stargazer windchaser

eyes that keep fixing to the nearest beauty

---

[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.

---

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.

---

[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?

---

[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.

---

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.