this morning i woke up acknowledging and being thankful that i am feeling better - what a difference it makes.

live well while you can

Live well while you can. Looking around me at this courtyard filled with shades of green I'd often forget to recognise, realising that I have needed the great outside and the peace which it offers -- I wonder where from that there is the underlying concern that this is asking for too much. For I, too, recognise privilege; acknowledge that beyond the walls of this institution which I got into by a pure miracle, there are few courtyards. Few swings, few hammocks, few individuals that would stride over and give you a hug just because. And sometimes I wonder how, wonder what others do when they need a break, how they'd get there if the green, the swings, the hammocks, weren't right at their doorstep, specifically constructed as if emblems of privilege. But exactly so- with privilege comes the idea of excess, of exclusivity... I guess what I'm trying to understand is why it seems a privilege-like thing to want to live well.

Of course, part of 'living well' sways in one's perspective of what 'well' is, and thus is subject to the blessings that we've had so far. Sometimes, it feels like beautiful cafes in my best dresses, sometimes it is going for two movies in a week at The Projector. But 'living well' can, at it's most essential level, to me, simply mean to indulge in idle activity, during which your mind can ebb and flow whichever way it prefers. To sit on a swing and take many deep breaths, and to romanticise it all. To take care of oneself, to shower herself with love and gratitude, to bathe in rich soaps and smell like fresh lavender. I suppose it is a privilege. I suppose the brooding concern of asking for too much is rightly embedded in the understanding that the life I live is, even when I'm not 'living well', living well.

I suppose the tremor of conflict that I feel now is how to navigate between guilt and gratitude, rejection and embrace. How to not feel guilty for the life well lived, and yet understand it for what it is, to let gratitude loiter and not tip over the edges. Because what is the point of guilt, if it is only to add more pain to the world? For what good comes, what improvements to lives I recognise can be better, if those who can sit on swings and take deep breaths, smell like fresh lavender, do not? Not to say the foundations of such guilt is to be scraped and ignored - there is a lot to do and which we can do, for the world beyond ourselves. But I thus urge myself to embrace the daily, to acknowledge guilt but not let it fester, to rather take gratitude in its full force.


love, elle

Rong Rong & Inri

Chang Chao-Tang 张照堂

“A transformation takes place, in which the images become encoded with metaphors, and with my thoughts,” he wrote. “What grasps me is not a view but a memory, an atmosphere or state that sparks an unexpected thought, a subtle emotion, or a whirl of energy.”

“We may see more now,” he said, “but we may also confuse more.”
Chang Chao-Tang 张照堂

"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not one bit simpler."
- Albert Einstein

each week passes by the next. i am folded over in joy, relief, hysteria, gratitude, fear, anxiety, guilt, confusion. today i only wanted to fold into myself, to shut the door and reel the blinds down down down, engulf myself in its sub-effective shade in the middle of the day. my clock runs on class timetables, my nights often planned out according to readings for the next day, time in between for all the activities, the talks, the new friends. today i only wanted to fold into myself, to commit to the crucial understanding that everything and its attached anxiety is what i make it to be, that what i do now and the choices that i make will only make a groove on the course of my future... that the future is an overrated preoccupation of the restless subconsciousness.

it is with growing self-awareness that i realise and am therefore appalled by the rate which the mind works. that i cannot remember not thinking, processing, extrapolating, feeling, supposing, and most importantly weighing every little decision that i make on a scale so intrinsically entrenched. is this a good use of my time? is this the intellectual/responsible thing to do? is this my priority? should i do something else first? what is the underlying purpose of my such action? what am i trying to achieve without my own knowledge? how is this going to affect my future? what if tomorrow... what if next week...?

