but obviously i’d been wrong. when i quit piano 7 years ago, i thought i had severed the rope cleanly. i had simply looked at this infinite coil weighing heavily on my person and decided to leave it behind. now, somehow i’ve stumbled upon the loose ends.

and what more could i do? music came back organically. this time of my own volition. no teachers, no parents, only friends, only myself. i’ve definitely grown over the last 7 years. i have no conscious recollection of playing piano when i was a kid and it definitely shows. my technique is sloppy, my hands larger than before. passages that came easily before are now clunky. but with little resistance, i realise that the muscle memory is still there.

i could’ve forever given up on music. but now i realise i had quit right before i arrived at good part. my fundamentals, no matter how out of practice i am, still exist as a baseline. now i get to try my hand at pieces i actually enjoy.

it’s definitely a humbling process, not being as good as you used to be when you were 12. but living life was necessary in order to bring the experience and the discipline to make the skill a lifelong one. leaving piano behind simply meant that skill it was going to be dormant for a while. i now realise that this is okay. starting over is never truly starting from zero all over again. pieces of myself i have discovered over the years naturally make up my ensemble of skills, enhancing a few, sometimes obscuring others. it’s all a part of life, really.

so why was i initially so hesitant to play again?

i think it all comes down to expectations. as i watched my past performances, all i could think about was how good she was. she didn’t realise it of course, she was too busy getting childhood trauma from her terrible teacher, but she was good. i didn’t think i was going to play like that ever again. for a 12-year-old she was excellent. maybe that’s the only reason why she was good in the first place: because she was young. youth always gets praised because it is the one thing that cannot be achieved by trying.

but piano skills, on the other hand, can definitely be achieved by trying. so why should i compare the two? they were both me in the end. versions of me, fragments, that i thought i’d left behind. i am not less because i decided to take an indefinite break. neither am i less because i decided to return at an older age. i am no longer ahead, only mediocre. but at the end of the day, who am i performing for but myself?

i wish i had a more eloquent way to end this lengthy monologue, but this is a lesson that i needed to articulate as straightforward as possible: why not? why not return to something you used to be good at? in fact, i think it’s good to soak up those mixed feelings of pride and hesitation and discomfort. sit with those emotions and do it anyway. who knows? maybe you’ll be even better than you were before. even if you aren’t, there’s no shame in trying just for fun.

in the end, the universe helped you relight an old flame. this time, it’s on your own terms whether or not it catches fire.

to seek, admire beauty free and true

of pleasures silky sweet on lover’s tongues,

electric body dances beside you.

/

as worship tames the eyes, too wild to charm,

obsess over illusions real could reach

beneath layers, so tender skin alarms

and bury down wet sand above rain beach.

/

an open stare to desperate hands below

until our sight a catastrophic blur.

with flesh stirring, surrender dreams unknown,

delusion spare angels divine as her.

/

at last the rain subsides to clearer skies,

surrender hearts along with dear disguise.

a runner

musician

scholar

artist

me

but

one lifetime

is not enough

to do everything

/

but i try anyway

and if it means being terrible at everything

and talented in nothing

i’ll still do it anyway

maybe that’s why

i want to be a writer

to live as many lives as possible

/

but lately

nothing has been able

to emulate

the feeling of the wind

on sweat soaked skin

the sensation

of tips on keys

or the struggle of learning something new

that is not condensed into a montage

or a paragraph

/

so instead

i am terrible at everything

but i love being terrible

talent is meaningless

joy is intangible

yet still / above all

i want to be a writer

i’d like to preface this diary entry by saying this cover photo is one i took myself.

i’ve always thought picturesque pinterest photos could not be replicated in real life. they’re always filtered, seen from an outside perspective with no recollection of the context. it’s only a snapshot of the time. we don’t know the person who took it, who they were with, what they were doing. and i guess that’s part of the beauty of images on the internet: you get to create your own context, fantasise your own possibilities, and live a dream you didn’t realise you had.

but just today (as i am writing this) i came back from a two day trip with friends from different periods of my life that i haven’t even connected with in ages. this time i know the context of the photos, hear the conversations before and after, and remember the mindset i was in when taking it. the craziest thing is that i met one of my friends all the way in primary school, the other in intermediate school, and didn’t talk to either of them for the entirety of high school. now, at different universities in the same city, somehow this fractured group of people came together to form an unexpected trio who have just filmed a time-capsule to look back on in 10 years.

