mea culpa

"the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist"

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my self enhancement bias may be more severe and resistant than most

keep catching myself feeling unsettlingly superior. the only reason for an overwrought pantomime of humility is an infernal belief that one is better than one's peers.

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Self-enhancement bias is a scary scary thing. Almost biological, almost viral in its persistence, its capability for self-preservation. That's a thing right, a meme being a virus of the mind. Ideas have their own life-cycle, independent of their hosts. They spread, cling to, take root in a person. Take over them. Propogate. Essentially, what I'm saying is, isn't it ironic - and terrifying - how being lulled into believing that you are exceptionally afflicted with a more innocuous, less virulent strain of self-enhancement bias is itself a function of your self-enhancement bias.

we think the moment you recognise / realise who the villain is he is vanquished. that's all there is to it, right? shout at the protagonist on stage, turn around! the monster is behind you! The hero slays his adversary and the play goes on. You believe he is erased. In fact he has merely disappeared. Sauntering through steps in the dark, he re-enters through the back, sidles in comfortably two seats down in the row just behind you, watching from the shadows, enjoying the irony. he wears a sinister smirk, observing the oblivious. chimps in a cage. savouring your ignorance, your false sense of security. that idiotic grin as you relax into the chair, believing that all is well. and then after the show he follows you home

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the humblest man

he climbed for days to reach the peak. having done so he stood from the mountaintop and proclaimed to the town below: 'Hear me! All, repent! Realise your pride and become like me!'

A man walking past yelled back, 'Why do you stand so high up? come down from there!' The humblest man thus replied, 'No I must stay here and be an example to the world. They are filled with pride and self-deception. I have come to show them the way.'
'Who sent you?' asked the man.
'Please do not waste my time with questions, I am busy. Better for you to realise that you are not as humble as I am and repent,' the humblest man replied.
'How do you know that?' asked the man.
'My dear man,' the humblest man said, exasperated, 'I have evicted my sins. I have spent years meditating and training under masters and mentors far greater than I. Under their tutelage I have been humbled many times. I have received instruction upon instruction and rebuke upon rebuke. Countless times have I been punished and shown to be lacking. Through this intense and tireless fire, one thing has been made irrevocably clear to me, and that is this: I have nothing to be proud of. When I compare myself to those greater than myself, I have no reason, no right to be proud. When I beheld this truth, I was set free from the clutches of vanity. Now I have not a shred of pride left in me. Now I preach my testimony in the hopes of helping others recognise this grave and deadly sin.'
'Could you not also do that from the foot of the mountain?'
'You do not understand, friend, for you have not been made humble and wise like I have.'
The man below then shouted something the humblest man could not hear and went away.
Throughout the day, similar exchanges took place, but the humblest man managed to convert not even one of the town's folk.
'How strange,' thought he, 'why can they not see how humble I am? I think
it must be their pride,' the humblest man concluded, and continued about his mountaintop ministry.

anticlimax

good luck fisherman / beginning to sink

"[...] don't worry about not feeling like it. Personally, I've found that God often chooses to use us when we're at our lowest. When we're feeling weak, rather than when we're feeling strong. It's almost as though we are most precious to Him when we are in the storm about to capsize, when the sky is darkest, with a thorn in our side and water in our lungs, when our old self is being crucified."

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Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear.  

But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”  

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”  

"Come,” he said.

mad love and other stories

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remember when i said writing was getting me down

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how often i forget to be kind and how much of a difference it makes when i remember

stargazer windchaser

eyes that keep fixing to the nearest beauty

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[untitled: originally written on 17/12/13]

It's warmer than it was yesterday, a pink haze announces the arrival of dusk. The onset of winter is similar to the departure of spring, but also dissimilar in many ways. The long, sharp shadows. Bright blue sky, gradually scorched ochre and orange. As the sun slowly dips beneath the horizon, a cool mist catches and softens its rays, scattering gentle light over the tree line and cityscape. I am thinking that this vista is so unlike the clouds of pollution that obscure the Malaysian skies. I am feeling sleepy but there is work to be done, so I decide to stop by the Portland building for a quick coffee.

There are so many people in the world, it's kind of amazing to think about each one living their lives with all the complexity and trepidation of our own. There are so many people in one university alone, enough to fill libraries and Portland buildings and walkways in between them. It's awe inspiring and a little terrifying to realise how infinitesimal one person actually is in relation to the body of humanity. Nothing illustrates this quite as well as going to a place you'd normally never go and seeing it filled with people and brimming with life. A humbling and stark reminder that life goes on in spite of our absence. The world is largely indifferent to our participation, uninterested by our presence. It is quite a miserable thought. It is therefore understandable, much preferable and far more practical that we compartmentalise our concerns, conduct our day to day interactions in isolated pockets, within our comfort zones and social circles.

