water and went out of the door. 

Outside, she stopped a moment to pocket the change. She moved sideways, and I squinted - looking outside through the glass door at her. 

When her side profile came into view, I saw that the smile was wiped off completely from her face. The lips weren't stretched, they were clamped shut in a flat line, no longer curved. 

Not a hint she was just smiling a moment before.

Once again, devoid of any expression. 

And I shuddered.

I Still Love Haruki Murakami

I always enjoy reading Haruki Murakami's books. Well, I may still have several books to go before I completely finish reading all his works. But so far, no matter how weird they are, no matter how inconclusive their endings turn out to be, and although I understand the points argued by so many people who dislike, even hate, Murakami's books, I still love Haruki Murakami and consider him one of my favorite authors.

Unlike the majority, I didn't start with Norwegian Wood, and up to now I still haven't read Norwegian Wood (another confession) (yet I have read quite a number of his books anyway). Instead, I started by reading the most gigantic and ambitious book of his, 1Q84. Strangely, I got along just fine with this book and its lonely protagonists as well as their respective past and longing and problems, weird sex scenes, massive descriptions of almost everything, occasional (frequent?) drops of (most of them Western) music or literature references, and not to mention the whole strangeness and quirkiness of it. Mostly the otherworldly experiences. They are there, and they just happen - but not accompanied by a generous amount of explanation. Some are left hanging, and like I said before, often inconclusive.

Well, this kind of thing also happens to his other books, such as Sputnik Sweetheart or Kafka on the Shore. It's like a trademark. There's this character who goes over to another world, and he/she might/might not make it back to the real world. More cat town experiences (this cat town story is mentioned in 1Q84, telling a tale of a man who drops off at a station, and he lands in a town of cat and spends some time there, frightened yet curious of its inhabitants, and he misses the train back home. No train comes to that station afterwards, and he's trapped forever in the cat town). In other word, trapped in another world entirely different than the one we reside.

Besides the existence of and journey to another world, Murakami's books are famous probably of its in-depth exploration on human longing, their incapability and limitations, troubled relationships, finding and searching for lost thing and identity... well in a way you could say that it's kinda depressing.

But I don't know. I do find that journey, although not all aspects are thoroughly understood, fascinating.

I enjoy the weirdness of the story, and I don't quite understand why. It's strange, because I understand, more easily, why Murakami's books annoy some people, how they say it makes them feel depressed because of those lonely protagonists, or that it is simply boring and the surrealistic of it is plainly frustrating. Or the way the unsolved riddles are just... unsolved. Or that because his one novel resembles his previous novel a lot, and the raw plot is just overused (1Q84, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Kafka on the Shore, Sputnik Sweetheart)...

Well, Murakami plays a lot with symbolism and analogy. Foretelling, and sometimes a view or philosophy of life is infused into his characters' dialogues - and this, I could say with confidence, is one of the best qualities in his novel. It is just interesting to read them, in a prose so easily understandable yet heavy in weights, in relation to the context of the story itself. Honestly, they can be thought-provoking - and although people may find it tiresome to go through that kind of book, especially when the book is also incorporated with too-detailed yet unnecessary description of honestly unnecessary, non-essential things - I still love every bit of it.

Yet, I don't swallow everything. I may agree or blatantly disagree with his characters and their views, their arguments and reasoning, and the roots of senses their decisions are derived from. But then again, it is always in my nature to be interested in what people have to say about life - their philosophy of life, their opinions, their experiences and how those experiences shape them in person and quality. 

Which is why I always take my time when I read Murakami's books. I don't read his books consecutively - one's finished, then I'd pick another one. No. I read other books: fantasy, adventure, sci-fi, etc. - and it would be months before I decide to buy and read another book of his. Another strange thing is, in between, I would simply miss it. I would simply miss reading Murakami's prose (that doesn't happen with other authors, I wonder why) and when I don't have a new Murakami book, I'd pick his short stories or reread his quotes instead.

This being said, I don't know if later I would end up detesting Murakami (let's say, after I read all his works including other nonfiction books he writes), but let's just see.

Presently, I love his works so far.

A Quietness of My Own

I turned off the lamp. I drew the curtain open. I sat behind the window sill. I hugged my knees tightly. Fat drops of water were still falling from the open sky. They were splattering the window, brushing off the dirt on its blur surface. Streaks of lightning appeared soundlessly across the pitch black of darkness that looked awefully plain without the gleaming stars decorating on it. Stars. If I had known earlier that they would never to be seen again from the city that I came to loathe, I would have cherished those awkward moments when I laid my back against the cold floor in my old house, lifting my finger upward, tracing the sheet of the sky – acting as if I could poke the stars.

I closed my eyes. I buried my face, didn’t even bother to set aside the loose strands of my hair. There was no light in the room. My glow in the dark stars attached on the ceiling didn’t even shine. I was enveloped in ultimate darkness. But abstract pictures came alive behind my eyelids. Outside, tires were slicing across puddles of water. The sound of engines and cars honking were audible, only to trail off and disappear in the distance. Inside, a subtle hum coming from the air conditioner filled the small room.

I was in my own world. This world, was quiet. A solitude, for I was the only occupant. I actually wish this tranquility wouldn’t come to an end since the idea of hiding myself from the rest of the world has become essentially tempting. I don’t have to deal with people. I don’t have to force out a talk, I don’t have to fake a curve of smile. I could care less about others. It’ll be only myself. Seems like, involving myself in the emotional twist of others’ are just too burdening.

Sitting by the window, eavesdropping the background music of falling raindrops and splashing water, blanketed by the soothing darkness, shielded from the blinding light, doing absolutely nothing – did give a piece of something comforting to my mind. It was cooling down from overheating.

Well, I wouldn’t mind being interrupted by casual sips of chocolate or soy milk... as it wasn’t really the time for a bottle of beer or a glass of whiskey.

Something Sad

There is something sad in almost everything.

In the dark expanse of the sky
In the curling smoke which in its graceful way rises up black from a dirty, worn-out chimney
In the pebbles on dusty streets
In every blade of grass swayed by the lazy wind,
In the branches stripped bare

In buildings and garages lay abandoned and empty, in the coating dust blanketing mugs and glasses
In the specks of dust swirling in the surrounding overused air, visible by a weak glimmer of sunlight penetrating the window
In the glow-in-the-dark stars, which fell from the ceiling, not strong enough to hold themselves from falling
In the river so murky and green and gray, in the puddles and its stillness

In clothes and bottles and colognes and tins and containers
In a discarded cigarette which has a shoe's mark imprinted on it
In the sands
In the birds crisscrossing the sky
In the bobbing boats carried by the course of waves

In the people. In the future. In our every heart.

 There is something sad in, if not all, almost everything.

Nov. 18, 2013. 00.35 a.m.: The Time You Wish Could be Everlasting and Blissfully Endless

Don't want to give up the night. Don't want to give up its peacefulness and quietness and low profile. The time when you feel as if moments were suspended and stopped, that time only belonged to you, and that you were the only living being alive. The time when you can respectfully respond to the loudest voice of your mind. The time that you can be necessarily productive. The time when you look into your soul and collect your feelings, everything dedicated solely to yourself. The time you wish would be everlasting and blissfully endless.

Across the Seas

Across the seas and lands. Looking at the hovering clouds. Two different souls, building the stepping stones, choosing where to build and walking to the future. One sees only hazy path, one sees with determination and confidence over the soul-calling course. Their paths may be different, but their hearts follow the calls coming from the inside. Nonetheless, their walks are to different direction, a direction so far away from each other that the stretching distance feels so achingly painful, in which one may doubt whether their paths would somehow bend and form a sudden turn, from its straight line, and someday would cross.

Let go. Let it go.