If my life was a fertile garden, adorned with a surfeit of roses, lilies, dahlias so plentiful that with every turn of the head there are only delicate petals of bright hues, show-stealing shapes in pastels in sight,
then days would be concrete walls isolating their growth.
Flowerbeds are to be sectioned off. They say it’s a sin for one colour blend into another — anomalies would only hold back productivity, everything must be seen, done, grown one at a time. There are certain spaces for certain things, certain times for certain tasks. A plan of attack is vital, only vital tasks are added to the plan of attack. Any unnecessary musings must be weeded out.
Because otherwise — oops! You have missed the timeframe to grow this one out; too late. Your chance is gone, and now this land will remain barren forever, curse your carelessness.
Or so they say.
How thrilling it would be to shrink to the height of a thumb, to gather flowers of different colours and sizes in a bundle without a care and fly off into some isolated recess of the unexplored earth! To let one idea collide into another, mix like paint escaping from its shackles of a palette and dripping onto the floor. How wonderful it would be to remain blissfully unaware: of the need to compartmentalise concepts for quicker understanding, better digestion, like knowledge is the sole nutrition necessary for living. What would it feel like to leave behind time that has always chased me at my heels, kick off the shoes that has taken me running for so long, and to — for once! — look up at the sky and think of nothing, nothing at all?
Has a better feeling existed in the universe than fluttering back, carried by the warm south wind, to find the garden still in full bloom, for time is not a conspirator of destruction, but an aid in healing, a catalyst for growth?
But there’s no helping the sunlight that’s funnelled down to necessary portions; the water that runs through gridded pipes; the leaves dictated to a straight growth; buds that are timed for blooming periods, where punishment for tardiness is immediate expulsion. It is the way things work.
The bricks go on piling while the colours fade within them, stalks part with their strength of the past. The flowers wilt,
wilt,
wilt,
until all that’s left are the satisfaction of a wall upheld
Written for the inaugural issue of Rambutan Literary Journal! Please read all the beautiful works on their site!
My laptop breaks down.
When I look down at my hands I’m struck by the sudden realisation that I have nothing to do – that so much of my life depends on a collection of lights, just lights, programmed to blink and un-blink like an illusion meant for hypnotism.
There exists a life before the illusion, projected on a lonely screen somewhere in the recess of my memories. There is nothing to do.
There is nothing else to do but to remember.
Take one.
My very first memory is of sitting on a scorching piece of wood, baked under the unforgiving shine of the tropical sun. It must have been mid afternoon. What little shade my hat provided did not suffice to keep my feet from stinging, and I began to cry.
Someone whisked me away, and that was the end of that memory.
Take two.
I remember running through fields of dried grass, a sad patch of vacant land in front of our rented home – a small thing with too much foliage, but it was home all the same. Just before the sun dipped beyond the horizon the air would get lighter, and we would run outside into the arms of the warm, welcoming weather.
I remember that in the sad patch of vacant land there lived a cluster of plants, wild and unruly, yet seemingly so content in their own realm all the same, embodying the entire world’s serenity within their intertwined roots and tangled stems. It was a haven for a child’s curiosity – to poke and prod at plants I knew not the names of until 14 years later. There were blades of grass that would give me itches, plants with little thorns that would find home between the threads of fabric, nestled between the white and pink seams of my pajama pants.
Unanimously, though, we had a favourite – a plant that curled into itself upon the slightest touch, reminiscent of a prey weary of potential harm the outside world posed, and thus sought refuge within its own leaves. We spent hours traversing the expansive field, eyes trained to spot the tell-tale rows of skinny, jagged leaves on stubby shoots. We called them ‘shy princesses.’
Its name is Mimosa pudica, native to South America.
Take three.
I remember one of mother’s many friends visiting one day, apparently someone we had met before, but what was I to do with that information? It made no difference. To a child, every adult was interesting, each an enigmatic figure that possessed wisdom of otherworldly qualities – especially those that offered candy. Knowing charm was a surefire method to score some confectionery I cranked up my extra best smile, not wanting to lose out to my siblings.
What I got in greeting was ‘oh dear, your skin has turned so dark. You used to be paler!’ No candy, only a look full of sympathy and condescension that felt like an anchor dragging across the bottom of an underwater reef. Unforeseeable, terrifying, and irreversible. My smile dimmed.
Detecting a threat, self-confidence packed up its things and headed for the exit, slowly escaping the room of my mind.