i truly believe that we were meant to learn something from each other. for me, that was hope. hope for romance. being less afraid to put yourself out there, maybe finding something along the way.

as we sat on a bench in the middle of the night next to a reservoir taking swigs from the same vodka bottle, the air chilly and the sky full of stars, secrets spilled out and realisations were met all in one conversation. one of my friends was yearning over the one that got away. the other was incredibly lovesick to the point of tears. all i could think about was shakespeare: love is blind. and some part of me didn’t even believe that was true until i sat on this bench looking up at the stars.

i’m not a non-believer in love. that sounds like a really roundabout way to say it. but i don’t go seeking it in every corner, every fantasy. what i truly want is to write. but the more i research and tread further on the path less travelled, my perspective widens so much. but at the same time i hope to find someone organically, and as my friend put it, i’ll never truly find someone if i don’t put myself out there, yet part of me is conflicted about my career compared to finding true love in a place where everyone has different intentions.

i’m curious about love since i’m human, but after knowing other people’s business it doesn’t make me a better person. but at the same time, sometimes, i really wish i had my own story to tell. maybe to give others a reason for staying other than my presence, or the skills i bring to the table. despite everything, though, i am genuinely grateful for the experiences i get to have. my teenage dream that i thought i would never get to truly live.

and that’s the thing with living. you don’t realise being in the moment is harder than it actually is. when the time comes and all that’s left is the memories — an abyss of hollowness and nostalgia, the people who tell your story are the ones fortunate enough to remember you.

“i never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. jesus, does anyone?” —stand by me (1986)

so i guess that’s all i have to say for now. live large. i won’t remember the assignments. but i’ll remember that conversation under the stars.

i’m back from university for the easter break, and coming home has felt like reverting back to my old self; habits i’ve tried to break. procrastination, lack of agency, lack of confidence, lack of goals.

nothing fits together quite so smoothly, and i could feel that new self i’ve created, one that was independent and thriving, slowly slip through my fingers until i’m back to square one. like as though i’ve never even left.

the only thing keeping me here is my family. the things that meant anything to me were back at my dorm, and even then i felt burdened by all the external form i’ve hoarded. the more i live the more i realise i don’t need all this junk.

and university! what simulation are we living in? it feels like a continuation of high school—i remember being so excited for something new and half way through the semester i’ve already found a new routine. it’s making me comfortable, but that prickling beneath my skin makes me realise i don’t want to settle. i want something new and exciting every day.

my new city becomes familiar, practiced. paths to classes and memorised routines to the gym. i’m no longer scared to do it alone. now, at home, i have no opportunity to do anything alone.

even now, i dread going back. but i also dread staying. i feel like if i continue living at university i’ll build long-lasting friendships, find connections that mean something, but yet i don’t want to see this play out.

i’ve worked so hard, failed at getting into my dream school, and settled. now i’m complaining it isn’t enough?

classes are lacklustre. professors even more so. nothing seems exciting, or new. everything is repeated. i know i have to go above and beyond to satisfy my academic validation. i have to work hard to do well but my classes aren’t interesting enough to justify the effort.

but all i want to be is a writer. doing a degree i don’t care about doesn’t help.

don’t get me wrong, i love literature and anything to do with the arts. but a syllabus and assignments and schedules don’t satisfy my urge to experience more. get something more out of this life and travel, see new places, write it down, create something. i crave freedom so so bad. and being home has made me feel even more strongly about living truly.

now, i’m unsure of what to do. realistically, i don’t want to go back. there’s a practised routine to my days at university now. i hang out with the same friends, talk to the same people. i go to events if i feel like it and come out feeling at loss. everyone’s lives are more interesting than mine—they’re well-travelled, lived in exotic places and have friends who do things.

yet i’m stuck. it isn’t enough for me even though i know that university is what you make it. yet how can i have more? how can i satisfy this craving and break through the barriers of my scared soul?

i don’t know. i don’t know if i will.

but the second i stepped foot onto campus, familiarising myself with new routines and new faces, i realised that university was never as serious as the reputation it has grown into.

the mantra that we all chant to ourselves before such big change is that it’s time to take things seriously. this isn’t like high school, where we would waste time at the back of a science lab or daydream during classes, laughing like crows at lunch with our tight-knit friend group, chatting about our daily lives as though tomorrow would never arrive. constants were constants because they were the present. they were constant because they were familiar.

now, i find that change is the only constant — you just learn to adapt to it faster. now, times have seemingly changed. i have changed, but in the moment i don’t quite realise it.

the thing is, university seems serious, because we’ve been told doing well is going to dictate the rest of our lives. lectures and tutorials and workshops we attend for the purpose of learning the system; how it works, what is correct.

but earlier today an encounter put something into perspective for me. my professor is close friends with one of my favourite authors. knowing that i’m just one person away from my idol makes my dreams seem real. like if i just reach up on my tiptoes i can touch the clouds.

i cannot believe how close we are to one another. countries that seem worlds apart become so close when we meet someone who lived there. we find people — through social media, online, in person — and the background they hold is unique to them specifically, but in the moment it feels grand and unfamiliar because it’s different. their story is their entire life. pieces of them we have picked up in snippets of icebreakers and short anecdotes.

i’m not claiming that dreams are going to come true without effort. hard work is what makes the reward so much more fruitful. but this fragment of hope in this small world has brought me a sense of motivation i had never had before. dreams are reachable. they aren’t impossible. the illusion that clouds our dreams is what makes it so intangible and up in the air. the truth is a lot more simple, a lot more objective.

you can do the things you want to do in life. you are your own story. people you admire are just next door to you. it is up to you to create those meaningful connections and utilise the resources you have.

ultimately, i’m not saying don’t take things seriously. that’s not the point. the point is to let yourself flow with the river, go down a different stream if it’s what your heart desires. admire the view near the riverbank, grab onto branches in your path and use them to change your future.

but the real lesson in life is enjoyment. take things seriously because you want something. know when to loosen up and spend time with family and friends. know when to promote yourself (as daunting as it seems, i really need to take my own advice) and just go up to people you admire to start a conversation. you may find that you’ll learn something that changes your entire perception on life altogether.

after all, the world may be a small place, but there is always room for your story.

but being lost didn’t mean lack. in the past few weeks i have been more inspired by life than ever before. change is what makes a writer so enamoured by their new environment, and it is this change that will blossom into a more fruitful piece that reflects growth.

the truth is, i haven’t been writing because i’ve been living. my weeks were jam-packed of activities with unfamiliar faces that grew familiar, friendships that came to be at 2am after a party. the first party i left early, the second i wished it would never end.

because it was never about the party itself, but the company that grows closer, fonder. i have been living a dream; people here are pursuing the same dreams i have. workshops are opportunities to share, group chats are chances to build bridges under a shared vision.

but even those who aren’t in my focus of study — friends i meet through residing in the same hall, shared breakfasts and formal dinners, it feels like a community of people who are simply there to coexist. the energy is contagious, and i feel incredibly grateful to be able to live here.

and then there’s literature. fountain pens at midnight with my headphones in, music gushing in and my penguin classics bruised and battered, highlighted and annotated, dog-eared with a letter to myself in the front pages…

and i realise i’ve living a dream.

it comes to me all at once. this is the picturesque i dreamed of from the movies. this is the journey to my dream that i’ve always wanted. it’s a montage, a film caught on tape, and i can’t bear to make it pass by any faster. this is my little life.

so the posts become scarce, but my life swells with inspiration. my manuscript has been untouched, but when i finally sit down the words flow naturally. sometimes they don’t — i’m too reckoned with the events of the day that i can’t do anything but doom scroll. but that’s okay, everything’s okay.

and i can’t help but think about the version of me that was scared of rejection. the soul-crushing feeling when i was on holiday, opening a rejection letter with an unsettling feeling in my gut. but they were right, of course they were right: rejection is redirection, and i would’ve never felt this moment as strongly as i did had i not been so lost.

now, it’s 11am on a sunday. the left side of my sash window is slightly ajar, the huge tree outside rustles in the wind, the sound of a someone playing basketball at the courts outside, and i realise this is only the beginning.

inspiration will come and go, but writing is a continuous stream. life is a continuous stream. it ebbs and flows with new sensations, spikes with change, and lulls to a stop eventually. you don’t know why, you don’t know when, but you have everything in your power to live it to the fullest.

it’s the night before i move out and start a new chapter in my life, and i can’t seem to fall asleep. my bookshelf is empty, a graveyard of books i have loved and seen, while my suitcase is full of new stories i have yet to discover.

to tell the utmost truth, i have long discovered that the anticipation before immense change is what makes us believe that change is so large to begin with — birthdays, christmas, first days at school… but in reality it’s just another instance of time. the clock in my room ticks on, not stopping even when the battery dies; an eternal rhythm.

until it hits — and it hits hard. the ticking of the clock is finite for us, but infinite for the world. only in the silence are we forced to confront our mortality, realise our memories are all we have, and that the present is slipping away right this instant.

we can distract ourselves with music; convince ourselves the ticking of the clock is a rhythm we can dance along to. the music swells, full of energy and excitement, of board game nights with the family to birthday parties with friends, significant trips condensed to photos in a gallery, fleeting and forgetful like a dream.

but isn’t that the point? i ask, to a dark room with my bags packed, typing away at midnight while thinking about tomorrow. isn’t the point of life to experience what we have? learn lessons and move on? leave behind a legacy?

then why does it seem so futile?

because the moment is a myth. it’s always a myth. this spectacle of grandeur at the the top of the mountain, but the truth is that you’ve seen this view before. in the steps leading up to the climax, like the direction of music, always building towards something greater. it’s in these journeys that we discover ourselves; we find direction before we even reach the top.

so as i begin this new chapter, the start of a new verse, the next movement of a sonata, i will face it with something i have never utilised before: time. to allow myself to linger over intermissions, enjoy the process of travelling, and find peace internally by just being present.

for the moment is a myth; the present — reality.

this anticipation of my next move being the one that tips me over keeps me on edge, in perfect equilibrium with the hope i feel when the destination is in the distance.

it is currently almost midnight here, and i can’t sleep.

im thinking about the two books i didn’t finish in january, how i finally seemed to be getting out of my reading slump, only to drop another book and go the entirety of january without finishing a single one.

another thought that comes to mind is my unfinished manuscript. i made a terrible mistake of finishing act one. now i cant seem to pick up the momentum again and start act two.

i think its a combination of sailing towards a goal that i can already see yet the stylistic choices of my prose and the errors and inconsistencies glare at me through my laptop. i am a perfectionist but perfection doesnt exist. i know that and still cant get over it.

now i am almost 400 pages in ‘bury our bones in the midnight soil’ by v.e schwab and its honestly brilliant. the writing is full of metaphors and i love it. im kind of stuck in the middle right now, but i dont have the patience for anything other than scrolling instagram reels and now im stressed with finding the right birthday gifts for my friends birthday in a week.

this is the first time ive opened a new post on substack and just went for it with no plan. the title didnt jump out at me, the subtitle the truth, and the article a clutter of words with no meaning.

but as i’ve learnt to deal with different periods of my life, i know that action is better than inaction (a hamlet reference, if you know you know) so im hoping this unfiltered, raw version of my stream of consciousness will propel me further towards the sunset on the horizon.

the truth is my head is never empty. its full of clutter. and little by little, i will learn to leave it behind in the wake of my sailboat. it may be an invisible weight, but at least my head will be a little lighter.

i’ll find my way as long as my heart is full.

i play this record back in my head. again and again. what am i so afraid of?

perhaps its a deeper insecurity to be perceived. judged. thoughts in someone else’s head i have no way of knowing. like death. unknown.

as im in the midst of the end and a beginning, transitioning from childhood to adulthood, i realise that no one cares. there are times of embarrassment, sadness, and existentialism that live only within myself.

no one cares as much as you do.

that is scary, scary to think that you’re the one in charge of your fate. but it is also liberating. extinguishing the flames of judgement until there is nothing left but your own will.

you’ll find that it is stronger than you think.

maybe it is delusion; hope that there is something beyond ourselves to achieve our dreams. but it is also as powerful as the whole world cheering you on.

so ill continue writing, reading, learning. giving my all into something that will exist in this life as i have dreamt of it. i have thought it into existence through involuntary manifestation. this is a beginning, a path to ignite my soul on fire, and ill see it through just for the sake of the journey.

after all, i will be everything to myself before i am anything to someone else.

for me, bungee jumping wasn’t this grand, symbolic event of overcoming fears. i was never scared of heights — not because i was fearless, but because i knew there was no chance of falling.