i don't have everything figured out. maybe sometimes it's so much more disappointing because i think i do, every time i grasp on to a flailing vine in the labyrinth of writhing, wet, suffocating jungle. each recovery and thus each day is a white lie then. some self-deceit necessary in believing that one can go on with her life despite the wars waging within her, just because some days the dust kicked up by the heat of the battle clears up and some blue of the sky shows, making it possible to walk the corridors and greet "yes I'm good how about you?" -- but there is no such thing as ceasefire. the blood still pours and covers the earth, seeps into the soil and dyes it deep red or blue-black, or yellow, with time. "life is full of suffering".  a full-stop i place to resist myself for i have rationalised and compartmentalised a thought i have deemed it below standards i have deemed it weak and i engage in self-censorship.

i want the world to go on without me... i want time to merely pass over like water while i take a breath, i just need a couple breaths, i just want to decide when i do what i do because there are so many deadlines and i puncture them into my skin with pushpins they make my heart sag like a grandmother's skin. and i say this and yet i don't do the things pinned by deadlines and what right do i have to complain i complain all i do is complain all i do is weak and all i do is complain.

i put on a show everyday. i am a performer. i don't know what is real, in class they said only the one who tells the lie knows the truth but all i know is lies, how can that be?

i am not empty, though it may feel that way sometimes. things do not carve a hole into me each time, anymore, does not make me lose much, apart from a little faith, but that is only sometimes too. rather, they catch on, attempt erosion, make a few scratches, send tremors of a stinging sensation through the right side of my body. but they do not make me lose... i felt that when i walked past the corridors, read the words, and smiled despite - despite myself. a victory, growing up is not too bad if you learn, and you do. i've learnt, loved; learn, love. things coexist.

with each heave
life leaves
and i rise and relocate
sunken

Teaching English in Halle, Germany

I sit in a cafe in Halle, Saale,  Germany. I'm here on a program where I volunteer to teach English to individuals who come from Syria, Yemen, Palestine to name a few, most of whom came to Germany to flee from the dangerous conditions of their homeland. The system calls them refugees; I have come to treat this term with a little more caution. It shouldn't be so, but it's unfortunately quite inevitable, that the awareness of people called 'refugees' and the conditions they have been exposed to is tied to a lot of sympathy. And it is from personal experience and reflection that I realise such feelings can become quite one-dimensional after a while.

It took a lot of what I imagine as pot-holing; the erosion of the surrounding matter (media's placement of refugees, personal moral expectations, pre-existing social understandings) to come to a far deeper understanding of what a refugee is. And I conclude that what? is not the question, but rather who?
When such institutional and systemic titles are embedded into our mind, it is so incredibly easy to unintentionally generalise and be satisfied with the perception of someone as only the violence and hardship that they have endured, and that yield our pity. I was so readily feeling sympathy, but sympathy is not enough. I viewed the idea or situation as merely conceptual - headlines on a newspaper,  governmental issues, the images that made me shudder or shut my eyes closed so tight, an example we should not follow, an emblem of why-I-should-be-thankful. It was always at most 5 minutes of my day that came and passed.. it was only a sad story.

A concept is not enough.

I came here, engaged, and realised that 'refugee' was a minuscule part of their identity. It is so tiny! And not to mention so inadequate I am guilty that I had subconsciously fit them into so small and limiting a category and genuinely believed that was as big of a part of who they are. God knows what I expected it to be like- for us to shake hands, exchange greetings, for them to sit me down and explain their unfortunate history and for me to feel all the more assured of the need to feel/think everything as detailed above. I had dehumanised them, believing it was humanity.

""The moral law," answered Magis, "forces men who are beasts to live otherwise than beasts, a thine that doubtless puts a constraint upon them, but that also flatters and reassures them; and as they are proud, cowardly, and covetous of pleasure, they willingly submit to restraints that tickle their vanity and on which they found both their present security and the hope of their future happiness."

France's words from "Penguin Island" reverberates in my mind. And I am glad that I have exposed a beastliness of my possession, one that I'll continue to betray and condemn because of the single example of the past few days in Halle.

In African dress and iconic afro, Abodi (pronounced 'Aboodi'). German teacher for the past 4 years, says he has not washed his hair for the past 9 years and 3 days now.

