The Light Switch
The edges slowly peel away,
revealing a softness, warm and fragile.
Tender pink flesh, plump and hopeful,
almost form the creases of a smile.

Peering in through the looking glass,
it's clear that something here is broken.
An echo drifting in the wind
of words deeply felt but left unspoken.

Rolling down her cheek,
a sadness leaves a trail across her face.
It drips quietly from her chin
to find its final resting place.

Each breath she draws is heavy,
a weight that can't be quickly lifted.
Another her might have let it go,
but this one's rather gifted.

She's studied it so intensely
that the cracks have begun to show.
But the more she tries to fill the holes,
the more they stretch and grow.

If the road she travels only moves in circles,
how far will she eventually get?
Round
 and round
  and round she goes,
on a route that was long ago set.

She crosses the same streets time and again,
passing old familiar shadows lurking.
Not brave enough to switch on the light just yet;
why fix what's still working?

June has been quite the month. Like most Junes before it, it started with the end of May. But then a difficult May. So, on what looked like a random Saturday (coincidentally the 1st of June), I did a workout. And another one the next day. And again.

It was all unplanned and just kind of happened, but at the end of the month, I'd done that for 28 out of 30 days.

Nobody cares, but this is what I did:
1 June: Run (5km), 25 mins + Bouldering, 2 hours
2 June: High intensity interval training, 35 mins
3 June: Weight training (back & biceps), 45 mins
4 June: Weight training (legs), 45 mins
5 June: Run (9.3km), 56 mins -> This one was a surprise, because I didn't want to run and it was 10:30PM, but it felt weirdly good and became my longest run in 1.5 years
6 June: Weight training (chest & triceps), 45 mins
7 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
8 June: Bouldering, 1 hour 55 mins
9 June: Run (6.5km), 38 mins
10 June: High intensity interval training (light weights), 35 mins
11 June: Weight training (legs), 50 mins
12 June: Run (11.7km), 1 hour 11 mins
13 June: Weight training (shoulders & core), 45 mins
14 June: Weight training (glutes & core), 50 mins
15 June: Run (8km), 52 mins
16 June: Bouldering, 2 hours 10 mins
17 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
18 June: High intensity interval training, 45 mins
19 June: Run (8.5km), 54 mins
20 June: Rest -> Attended an all-day conference 1.5 hours away
21 June: Weight training (full body), 50 mins
22 June: Bouldering, 1 hour 40 mins
23 June: Run (8.2km), 52 mins
24 June: Weight training (arms & abs), 45 mins
25 June: Weight training (glutes, hamstrings & back), 55 mins
26 June: Run (12.5km), 1 hour 18 mins
27 June: Rest -> Felt like shit
28 June: Weight training (full body), 1 hour
29 June: Bouldering, 2 hours 40 mins -> Hadn't done such a long session before, but I was taking it easy because Michelle was with us and suddenly it had been almost three hours
30 June: Run (6.6km), 41 mins

And now that June is over, what has changed?

Nothing, really. I'm a bit stronger now and a slightly better climber. I messed up my left wrist two weeks ago and am on the verge of messing up my right one. My knees are doing okay and runs feel mostly good. I weighed 62kg with 24% body fat at the start, and now weigh 60kg with 20% body fat, but it fluctuated between these values for the whole month so I expect these numbers mean nothing to me and will continue to rise and fall with every measurement. I'm craving sweet things, but I always do that. And those two days I took off were tough, because they were tough days (not because I took them off).

What is the message? Maybe that it's okay to do some things unintentionally. Or at least be intentional about being unintentional. Something wise and profound like that.

Okay, that's all. Bye.

Listening to: Love Myself by RONDÉ

Last night, I had quite a not nice dream in which I was walking across a bridge when the three people in front of me suddenly jumped over the side and splattered on the ground below.

I was horrified and really didn't want to look, but they were people in pain and they deserved to be seen. This is the harshness of reality and it's my duty to bear witness, even though it's difficult.

So, I looked over the edge and saw some brains being quickly swept up by street cleaners.

I felt relieved that they died immediately and didn't "suffer", but mostly I was in awe of how quickly it all went and disappeared. How quickly someone can be here and then not and then forgotten.

Then, I sat and cried.

It was pretty intense.

Oh, man. I'd really like a chicken rice right now.

Mmmmm... Chicken rice.

Listening to: Metamorphosis by Infinity Song

And sometimes, I don't like myself. Can I be someone else?
Someone who makes their dreams come true and drinks from wishing wells.
Someone that they call lucky and I never seem to fail,
But sometimes I don't like myself. Can I be someone else?

Listening to: It's Far Better To Learn by Saosin

Why are you like this?
I wonder,
but would never actually ask.
Because it's probably
just me,
messing with my own head,
putting words in your mouth.
You gave me the right amount of
attention;
it was just what I was looking for.
The problem is
I was always going to make it
bigger than it needed to be.
Because I think the universe
is constantly talking to me
and leaving me messages,
when it is more likely mere
randomness
and coincidence.
I realise I love to mourn
things that never were
and never could be.
Because what would life be
without heartbreak and despair,
without a little moment
of feeling, imagining, wishing
you were important
to someone you couldn't matter to.
Because I am a teeny, tiny blip
and despite my ego,
the world does not revolve around me.

