Aida's Ramblings of a Random Mind

Life's been busy. Flew up to the Gold Coast for work purposes. Exhausting but rewarding. Gonna be a therapist.

Ooh la la. Sounds professional.

Damn straight. I get to operate cool machines and make people look pretty. It's called Endemologie and I didn't know it existed until 2 weeks ago. There's so much out there in the world. So many new alternative therapies to everything. An interest in complementary medicine has been born.

Life is looking up and I'm wondering if I've bitten off more than I can chew. It reminds me of high school days where I had to juggle the many societies I used to partake in and my studies, having my mother breathing down my back to concentrate on the academic side, but I did it anyway. Will I be able to do it now? University is a whole new ball game. Heck, research year is a whole new ball game. The no-class part is a definite upside. The whole discipline, self-learning thing is going to take a while getting used to.

Now I've got work to do and a whole lot of thoughts running through my head.

It is strange how paradoxical one’s character can be; and even more so when I think of my own. How I am able to be so strong for others sometimes and yet, so weak when it comes to myself. How I believe that everyone needs to cry once in a while, and yet am reluctant to show my tears.

I cry at everything. Or perhaps, everything but when I am saddest, save for being in front of a certain person. I prefer to smile at sad situations, prefer to be the strong one, the quiet one, the one who comforts and nurtures. And yet, in front of him I cannot seem to hold back the tears, for he seems to break down that rigid control I once had over my tears, and I am not sure whether it is a good thing or a bad thing. I believe that sometimes rationality goes out of the window in a discussion where I am having more difficulty controlling my emotions than talking about the issues calmly. It has happened more times than I care to admit, and it is beyond my control.

What is this heightened sensitivity? As the years go by, I become more aware of issues, and my heart goes out to everyone and everything.

To the mother who had to single-handedly raise her children.
To the lover who made a mistake and cries out for his lost love.
To the children dying of AIDS in Africa.

I watch movies and cry because I am somehow able to connect with the characters and the situation in a case where most others don’t.

I do not understand why.

Is it a curse of a woman who is able to feel; or am I attaching too much significance to situations that I have never ever had to endure? Is feeling a sign of strength or of weakness? Where does the line between rationality and empathy lie, and will I ever be able to find that happy medium where I will be able to hold my ground?

“Tears are the strength of women,” Saint Evermond said.

I wish I could believe him, but I feel there is so much weakness In myself and my tears that I find it difficult to believe that I feel so much for a reason, and it is difficult to rationalize why I feel to deeply to the extent that I tear up at the slightest incident.

Therein lies the paradox, for I am able to show my tears towards the plight of others, but I am reluctant to share my sadness when it come to my own self.

Perhaps this is my task, so I may find the strength behind this tears I shed, the disconnection of what is personal and what is general. Perhaps.

Tests of character often crop up at the most unexpected of moments, and it is interesting to see how the people you love react. Sometimes there is no truer test of love than when you are left in difficult straits.

It is easy enough to love when things are going well, but not so much when things are at a weaker point.

In sickness and in health, I believe the promise was, and I was as sick as a dog those two days. So sick I could barely move, for every movement led to nauseating pain. A painful weakness of the body, for the wretched pain came in waves, and I could barely withstand crying out every time it came.

I would have been left at the mercy of my pain had he not been there for me. He fed me and cared for me, and I was reminded of every other time I no longer had the energy to do the things I needed to do, and he was there for me each and every time.

I never truly understood the meaning of a tower of strength until I was at my lowest ebbs, of body and of mind, and it is true that sometimes all you need is a person to lean on while you recover your strength. And I am beyond grateful for that.

Tests of character often crop up at the most unexpected of moments. And darling, at the moment you've passed 100%.

Well, since I’ve now been tagged more than once (thanks, If and Nik), I might as well fulfil my tagged obligations and get to completing the post.

Rule : Tagged person must come up with 8 different points about his/her perfect lover.

Hmm. There are so many connotations to the word lover, that I can’t quite help running along the track of a few x-rated thoughts. Deliciously x-rated, but for the sake of those under eighteens, let’s keep it mostly platonic. So, as dictated, a letter to my lover.