In the far right, Makki (pronounced 'Marky'). Doctor, father of a beautiful daughter named 'Laureen' from the laurel tree, "particularly" hates flies.

Both Abodi and Makki have been friends for 10 years, since before they came to Germany 8 years ago. You can tell they are good friends. Both believe themselves to be the craziest people from Yemen.

Hadid. Moved to Germany 4 years ago if I remember correctly. Doing his masters in Nutrition, does not believe in the BioMarkt, loves Prague, gave away the blanket his mother gave him to some people in a refugee camp in Austria.

love,

elle

There's a feeling within my body, shapeless, nondescript and in the areas you can't quite pinpoint. I wonder if my fatigue has something to do with his, or if it is merely something I've never recognised or wanted to acknowledge before. I don't know what it is, I only theorise, and they all sound about right.

"good and maybe never done".

not wrong, maybe only different.

magic, on the outline of my heart

A little while ago, I questioned what I have to offer. Today, I twirl and tangle in the warmth that is reassurance. Today, I was a little more patient with myself; today, I made peace with the fact that perhaps it takes a little more time to love me, and that the people who are worthwhile would wait and see.

I am just fine walking on the outer edge, listening in rather than speaking. I am just fine allowing someone else's preferences be heard-- I am not fussy, but that doesn't mean I do not have my opinion. I merely save the energy for issues more important. And perhaps on the surface I am bland, uninteresting, typical, but I believe I have something to offer that others might not. Today, I floated far from the shore, looking at the mountain view on the opposite coast, making that resolution.

But that is not to say that my woes on the related subject of 'sufficiency' are over. Instead, I brood over something of a similar strand only much more beautiful. As I worked on the fields of Le Petit Bochet, letting my sight extend as far as the scenery allowed, I could only inhale deeply. As I traversed through the trees where light fell in magical ways, bouncing off in bronze and gold, I could only attempt to widen my eyes a little more, to blink a little less, and I inhaled deeply. As I laid on the pebble beach of Allaman, with the soft sound of the waves, sinking my hands into the fur of a gentle canine who wanted to play, I looked up and could only inhale deeply. As I walked on the side of the road, in awe of the tall trees on both sides and the postcard sunset in tinges of pink and purple, with a bag full of white flowers we will make syrup out of tomorrow, I held still for seconds at a time and I could only inhale deeply.

That is all and only what I can do. I think a part of me wishes that all of that could somehow envelope all that was in front of me and all that I was feeling, just to keep for a piece of forever. That somehow my sight was an expanding cinema screen, and I could revisit this personal movie theatre whenever I want, just how it was. As if each inhale would catch a bit of air from that precise moment, and I would hold it in my lungs knowing that the beauty lives inside me. But each time the recognition of all its fleetingness washes over me. That this view, this sunset, this person, this noise and music, this feeling, would all be over as soon as it began. That any other day I would find myself struggling to remember if it was real at all.

But I guess that is alright. I think the beauty does find ways to live on, even if that is within my ever-changing body, as corporeal as it is. Tonight, particularly, I feel something magical tingling at my fingertips, the tip of my nose, the edges of my lips, and the very outline of my heart. 

choking on cotton wool

Dear you,

On this night I ponder about transience, and sufficiency. As my eyes pull me toward sleep after a long day of exploring, the one brooding feeling that still sustains is a sense of emptiness. A void that swirls and rumbles, it hollows my centre and reaches down to my stomach. It frustrates me, because once again I am aware that it is an exaggerated feeling over a fleeting relationship. It pulls at my conscience, because once again I am aware of the part of me that yearns for something more than it was. There are a lot of things that I rebut in theory, but never seem to truly reconcile with, and in this case I cannot deny a hope to belong and be loved despite coaxing myself that I am wholly enough.

Thus I engage in a tug-of-war within my mind; I can hear my internal self exclaiming in exasperation that I expect too much, but behind it all are intermittent sparks of maybe’s— they are undeniable, persistent, begging to be heard now and always. I wonder why I put myself through such agony. It seems to be par for the course to such hypersensitivity, and it is a daily, continual battle to convince myself that my stark awareness of my surroundings is necessary.