The Starbucks lady calls out, 'gingerbread latte for Sophia.' A tan and slender, kind looking brunette steps forward to claim her drink. Sophia is a nice name, I think. Wisdom. Sipping an overpriced and festively christened caffeinated concoction, I wander about the upper floors, the backlit frosty squares you can see through the windows coming down the hill behind the Portland building, office workers flitting about their cubicles. Today I decide to investigate them up close and personal. I walk the corridor as inconspicuously as possible, peeking through the viewing strips in the door and catch sight of an assembly of tired looking students, the powerpoint slide reads, 'which of william shakespeare's texts is most suited for the stage? which of his texts is most suited for film?' In another room, a list of italicised german nouns are being projected across the screen, a man up front in a brown knitted sweater expounding on them.

I've been in these rooms before, for meetings in the past. The large concourse area, I spent a whole morning preparing for some Malaysian education event, but seeing it now, it seems like a completely different place. Each location is unique and is visited by certain specific groups of people for certain purposes. I have been here three years but I don't feel a part of this place. There is a very significant difference between people who come regularly and people who come frequently. As with the people who enter the restaurant establishment adjacent to the Starbucks, there is a fundamental difference between the people behind the counter and the people who trickle in and out throughout the day. In this case/context, everyone else is merely an extra in the lives of those who belong there. Who have found purpose in that place. In another context, the one who takes our order - we take note of, the one who places the order - his significance diminishes as his role in this narrative is similar to that of every other person before him and after him. How importance can fluctuate

There are a series of three flatscreen tv monitors in the lobby of the Portland building, all set beside each other and embedded in wooden panelling, with the two peripheral screens positioned at an angle such that their outermost edges reach slightly outward, into the lobby area such that if you stand right in front of the middle screen, the surrounding screens give the faint impression of panorama and immersion. These screens flash pictures and footage of picturesque locations around campus and in the city. Because the scene appears across three screens, with pedestrians crossing seamlessly from one screen into the one adjacent, it actually succeeds to an impressive degree to present itself as a window into these remote places.

Before me flashes a sunny field. The subtitle reads: Lakeside, University Park, Malaysian campus. The familiar grey sky, full of haze and humidity - I can almost taste the heat and heavy moisture in the air. I would have recognised it anywhere. Many people stop to look at the screen, usually for no more than a minute or two - enjoying the rare advantage of observing others with impunity. Ningbo campus, a montage of crowded Chinese streets and modern looking establishments of glass and steel. Ningbo city, the subtitle reads. An idyllic bustle, sunswept streets depicting a dusty metropolis full of congestion and pollution and promise.

Before me a student stops in his tracks and stares at the screens. I am positioned behind him so I cannot see his face but from his demeanour I can tell he is watching them in wonder, feet poised to draw him away, but something compels him to stay. What is it that he sees, what is it that has caught his attention and drawn him in? He stands there staring with almost reverential stillness, mesmerised. Briefly, he lingers, then with a strange reluctance breaks his gaze and hurries away.

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University is not the same as high school, it's vastly different. Each school I've been to quickly integrated and felt attached to the place, but here it's different. Here there are so many places to be -- so many that it gets hard to keep track of where you've been. There's no shortage of New places to discover such that slowly and surely the old places get left behind till one day you look back and it's nothing but a blimp in the distance, a smiling memory.

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[after dark / dromomania : originally written on 14/5/14 while wandering around Lincoln, killing time before taking the last train down to London Gatwick to catch a 6am flight to Berlin to meet with my mom for two days]

Lincoln is a beautiful city. It is beautiful in the sun, and it is exceedingly beautiful when the sun sets. There are cathedrals and castles and cobble stones. Architecture and modern university buildings. Unassuming shop fronts and narrow streets with quaint canals and a wide harbour and impressive bridges. Semi-sophisticated boutiques selling fashion lining the high street. So much character crammed into one city, so much history condensed into such a small place. The river runs through the city centre, underneath bridges and widening into a marina further in providing a perfect backdrop restaurants lining the waterside wharf. The train tracks run straight through the heart of the city, bisecting the high street and main road. Every 10 minutes the lights will flash and the barriers will lower and pedestrians and cars will gather to watch freight trains rumbling past. In the golden light of late afternoon this ritual seems vaguely romantic - but on a gray and misty day such as this it is a completely different kind of dusk. None of the glorious exuberance - no extravagant farewell but a subdued and humble kind of death.