1. Dear you,
   

I have unusual ideas about some things, and I need you to be able to listen and digest before taking into consideration and launching into debate, be it for or against my ideas is essential. Even more so that your are able to accept that I may have a different way of thinking, and not hold my differences against me.

2. Lover,

As far as erratic female PMScent behaviour goes, I am probably pretty laidback most times. I don’t have mood swings and I don’t usually get upset about petty little things. I do however, have the slightest little problem of having a really short attention span. It annoys people because I tend to blurt out something that has caught my attention in the middle of a sentence they are saying, and then resume listening. I don’t mean to be rude, but it does happen, so the I need you to be patient enough to accept that. In a religious sense, I need you to be patient in guiding me towards the paths which are right. It might be a slow and difficult road for me, but I need your guidance.

3. Dear heart,
   

Words are powerful, and I love words for the power they have to mess with your mind, and knowing when to use them at the right time is an amazing and useful gift. To tell me you’re sorry about a situation, or to be man enough to apologize for the things you have done. Being able to make me laugh. On a sexual note, being able to turn me on with nothing but the things you say. Dirty talk can be a fun, fun thing, and I want you to be the one that I will be able to play with.

4. Darling,

So I like trying new things. I’m up for most things at least once (unless they’re outright illegal, a major sin, or involve heights, and then I most probably draw the line). Anyone who will be able to entertain my occasionally random behaviour is always a plus in my book. If you’re the one to initiate new ideas and new things, that’s even more of a bonus. I can’t try something I’ve never heard of! Plus, being adventurous is always a plus in the bedroom. ;)

5. Dear you,
   

Sometimes I’m just not in the mood, and it may have nothing to do with you. You need to have the basic understanding that women are not always up for sex, and not take refusal to heart. That said, an understanding of the word “No” when what I really mean to say is “Yes” may induce an unexpected romp of sorts. Sometimes you need to understand that the way I feel is a passing moment, and I will soon come around and apologize or smile again. And sometimes you need to understand that I need you here beside me holding my hand. I am not asking you to read my mind, but I know you will come to understand my body language. That intuition is endearing, and makes you all the more perfect.

6. Awak,

I like having my friends and I like you having yours. I like the fact that you encourage me to do my own thing, and I like you having a life on your own. There’s nothing less fun than being joined to the hip. As much as I love spending time with you, even the closest of souls need time apart. On that same thought, I would hate to be stopped from doing something I want to do, for I would expect you to trust the choices I make, and not fall into the trap of jealousy or paranoia.

7. Lover,

I love the way you touch. And I love the way you shiver when I touch you. And I look forward to seeing how much more sensitive you are when time permits.

8. Dearest heart,
   

Am I selfish to want to be loved wholly for me and only for me, despite the wear and tear that age might bring? Am I needy to need to know that I am loved? Despite a large part of my independence, I am most comfortable knowing that you are mine and I am yours, and that that love is unconditional.

It was hard picking eight different characteristics when you’ve already found someone that sets your heart a-flutter, because you end up loving each and every bit about them. Lists are merely guidelines, but in the end, your perfect lover is perfect because you are blinded by love and passion, and sometimes, that can be a wonderful thing.

Yours sincerely,

Me

Boyfriends can be the bane of my existence.

 
Well, not my man, as I seem to have struck gold in that department, but those of my dearest girlfriends. At one point I would have struggled to bring myself to like any of the significant others hanging off the arms of my best buds. I was always civil to them, mind you, but behind their backs lay a very concerned friend.

 
I thought that time would change things but it seems that that is not always the case.

 
In my younger years, a disliked boyfriend was just that. Someone you didn’t like, someone you thought wasn’t up to par with those preconceived standards about your girlfriend. I always thought they deserved so much better, did not understand why they chose to put up with the fights and the heartbreak and were unable to see their boyfriends for what they truly were – jerks.

 
The wisdom that comes with age brings a lot more responsibility. And opens your eyes a lot more about concerns that I would have never thought of as a high school kid.