but something changed. it was a gradual change, one of small decisions that never crossed my mind until i was standing on a bridge, 43 metres in the air with the river washing beneath me. the view was amazing; the water crystal clear. below, there was an orange lifeboat and my friend had just jumped moments before.

some people jump because they want to prove themselves or prove others. in this case i was neither. my reason for jumping was because i wanted to test a hypothesis: does fear exist if i dont let it exist?

as i was standing on the bridge above a river, no thoughts crossed my mind. i tried to recollect the feeling of runner’s high. head empty, only utmost presence in the moment. i could hear the wind, feel the coolness of the air, and the harness that seemed to be too low. there was nothing to hold.

my mind did not spiral or jump to conclusions. it was dormant in that moment, only my senses guiding me forward until i was jumping from my own volition.

free falling is the best feeling in the world.

ive sought it out in the form of roller coasters and plane landings, but nothing beats real free falling.

i had no doubt that everything would be fine once i was in the boat.

but bungee jumping never really changed my life. it was only a mark of my growth and the lesson on changing my mindset. there was no barrier to overcome, because all the efforts i had put into acknowledging important life lessons had already been implemented.

so instead ill remember bungee jumping as a story ill share with the friends who witnessed it. a trip ill never forget — not for the activities, but the quiet co-existence we shared before we all go our separate ways.

life, after all, is made up of the moments. no matter how big or small they seem on the surface.

my days are slow, trailing off like an unfinished sentence; impromptu; forgiving; unplanned; perceiving. a quiet existence of small revelations with butterfly effects, wings pressed into journals with dried flowers.

the overcast looms with change. overturned trees, wisps of cool air and gusts of winds. i am the albatross, wingspan large, travelling with the flow of the seasons.

there is beauty everywhere all at once. but it comes off dull and superficial. there’s a part of me who wants to be the story told to gossiping aunts, just so my name can travel further than the circles that praise me.

the engineer does not concern himself with such matters. he is right. he is never wrong. he argues for logic and workings and answers, raises his hand to spew the latest research and recites off textbooks. equations, formulas, definitions and answers. objective answers. being correct because there is an answer.

yet still his story is told. of recognisable success and acceptances, futures as bright as constellations and webs of connections that span infinity. he has no wings. he doesnt fly but his story does. he stays grounded.

me? i hear these stories up in the clouds. my path is unclear. twisted. up until now we have walked a similar path, moved in the same circles. but time has pulled us in different directions until we are no more than co-existing strangers. each a deity of their own domain with no intersections.

i wonder what would happen if the stories were reversed. both of us: defying the conventions of our roles. i wouldn’t be flying blind. instead i would be certain, my destination in the distance. maybe he would enjoy the freedom; i think he would find it terrifying.

i will not be jealous of the engineer just because he has the backing of a thousand armies. his story may inspire millions on the ground, articulated by the strength of mainstream success.

but the elusive stories are the most powerful. they dig their talons into you unknowingly; a seed that reaches for the sky.

until one day the engineer decides to look up. perhaps a little curious, perhaps feeling like a toad at the bottom of a well, only to realise that taking the courage to fly is no small task.

im not jealous of the engineer and he is not jealous of me. we may never walk the same paths ever again. i dont grieve the path i could have taken. i thrive in the path i have chosen to take.

in the end the most brilliant stories are the ones yet to be told.

we get fed this idea of conventional success through gold. gold stars, gold achievements, pinnacles of success being extravagant wealth through consumerism.

we buy into it like we are supposed to.

i wont lie and say im different. im definitely not. i collect figurines and blind boxes that show up on my feed, makeup that people claim have changed their lives for the better.

but 2026 is the year i had a quiet revelation. i could continue this spending cycle and still feel at loss. its never enough, no matter how big your next purchase may be.

so my new year resolution is going to be a quiet one. no flashy goals or signs plastered on every social media page.

i would like to live more minimalistic and less materialistic.

there is no shame that having things makes you happy. we are conditioned that way after all. but after seeing all this superficial form and buying into it, i realise it doesn’t elevate my personal value or happiness at all — at least not long term.

instead, i find value in upgrading myself. routines with productivity and consistent hobbies that last. loving the people around me and being grateful for one another. peaceful co-existence with people and nature.

i find the most meaningful things are not material; after all, love makes hearts. not gold.

it felt like i had nothing figured out. i did all sorts of things in my childhood: ballet, piano, swimming… none of it stayed. i was held back by insecurity of body image, first periods, and constant comparison in looks, skill, and potential. it was killing me.