An interlude,
I loved swimming. I loved running. I was never great at football, but I enjoyed them all the same – perhaps out of childish naivety. Mainly due to inexplicable appeals.
I didn’t realise the comment had found its way under my dark, sun-kissed skin, like a pre-planned machination, until I began to diverge – diversify – my interests to anything that would shield myself from the tantalising rays of light.
And none of it was bad – reading, drawing, messing about in the kitchen. Opening up Paint to sabotage the colouring schemes of manually-drawn shapes, which then morphed into moving figures; videos that took five entire minutes to load but did not evoke complaints, because no one knew any better back then; unfinished word documents of nonsensical sentences with too much flair to make room for substance; statuses that made my world seem a lot more important, and my actions validated. It earned a name later on; social media.
They weren’t bad at all.
So I let these fade into the background like unwanted elevator music:
My first love, swimming,
My reckless companion, running,
My irrational attachment, football,
they didn’t matter because they made my skin darker. So I shut the doors and stayed inside, drowning out the whispers with my head submerged in a stream of pixels.
And later all they could talk was how much paler I had become. How much more beautiful I had become. I look away, because the compliments felt like spoils of war.
Not an interlude. Take four.
A river used to run behind the mosque near our house, shallow enough for it to be safe but deep enough to get us screaming in delight. I still remember.
We weren’t tenants there, merely visitors – the honour of hosting belonged to the myriad of water spiders flitting across the surface, leaving behind ripples like they had a story to tell. It belonged to the slugs by the banks, the leeches lurking under rocks and pebbles, and the dragonflies foraging for a friend between scraggly bushes that seemed to prefer isolation. We were guests who felt right at home – the hosts silent but accommodating; present but never in the way.
Fast forward a few years later and a new cluster of luxury homes on the hills just across the river banks stepped forward with bravado to introduce itself. We were excited. They seemed to be another inquisitive guest, ready to experience the hospitality of the river life and its solitude, so different from the incessant nagging of the world.
But its uninvited friends interrupted our morning playtimes. Trucks stopped by the banks that heaved under its weight, did not knock on doors but stormed in like thieves, dredging up stones under which water spiders cower and tiny fish hide. They were no longer guests but now a raider, an invader – claws pry away the soft beds of the river, waking up freshwater snails from their slumber and usurping frogs from their thrones. Introduction, obstruction and finally destruction. And we could do nothing but watch in horror from the captivity of our car.
Soon, the stones disappeared, even the water buffalos on the nearby paddy fields fled. Farmers closed up shop with their rickety huts – under which they used to lie and seek momentary shelter from the sun – in tow. The paddy field was now just an expanse of cracked, brown land; the tenants had long since parted with their homes, with not even a goodbye fitted in edgewise.
The river ran dry, and our laughter soon died out, along with the enchantment of a childhood avocation.
Final take, last chance.
They play in a loop – views unchanged, landscapes untouched, like memories unaltered by time and progress.
I open my eyes. The screen is still antagonistically blank. Taunting. An unfamiliar view outside reminds me that I am no longer at home.
It is exhausting to remember. Maybe it’s best to turn around and look ahead, to let time prod me along the ages, ambling along a series of immortalised memories of the past interweaved by forgettable analogue, digital components of the present, inching slowly towards the end.
Review: A Journey Under the Midnight Sun (Keigo Higashino)
This book is unique in many ways - but still so quintessentially Higashino-esque. A winning characteristic of Higashino's style that is apparent in most of his books, but something I haven't been able to appreciate fully until now, is the way he links mystery, suspicions, evidence, revelation and suspense in a setting of complete mundanity. Admittedly, I haven't read many detective/crime thriller novels, but I think it's safe to say that the approach Higashino took with this book is extraordinary.
With the plot unfurled through various characters' points of view, it's easy for readers to play the role of the detective instead of riding on their coat-tails, as the traditional approach of a crime novel would. At first, the background stories of minor characters (who had long, and often similar Japanese names, which made it sort of hard for me to follow at first, but it's worth the trouble) seemed irrelevant, and the novel sounded more and more like a contemporary, post-modern fiction novel than a murder mystery, but it's only when Higashino drops obvious hints do readers start picking up the subtle ones. The crime spans over more or less two decades, yet Higashino doesn't let the momentum go slack, and instead builds it up to an unbearable tension that for the last five chapters it's practically impossible to go to sleep. And even if you forget a piece of evidence has been introduced, fear not; Higashino is sure to bring it back to your attention - sometimes in a manner so offhanded that it takes you aback, or in such an obvious way that you think to yourself "How did I manage to miss that?"