 
A darling friend of mine has been with her boy for some time, and I have never ever liked him. My dislike is not fuelled by some gut instinct (although I must admit that plays some role in this), nor some old belief that he is not worthy of her.

 
My hatred and worry stems from the way he treats her, with disrespect. It stems from his controlling ways, and I have seen her drift away from old friends, especially male friends, even if the relationship is merely platonic. My anger stems from his outbursts of anger, in which he has said horrible things about her character, and if you know her the way I know her, she is the last person in the world you would say such horrible things about, for she is one of the sweetest nicest people I have ever had the grace to meet.

 
And therein lies the problem. Within the heart of every woman is a belief you can change the worst of their lovers, and the sympathy to stay, for you cannot help who you fall in love with, and sometimes the strength to realise that things will never be what you want them to be is not always evident.

 
I believe a man that truly loves a woman does not say things, hateful and hurtful things, that deliberately belittle his so-called ‘loved-one’s’ character. He does not repeatedly call her stupid, he does not force her to cut contact with male friends and he does not make derogatory comments such as accusations of being a slut.

 
It hurts when I have to watch her hurting, for no reason asides from the harsh lies that pour from the lips of someone she cannot help loving.

 
I fear the verbal abuse is just beginning, and I fear that if their relationship progresses any further, it will turn into physical abuse.

 
I worry that I cannot be there for her, and pray that she has the strength to make the right decisions on her own.

 
It scares me that she is not the only woman I have known to endure the same issues, and that all these women may potentially be victims in the future. And to realise, that all these smart, beautiful, caring women let themselves be hurt the way they do, be demoralized the way they do by men who do not seem to see them for the wonderful people they are, is an issue that will forever haunt me.

 
In the meantime, I can only be there for you, old friend. You know where to find me.

Life is all about challenges. It is hard to imagine a single individual who would breeze through life without encountering a single problem, a time where they felt a loss of hope, be it temporary or a more lasting period, through times of frustration and despair. Some individuals have the misfortune to face these times more than others, and who is to say what is fair and what isn’t?

This is a story about a girl close to my heart. It is not my story, but it is also mine to tell, for I have experienced enough of what she has to understand the taste of what she endures. This story is not about the major challenges of the world, of hunger and poverty and depression, but a story about a single individual and her personal challenge, or rather, a very small part of it.

The girl in question has always been on of the bubbliest, liveliest, friendliest people I know. Perhaps on occasion she comes across as brash and overconfident. Little Miss Popular. The one who attracts all the attention. The pretty one.

She cares so deeply about her friends she has gone through large extents to maintain old friendships, if only for old times sake, and sometimes, time can no longer sustain the embers of the close rapport they once had, and I hear the wistfulness in her voice as she talks about old friends. Despite being surrounded with her new, fun friends, sometimes she still wishes for the familiarity of being with the old neighbourhood gang.

The girl I know is deeply passionate. She aims to save the world one day, or at least make it a better place to live in. In Malaysia, saving the world isn’t always viable, considering the corruption and lack of free speech and lack of resources the people and the government system has to face, and I have seen her become cynical sometimes as she discovers that the world is not always hearts and rainbows. But she still tries.

Perhaps, one of the things that cuts the most are her parents. Solid, mainstream Malaysian parents who believe their children should become accountants and doctors and engineers and architects, so-called professional courses, and despite her achieving deans list every single semester in the course she loves, they often lack to acknowledge her achievements and often lapse into criticism, and ever so often she cries out her frustration at the lack of support she receives, and wonders if everything she does is truly worth it.

Who knows the ending of a story. Perhaps she will go on to save the country, and the world one day. I have seen her face these challenges, and I believe that the obstacles she endures have made a stronger person, a better person, and perhaps the reason God has chosen to put so many challenges in her path is because she has the strength within to become the person she is destined to be.

Your body cannot help but want to move to the jungle rhythm in your head.
Your feet cannot help but shuffle to the beat you not only hear, but feel with every fibre of your body.
Your shoulders cannot help but move along with the percussion.
Your hips cannot help but to shake to that building tempo.

One, two.

One, two, three, four.

Jungle drums, beating, beating in your head, and you move with the beat. Lose yourself, lose yourself and dance like no one’s watching, and you gyrate with the passion of someone who has found a long-lost lover. Feeling yourself come alive with the music, and you dance faster and faster and your heart starts pumping harder and harder. Throwing yourself into the melody, heart and soul as the music reaches a crescendo, and you dance like you’ve never danced before, like a person posesesed by the sheer energy of the ascending rhythm.

And then it all stops.

And you’re left drenched in your own sweat, but more alive than you have ever been.

And you realise you’ve been sleepwalking through life.

Azreen's tagged me to list my 6 weirdest characteristics. Now normally I don't quite respond to these little quizzes (well, at least not publicly), but I have to admit she caught me at a weak moment. I'm bored and have nothing better to do, so here goes.

1.      I am obsessive compulsive. At one point in my life, even ridiculously so. Things were so bad that I would not continue writing the same page of notes if I didn't have the same pen (for continuity). On that same note, at one point, if I made a mistake writing down my notes, I would rather copy the whole page of notes again rather than cross it out. Strange, I know, but there's the compulsion bit. Thankfully I grew out of it. There's only so much of that you can take before your hand cramps up.

2.     I don't mix my food, especially with meals involving rice. I hate nasi campur, if only on the basis that they mix everything up on my plate, and not sorted out into neat little sections the way I eat my rice. I also need to have any sort of spread (jam, peanut butter, nutella) spread out evenly on my bread, without the slightest speck of white. Plus, I eat bread from it's crust inwards, in neat lines. (I know, I'm a freak).

3.     I love pictures. I digitally enhance, tone and contrast every single digital photo I have in my posession, rename each one and file every one under it's own labelled event folder. God forbid someone misfile a photo, or if my computer crashes. I will cry.

4.    I randomly imitate people I pass on the street. On the same note, I continue that conversation in my head. I recreate their entire personality, their lives, their loves, their hates. I write their entire life story based on an impression of mere seconds. I should really be a writer.

5.     I have a wild imagination. I blame it on my mother, who told me I had a wild imagination when I was six, and it's stuck with me ever since. My favourite daydreams happen when I'm sitting in lectures. I remember having a vivid daydream about sprouting wings in the middle of my lecture (granted, this was after a couple of hours devouring every single X-Men comic I had in my posession) .

6.   I'm sentimental. I've kept every single personal letter, birthday card, concert ticket and movie stub I have since the mid-1990s. I have boxes of cards that I occasionally take out and read and laugh at, especially cheesy letters from my best friends Adlina and Nat (we used to write to each other heaps those days, before e-mail came into play).

There you go. I've exposed for the freakier side of me. Enjoy.

On another note, my exams are coming up in two weeks. It's going to be tough, and scary, and intimidating, and I can only hope I'll be able to meet expectations. I guess it's time to put my nose to the grindstone and say goodbye to the good times for the moment. Here's to first semester memories.

Leave me and let me be.

 
Let thy touch no longer fuel my passion, let thy words no longer haunt my ears. Let thy actions no longer cause my heartache, and let time heal these wounds within. No longer can I allow thy kisses, for with each kiss I feel the poison seep into me.

 
And how sweet thy poison is.

 
Thy poison is bittersweet, for with it brings sadness and intense grief, for thy poison binds me to you with each kiss. For with each kiss, our souls connect and I feel what you feel, and that intertwining of souls makes each one vulnerable to the aches and pains of the other. And I feel my soul wax and wane with thy soul’s waxing and waning, and I am no longer in control of my emotions.

 
I am free of control, and I relish it.

 
There is a wall within thee, and it contains a darkness I cannot fathom. And sometimes the darkness seeps through those cracks in the wall and it consumes thee. And during these times, it is as if a stranger has replaced thee, and I almost fear that strange man, for he cares not for my heart, or seems unable to.

 
Come back to me, and replace these broken pieces.

 
Let me remind thyself that love often comes with sorrow, and bits and pieces carefully strewn within the nooks and crannies of our passion, and above all, the words written come from the unpredictable fluctuations of a soul drained of emotion. And emotionless souls are not worth the paper they write on.