but one thing always stayed and that was literature. books. i was lucky enough to have amazing english teachers all throughout high school. i never put my hand up in class. i was quiet. but i had one thing a lot of other students lacked: talent.

that cursed word. talent is something otherworldly; you are born with it. i don’t quite believe that i was born with it per se, but i had a wonderful tutor with a nice house that i went to every saturday. she taught english differently. through anecdotes about her own life, spirituality, and offered such unique, applicable lessons that i could use throughout my daily life.

for an hour every week i felt like i was transported to an utopia of thought. my creativity seemed to work in overdrive being fed such unique ideas ive never thought of. through symbolism, motifs, spondees and metaphors, i was simultaneously being taught important life lessons about putting yourself out there, true happiness, and the purpose of life.

i fell in love with english when initially i thought it was no more than vocabulary and reading comprehension.

the best part was i never revised to write essays. i went into every english exam and passed with flying colours. for an hour or two i would sit there and the words would come naturally, my hand scrambling to keep up with my mind that would spew incoherence that only made sense when i got my results back. it felt like i didn’t write those words. it felt like somebody else had written them for me and pieced together such an insightful response that could only be done in days instead of hours.

for the first few years i was basically at the top of my entire class. my grades never dropped lower than a 90 and it felt so… effortless.

but then reality hit. and i fell, hard.

the problem with talent is that it always lacks substance. i was getting tutored by the most radiant, creative person i knew, learning life lessons about perception, happiness, and existentialism, yet i didn’t feel like i was putting any effort. i would not study for english at all, instead spending all my times figuring out maths and physics and chemistry equations and still score lower having put ten times the effort.

it went on like that until my final year of high school. people were catching up. the most infuriating part was that the people who started overtaking me weren’t even interested in english at all. they were doing it because they were forced to, not because they felt a euphoric sense of meaning in the texts we were studying.

suddenly i wasn’t the best anymore. i was overtaken by hardworking people. i became mediocre.

so on a random tuesday evening i went home and cried for hours. i hated having a passion for something everybody else thought was forced upon them. and more importantly, i hated that i had high enough grades to pursue a more respected degree, yet my heart was pulling me in the other direction.

in the middle of december, i got rejected to my dream university. but i didn’t even cry. i felt happy. i was at complete contentment and full of utter gratitude for the first time in ages.

what changed in those 6 months?

i realised something. a lesson taught by my english tutor when discussing a poem: your identity is not tied to any role.

i see this everywhere. mothers, fathers, good mothers, good daughters. musicians, artists, athletes — we get so caught up with the idea of identifying with something. feeling some sort of instinct to belong to those groups. and once that is threatened, we feel a part of us has been lost.

i was known for being a good english student. when i was no longer the best, most hard-working, i looked back and started rethinking my life choices.

but the truth is i was never just a good english student. i am so much more than that. it doesn’t matter if i pursue medicine or engineering or english. my self worth isn’t defined by the degree i choose to take, nor is it defined by my grades, my roles, or my interests. i can be who i want to be, make decisions for myself and myself only, and that will always be enough.

now it is january, and everything worked out for the better. i haven’t gotten accepted to a university yet, but i ended up surpassing the grade requirement for a bachelor of arts by a landslide. i’m sure i’ll be okay. i don’t know what will happen in the future, but i do know that i will be pursuing literature. it has what has persisted through many seasons, new faces, and every mask, and it will continue to do so for as long as im alive.

this is a love letter to literature. but it is also a love letter to my loved ones. i would never have come out the other side more certain than ever had it not been for their continued support. thank you for encouraging me to keep going — i will pass this support forward and continue to encourage everyone else.

after all, isn’t that what we are all here for?

if its someone close to you raising their voice its probably because they care. or they are extremely passionate about something you seem to disagree with. instead of voicing such disagreements at equal volume, i like to reply at normal volume with ‘huh, that’s interesting. ive never looked at it that way’ and watch as their energy fizzles out into a low hum. most of the time they will realise how loud they have gotten and the conversation goes back to normal volume. then you can voice your own opinions, and if they dont respect that, thats on them, not you.

thats what a conversation is, really. a continuous flow of energy from one person to the other.

othertimes criticism can be hard to hear. this one is different because it seems like its a direct attack on your character. but again, being a diffuser is the best solution.