Apart from the plot, the language and imagery used are absolutely stunning. It took me a while to catch on, but there are running metaphors such as the 'goby and the shrimp' and flowers representing Yukiho. References to the time periods were spot on as well - I especially enjoyed the introduction of the gaming industry, something that's fascinating to read about during a time in which computers/laptop/technology in general is so prevalent in our lives that it's hard to imagine how they were conceived in the first place. Some people may have found the excessive detail boring, but I found them eerily realistic, which makes the thrill all the more worthwhile. The themes dealt within the novel are also painfully relevant to modern life - especially infidelity, love, revenge and childhood. I was nearly moved to tears when learning about Ryo and Yukiho's prime motive, despite (or perhaps because of) every crime they have done together. It seems to teach a lesson that crime isn't bred from nothing; a seed must always be planted first for poison to grow.
My first impression of the ending wasn't very good, but I think it resonates with the nature of the mystery very well: it's ongoing, and if twenty years isn't good enough, the criminal will take it to their grave no matter what the consequences.
lover,
are you my soldier?
are you my savior?
how much must i love you
before you are my castle?
how much must i love you
before you are my kingdom?
will you fall from grace
when you lift me towards the sky?
will you think of me
when you sink into the ground?
because, lover,
my body is covered in flowers,
given life by your name,
and when the morning comes
and i pluck each petal away,
my bones scream for you.
lover,
why can i not build you
from the ground up?
why can i not grieve
your wasted breath?
why is it i who digs this grave,
when you are my blood?
Review: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe (C.S. Lewis)
In an age when a pragmatic mindset is favoured over a wild, imaginative one, I found solace in the Narnia series -- simply because it offered me an escape from the stifling constraints of academic, personal and overall worldly expectations. And the journey has only just begun.
Although it’s classified as a children’s book, it wouldn’t be strange to find it riveting even as an adolescent or an adult. Lewis' writing is simple but witty, with humour peppered in even the most distressing points of the story, keeping the overall atmosphere hopeful and enchanting. The book ropes you in without any chance of letting you go with its engaging narrative and momentum, through characters that are so relevant but so inspirational at the same time. I was surprised to find myself getting lost in the Narnian world in no time; vivid descriptions of lush forests and gentle meadows warmed me up, while imagining the expansive and desolate tundra of the White Witch filled me with a sense of dread and anticipation.
In particular, I love Edmund's character development. His earlier sarcasm, rather than put me off like most cynical characters do, entertained me due to its mild nature. Then later, <i>"Edmund, for the first time in this story felt sorry for someone besides himself."</i> This sentence hit me like a truck, because Lewis encompasses so much of his character in a single line. Much of Lewis' story telling is succinct, getting straight to the point without compromising any emotions or detail. I’d go as far as to say that it has more of an effect than windy, vague, poetic descriptions of emotions, all lacey and flowery to the point of degrading the actual raw feeling (cough, Yoshimoto, cough).
And although other characters undergo far less drastic developments, Lewis makes sure each Pevensie sibling plays a part. Prior to reading this, I felt that the character of Lucy and Susan were rather flat in the movies (until the Dawn Treader for Lucy), but the way Lewis conveys their emotions - from excitement to mourning over Aslan's death - gives them more dimension, which was greatly appreciated.
Perhaps my only reservation about it is the omission of the battle scene (although to be honest, it was brought brilliantly to life in the movie adaptation). If I wasn’t familiar with the movie adaptation, I probably would have been very disappointed with how the climax was dealt with. Maybe I still I am. I expected a rather epic comeback of Aslan, and more action in the battle scene that would make their victory <i>that</i> much more satisfying. Then I have to remember that this is a book meant for children, although the weight of its meaning and life-lessons within the narrative easily qualify it for an adult's book.
Really, my only regret is not giving the series a go when I was younger.
Day 1 —Select a book at random in the room. Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence and use this line as the first line of your new story.
Competition
I hope not.
There’s no room for other thought, really, as he stands amidst the throng of people all crowded around the white fence, craning their necks to catch sight of even a sliver of the stage. All waiting, all anticipating so earnestly the air practically thrums with exuberance for the announcer to crown the champion. The champion. That’s where it had all gone wrong.