I wish I didn't have to do what I believe is necessary sometimes. I wish I could be so unapologetic and oblivious, so secure that regardless of how I am 'morally/socially careless' that I would have a place and people who embrace me. I wrap my words in cotton wool, encircle my thoughts around the torsos of others, walking on tip-toe with my arms stretched out hoping to break anyone's fall. Like balancing china on all fine points of my skeleton, I am bound to let some slip. I sacrifice fun, light-heartedness, true open-mindedness and forgiveness... I am dispirited by my inability to connect, to share in the humour, to let go.

There is no epiphany here; I have spent too many times reciting the 'right' answer only to return to my usual way. It's not like the skin that is scraped so many times it becomes dry and numb, each time it hurts just the same, sometimes even more.

What matters to you?

Dear you,

"What matters to you?" is the question that seems to be posed over and over again. My mind and flesh still seem to be settling in, like those few moments before the drop of a roller coaster and you hear the tyres creaking. Maybe it will be like that for a while, maybe it will be like that for the rest of my life. I'm still figuring out what it is that I believe in, who I am, and where I belong.

I still ask myself the difficult questions of This or That: money or passion, family or experience, friends or self, enough or more, want or need, speak or be silent. And this list goes on. And even though I've been bothered by it before, tonight I am particularly burdened by whether there is a selfishness in me that overrides the importance of my friends and family. I always seem to be overcommitting and eventually bailing out on plans. I always seem to have people wait on me and depend on my schedule, and rarely the other way round. It is no surprise or secret that I am one of the "busiest", "overworked" people with one of the most "happening" lives. Sometimes I take it as it is-- I just have a lot I want to do and a lot of people to meet. But other times, I wonder if it such traits would then have certain connotations. That I'm never around for things, or that I have to be chased to have a moment with. What if they don't want to chase anymore? And what if chasing in itself is problematic?

For what it's worth, and with no intention of actually defending myself, I acknowledge that I do make efforts to reach out and 'do the chasing' once in a while. But maybe this nagging feeling in my heart is telling me that my efforts are not enough. That I kind of drop those who aren't as easily in reach, but whom I really have a chance to build wonderful, meaningful relationships with. That those who I do reach are very fortunately in arm's length, so benevolently willing to bend their body backwards just for me to have the impression of proximity.

If I have thought about this so many times through, why haven't I changed then? Is it fear; the fear of people and relationships I know so well, that translates even into relationships that I treasure and people whom I adore? Is it that selfishness that I know runs through my veins, the almost innate drive to grasp everything I can for myself even if it is in sacrifice of others, the selfishness I question myself of as I skim over this passage so starkly aware of the number of 'I's there are? Is it this ceaseless heart, which falls in love with every beautiful thing, which runs to the ends of the earth in her dreams-- this wonder over everything?

What matters to you?
I thought it'd be an easy answer by now, the ripe old age of 18 going on 19. I thought it would be as straightforward as   blank  over everything, blood over water, others before self. Of course, when difficult times come there is no doubt that I would give my life for the ones I love. But what about the in-betweens, when life or death is not necessarily concerned? The in-betweens is what they rarely teach us and what we rarely perceive, and I now know it is because the in-betweens are ever-changing. The in-betweens have to be chased, consciously and so fervently, for the conclusion that we decide.

Love,
elle

I suppose we were all meant to come and go, in and out of relationships, of everything. And the ones who get left always feel it the most, and the ones who do the leaving barely know that's what they're doing.

It sucks that I feel you leaving this much and this hard. Most times I can shake it off and say "well, that's the way of life." But not for you. The distance between us sends pangs that shake my earth and I can only grasp on for air. I have so many theories, prepositions, blame-games, but eventually you realise that the Why doesn't matter. It can't wheel you back into my life the way you were in it, regardless how many times you say you will not leave. Because the leaving already began.

