Apologise

Lyrics speak to me, for the simple reason that they say what you feel in beautiful beautiful ways.

Lately I have been dreaming, I always do. It tells me that my soul is ok. I worry when I do not. 

In my dreams of late, people from my past pop up in unusual places and situations. Last night it was a dream of Hitman and bumping into him at my friend's (who has superhero powers) wedding. He was a friend of the bride. I miss you Hitman. Pat your self on the back for me *grin*

But, I digress. There is one character that appears in my dreams every so often. The dreamer in me wants to believe that this happens when we both feel the loss of that friendship. The realist in me realises that it's probably just me and the fact that grudges are not my natural state of being.

There was a time when this song was indeed true of this relationship of mine. I did love this person with a fire red and it did turn blue. And no I would not take another chance, take a fall, take a shot for you. No longer, not any more. It really is too late to apologise.

Apologise or not though, I forgive you. As Ghandi once said- If we practice and eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, soon the whole world will be blind and toothless. The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is an attribute of the Strong.

So really, there is no shame in saying it would be nice to one day, once again, be able to take a fall for you. There is no shame in saying I miss you.

rewind

What I would give

to have Soba noodles with you today


Image Courtesy of Sakichin on Flickr.

what a differance a year makes

random fact number 96

Treasury Tags remind me of exams.

Exams remind me of Hitman and how we would always wonder what we would hear if we could read minds, when the invigilator says "5 Minutes!"

We always figured it would be a collective "AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

*LoL*

Hitman if you're reading this, pat yourself on the back *grin*

Image Courtesy of viodyna on Flickr.

of pyjamas and things

I slipped into my pyjamas last night and curled into bed with my favourite pillow and a good book.

then the edges of my consciousness were awakened to a different time by the scent that wafted up from this old pair of PJ's.

they smelt of a different life and many many moons ago. the smelt of my apartment in Toronto, the bed I hardly slept in, the couch i spent far too many nights on, the kitchen and dining room I was proud of. they smelt of my first real taste of being a grown up.

a lot changed for me that year. i had a complete life earthquake. it was a year of many many firsts. in one flight, my whole world had turned on its head. i left my first grown up relationship (i came back to it and left it again many times that year which probably didn't help any), started my first job and started living alone in my own apartment in one fell swoop. i also decided to do it in a new city on a new continent.

*grin* I never was one for doing anything by halves.

it was the year i discovered a love for hiking and learnt to knit and sail. the year i fell in love with good photography. it was the year dance was rekindled in the form of Lindy hop. the year i realised who my friends really were. the year of devouring books by the harbour in the midst of a hot T.O. summer's day with a delicious ice- cream cone.

it was a growing year that i loved and abhorred in equal measure and i would never want to relive it that exact same way again.

it's perhaps the only year i harbour any regrets from. i was so caught up in trying to survive that i forgot to live. so intent on keeping afloat that i forgot i could swim. i spent too much time in bed, afraid of the world and not enough time living in it.

and though perhaps i could blame someone else for that, at the end of the day to use a ridiculously cliched phrase, no one is the captain of my own destiny but me. but you get through the darkness in your own time, in your own way.

No.

I wouldn't relive it the exact same way.

I would relive it and do it very very differently.

In the hopes of taking away more than I did the first time around.

Image courtesy of getthebubbles on Flickr.

on being "that girl"

as far back as I can remember, I have always been "that girl".

you know the one. the one with the starry look in her eyes everytime she met someone new. the one that was convinced that every man she dated was the one she would marry.

I've never been one to date "for the experience" or to "play the field". it was always done with the intention of forever. the wedding, the kids, the rest of the whole sha- bang... i guess that was always on the periphery but not the heart of the matter.

a lovely boy i used to date found this all a little strange. he dated because he liked someone without the thought of the possible future. he didn't get it when i said that as much as i didn't need to know the future now, i just needed to know that that sliver of possibility was there. it scared him a little and made me question my normalcy a lot.

but i think that somewhere in our heart of hearts, most girls have a part of them that is "that girl". it's in our genes, in the Disney we watched, the fairytales we were read, the hope we cradle.