What was meant to be an innocent show of skills at the end of their training session had quickly adopted the poisonously competitive undercurrent that is constantly present in the camp, warping the event into one that’s fueled by the carnal desire to win. No one likes losing in this camp, because their sole purpose is to be champions. To win every fight, to train until their bones break and the complexities of their minds erased from the attacks by their AI enemies. To lose is to fail, and to fail to leave your sole purpose for living incomplete. To be devoid of purpose is to cease being human altogether.
(There are times, though, wherein he thinks he’d much rather live as an animal than a human livestock.)
“We will be announcing the winner of the jousting round.”
He closes his eyes. He loves jousting. He’s pretty good at it, too. Jousting in zero gravity means you have a lot of room to control your weapon, and he loves the illusion of freedom it grants him. For a few moments when he’s putting his life on the line, he feels most at ease and most liberated.
He hears his name. He’s the champion.
And all around him he can feel the eyes of predators latching onto a prey, vengeful and hungry, but also deprived of their humanity. Because they’ve lost, and the only way they can compensate for the humiliation is by taking away some else’s humanity.
Day 1 —Select a book at random in the room. Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence and use this line as the first line of your new story.
Day 2 —Tell about a character who lost something important to him/her.
Day 3 —Write about the worst time you’ve ever put your foot in your mouth.
Day 4 —Write a story/excerpt to include the line, “Sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that.”
Day 5 —Pick a letter of the alphabet. Now imagine two aisles of your local supermarket. List everything found in those two aisles that begin with that letter of the alphabet.
Day 6 —Write about a person who would buy all of those items in Day 5.
Day 7 —What sets you apart from the crowd?
Day 8 —Tell your life story from someone else’s point of view.
Day 9 —What was your favorite childhood toy?
Day 10 —What do you want to be remembered for?
Day 11 —What was your first childhood pet? Describe it in detail.
Day 12 —What is your favorite day of the week?
Day 13 —Write about a random picture you would find in an envelope of finished prints at Costco.
Day 14 —Elvis still gets 100 Valentines each year. Tell about one of the people who sent one.
Day 15 — Create a character who is falsely accused of a crime.
Day 16 —If we assume ghosts are real, what type of ghost would you like to see?
Day 17 — Write a short scenario set in the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant.
Day 18 —Take a reader behind the wheel with the worst driver you’ve ever known.
Day 19 —Write a list of 25 (or just 5!) things you want to do in your life.
Day 20 —If you could go on only one more vacation in your lifetime, where would you go and why?
Day 21 —Find a job ad in the paper. Write about your life if you had that job.
Day 22 —You wake up with a key gripped tightly in your hand. How did you get this key? What does it lock or unlock?
Day 23 —Pretend you’re a cartoon character. What type of a character would you be? What would a day in your life be like?
Day 24 —Write about the longest amount of time you’ve ever gone without sleeping.
Day 25 —Write a story about ‘What the Neighbors Saw.’
Day 26 —Write about your worst habit.
Day 27 —Make up a near-death experience (unless you have a real one).
Day 28 —You read about yourself in your brother/sister, girlfriend/boyfriend’s diary. What did you read?
Day 29 —You are at a cemetery reading gravestones. Write about one of the people you find.
Day 30 —Write a short entry that ends with the line, “The silver dust of moonlight settled coldly on the night.”
If this was a movie, everyone would have left by now.
We’ve been through this climax at least three times, and have ultimately continued towards the same resolution. We as the characters are putting on the same false facade, pushing the same standard conversation into motion and hiding the same feelings that have been present for so long that surely they’ve gone stale by now. I recognise that dance -- that tiptoe-ing around words, traipsing along the fringes of meaning precariously. That smile and eye contact that seem to plead, implore and gloat all at the same time. Dear, you are truly a sight to behold.
But that does not take away the fact that I am tired. Tired of never finding a way to tie up the strings and store the manuscript away, because we are stuck in a winding plot that everyone else has given up on.
A practice essay I wrote for Lolita in response to the question ‘To what extent does Lolita have a moral? How does Nabokov attempt to convey this moral, or lack thereof?’
Trying to get as much essay practice in as possible before my Lit exams!
Fables and fairytales often encapsulate morals within the story, cautionary tales meant to warn children of possible obstacles they may come across. In Lolita, morals are not only incorporated within the plot, but also within the writing style and literary techniques used throughout the novel. Vladimir Nabokov has cleverly interwoven the two to produce a single main moral in what is considered one of the most controversial, yet absolutely riveting, piece of literature.
The main moral of the plot is the existence of a ‘grey area’, and that distinct ‘guilty’ and ‘innocent’ do not. Inevitably, every reader picking this book up for the first time will be carrying their own prejudices and strong opinion on the subject of pedophilia with them. But the morals Nabokov offers within the plot — and consequently, within the characters themselves — break down these common opinions by manipulating what is often seen as one of the limitations of this novel: perspective. The novel unfolds through a first-person point of view of the main character Humbert Humbert, and it is in fact written in the style of a personal diary that constantly addresses ‘ladies and gentlemen of the jury’. By writing the narrative similar to a confession, Nabokov to set up the atmosphere of a tense, suffocating courtroom, under the scrutiny of the unfamiliar judges and juries, but more importantly it victimises Humbert and sets the cogs of sympathy slowly turning. Throughout the novel Humbert often shifts from his narration to address the juries in desperation — ‘you have to understand, ladies and gentlemen of the jury!’ or ‘believe me when I say…’ clearly attempting to emotionally appeal to his audience. He also distinguishes between sex offenders and himself, saying ‘We are not sex fiends! … We are unhappy, mild, dog-eyed gentlemen, sufficiently well integrated to control our urge in the presence of adults, but ready to give years and years of life for one chance to touch a nymphet. Emphatically, no killers are we. Poets never kill.’ This effectively sets him apart as being much more moral than sex offenders, and the reference to poets to emphasise the fact that Humbert is no savage, but an educated, well-off man.
Part of what makes Lolita so controversial, however, is the fact that there is a clear lack of black-and-white distinction between ‘Monster Humbert’ and innocent, abused ‘Lolita’ (Dolores Haze). Nabokov makes Humbert’s emotional appeal a strong case by providing the audience with justification. Though the first-person narrative is extremely limiting when it comes to exploring other characters’ emotions and thoughts, the audience gets an almost complete access to the main character, including their history. Humbert recounts falling ‘madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonisingly in love’ with his childhood sweetheart Annabel when he was still a young teenager himself, only for Annabel to die of typhus. By introducing this fact to the reader in Chapter 2, Nabokov establishes Humbert as a man with initially pure intentions — that he falls in love the same way teenagers do (‘clumsily’), feels the same emotions as teenagers do and is, all in all, a perfectly normal man prior to Annabel’s death. Nabokov uses the tragedy to provide justification for Humbert’s fixation with young girls, scoring sympathy points from the audience in the process. This justification provides one of the most important morals of the plot: that everything happens for a reason. What many would deem as an inherent psychological disorder, Nabokov presents as the result of a childhood trauma, a calamity that took place outside of Humbert’s control. In this sense, it is not far-fetched to say that Humbert is a victim — of nature, of fate, and of mortality.
But Nabokov does not allow the reader any moment of complacency after making peace with the fact that Humbert may not be entirely at fault. As the plot progresses, Humbert’s desperation to keep Dolores is shown through his lavish spending on dresses, sweets and other miscellaneous gifts to keep her satisfied — an act of bribery (material objects for sexual favours) that is written to sound like Humbert is doing Dolores a huge favour. This leads to Humbert often complaining about Dolores’ obstinate behaviour. But a few times throughout the novel, Humbert acknowledges the loss of her innocent childhood. ‘You see, she had nowhere else to go’ is less of a sentence highlighting his dominance over compliant Dolores as an adult male, but more of one that confirms her utter vulnerability. As a child, she is incapable of supporting herself, and Humbert happens to be at the right place at the right time.
From point of views within a point view, Nabokov takes the reader on an emotional ride riddled with twists and turns. But more importantly, he teaches that there are always two sides of a story; there is always a reason behind every happening, even if the cause and effect are at first difficult to link together. Lolita, in many ways is a novel that teaches readers patience, empathy and open-mindedness; because it takes those thoughts to battle the prejudice presiding over the label pedophilia. In questioning the extent of the criminal’s guilt, Nabokov may have (rather progressively) posed a serious criticism for contemporary legal systems, which are obsessed with identifying the guilty and innocent. Although many would see Lolita as emotionally manipulative and mentally corrupt (since pedophilia is, of course, still a repulsive and damaging crime) it is undeniably a great literary feat — one that sheds light on a societal problem still rife in our society today.
In fact, you’d even argue he leans towards the ‘disappointingly-mediocre’ on the spectrum as opposed to ‘pleasantly-normal’. There are two – no, three – imperfections on his face, and a myriad of past scars from picking and squeezing at skin, the normal teenage maladies. His laugh is dorky, a booming bass hiccuping into a high-pitched strangle so abruptly the noise can rival a broken jukebox. His hair’s got the standard twentieth-century teenage cut; enough to keep the strands neat without any additional flair, absent of any dyes or even hair styling products.
So what is it that makes you look twice when he walks past? What is so riveting about his fingers, longer and more effeminate than yours, that you can’t help but stare? (And the answer is definitely not your fascination of the human anatomy.) Why do you laugh so hard at his jokes that are so dry you can physically feel the arid air between your teeth? The only logical verdict you could think of to justify your constant attraction to his side is a magnet. Someone must have planted it there – someone, because it seems impossible to constantly pine for someone who confuses the heart in you, and drains you of your energy.
They say opposites attract – so to fall for someone so disappointingly-medicore, you must be one hell of a human being.
(Of course, this is not the case. One cannot assign theories to love and feelings.)
This was the first non-essay work I’ve read of Camus. Honestly, I was bracing myself for disappointment — because what can top Camus’ essays, really? — but I’m glad it proved to be a pointless effort. (Spoilers ahead!)
Camus’ straightforward, almost monotone narration may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but considering the novel’s theme and atmosphere it was a very fitting style. Meursault, the main character, is so odd, similar to just about everything about the setting of the book, yet for all his eccentric nature he’s also a character that the readers find so relevant and can easily identify with. His common complaints, about being ‘too tired’, or things being ‘too much work’, and especially the very justification of ‘because I thought, why not?’ mirror every individual’s thought process at some point, and through these oddly mundane snapshots Camus allows the readers to see themselves in Meursault.
What quickly sets him apart from other characters in the novel, however, is his adaptability. Meursault is so adaptable to the point that he frequently loses his identity. To illustrate this, when a person is taken out of their comfort zone they usually either adapt or they stay uncomfortable. Of course, in many cases people end up adapting to their circumstances, but everyone knows that there is a limit to influence, because certain traits are indicative of one’s personality that defines their preferences, their habits and the manner in which they interact with others. But what makes Meusault’s situation all the more painful, and all the more heartbreaking is the fact that he can get used to the most absurd situations of human existence — days filled with mere nothingness
The deadpan delivery that is characteristic of Meursault’s speech reflects the uneventful lifestyle most people led in Algeria at that time (very reflective of the modern society, of course). It lulls the reader into a sort of stagnant stance, where one expects time to simply stop. This is especially poignant when Meursault sits on his balcony and watches people in the streets pass by to pass time — an action probably ridiculous to a standard working person of this century. Of course, life doesn’t stay that way for long.
Part Two of the novel is really where all the heart-wrenching writing is at. Every observation Meursault makes about other humans, and every peek the readers are allowed of Meursault’s inner thoughts is riddled with social commentary, garnished with a dash of existentialism. For example, what struck me as the most memorable moment of this novel is the gradual revelation of Meursault’s emotion. What started off as a man so dysfunctional in his emotional department and so out of touch with himself that he can’t understand love, feelings and romance, the stress and tension gets to Meursault. And honestly speaking, these small moments where Meursault exhibits his frustration and even almost childlike complaints (in contrast with a courtroom setting anyway) takes me aback. It shouldn’t, because such an experience would emotionally strain any sane man, but Camus’ talent for weaving stories in ordinary wool sweeps the readers into thinking that normalcy is the ground state — that there should be no other form of existence than an ordinary one, even a mediocre one.
There are so many references to the genre Camus champions – absurdism and existentialism. Of course, the core human problem is centralised around this concept, and thus every single commentary made sends a pang to the readers’ heart from the sheer relevancy and aptness to the situation at hand. A golden moment of this is when Meursault complains about the judicial system and the death penalty. He believes opportunity should be given even to the damned, saying that even a man on his deathbed should be ‘Given a chance! Just once!’. After all, he reasons, many things in life balance on the tightropes of luck, and that one shot of turning fate around may be the difference between life or death (literally. His struggle to accept death, even though one would imagine Meursault to be the most indifferent and detached character ever, is a desperate plea and gives a heartbreaking but fitting conclusion to the exploration of a normal human being’s existence in this world. That even though humans often question their reasons for living, they continue to strive for survival anyway, and would take up arms against any force that tries to take away this life, no matter how absurd the act may seem.
The simple, minimalistic writing may throw prospective readers off, but observations about life, to me, are best delivered in this way and not clouded with flowery writing. The Stranger is a gem I’m glad I discovered.
I can feel the fancy words slipping through my fingers. But they must be of no use, then, if there is no fight against their departure. And what of the rest? Why value one less than another, simply because the former is familiar and netstles easily on the tongue?
They don’t use words to express, my dear, no. They are for show, they are always for show. Put on a good show and you will be applauded. Express, and they will throw your words back at you, all twisted and deformed beyond recognition.
Retain them all you want. Soon enough idleness will decompose them again, and it will be harder to grow a new stalk but you will still be trying.
My second submission for themurmurhouse, prose this time. Word count: 1,959
Your hairties were one of the first victims.
Wait — misplaced was the word your mum insisted on using, because it was impossible for you to wipe out half of the pack of 15 in less than a week. You were five — six? Or younger? — so you didn’t understand what the big deal was. After all, there were always bigger bundles at the store, probably sold for even cheaper in comparison because adults did that often, selling lots of things for less money.
If that wasn’t bad enough, some brat in the changing room must have kicked one of your socks away or hid it in one of the lockers. This was why you despised PhysEd classes — your belongings were always vulnerable to childish pranks and even then, back in third grade, you had no time to waste on trivial matters. So you stowed the single sock away in your sports bag and, for the rest of the day, tried very hard not to get your feet sweaty in case they made your shoes stink. When you got home, you did the very first thing you could think of: bring three extra pairs of socks, so it wouldn't matter how many were stolen. You’d always have a spare.
The tap water ran clear, but the liquid pooling at the bottom of the sink was a light crimson so disturbing you were afraid to spit anymore, whimpering as you clutched the cold ceramic. You were scared — did you break something in your mouth? What did you do wrong? But your parents ran to you with a warm towel and soothing arms, hugging you and explaining that it was completely natural to lose ‘baby teeth’. You asked if you could buy some spare teeth in case you lost another, and your parents laughed in amusement. They replied that the teeth would be replaced soon with bigger, stronger ones. Meanwhile, you could exchange your bravery for a small reward, courtesy of the Tooth Fairy.
(The money the Tooth Fairy left in the morning was too little to get you anything more than a toffee, but it was the thought that counted.)
This one was a little more difficult to solve. You were curled up in bed staring up at the ceiling worrying your bottom lip into a red, puffy mess. You ran simulations in your head — scenarios of how your parents would react when you confessed. The worst part of this entire dilemma was that you weren't sure yourself how it happened — it was all a bit of a blur — you were laughing with your friends at one point during the long queue at the froyo place. Someone had called you, you could tell by the vibrating in your pocket; so you definitely had it then. It turned out to be one of your friends who’d gotten lost somehow, and after you hung up your order was ready, so you sped-walk to the counter to avoid the queue. At one point, it must have got up and walked out of your bag. It was the only logical solution, and you laughed at the thought. But you certainly weren’t laughing now as you stood in front of your parents, trying to explain, trying not to sound too defensive. For some reason, it was scarier to tell your parents that you had ‘misplaced’ your phone than losing all your numbers, addresses, pictures, notes and songs you had painstakingly sorted into playlists.
But fast forward a few years later and you wished you had kept all those numbers, addresses, pictures, playlists and pointless notes you never deleted in your phone, just so you could have something to hold on to. Eighteen years of your life had been compartmentalised into two medium-sized suitcases, a travel backpack and a neck pillow. Your family was nothing but a speck somewhere under the clouds. Your rational thoughts were far too high above you that there was no way to reach them as you stared out the plane window, blankly, watching the landscape zoom out like they’d do on Google Maps. There was an empty, hollow feeling in your chest, but as the cabin lights dimmed out you remembered that emptiness was meant to be filled with new memories, new friends and maybe a new home, a little like rinsing the inside of a water bottle. You brought your neck pillow closer and slipped into a deep slumber.
The second you were given those tiny keys without a chain or tag attached to it, you knew they wouldn’t last long. Being the idiot you were, of course you had done nothing to rectify that peril — by getting your own tag, for example. And you paid the consequence by sprinting desperately the entire way back to the Italian restaurant you and your (new) friends went to for dinner, your head a mess with possible troubles you might come across thanks to those thriller movies you marathoned last week. Why did these small, everyday blunders happen to you so often? Out of breath, you arrived swinging the door stronger than necessary, only to see your table occupied. You were very willing to give up then, to turn around and walk away and suffer the wrath of the landlady.
As if on cue, one of the table’s occupants turned around and held your keys in his hand, but they were no longer the subject of your focus now. Getting your breath stolen twice couldn’t be very healthy, but you thought it was worth it. Maybe it was fate, or maybe he saw the pathetic, lost-puppy look you had on and connected the dots. “Did you forget these?” You had never felt so grateful to hear those four words.