Too bad, huh?

What is my body worth?

Listening to: Slow Burn by Infinity Song

I had a pretty tough double shift at the shelter last weekend, when we had to ask two visitors to leave. That is always really difficult, because it means they will most likely be spending the rest of the night on the streets. And everything about it just makes me sad for everyone involved.

The hard truth is (involuntarily) living without a home is dangerous and the vast majority of people I know who have died were from this community. It's heartbreaking because they are caring, and sweet, and helpful, and smart, and talented, and beautiful, and hardworking, and selfless, and gentle, and kind, and funny, and complicated... And really, really screwed badly over by life. And nothing is fair.

Anyway, the following poetic feeling bomb was inspired by true events.

Who's Counting?
He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn't know where he'll sleep tonight
or when he'll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real?

What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?

He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd's pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.

On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren't enough to fill the void
between the found and the lost.

And I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?

Uuuuuhhhhh...

I wrote something. :)

Inner Child
Hello, little girl.
It’s been quite a while
since I last saw you
and that crooked smile.

Where did you wander off to?

Were you in hiding,
or did you get lost?
Did something scare you?
Were you double crossed?

Is it my fault you vanished?

Did I push too hard
and too far away?
If I’d listened more,
would you have stayed?

...Or did I simply forget?

Were you always there,
waiting quietly,
wanting to come home —
or to be set free?

Is it too late to forgive?

Can we start again,
another good try?
Can we still be friends,
us both: you and I?

I should’ve realised sooner.

I miss you, sweet girl;
but hey, I’m here now.
I’m sorry I failed.
Will you show me how?

Been on this great earth for over 30 years and people are still finding brand new exciting ways to misspell my name in the worst ways possible.

It's right thereee. You can just copy and paste it. D:

"It was easy," I said, forgetting about all the difficult parts in between; the walking on eggshells and wanting to help but not knowing how to.

Forgetting about all the "You're so strong"s and "I'm here for you"s; how horrible and exhausting it actually was when we were in the thick of it and almost breaking each other and ourselves.

Yeah, I forgot. Or was I lying to myself like I do when I close my eyes and pretend everything is okay when it's not?

I don't know if I can do that all again.

Listening to: Heartbeats by José Gonzáles

Hi.

It's me. :)

The Visitors
It is night time,
but the florescent light from the outside world
creeps in through the cracks,
illuminating the mattresses purring on the floor.
The sound of snoring fills the air,
like a symphony,
punctuated with notes of flatulence.

Haha. Farts.
I chuckle to myself.

The clock says it's five in the morning,
which means there's still an hour to go
before I start making the coffee,
refilling the tea,
handing out the breakfast packs we made the night before:
Twenty two little bags of two sandwiches each;
One with a slice of chicken, the other cheese.
Today, Ali asked for the vegetarian option,
John wants just the meat. No butter.

Seven o'clock:
I flip the switch, and the overhead lights flicker on.
The room shifts and moans awake.
One by one, they make their way to the freshly brewed coffee.
"Good morning."
"Not yet."
Some of us are not morning people.

Half past seven:
We do a round to gently wake up whoever was lucky enough
to have been left undisturbed by the lights.
There are thirty more minutes before they have to leave,
one hour before I can sleepily bike
through the empty streets of Amsterdam on a Saturday morning,
to the place I call "home",
where I will crawl into bed.

"15 more minutes."
There are still a few unclaimed sandwiches,
so now they are free for all who could use some extra.
I hand over the discarded loaf ends to the one who calls me "sister".
He seems grateful he can spend some time with the birds today.

"5 more minutes."
I collect the rogue glasses that didn't make it back to the bar,
throw the remaining drink and cigarette butts in the bin,
give them a rinse in the sink,
start the dishwasher.
Somebody opens the door,
and the cold air from another winter morning rushes in.

With everything they own on their backs,
the visitors step into the sunless, sometimes unforgiving day,
thanking us for our help,
as we close the door behind them,
wondering if they will be okay.

Feeling: Confused

I'm having a weird, unpleasant week.

Let's start with a concept: I believe that nobody should be forced to sleep on the street. I think shelter is a human right. And I am a woman of action (sometimes), so I volunteer at a local homeless shelter.

Is that racist?

Does my desire to help people come from a place of white saviourism? Is it because I feel guilty for having things that I assume others may not have? Do I think I am better than these people? And if yes, what else am I supposed to do? Is not engaging in charity work better?

I am really struggling to find my place in the world right now.

I wanted to work in the non-profit sector because capitalism can suck it and the world is messed up and I want to help and I want to learn how to help. But this field, I'm discovering, is flawed, like nearly all other human things. And it has bad roots, and many of these roots are still growing strong and producing new leaves today. And it goes so far back and has snuck its way into every single cell of how the world blooms and caves in on itself.

How can we make this better? How can we still provide a real service to people who actually need the service, without it being a bad thing?