by changing your perception, you change the way you view others and yourself. ask yourself why someone is critiquing your character. is it because you have a trait that they lack? does one trait make someone else’s insecurity more apparent?

if thats the case, you have nothing to worry about. acknowledge their criticisms with a nod and a smile to be polite, but otherwise keep going.

but what if its true? what if their criticisms have substance?

in that case take it in. let the hurt pass through, just like energy, and feel it sucked away into the rational side of your brain. the side that makes decisions.

then implement that change. not for their sake, but for your own.

that’s how self improvement happens. learning to take critique, but also knowing when to discard it. that way, you can be secure with yourself but also be content with the fact that there is always improvement.

on the other hand, giving criticism is also good. but knowing how to do it is even better. voice your concerns, but do it well. with a compliment, even. anything to lessen the blow. after all, we are all here to help each other become the best version of themselves.

thats the beauty of life, really. to change and remodel ourselves as we mature. but some things stay the same. my love for literature, finding beauty in the way the rain drips down the car windows — only now im the one driving, too busy trying not to crash to marvel at the way droplets merge with one another until they fall.

everything changes. everything stays the same.

the world goes on.

finding meaning has never been more difficult. i think of death often, not in a pessimistic way, but to realise that i only have a finite amount of time with my loved ones. stages of life turn like pages, each chapter falling away like autumn leaves.

things break. the desire to be on top of the world has been shifted to lower mountain ranges. hikes aimed at restoring fitness rather than reaching the summit.

now as time goes on — a constant stream, no interludes — i wonder how much more i have to go, how much there is left. but one thing is for certain: if i continue living in the utmost present, i will never feel that life is meaningless. only profound in the way i feel after a long run, head empty with runner’s high, hearing the lapping of water on the shore and the giggles of children at the beach. fireworks.

these are the moments i live for. childhood promises may be broken, but the spirit of the soul stays the same.

after all, everything is made to be broken.

my problems feel surface-level rather than inherent. for that i am glad. but i am full of textbook-worthy prose rather than the mutterings of prayer.

i am glad i dont have to worry about shelter. i am glad to be middle-class. but it seems as though every prominent writer has had problems of their own. some problems larger than life itself that has shaped their piece of clay into something that sparkled. something worth preserving.

but these thoughts are futile. i am a product of my environment, but i am also privileged enough to be able to learn. education is the key to understanding writers and i feel lucky enough to do so. only that the more i learn the more i realise i do not know what i dont know, and that becomes an endless cycle of wanting to do better.

so i stop thinking about such thoughts and just write. i will continue pursuing literature as if i dont, i will find myself coming back to it as the years fly past. i will pursue my dreams first because i am lucky, but it is discipline that will make them come true.

i am privileged to do what i love. and for that i am forever thankful.

but some things arent true. the way things are is only agreed upon by those who hold the reigns to the world. some may say it is a compromise.

it is this compromise that is the root of our culture. misery. resistance to change. illusions larger than life itself, clouded around like eternal fog. never realising the ocean was right next to us — only we couldnt see past the clouds.

as the tide turned, so did we. but the ocean floor never moves. our souls stay standing. layers piled on top of layers like a crêpe cake, souls flattened and into mouthfuls. bite-sized. digestible pieces. facts we can stomach.

i dont want to be that way. a dessert that customers go back to because it is a perfect balance of smart, not too sweet, and good. if the whole world was that way there would be no excitement at the prospect of a new flavour.

we see the praise and validation conventional success gives us, and we think: why cant i just be like that? a perfect piece of dessert behind a glass, tucked away on the soft, soft napkin with little taps on the glass.

then all of a sudden i break free. my flavours dont quite mesh well together anymore. heavy on the cream; too bitter. i choose my path the same way i choose my desserts: a gut feeling. it was as if a switch had flipped. my taste buds bloom.

the compliments get scarce. my achievements are canceled out with thoughts of ‘what if?’ what if i had chosen differently? what if an over-achiever chose a path bound for success?

while they murmur and judge i am on the other side. pursuing my dreams. in their eyes its as though ive faded out into irrelevancy, sprinkled and scarce in conversations until i am no more. the urge to be known vanishes. the urge to be greater strengthens.

my path is dusted with luck and shiny distractions. but the ocean is in the distance, and i finally see past the clouds.

this is my slice of life.