i tried not to be "that girl". it ended in quite a few amusing.. shall we call them blips? amusing for me now, but not then. and definitely not amusing for the blips i think.

and then i came to terms with it.

it's ok that I am "that girl".

because he is and has always been "that boy"

*smile*

Image Courtesy of jesusroxslm on Flickr.

yet another little piece

as i start to let go of this lifetime

piece by piece

i am reminded everyday

of the things i will leave behind

and i know i will yearn

for the beauty in these Brunei skies


Photo Courtesy of Jasmine Wong.

on being daddy's girl

There is a story that people tell me. Apparently when I was born, Abah took me out into the garden, held me out to the sky and said that everything could be taken away from him but this.

It's a notion that appeals to the melodrama in me. Whether it's true or not, it doesn't really matter I suppose because it's a sentiment that Abah has echoed throughout my life.

We fight. We're similar in that we have strong opinions, stubborn and proud. But he's always hated seeing me cry and I remember many moments in my childhood when he would gather me in his arms after yelling at me and remind me that he only got upset because he loved me. And in those arms, I knew I was safe and I knew that his love was there to stay.

I remember when he went away to study and how I used to climb into the wardrobe where all his clothes were kept when I missed him. Just to pretend that he was around. The songs I made up for him that Mama would record and send over for him to listen to, because phone calls were just too expensive.

And how now, well into my 20's, he's still the first person I call when I'm scared and I need saving.

I came home a few days ago and found Abah asleep on the couch as he is most evenings. I realised that when i leave, I will miss seeing him asleep on the couch. I realised that soon Abah really cannot be the first man in my life.

I wonder how much longer I'm allowed to be Daddy's girl. And how I can even come close to letting him know just how much he means to me.

Photo courtesy of 62Lofu on Flickr.

the musketeers

There were once five little girls.

Many had known each other since they were in single digits. They had been to each other's 9th birthday parties. Those were the days of games of "Police and thief" in the school court yard, losing your front teeth, fairy dresses.

These then gave way to first crushes, training bras, first boyfriends.

They formed a circle these little girls. They were really not so little anymore. They called themselves the musketeers. They cheated in physics tests, fantasised about Prince William and Will Smith, picked up the pieces of each other's broken hearts.

Then school ended and they had to go.

Between them, there were three continents and millions of miles. And slowly these little girls grew up.

Now, ten years on. We see five beautiful, charming, capable young women where the five little girls used to stand.

Some are married, some are engaged, one is even expecting a little one of her own.

But when they are together, perhaps they will always just be five little girls...

Image courtesy of cesphoto on Flickr.

Dendang Perantau

The title of this post is also the title of my mother's favourite Hari Raya song. It translates loosely to "Traveller's Song". With a sense of melancholy, the singer talks of things and people missed and gone, on this day of festivity.

For those unacquainted to Malay Muslim culture. Hari Raya Aidilfitri is the occasion by which Muslims celebrate the end of the fasting month. For a Malay child growing up in a Malay country this means new clothes, yummy food, lots of friends and family, fireworks, green packets filled with money and generally a lot of the best things in life. It's a time of celebration.

As a child with this perception of Raya, I always found it strange that Mama chose this sad song in such festive times.

Growing up, this knowledge gave me some small insight into the woman my mother was when she wasn't busy being mother, wife, daughter, employee and all the million other hats that she dons.

As an (dare I say it) adult. I perhaps now understand her song choice. This Raya, may prove to be my last in this incarnation of me. A prospect I look forward to with much joy, but, truth be told a little sadness. For in leaving this part of me I leave perhaps the last vestiges of childhood. But this is the subject matter of another post and for another time.

Faced with the prospect, that after this Raya, the lyrics of Dendang Perantau may once again apply to me, this time permanently, has made the song more poignant.

That this song will always remind me of her. The woman she is, that eludes me in so many ways as her child. The bitter sweetness of the possibility of future Raya's away from the ones who love you and formed you. That one day she will be gone and how this brings me to tears even now. That when that happens, I can think of no one else I want at my side other than He.

Image courtesy of djflowerz on Flickr.

my dope

The BFG once said to me that music is my dope. And he was right. It's my dope, my Aspirin and my Achilles heel. It's everything. Because music makes me feel.

In the lowest of my lows, Big Band music picks me up. Perhaps it reminds me of nights spent in a shabby Irish bar, jitterbugging the night away. When the cares were left at the doorway, stuffed deep into my snow boots. When despite the dark and the dreary, I managed to dream with my feet. It was only those nights dancing that year that I allowed myself to dream.

Randomly it was also that period of my life that I listened to music the least. For the simple reason that it was too painful. Too many songs on the radio were, and still are, about love and its loss. It was depressing and my obsession with lyrics made it hard not to personalise what I heard. So I stopped.

It was also around then too that I stopped singing. Or rather, trying to sing. I go through life with the most random collection of songs passing through my head. And very often it makes an appearance in my physical world. Much to the chagrin of others, I might add *smirk*. Crease worried when I didn't sing. I seem to recollect a conversation with her one summer to that effect. She said she was happy because I was singing in the shower again *smile*. It told her that I saw light at the end of the tunnel again.

The loneliest and happiest moments of my soul correlate directly to the absence and presence of music respectively. It lifts, it drags, it turns cartwheels with my heart. So perhaps music isn't just the food of love, but rather the sustenance of life.

Play on.

Image courtesy of Llina S. on Flickr.

on empty beach benches

RINDU!

You owe me a sunset Mister

and some ice cream...

*smile*

Image courtesy of juga4ka on Flickr.

in a steaming mug of tea

Ali my love,

It’s been over two years now.

And I still think of you with every cup of tea I make. Because I remember you coming over to ours on Warwick Street and drinking jugs of the stuff. This was when you decided it was scandalous that I hadn’t been to Durham and we made plans to go that very week.

I remember the last time I saw you up and about. We watched the then new Harry Potter film. It was one of my last few nights in the Toon. I needed to rush off straight after to catch the RSC doing a Midsummer Night's Dream at the Theatre Royal. There was a sense of urgency which I should have recognised in your embrace that night. You were never one to make a big deal of things. I should’ve known.

At what point do I take your number off my phone, your name from my birthday calendar and your email address from my book?

I miss you…

Photo courtesy of Yoshiko314 on Flickr.

harbour

"Sunday mornin’ rain is fallin’
Steal some covers, share some skin
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable
You twist to fit the mould that I am in"

Sunday Morning by Maroon 5.

There’s something about the image of two people asleep under the covers that makes this song my favourite from Maroon 5.

The bed is a strange sort of place. It moulds to suit the purpose for which you need it. No, not in that way and No I’m not the perennial bed- hopper *grin* In fact this post is actually nothing to do with anything carnal.

We’ve all I’m sure shared a sleeping space with various people, absolute strangers included, out of necessity. I know I have. The list ranges from random people I meet on diving trips to drunken acquaintances who’ve misplaced their keys. In such circumstances it really is something born out of necessity, to rest weary bones, recharge and nothing more.

But then you get the moments with the people that matter.

To share sleeping space is one thing, to share your bed is another.

For to share your bed is to share your most vulnerable moments, the vessel that allows you to dream, your harbour.

I remember moments spent growing up with Simian in her old double bed in Tampines when we would gossip till we fell asleep, Smeagol jumping into my bed with me when I was so floored by life I couldn’t get out of it. Breakfast in bed with Lost One talking about everything that mattered, yet nothing of importance. The many many nights when my bed seemed too big and the room too unfriendly for my broken heart when I would crawl up to Crease’s room, favourite pillow in tow, and all she would do was flip open the duvet, make room and let me sleep with her.

It is these moments when you realise how intimate sharing a bed with someone is. When you twist to fit the mould the other person is in, or they twist to fit in yours.

It’s saying, when your shelter fails you, let me engulf you in mine.

It’s saying, let’s run away. I’ll make sure you’re ok.

Photo courtesy of hdahlby on Flickr.

it hurts that this may be the only way

Buddy,

In the aftermath...

May God hold you in the palm of His hand

as was sung that one stormy night when Jazz echoed in the halls of a careworn hotel...