Is the difference in "helping" without having been asked vs. yes? Is it based on an assumption that these people need to be helped? And that I am qualified to do it? Why do I think I am qualified? What qualifies me? And if I am not qualified, how can I help?

Does the world even need my help? How do I be a good ally? Is that even possible?

It's like the closer I look at it, the more of the skin I peel away, I just keep finding more and more rot and I can't see if there's any living tissue worth saving.

Ohhhh, I am enraged. At white people. At my ancestors. At myself. At the men who decided hundreds of years ago to tear apart communities so that they could develop their own universes at the expense of the Other and then say "Haah, not our problem," when those communities are left coughing in the ashes and dust of the calculated, manufactured, disgusting, blazing aftermath.

I can feel myself slipping away, and I don't think I have the energy to do anything about it.

In other news, the world is broken.

Sometimes a perfectly good solution is to ignore the problem and pretend it never happened and definitely isn't still happening. Right? (:

Listening to: Noone Would Riot For Less by Bright Eyes

Becoming a Woman

a girl,
bright-eyed and keen,
finding her footing,
barely fourteen.

trying her best
to grow up and be seen.

befriends a man,
who should have known better
than to give and to take
much more than love letters.

than to ignore the fact that she was
not quite ready.
to disregard her not knowing,
her trembling, her unsteady.

than to not care
that she was too young

for 20-something-year-old hands,
greedy and selfish,
forceful and crude.

for what happened when
her "no"s were
rejected,
ignored,
and quickly subdued.

for carrying the blame
all on her own,
and not telling a soul,
and staying
too long.

for life-long trauma,
and trust issues and shame,
and believing too easily that
this was her name.
that this made her ugly,
and worthless,
and less-than.

for breaking down at nearly-30,
half a world away.

because of the same
stupid
fucking
man.

So, it's 2020.

This time ten years ago, I was preparing to leave for my tuition-free semester abroad at the University of Pennsylvania in Philidelphia. I was so excited and full of hope. Now, I'm in Amsterdam, doing data analysis for Doctors without Borders with my freshly signed permanent contract, amazed at how I got here. Wild.

In that time, I:

• graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in Journalism, Film, and Media, which was later upgraded to a Master of Science (Research) in Communication Science
• moved back to and promptly left Brunei
• travelled to a bunch of new places in 15 countries (the US, Germany, France, Spain, Belgium, Norway, Italy, Portugal, Czech Republic, the Netherlands, Canada, Russia, Mongolia, China, Iceland, Australia)
• kicked off my career with my first three 'proper' jobs as a Writer, then Brand & Crossmedia Data Scienctist, and now Marketing Data Analyst
• negotiated a salary increase after discovering I was being underpaid :o
• started being more active, beginning with running, and then I joined a gym and now I'm more into spinning and weight training with random pilates and yoga sessions every now and then
• somehow completed a full marathon (ya, 42.2km, took me nearly 5 hours, never again)
• learned Dutch (hoi, ik ben Sue-Anne) at the expense of my Malay (apa khabar?)
• gained two willful nephews and one feisty niece, and three times as much love as I had before
• had a few life-changing epiphanies, including realising that marriage and children are not for me, and affectionately watched four of my best friends tie the knot (two of them are mothers now!) <3
• had my heart broken and mended and broken and mended
• tried some of the tolerated soft substances available in the Netherlands and vomited them out more than once
• been in a couple of failed relationships, but more notably, fell in love and moved in with my liefje :)
• was sexually assaulted by a colleague and, against all my anxieties, actually found the guts to speak out against it (he and the company "mutually decided" it was best if he no longer worked there)
• survived my dad getting and surviving colon cancer that also spread to his brain
• was humbled by my sister and all the strength and courage she found inside herself to take some difficult but necessary steps
• discovered that my goals in life involve helping others, and got my dream job at an amazing non-profit humanitarian organisation while starting to volunteer at a homeless shelter
• decided I wanted to write a book and then did not do it while simultaneously feeling bad about not doing it
• drank too much alcohol probably
• wanted to be a better person but am not sure if I was successful
• learned how to open up and made some friends
• finally understood what a hero my mum is

Like I said, wild.

Good luck with the new year, everyone!

Feeling: Dumb

Well, this is a situation I never, ever thought I would be in.

Ha.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing.

I moved sooo far away from everyone I loved (and the yummiest food), to come to a strange country where I knew literally one person (love ya, girl!).

And some people have said that was brave: The act of leaving everything I've known, on my own, in search of better pastures. But I don't know if that's more true than it's also me running away from problems instead of dealing with them. Sure, my problems included being deeply unhappy and feeling powerless and becoming more unhappy because of it, but it could also be argued that a more resilient person would have seen the difficulties and tried to find solutions for them, grassroots style.

But that's not me I guess. And on days like these, I know that whatever adjective we want to put on it - 'brave' or 'cowardly' - I came out better for it. :)

I hope everyone else does too.

A Smile to Remember by Charles Bukowski
We had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "Be happy Henry!"
And she was right: It's better to be happy if you
can.
But my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

My mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
Why don't you ever smile?"

And then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw.

One day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home, he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled.