Memoir

The interview was a nightmare.  It took a certain amount of courage to sit in front of the board and sum great amount to summon enough knowledge to speak.  She was somehow having fifty percent of confidence to get it accomplish, yet another fifty percent fluctuant in deciding to being bold and arrogant, or humble and timid.  Any signs of giggling would identify herself as being weak and incompetent.



She was indecisive, as usual, and she hated herself for being so cautious of the little details that would hurt the consequences.

She pulled off the first interview with much humility and honesty.  The question opener generously directed the conversation into a more carefree and casual mode.  She felt comfortable, and was able to share as much of her knowledge and experience.

Despite of having experience the first interview, a year after she experienced the same anxiety.  However this time, she was alone.  She was about fifty percent relaxed from the experience of the past interview, another fifty percent increased in anxiety by the preparation done by the other candidates.  They were reading and memorizing notes as thick as a dictionary whilst her hands were holding scraps and pieces of papers.

The four square room, she remembered, sound-proof, and for all the things that could happen in there would be a secret between the two.  She was a lady, who greeted her with the only smile as she walked into the room.  Three seconds, and it faded into serious business.  She gave her the easiest question, yet expecting the wrong answer.  She was displeased when the answer was spelled out.  

She was a smart lady.  Theories somehow collided with current issues.  Whoever's good in theories are generally poor at current issues.  Whoever's good at current issues are generally poor at theories.  Likewise bookworms never updated themselves on facebook.  She was a very smart lady, indeed.  The questions took a different turn.  

Questions pointed were intimidating the other, showing her how little she knew.  She was obviously shrinking like a shrimp on the chair.  In another less than ten minutes, the interview ended.  The other spelt victorious, while leaving the poor soul on her knees defeated and ashamed.  Her last words were clear as yesterday's, "You will never be a good teacher."  The words plagued her like a curse.

Or was it true: I am a bad teacher.  

Books and Characters

Countless sleepless nights buried in books descended from the forefathers - the fathers of sciences and maths unfathomed by times and ages.  The contents never ceased but continued to astound men of varied generations.  

She remembered reading to herself, reasoning and convincing facts to stick up as much as she could in that tiny brain of hers.  Someone once quoted, "My brother's a genius.  I wish I could fold him up and put him in my pockets."  She laughed remembering that brainiac.  Just as much as she wanted to, he said "Study Hard".  She remembered each words said to the end of their meanings however simple and stupid they sound.

Study's not about learning mad-scientists ideas, cramming theories and formulae of disorganized patterns.  Instead, patterns were carefully observed and studied, which somehow were organized in manners which left men in wonders for centuries.  

Hypotheses were written with immense curiousity, experimented with enthusiastic energy, observed with delicate eyes, refined by knowledge and experience and shared generously among generations.  

Dear students, inertness, thus a character, forbid you of exciting chain reactions.  Explode and be a star.

The Plague

She sat on the barren land wondering how things had come to pass.  Her feet exhausted from all the wanderings, her brain clogged with dilemmas, issues she wanted to erase.  The flaws were resurfacing.  When morning came, distastefulness no longer lurked in shadows.  However ugly things were, they would be revealed. 

Her hair turned grey.

She recalled of things that she failed to accomplish.  Tomorrow crept on like forever.  Words of empty promises were far less convincing.  Vulgarity remained vain and meaningless.

She heard voices in her head.  Voices with words too many to understand.  Instructions were easier to follow than to scrutinized the rationale of ideas delivered.  The voices of angels and demons were no longer significant.  Who's who?

She had made bad choices.  Years of education had fed her enough intelligence to distinct the right from wrong.  In spite of that, the slightest of mistakes were seemingly acceptable.  The comfort of making mistakes were slowly fitting her appetite.

God remained quiet.  Her cries echoed in the loneliest of night.  The night responded with nothing but silence.  The stars hang up above the sky shining ever so brightly in their innocence.  Or perhaps maybe, after a hangover, they spoke nothing of hope, faith and love. 

Thus, this series of unfortunate events would follow like a passing river, never ending, never ceasing.  Its tagline was plagued with curses.  

Chasing Clouds

It had been a week now, and the anger had not subsided.  The people spoke their minds boldly and generous.  The voices were radioactively red.  People were hurling insults at each other.  There were so much hatred in conversations, which almost always ended with heated debates.  

She felt secluded.  Maybe she had been away from the society for far too long, the dilemma was too far-stretched for her understanding.  She wondered if she had made the right choice for the choices had been too confusing to be precisely correct.  What's fair and what's right?  Even the powerhouse which she had always turned to was preaching words against her beliefs.  What are they preaching? What have they heard?  The thoughts confused her.