The city at night becomes a different place - as if under an enchantment. Shoplights bloom and become prominent as the daylight dims, exuding an intensified glamour and charm. The streets and arcades gradually empty as one by one the shops draw their shutters down and usher their customers out. All activity ceases and a feeling of loneliness or isolation overtakes the city. But then, just as the darkness and quiet begins to envelop the town, in the distance, weaker beacons begin to shine. The restaurants and eateries come to life. A different crowd starts to trickle through the streets and are sucked into warm hubs of food and noise - the pubs and restaurants who do not advertise in neon but with a dim glow, backlit by candles and the warmth of their patron's smiles. Happy diners huddled together - a stark contrast to the cold and darkness outside.

There is a late night kebab place called 'Lincoln charcoal grill kebabs' that plays the best in-house pop music. Again so different to these fine ambiences, the fluorescent charm of 24 hour delivery and kebab and fried chicken. Their own kind of welcome and atmosphere - reminds me of mamaks back home - their indifference is a form of acceptance. Feels romantic to sit at a diner in the middle of the night - your own little world of life and light. A pane of glass between you and the cold. Why supermarkets at night are so inviting - a place to be the way you feel. A collecting place for people who are alone - with nowhere to be, nowhere to go or see. Spend time in aisles 'with' each other but never making contact, deftly manoeuvring around each other. the only form of acknowledgement we want . give is this sense of unbelonging not wanting to be out in the cold, we pretend to be busy, spend time and money staring at a hundred variations of things we don't need. And lastly the glow of discreet homes scattered throughout the city - a unique illumination inhabit - solitary existence - as opposed to social human connection and estranged camaraderie of midnight diners and convenience stores. Some of them luxurious student homes, glass balconies with angles and finely shaded ceilings - and then the quiet, refined meadow green wallpaper, a painting hanging on the wall - they all seem so warm and comfortable looking in - strangers - an unbearable urge to knock on their windows, strike up a conversation, be invited in and spend an hour in their homes enjoying their hospitality.

Lincoln at night is a vibrant, exciting, slightly shady city. A different side - sheds its modest and humble facade and offers enough to keep you awake. This craving for human connection - is this normal? Is it pathological?

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[the cruelest month: originally written sometime in April of 2013]

"For I myself saw the Cumaean Sibyl with my own eyes, hanging in a cruet, and when the boys asked her, Sibyl, what do you want?, she answered, I want to die."

               An adult once called my writing sparse.

               The word 'depression' gets thrown around a lot these days; nobody really knows what it means anymore. Does it simply mean feeling worse than normal? or does it mean being sad for no reason? Perhaps it means hating yourself all the time. Ask ten people and you'll likely get ten different answers. All I know is that twice a year, I have a tendency to feel bad, and that nothing I do can compel or persuade these feelings to die until it has run its course and decided that its end is due, leaving me no recourse but to wait it out. These last usually a month and occur always around summer and wintertime, but with such regularity and inevitability that I sometimes wonder if I do not lay claim to my own private, fluctuating set of biological afflictions. Sometimes I blame it on the weather or exam stress, but I feel the extent of my sadness and the circumstances surrounding it are sometimes incommensurate. A normal person can only get worked up about the weather so much.

               It was already 8pm. i still hadn't quite gotten used to seeing the evening sun like that. the sky was a strange, apologetic shade of blue; a 'goodbye' that sounded too much like 'please'; a hoarse, pathetic hue. I don't really know why i felt like taking a walk - i just felt a strong, intense desire to get out of the house. Lately, I've learnt to recognize and heed such urges. Sometimes the body knows better than the mind. It possesses its own determined, autonomous agenda, and the mind has no choice but to follow subjected to its whims - like a long-suffering girlfriend being dragged along to the unsolicited, unwarranted sequel of some tedious summer blockbuster, content to indulge her other half in distraction whilst discreetly tending to her own devices.

               When I was thirteen I remember wondering, can anything exist that doesn't have a purpose? Like most kids my age, I was an incorrigible daydreamer - but I was something of an oddity in that my passions lay in tackling metaphysical conundrums rather than embarking on outer-space odysseys or glorious and imaginary athletic careers. If I reach out and clench my fist for no reason, it's not really for no reason because the rationale behind it was to test my hypothesis - so that seemingly pointless action did have have a purpose after all. I don't think I ever really reached a conclusion. While I'm still not sure if everything we do is governed and guided by some unfathomable underlying purpose, i do know this - sometimes we do things for reasons we don't fully understand just yet. Sometimes the purpose is obscured and later revealed. Do we cry because we want food or do we cry because we're unhappy. Once we know we get food when we cry, we start to cry when we want food. And indeed the air was fresh. Just cool enough to whet the senses and keep your head light.