A catalyst. She was the catalyst. And that's none of her fault-- we often waltz into lives with the purest of hearts with no particular intention. She only sent your waves diverging, your waves which I seemed not destined to ride from the start.

My fiascos... for as long as I've been able to remember. Because it is better to hurt and strip away than feel the slow, scalding process. For milliseconds you hammer it enough for me to think I'm really completely, surely, only paranoid. And I hate that you do; you make me feel like I don't know anything.

You don't know anything, I repeat over and over. My mind was sober.

Because the leaving already began.

比悲伤更悲伤的事

人一旦习惯了孤独，

那才是比悲伤更悲伤的事。

It is 1:19am and my eyes nag me to sleep, but I know if I don't write it tonight I will never write it and there I will go forgetting about it. Earlier tonight Sid and I spontaneously decided to have dinner and watch a movie (/to have dinner in a movie), so there we found ourselves watching "More Than Blue", a Taiwanese movie. 

I will cut to the chase-- as well as to all the spoilers. More Than Blue is a heart-wrenching story of two lovers who never admit they love each other, growing up as good friends and housemates since they were 16. Both were lonely people, with no kin and a history of loss, but they found solace in each other. But K had leukaemia, and hence never allowed himself and Cream to secure their relationship, and spent his last days attempting to ensure a wonderful life for Cream after his death. He tries so hard to keep it from her in fear of hurting her, but the twist comes when it turns out she knew all along. And everything she had done, even those at the expense of her and others' happiness, had been done for him, as he had for her. And when he left, to her there was no alternative than to leave with him. 

I can only attempt to encapsulate the story this way. It is much more vivid and hence painful in my mind and I don't expect myself to do it justice. But here are some of my thoughts.

To be honest, I wasn't very impressed by the first half-one hour of the movie. The storyline seemed to be pretty rushed, and the characters said/did things much faster than I imagined it would in real life. It was abrupt and sometimes unrealistic, like the part when K asked Cindy to dump her fiancee and yadayada. But I must say that the build up did an excellent job setting a basis that would afterward enhance the sense of pathos. Like the part of Cream writing the song, about how eternity together is not really an eternity because one will eventually have to go, but another life, another life is comparatively better because it sounds more like a pact, a promise. That's what she did after all, to always stay with K even in a different world. The portrayal of Cream in the build up was also really significant, because for the most part, the beginning was focused on K and his troubles, and his attempts to secure the right man for Cream. Cream was portrayed as an enthusiastic, carefree, oblivious girl who needed comfort and protection. But that's what made the plot twist so unexpected and emotional-- she knew all along. She wasn't oblivious, and her carefree spirit was merely a veneer to make K believe she was happy and would be fine. She did it all for him. The things that each K and Cream did were all for the sake of each other's happiness, at the expense of their own. And I guess that was the point of the movie. There's no point in that... it would all be wasted if you never say the words I love you when you really feel it. Because you never know. 

The words of Cindy in the final parts of the movie still play in my head. She said something about how she thought K was underestimating Cream, that she was definitely stronger than he thought she was, and able to live on somehow even after he goes. "But I was wrong," she says, because she had tied her happiness to tightly to his that it was never possible for her to go on without him. What do you do with that except to wish they could have held each other tighter in the days that they had? 

That's the story sadder than sadness itself. 

I left the theatre still ugly sobbing. It struck a chord somehow. 

xx,

CLL

breath/wave

it hit me all at once. i didn't think i'd feel like this, but all of a sudden i gasped for air in the rhythm of the rolling waves in the middle of the Andaman Sea. i can almost still feel the water over my skin, it is warm and full of comfort. my heart is submerged in the best way possible-- i knew the sea had to once be my home.

I just returned from a 6 day trip to Krabi with some of my closest friends, Kayleigh, Clement and Jaron. It is a trip I will probably never forget, and though I yearn for the days to return even just for a second more, I know there will be more adventures to come, and I can never erase this salt from my skin.