Nation fought against nation.  Even without weapons of mass destruction, demolition was done through horrible quotes of the mouths.  The beautiful languages of the forefathers were monopolized and abused.   The voices represented who we are, yet it was foul and deprived of intelligence.  The society was broke. 

Where's trust and unity?  Where's faith and hope?  

A Few Good Men

The men pulled their way to the seats at the table while grinning away wittingly.  She was surprised of their behaviours and stared into the moment with eyes wide.  Neither of the men were surprised at all.  They carefully seated themselves, and along came another, and another, and finally... she studied the last behaviour to digest correctly.  She was all confused, even when the old ones started to converse.  

The conversation was ungenuine and awkward.  She didn't like the lie that was about to unfold before her.  It didn't made her feel comfortable at all.  The woman who betrayed her avoided eye contact.  She knew exactly what was happening.  She had no second thought, but was attempting to dart anytime.  

As rude as she could be, she responded poorly.  The lie betrayed her and she hated it.  Does it matter how I feel?  She couldn't make the sense out from the person in whom she trusted the most.  I trusted you and that I was looking forward for a day well-spent but you took me in like your toy.  She was both angry and disappointed.  She didn't know how she should respond.

Dear parents, there were very few wonderful men.  Your son was one of them.  Do not feel obliged for i am not the one you'd feel most welcomed at your home.  Your son is capable of making the right choice.  Let him choose from among the ones he loves. 

Dear Life

I remember the day I cursed you with my own lips,
It leaves me always wondering if it's just too much,
When words spill out, I just can't control,
It goes on and on, and sting like bees.

Their eyes are wide, they let me know,
I am bemused when i fool you in,
Even when words arranged are contextually wrong,
I know you'd be merciful to turn me in.

The days went on guiltless and innocent,
I am so bored, tired, and restless,
Until you hit me and my world went dark,
I became dumb, wordless, and grieved for grace.

Dear Life,
I couldn't bear to see you standing next to my dead body,
You grip me closely that i have a chance to breathe,
I'd run a thousand miles, trembling in fear, and scared,
Death takes me away with no goodbyes.

Hands Write Stories

Sixteen entries in a month, beyond her expectation - the task, not easy.  She was cracking brains, and squeezing words, but as the lines pursued, they flow like a river.  She was happy she made time to pen down experiences of each heartaches.  The grumblings were heartbreaking but healing came as she pondered upon each situation carefully.  

From the time she was so sad and angry she wanted to scream but didn't, she could still feel her throat trembled in pain.  And the time when she wanted to throw everything up but resisted, her hands shivered feebly.  She were always the weaker ones, but things could go so wrong, if, she fought back.  It wasn't right, and it shouldn't be that way.  

She didn't always make the right decision, maybe never, that was how she had been told.  She sometimes reflected upon the things she did and wondered how things had gotten so wrong.  Why did it happen when it shouldn't happen in the first place?  These were all stories.  Stories she had to unravel as she encrypted the tattoos imprinted on her.   

The Apple of My Eyes

There were days when she complained and never stopped.  She laughed remembering those days.  The kid, a decade younger, were a package full of characters.  She couldn't be more than amused to learn how they brushed her with all kinds of emotions.  

Emotions.  She was nevertheless angry at most times.  She erupted when things got out of control, but there were times she exploded without warning.  She was pretty unpredictable.  Maybe, she needed a blood check.   

Sometimes, it was the response they gave.  When they thought she was cool to play, they became irritating and she was frustrated about it.  But when they were a little less than interested about how she felt, she always had the urge to portray silly expressions and the sort.  She played fool and live in its paradise.   

But as the sun rose in the morning, she wasn't at all angry nor frustrated.  She wasn't plotting on rage nor was she remembering the behaviours that disappoint her.  She was thinking more about the happier things instead.  She counted the number of kids who always made the efforts to learn.  They were probably among the naughtiest, but the most enthusiastic.  She laughed remembering how they mimicked her with silly expressions when she was angry.  They always put a cheer.

And, she was thankful. 

Oh My!

The phone shutted down for two days.  She didn't know where it was; she didn't care.  She wasn't bothered to locate it.  The piles of works awaiting scared her.  She didn't want to relate to them.  She wanted to escape.    

The days crept on as emergence of angry faces popped out of her head - from a colleague, to a friend and even someone dear.  She had to face reality.  Reluctantly, she dug her pencil case among the pens and pencils searching for the phone.  It was not there.  She searched her office bag, it wasn't there either.  Then, she remembered it was there at the bookstore.  Again, she searched her bag.  And there it was, black as silence.  