And two months later, you could laugh about how you had ‘forgotten’ your keys, only to find your soulmate, as you used the very same ones to open the door for him. You toed your shoes off, invited him into your personal space. You weren’t the type to open up easily, not really. Letting him inside felt a little like throwing your heart into the air, all the while expecting him to catch it before gravity smashed it into tiny smithereens. Many people wondered about what it would feel like to be in love — hours of effort and passion had been dedicated to deconstructing the feeling, placing the pieces of observation together in books, poems, artworks, movies; the choice was endless, yet the pieces still wouldn’t fit. They were still looking to find a way to examine it, like a scientific subject, and perhaps there was no correct answer. But what you knew was this:
For every sad day, he replaced each with a day of unparalleled bliss. For every single part of you that you thought you lost -- old friends, family back home -- he gave you a new memory to keep.
Remember when you stuffed everything you owned and squeezed them into two medium-sized suitcases, a travel backpack and a neck pillow? At one point it had expanded into a small dorm room, fairy lights and neatly folded clothes in your wardrobe. Sunrise and sunset streaming through two windows like vapourised fire. The presence of another being after classes and just before bedtime. A new garden in your mind to house your memories in; they were beginning to take shape, you were only starting to tend to them, making sure they retained their shapes and hues. So close, you were so close to being at true ease.
When he left, every tree you planted were ripped off their roots, and every star you stuck on the sky were crushed out of their lights. There it was again, a feeling that was neither sad nor happy nor scared. It took the shape of emptiness, but this time it was deeper. Much, much deeper, that you had no idea how long it would take you to fill it back. Many things had slipped through your fingers before, and there was one thing that helped you cope with them — replacements. But you'd come to the conclusion that he was irreplaceable. It was impossible for you to picture someone else being capable of catching the heart you had let go, even though all he had done in the end was throw it further away. Now, he existed simply as an idea of someone you had loved, a concept you were allowed to brood over.
You were robbed of something. You had gone from using the mirror to check for any misbehaving strands of hair, or to see if your lipstick had smudged, to using it as a tool for scrutiny. You spent hours upon hours, checking for any imperfections and finding many — but you also saw a disappointing mess, someone who didn’t deserve happiness. Because happiness belonged with someone who could smile back at their own reflection; someone with silkier hair than you, prettier eyes than yours, who could crack better jokes than you could. And happiness only spent time with someone who had their life sorted out. Happiness only offered its warm hands when yours were no longer clenched in anger and trembling in sadness. Happiness only resided in tandem with self-confidence.
Once upon a time you had all those, yet now you were left alone in your room, spending the next few hours trying to turn yourself into something worth loving.
No one fell for it.
But who was the thief? You didn’t know who to blame — you had run out of scapegoats by now. You flew home for the first time in years, and it was like you had forgotten how to speak. What were once images of homes now only seemed like another view, like a stock photo you had stumbled upon on the Internet being brought to life. They were breathtaking, yes; but did they move you to tears? Were you able to let out a sigh that relaxed your very bones, to the point of pure contentment, as you muttered ‘home at last’? You tried to place the fault on geography — distance, time differences, seasons. If you had to be honest to yourself though, it was you who had erected the barrier all alone, constructing a bridge to the future and leaving the path you’d taken to fall into disrepair.
(Was it bad, though, that you felt nothing as you watched the debris of the bridge crumble down?)
On an early Tuesday morning, as the coffee you clutched like a lifeline was slowly growing cold, you remembered a time when you could save the entire world, when sitting at your desk slaving over pages scrawled in printed words and numbers meant wielding the power to right the toppling world. When barriers of entry to workplaces were nothing more than textbook observations, when countries and people resembled lego pieces whose opinions were nonexistent. The world was much narrower then; but also much more manageable, more tangible. If you cupped your palms, you could hold it. In fact, you had the key to it in the As and A-plusses you received, and the dreams you set for yourself did not seem so impossible.
You took another sip of the coffee. Never mind. It had already become your lifeline at this point.
Clean slate. You had your body, and it worked perfectly. But you let the hands of fate turn you around and drain the all the colours out of you, that you are now nothing but a clean slate. Sometimes you tried to look back, tried to pinpoint a time when it had all started. But there never really was a beginning.
There was no such thing as a lost cause, they said. You weren’t sure you could say the same about yourself.
