Squeamish in a Library Corner

I go to the library for silence.

And sometimes for some quality time with my closer circle.

So this is what that happened: I want to finish up on my assignment, therefore I have a planned mindset to glue myself in the library until it closes. I don't have to be verbal about it -- my face tells everything. Without even an invitation, nor a gesture to inform, the said circle left to celebrate one of their birthdays.

I'm wearing my poker face. For those who know me close enough, they understand that such a face comes with a natural glare, thinly-pressed lips, and if I'm annoyed too much, an all-fat-layers-raised-cheeks smile.

Yes, I mean to creep.

For the first few hours, I find myself wedged between two matching entities -- my two classreps. How good are my relationships with the two?

My female classrep thinks that it's funny to burst out giggling while watching drama on her phone; my male classrep never fails to signal his progress in doing his assignments with constant "tsk"-ing and "YES!" And when the two of them converse over the little table that this multiracial combination are all crammed together at, I find myself imagining them blowing loud and unintelligible bubbles, added up with the hoarse friction of their strong throats.

Again, I go to the library for silence.

The role I play in this light-hearted harmony is the scratching of my nails on the keypad as I blow my not-quite-suppressed resentment into words. I don't usually do this, you see. I know to what extent of a b*tch I can be whenever I loosen the little grip on my temper. And the little bit of loosening is all it takes.

Nonetheless, the blame does not fall on any other factors but on my own officious nature. I can't simply "hang out" with most people, and I totally understand why people leave me alone. Even though I want to fit in with the rest of the crowd at times, I face difficulty in adhering to certain laws of socializing, such as DON'T BE WEIRD. After all, two conflicting personalities cannot be both dominant at the same time.

Anyway, as consolation, I'm reminding myself today that I have a achieved a feat -- having my English recognized to be better than some lecturers over here at my campus.

I'm not even sure whether it's a consolation -- The praise feeds my ego.

Sadly, it is just an unworthy praise given by the wrong people.

I quote, "Well, people who are really fluent in English don't become English teachers what."

FML.

A Gift

There was a certain novelty to it, as the delicate black hands of a certain pendant-watch came to a standstill, landing onto her eager palms. An eagerness deemed justice by the conceding happiness expressed in a gentle stretch of her full lips.

He returned her smile.

Could life be happier? For two children, barely knowing the world -- ignorant of the sheer fragility of happiness; cruelty of abandonment; amusement of variation – thought that life was complete. Hence it appealed to them nothing than a mere slight in workmanship, which the clock had stopped completely.

“It’s a sign,” She said, palming the defected watch with love equaled towards one that actually works. “Our love will be eternal. Just like this very moment, where time simply stops.”

He agreed.

As most partial truths go, so was the agreement. It was not in human nature to acquiesce to the laws of preference, nor was their partiality towards fulfilling promises. Laws foreshadow outcasts, be it willingly or unwillingly – break hearts.

It was not long before the rose embedded in modest bronze was cushioned between folds of satin and kept protected in a homemade box that accumulated dust. She ensured it. For the moment marked their unending love; a treasure from fate.

Shall I elaborate on the physics of time? That time never stops, nor rest. And there she had fed herself the lies of consistency, of pretentious security one used to induce a peace of mind where there was not. Days passed without his name being uttered by her once coloured lips, now pale and cracked where joy once seeped. There was the hope of her name being mentioned more from him whereas she could not, yet intelligence had proven that even when he did it was not done in the most positive light.

She was broken.

However, she made sure to recollect all the broken shards, and pieced them together in a manner befitting a lady. After all, painstaking composure is what to be expected to follow the overvaluing of affection that the gender is often afflicted with.

She started by fixing the watch.

A silent breath of satisfaction escaped – in a jumbled up state of mind where pain and relief were fighting for settlement -- when the black metallic hands came back to life. Just like before it landed on her palms.

Just like the past.

Like nothing happened.

She smiled. This time, without any significant company.

Privately, she thanked him for happening to her. She would never forget his
kindness nor his love, for it was once earnest and true. For the most important part, she learnt aplenty that which she applied to her life with an integrity otherwise lost to ignorance.

She returned the pendant-watch to its comfortable nook, nestled in aging dust. Ceremoniously, though, she would take it out once in a while; clean it; and wear it around her neck like a trophy of sorts.

For the whole day, she would smile a knowing smile.

Sometimes a little triumphant; sometimes a little miserable.

A Lonely Piece of Mind

I was sitting alone.

It was a quiet endeavor, I'd decided, to sign in my blogger account. My Facebook account lied dormant; my Twitter, silent. Such was the life of a college student, even more ironically,  the life of a future teacher-in-training. Stunned in air-conditioned cold, my fingers tapped on the freezing keyboards, wondering how to live through my weekend.

It wouldn't be hard, I'm sure. Time flies.

Often challenges arose, when I was faced with questions as such:

"Are you SURE you want to become a teacher?"

"Do YOU want to become a teacher?"

"Why are you HERE?"

Most probably, I'd just lapse into silence. (A silence that made me look dumb, so said a friend.)

When one could not understand herself as much as to know whether she chose to come here or not, nothing could be said. Not really.

I'd made analysis, with an audience and without; in paper and mind; through phones and internet. You name it. Yet still I could not, with 200% confidence (100% is overrated in this competitive world) and a smile, tell you what I truly think about the profession.

However, I could actually tell you where I wanted to be --- Home.

Where the food is healthy;
Where the bed is cold (huh, strange expression, but this is Malaysia after all);
Where the roads are familiar even if you sleep-walked in the middle of the night.

Some parts of me -- and I'm damn sure some people too -- would love to tell me how annoying my whines and how childish I am, to grumble and cry like a little baby.

I understand. I truly do.

Even though I couldn't help myself.

All of a sudden, forgetting dinner and getting scolded is a luxury. So is cleaning dog poop, believe it or not.

Meh, I have known that growing up is hard --- It's just that, most of the times, theory and real-life experience don't really come into terms with each other.

Dawn of an Introvert in a World that Sings

There was once when silence strolled hand-in-hand with virtue, leaving dust of sophistication in its wake. Back in those days, people regarded reservedness cerebral -- a sign of proper upbringing. And chivalry; refinement.

I wonder then, sometimes, if I was born in the wrong century.

From the little jar I placed myself in, the world I saw was coloured in forte, amassed in blithe. But it had never appealed to me. So with my books and my tea, I lavished in privacy. 

... It's totally up to you, whether you want to believe that loneliness makes people do weird stuff. 

Circumstances led me out from the little balang jar, and I took my first baby steps into this brilliant stage, as though I was staring into some colourful bokeh photo inches away from my nose. From there I tasted exhilaration, fun, acceptance, and something as old-fashioned as it is new -- love. 

Forget what I read from books. Forget the frills and the cowboy boots. Nothing beats real life experience.

Despite all the fall that I could have and had taken, I can without hesitance assure you:

They are all worth it.