She recharged, hoping it would be forever dead still.  Please, no new messages, no missed calls.  She prayed, typical words she would say.  Her hands shivered as she turned it on.  Sometimes, she reasoned that she had a choice to leave it dead.  Despite all the nuisances she tried to persuade herself into, the phone was finally ON!

Six crazy missed calls and four messages.  Should i respond?  She had just jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.  Oh boy, what had she done? 

Drama, Love, Relationships

She wondered when, how, and why they have distanced themselves from her.  Expectation and hopes no longer lingered around; the simplest of hi became foreign to her ears; the polite smiles washed and fade away.  She was, but only transparent - when she overheard them talking to a colleague, or saw them fluttered past like a butterfly, or when they trotted upfront, or they, who were so close to even be known as aliens.  They represented the whole twenty-seven.

Why have it gone so wrong?  The question troubled her.  The impending eight more months horrified her.  She had no desire to spending more time together.  Space and time had no quality.  She wanted to call a quit, if ever.  She was willing to let loose.  She had never felt this way, and she hated it.  

It's not about who's right, or who's wrong

It's not about who's weaker, or who's strong

It's not about who's innocent, or who's fault

It ain't really 'bout that kind of thing at all

It's not about who does it, or done it, or did it to who

Don't matter if the both of you lose

... the lyrics played by her ears.  Ain't about pride and self, ain't about the hurt and the lies, she reminded herself.  It's all about drama, and love and relationships.  It's all about drama, and trust, and making it.  If your somebody messed up, you took it in.  You held on, and be strong. 

Impulse, Not An Experiment

Her eyes glared in fiery red.  She insisted on empty drawers.  They, however, remained both carefree and ignorant despite being warned several time.  Her patience dried out and she finally belched out, "Barnabas, clear that drawer!"

Of all the others, his name was called.  Displeased as he was, he mouthed grumbles and comments, while reluctantly pulled out a book and a set of papers, and tossed them into the rubbish angrily.  She cooled off to unfortunately catch sight of the book and papers with her name written on them.  The fire churning inside her burst and she exploded without warning.  She picked them up, walked over, read the name and slapped him with a book.

"Pap, pap, ..." before she gave her third shot, the hands shove her away.  The play drew in crowds with cheers.  Her face burnt both in shame and anger.  She had nothing to lose.  She lifted up her hand, ready for her finale, swung her arm and closed her eyes. 

  

She drew in fresh air.  It was stiff as a picture but she was greatly at ease.  Her immediate response were grievingly beyond unethical.  She heaved a sigh of relief; not fighting back were not as stupid as the stupid things she would do.  On impulse.  

Reflection: The Boy Plays Fire

"Stanly, I feel that you have been improving.  I'm very happy for you.  Don't give up trying and you will succeed."  A small yellow note laid on the table of one insignificant boy.  The message poked her instinct to a challenge. 

She never took notice.  She wondered how she had come to be more prejudice than she ever realized - weighing balance unevenly to the one she favoured most to the least.  There were plenty to name, those of whom she never spoke of.  He was such a boy.

Nothing about him left a positive impression towards her.  He was forever disturbing friends - back, front, left and right.  He never even own a book!  The many times she put him away with his excuses, he would pick up words which made her burn in flame.  Yes, he paid attention, but never came to do the maths.  So, that was him, the boy who held many promising future...

So, "is he really that bad?"  She wallowed in the question.

The boy who secretly picked up lesson from a friend, glistened in wide eyes while she caught him red-handed to have him shy away with mysteries.  The one and only one who agreed to her decision without questions.  His quick access to decision-making left her with doubts, but he was sincere just as the words from his mouth.

The question was worth reflecting on, "why had they changed, from obedience to rebellion?"  The way that she mapped each one of them, both leak and lead clues unknown.   

The Doctor

Her heart beat against her chest as she was ushered to a bed behind the curtains. She could hear them on her ears.  She sat on the bed, shivering and mapping wild possibilities. It scared the wits out from her.

Though the curtains hid her, the echoes of footsteps and voices of human encounter were audible from the other side.  She was worried even before the turn came to her. Her eyes were actively screening - no signs of tubes. Please, no.  She was near betraying herself.  It worried her sick.  She could take flight.  

The doctor peeked in before she was organized.  "What's the problem?"  She explained and the doctor's response surprised her.  "Why worry?"  The doctor was indifferent.  She was obviously healthy.  

She was relieved, but still unsure if the response was fake.  No medication prescribed, no advice given.  Funny.    

Rumbling Train of Thoughts

The engine spurred as the car sped into full speed.  Her conscience flickered, her driving marked rather dangerously.  The thoughts of accidents occasionally visited her; images of crashes and blood slowed her down.  She was more alert now than she could be.

A web of emotion wavered expressions of all kinds - happiness, sadness and anger.  She rambled pretty much about everything.  Then and again, she couldn't make sense the pride of the brood, heartless, claiming honesty without guilt.  Were their so-assuming claims acceptable in the context of man? 

What if, I refuse to educate the same way they refuse the right for education, exclaiming without real reason to support my claims.

What if, I exterminate their existences the same way they vanish into thin air to let me feel this excruciating pain.

What ifs, and the many cruel and heartless proclamation she was dying to meet.  Oh, my!  How could such innocence paved way for such sinful intentions that lead her to such vulnerability as this?  The assumptions continued to bewilder her.       

The Run

The man smiled from a distant, calling at someone near her.  She was not bothered.  She briskly walked past him and was surprised to be called a teacher.  He was not the father of a friend, but in his fifties.  She could not recall any connection with him.  She pulled herself away.

Her heart raced, her mind wandered.  She could not find courage to lift her head up as she walked pass the second time.  He read her like book, and summoned a hey in a less enthusiastic tone.  She forced a grin and walked away as fast as she could.  And there he was, another guy, her age.  In slippers!  He should be running.  Her head mapped out plentiful assumptions.        

Her last encounter freaked her out.  It took her years to break free from the nest.  Should age help her face them, she would not make a run.  

Brewing Hateful Loves

Their discontent was written all over their faces.  The wry smiles they featured at short glimpses were petrifying.  Their body languages were not alien for her.  She read them well.  

She was more and more concerned as the clock ticked away.  They gnarled in locked lips as she jabbered away.  Jabbering?!!  Not the word she was looking for.  She insisted that they understand.  She could repeat.  

She never hesitated.

Her persistence was an insult for them.  "Oh, the same words, over and over again!"  Almost as if they could read her, but to help them if she could.  She was not well-received. 

The first year, they pampered and lauded her.  The second year, they kicked her out out of love.  She stood by the windows, only peeking in.  Their laughter stole her heart.  She questioned herself.  Their sincerity was obsolete. 

Quench A Thirst

She sweat profusely.  The body odour that infused into her nose wasn't pleasant, yet she had to bear with it until the end.  She carried a grumbling stomach, while her hands pulled out numbers across the big black wall.  She summoned all her energy to belch out as loud as she could.  She was tired and shivering.  She didn't care.

She had been standing for the past five hours.  Her feet were sore.  Constantly she secretly slipped them out  to catch some breath.  If she could sit and rest on golden sands, her heads were moving in circles.  Should she close her eyes, they would put her to sleep instantly.  She avoided the picture.

The day was tough.  Wild horses could not drag her down.  All that she needed, and the more...     

More Than Meets The Eyes

The messages were early.  So consistent that it overwhelmed her.  Often was she surprised to hear beeping that was immediate to their calls.  At first, she was impressed; she picked up her pace and improved.  Her joy elevated as each message sent received their replies.

It did not last long, she realized.  Replies became cold and reluctant.  Questions led by curiosity died, and soon, goodbyes became a good excuse to end each letter.

Hopes were suffocating, but she was persistent.  She insisted to wait and not argue, but the wait had become obsessive.  It occupied her brain; and nothing else.  

" Control and take heart!"   

Spill A Glass Of Milk

Her head finally cooled off as she stepped in.  She was still disappointed thinking about how they behaved.  How could they ever be so cruel?  She refused further thoughts.  It made her cry.  She sat down at her table and a cake sat in front of her.  A cake.  

Dedicated to you, it wrote.  "What is this?  Tribute for a dead hero?"  She was cynical.  They wasted  the morning with cupped ears, probably be baking cakes on their heads.  She was all the more angry.  She set it aside.  Their generosity was doubtful; it was only an idea to alleviate the explosion.  She was displeased.  Her heart was hard as steel.  She was not thankful.  She bite her tongue off.

"Hey, why do you leave it there?"  Her distasteful response was radiating.  She set a numb face and remained calm.

Oh, My Ears

The bell rang.  She was glad.  She finished the last math as mucous continued to secrete in her throat.  It was torture.  She could not stop recall his comment, they coughed at people's ears.  She remembered well, and reminded herself not to repeat the mistake.  She did not intend to, but she coughed, and coughed another to relieve her throat.

She buried her face on her palms.  "In sickness and in health," she grumbled.  Her cheeks warmed to red.

The Good Life

Oily char kuey teow was not her choice of order, but she dunk for the sprouts and spices that kicked in.  The humble dish served in basket brought her rumbling trains of thoughts.  She was buried deep and felt disgusted to dig further.  She rested her chopsticks besides.  

"Why stop?"  

One more dish to please her huge appetite, but she could not go on chewing.  She washed them away.  Coffee in a cup of warm milk comforted her.  She quenched herself, let away the wrinkles scarred her.         

Hear Spoken Words

She looked at her disapprovingly, yet in no words should she describe.  The aftermath would be tragic.  She swallowed discomfort and uneasiness as if she was used to them.  Had they noticed, they blinded their own eyes.  She was surprised.

For a yes or no, they fussed each other, trading doubts and confidences.  She watched unamused for play to end.  They shamelessly waited for her to respond.  She looked back blatantly.  She was more surprised.  

She made no words from beginning to end.  The echoes of her short, comprehensible gestures filled their questions.  They were puzzled.

"Are you sure you're a teacher?"  And she, she smiled.    

Free Fall

She anxiously waited at the balcony.  Her heart drummed with beats.  The efforts reverberated through their energy intimidated her.  They judged differently.  Should they behaved, they could achieve more.  And they did, in a surprising way and threw her out of the window.

She looked down from the balcony - from the first floor to eternity.  "Where's passion?"  She could need a breath of fresh air.

The Piano

The little piano in her head played.  Melodious as it was, pleasing to the ears.  She closed her eyes... 

"I'm not going to sleep, am I?"

Writer's Block

Another entry submitted, she was delighted - happier than ever.  She wouldn't mind revisiting while waiting for the statistics to peak.  She was anxious, but patiently anticipated.  Even when it was already midnight, she hesitantly checked one last time before residing to lay on the bed.

The bed was soft and comfortable.  Yet, the very moment she closed her eyes, a splurge of uneasiness sparked from within.  Something inside were not clearly transcript to words.  She arranged her thoughts but a solution could not be resolved.  She was displeased and not encouraged.

Thoughts, and emotion, passion, and action.  Her head was dizzy.

Ding Dong Bells

Your image became a memory,
Your words painfully erased,
To leave all behind.

Life didn't start over,
Life started on a new page,
Ghastly and whitely-washed,
If only colours would paint.

The first stroke was difficult,
Colours marked undecidedly,
But t'was a new page,
Stories unfold beyond expectation.

And there, you returned,

You took me by surprise,

All that were lost haunt back,

Healing pains taunted wounds.

The piano strummed your song,
Tickling down an adrenaline rush,
Before the first hymn played,
Holding tears finding strengths.

Our songs, Our vows,
Our hands, Our hearts,
Our tears, Our joys,
Engraved on the stones.

Go Away

Her eyes judge, her mouth broadcast,
Her hands elaborate, her tongue discriminates,
Her story boasts, of truths and pains,
To share and teach, but tear and wretch.

She is angry, she is mad,
Neither is happy, nor glad,
Her daughter listens, ears to complaints,
Nurtures devils, to comfort and revenge.

Oh, if this will end, the sound will die,
Her soul finds comfort and joy,
But, the chirping of birds and crickets remain,
To end she predicts, but to no ends.

What Ifs

When lightning flashed across the dark, blue skies, she was alarmed.  Thunders rolled in from afar, creeping closer and tingling down her spine.  She closed her eyes and hugged her legs, squirming into a ball, then tuning out the sounds.  It continued to drum her ears relentlessly.  Her trembling body pulled its hands to cup them.  Truth hurt.

S-T-O-P!!!  The word trailed off at high decibels.  Please stop, she pleaded helplessly.  Beads of confusion streamed down.  Dark clouds loomed over and drenched her.  The adult's way, unconcerned, selfish and skim, was distorted from all texts of parenthood.  The rights to corrections, to make right the wrongs, to education, were upsetting the rights of an abused child. 

What ifs, she followed their steps.  As if expressions of feelings succeeded morality, in which would result.  The consequences were appalling.  

The ends of a rainbow were not a pot of golds.  But, in every child, God painted a rainbow after the rain. 

Angels and Demons

Angels have smiles that warm your hearts, 
Angels have wings that make them fly,
Angels have rings on their heads ever so brightly,
Angels have peace and share it with you.

Demons have razor teeth that tear and bite,
Demons have horns like animals in the fields,
Demons have tails that whip and slash,
Demons have no blessings but curse be true. 

Likewise every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit.  A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit.  Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.  (Matthew 7:17-19)