               I get to the fish and chip place and order the special. The place is empty, so I sit down at the counter facing the window and begin to eat. I don't really know why I decided to come here all alone and eat fish and chips by myself. I think a part of me just decided that I need to be away from people for a while. That happens, sometimes. There's a lot of solace to be found in solitude, I feel. While eating, I suddenly recall a friend's tales of eating takoyaki at forlon takoyaki stalls at godforsaken hours with only discontented salary-men for company. Is this what soul searching is, I wonder. But I'm not really searching for anything. Not that I'm aware of, at least.

               In the books I've read, most of them feature protagonists that are kind of loners. Outsiders. Most of their time is spent away from people. Rarely do I find a book where the protagonist is a social butterfly. I once read somewhere that books are a symbol of a man's solitude. Perhaps that has something to do with it. Do the authors identify with this kind of person. Perhaps the other kind of person didn't exist. they just pretend to exist. maybe everyone secretly wants to eat fish and chips by themselves at 9pm, and writers are the only people brave enough to admit it. is that selfish? is that normal? why is it not acceptable to eat fish and chips by yourself at the counter of a shop at 9pm. I wish we could just accept people for being boring. or awkward. I wish people would forgive me for being for being preoccupied. for being unresponsive. I wish God would warn me before it rains. I wish could be safe again. I wish I could count on people to be generous - to put up with lousy sunsets - to give out second chances. is this self pity unjustified? am I just feeling sorry for myself? Maybe so, but it is almost summer after all. Guess I'll just have to wait it out.

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this is how I write when I get sad. the hollow tone. the vacant narration. it's strange how the text so clearly reflects my actions as well as my state of mind at the time. the feeling of distance, of being far removed -  a voice from the grave - and to compensate, excessively detailed descriptions of my surroundings. cloudy ruminations and detached observations. distracted eyes, taking everything in indiscriminately, not making sense of anything. rambling unprecise prose, nomadic notions failing to tie in to any kind of cohesive whole. uncertain, drifting, meandering, wandering without any real purpose or destination. a journey that leads nowhere. both the narrative and I are unwittingly searching for catharsis or at least a decent conclusion, but we somehow always wind up the same way - with a dead end, the vague illusion of change and the same three or four pointless questions.

keep moving

"Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet." 

- Luke 7:41-46

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The feeling of placelessness is a bit like a dream: the heightened romance, the intense brooding, the inherently transitory nature of the whole affair. Placelessness happens when we find ourselves inhabiting “in-between” spaces like hotels or apartments in far-away places that we don’t know well and where we won’t stay long.  

- Cody C. Delistraty, The Eroticism of Placelessness

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how to remain connected without getting caught up. how to stay grounded without getting buried. how to take on the world without getting weighed down

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Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise prophecies, but test everything; hold fast to what is good. Abstain from every form of evil. 

- 1 Thessalonians 5:16-20

Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. 

- Philippians 4:5-7

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I think the key to good humour and good science lies in detachment - the art of being uninvolved, the ability to step outside of the situation and be an objective observer - whereas the key to great poetry is entanglement - the art of imagining yourself as an inextricable part of everything and feeling that everything is a part of yourself.

Why is the world so vast? Why would I choose to live in a land other than my native country, state or city? Maybe it's to experience freedom, and along with it loneliness and longing and the sharp pang of unbelonging. Maybe the source of all this anguish comes of mistaking a hotel for a home. Perhaps all this pain and poignancy arises from a lack of detachment.

Maybe the belief that this world is all there is might have something to do with why I treat every missed opportunity like a tragedy, every uncomfortable interaction as a catastrophe, why i cannot behold beauty without being plagued by anxious anticipation of the moment it fades away. why i hold on tight to both pain and blessing the same - too tight to appreciate or learn from it. Among the myriad things I've forgotten or left behind, perhaps one of them is the luxury of knowing that I belong somewhere else. Letting go isn't easy but it is essential. Understanding that this world is one beautiful letdown after another makes that process a bit easier, and perhaps a little more peaceful.

please come back to me

and we stood 

steady as the stars in the woods 

so happy-hearted 

and the warmth rang true inside these bones 

- ben howard, old pine

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will you look at me and tell me that my scars are beautiful
or do you only love the ones who look like you

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infatuation is something that can be resisted, a fever that can be outlasted
passion doesn't endure forever, it passes, affection subsides
and when it does either love has taken root or it hasn't

work & play

4th year medic / barely functioning member of society

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a productive day for me is one where i manage to wake up and shower and put on real clothes and take out the trash and do my laundry and eat a meal

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hair unkempt, exhibiting signs of chronic self-neglect. psych patients be looking at me like, 'how come he gets to go out?'

一人でする方法

1. find space for yourself
2. read more
3. talk less

let there be light

the kid 20 year old ceo who was sad

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the alcoholic with no hope and motivation arrested development overdose

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winter comes; feet are
cold. warm duvet -- its heavy
warmth, comforting weight