I wish you nothing but love


Maroon 5 Lyrics
Nothing Lasts Forever Lyrics

that island

and suddenly I realise that I do so miss it

more than i care to say

The Picture

If a picture paints a thousand words, I can't help but wonder what this one would whisper...

I'm sorry...

I think I may love you....

Perhaps....

In another lifetime....

What if....

If only...

Goodbye...

...

This
...
I will never really know.


This
...
will probably always be the big question.


This bittersweet longing.


This is how a heart breaks.

Every new beginning

Yes, yet again that sentence rings true. Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. And my goodness, what an end indeed.

I was hesitant to write about this end, I didn't know how. I still don't know how but with the ebbing of the intense emotions, I felt somehow that I should give it a whirl. So here it is, simple, inadequate but from the heart.

For me joining the programme was the realisation of a dream. From the moment the parentals took their first foster children in when I was 8, I knew it was something I had to do. Funny, the realisations I had when I was 8, for it was then that I decided the career path I would take too. Tangent, I apologise.

In many ways I saw the countless hours spent in practice as the penance I had to pay for what I expected to be an astounding experience. It was in these hours however that I discovered the meaning of patriotism. Being a child of two nations, I guess I always felt in some way misplaced all my life. The night before our pre departure performance was when it hit me. The first time in my life I felt truly Bruneian. And all because of the words to a song...

"Wahai anak Brunei, warisan bersejarah. Keturunan mu panglima, perwira, perkasa. Satu zaman dahulu di kota dan di desa. Kau membina Negara Brunei Darussalam"

To paraphrase, it reminds the children of Brunei of the vast history they are descended from. That the blood that runs through their veins is that of warriors and nobleman. And i finally got it. And I wept at the enormity of the realisation.

The programme was eye opening, challenging, frustrating and more than I could ever ask for.

Almost 2 weeks after the end of it all, I have gained a little perspective. In my mind's eye I see still photographs of various moments and people, sound bites of silliness and laughter and an overriding feeling of warmth and connection.

The feeling of being lost has abated somewhat, the problems associated with the real world have taken precedence. At times driving home from work I wonder if the experience was in fact nothing more than a fantastical dream. Seeing the photographs and videos is bittersweet but in the end, I feel privileged.

The reason for all the tears at the end, other than the fact that I knew just how much I would miss everyone, was because I wondered if I would see these people again. Intentions are all very well and good, but having left too many people in my short life I know many intentions amount to nothing more than that. Now, I realise it doesn't matter.

"If i never see you again
Think of me now and then
Though it hurts so deeply
They say all good things come to an end
You changed my life completely
I'm touched by your love
If I never see you again"

At the end, I'm standing at the beginning. New friendships, new mindsets, new opportunities. And I am blessed.

Malam... Terdengar sepantun lagu...

I have been struggling for a post that describes the current flux my life is in... then I listened to this song and some things fell into place.

My dear Adopted Bruneian this one is for you.

For reminding me, with this song, that at the end of the day the deepest parts of my soul whisper in Malay.

For your warmth, your humour and most of all your Friendship that knows no bounds.

And you will make Milo ping for me on my 75th birthday right?

Malam by Shades

Malam...
Terdengar sepantun lagu
Irama di malam syahdu
Gaya nada rindu

Oh! Malam...
Hati resah raya sunyi
Jiwaku resah dan sepi
Waktu Malam Hari

Jangan sedih hati
Oh, Janganlah rasa pilu
Senyum... Senyum bunga
Kuntum, Mekar segar dan mengharum

Oh ! Malam...
Sungguh kau berseri seri
Wajahmu di malam hari
Hilang rindu hati

Jangan sedih hati
Oh, Janganlah rasa pilu
Senyum... Senyum bunga Kuntum
Mekar segar dan mengharum

Oh! Malam....

kaleidoscope

To You,

Because I miss you but I hate you.

Because I want you to fall flat on your face and be lonely and depressed and alone, like how I was when you were so willing to leave, But I want things to work out for you and I want the sun to shine on your path.

Because I'm very much over you but still can't forgive the hurt.

You are to me a kaleidoscope, that i pick up in fear and fascination.

Too many facets, just too many.