Random thoughts.

One breaks a butterfly on a wheel. So elaborate a means for so simple a task. A wheel when two fingers would have done the job. But then, the sight of that puny creature squirming frantically on that massive device is, one has to admit, a pleasurable one. A display of immense power, meant to inflict excruciating pain, whatever the size and strength of the victim may be.

Pleasure. That's what it's about. Not redundancy. Not stupidity. Just pleasure, emerging from the deepest recesses of one's twisted mind.

Yearning to awaken.

Thoughts before heading off to the workplace, influenced by epic cinematic music by Zack Hemsey.

There are times when I wonder if I am in some sort of an Inception-like universe. Nothing feels real. Nothing makes sense. In so many instances, I have no idea what I'm doing--what purpose do I serve in this existence. How I envy normal people. They go about their lives without a care, and I suppose that assumption is incorrect, not to mention unwise. Everyone has issues. Minds of their own filled with a million concerns, only they're not the same as mine.

Looking too much at the bigger picture. So big, it's a Herculean task to comprehend it all. I guess that's why university professors, the most brilliant intellectuals--that lot--so many of them happen to be eccentric, bordering on the insane.

Probably just like me now, wondering if all this is a dream. A really bad dream. And if I finally find enough resolve to deal death upon myself, I would wake up. Just like in Inception.

That movie is a total mindfuck, mind you. I love it.

Life as a nonagenarian is not for me.

I wanted it then. I still want it now.

To not die old and withered, wasting away on a bed, suffering from the geriatric ailment du jour.

So how do I want to die? Jumping out of a plane on a skydiving trip. Coming down from a hike in the mountains. Losing myself among the ruins of an ancient civilization.

Or if it is imperative that I should die on a bed, then it should be after I've had the hottest, heaviest, most mind-blowing sex in my entire life.

That's how I want to go. When I am truly alive, because anticlimaxes are boring and utterly forgettable.

Long gone, never forgotten.

Dozed off earlier. Had a dream, then woke back up.

A song began to play in my head, a beautiful number by one of my favorite bands.

Train's 'Drops of Jupiter'. Their best ever.

These particular lines tugged especially hard on my heartstrings.

And tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?

One without a permanent scar

And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

The memories came first, then the longing followed suit. Sixteen years is a long time.

You are loved dearly and missed terribly. Not just by me, but by everyone who has had the privilege of knowing you.

Gone too soon, yet never really gone--and most certainly never forgotten. I often wonder how things could have been if you were still here. I'm sure everyone else wonders too.

Rest in peace, Alex Snyder.

My obsessive-compulsive self.

A lot of people misuse the term "OCD" (Obsessive-compulsive disorder), associating it with individuals who take neatness and efficiency more seriously than the average human being. Like, for example, when someone is very particular about the arrangement of documents on the desk or on the filing cabinet. Everything in a specific order, everything in its place.

When someone makes a fuss over arranging clothes in the closet by garment type or by color, they get labeled as OCD. When someone makes it a point to neatly stack boxes filled with items--pre-sorted and labeled according to a well-defined system, they are OCD. Let me tell you this, people. It's not OCD. It's called being organized. It's efficiency. Arrangements like that save you the time and hassle of rummaging through items all over the place to find just one tiny thing. It saves you the frustration of having to rearrange things after you've brought a human tornado into the storage shed.

It's not OCD. It's being smart.

The quirks I've previously mentioned--that's cute to real OCD sufferers. So cute, it's insulting. I've seen a classmate in high school who struggled to pull his shit together because it took forever for him to arrange things exactly how he wanted it. There had to be a specific number of books on a particular stack, arranged at a perfect angle. He counted his steps from the classroom to the watercooler, and if he'd counted wrongly, or they didn't add up to the number he wanted, he would start over. The same thing would happen when he climbed up or down staircases. Specific number of steps, and landing on a specific foot. Get it wrong? Start the hell over.

It's stressful. It's disruptive. It takes a lot of energy and time. The worst thing is, it's uncontrollable. OCD consumes every fiber of your being. Your mind is dominated by the obsessions, and you are constantly compelled to act on it day and night. A slave whipped by a merciless master.

I know how it feels like, because I have it too--in the form of trichotillomania. Obsessive hair-plucking. It began when I was 12. That was when the bullying I got from my classmates was at its worst. One day, my hand just started to wander absently, combing through my thick mane of hair, when I suddenly felt an odd strand somewhere at the back of my head. My mind dictated that the single strand did not fit with the rest of the crowd, and therefore had to be 'weeded' out.

And so I did.

That single strand led to more strands. Always at that same area on my scalp. Whenever I tugged at the hair within that region, there was this overwhelming tension--that mental itch in desperate need of a scratching--and it would only be relieved by plucking the offending strand of hair by the roots. I never pull out hair by the clumps. It's always strand by single strand. A part of me would panic and tell me "You're going to go bald", but the stubborn little shit that was also me would claim that it was harmless. Just a single strand of hair, and nothing more.

I would pluck and pluck. Always when I am by myself during my quiet time. I just plucked out a few strands as I am typing out this post. It's an automatic thing, and I can't stop it. I have a bald spot about two inches long and an inch wide on my scalp. Surrounding that spot is a growth of new hair that feels like the stubble on a guy's chin. I found that out when I used a mirror to view the back of my head a couple of days ago.

Often, I would consciously try to stop myself from plucking. It would work for a short period of time before my fingers would start again with a flourish. The spot can still be hidden for now, but with the increasing level of stress, the deforestation is happening at a more rapid rate. It wouldn't be long before it finally starts to show.

Zam Zam Hair Oil helps the regrowth. It works fast too. Sadly though, I still can't leave my hair alone. The struggle is real. This is the dark side of me. The obsessive-compulsive side of me. And this is why I do not use the term lightly. It hits too close to home.

Of creating a sanctuary--in an airplane fuselage.

I'm sorry, dear bestie.

I was supposed to put into words what I call the foundations of our mutual dream over here in this blog--but the perfectionist I am never seems to be able to get the words out right.

That, and the fact that I'm still struggling to get myself a job. Just applied for the post of executive secretary/ liaison at the Sarawak chapter of the MATTA Secretariat. Please pray that this'll be it.

So here's what needs to be done. We need to meet up one day and discuss this. That's the only way we would ever get it hatched. With life revolving around the needs of a single person, and the mounting pressure from the parents to get a steady job, I'm in total shambles.

I need you here, man. We need good bro time.

Missing you terribly.

A necessary falsehood.

"When you don't know where or how to begin, then just write anything that comes to mind. The inspiration will come. Slow and late, but it will come. You can't force creativity."

So here I am, following my Newswriting lecturer's advice.

I got a little too eager in my sharing of personal experiences a fortnight ago.

Somehow the small talk in the meeting room on that day revolved around hospitals--government hospitals, to be specific--that and how they are actually very good, if not for the number of patients they are flooded with to the point of overflowing. More demand than supply.

So, when I shared about my experience in one of such hospitals, I was barely even scratching the surface. The mistake I made though, was telling the story from a patient's point of view instead of a visitor's. It led to the dreaded question coming from my boss: "What happened? How did you end up there?"

By the time I realized I'd made the wrong move, it was already too late.

The hasty answer I'd given--stress and exhaustion--was too simple, too vague and completely false.

PTSD triggers here.

What actually happened was this: Night out was over. My turn to be dropped off. The brothers thought I'd fallen asleep on the way home. As always, one would accompany me all the way to the elevator of my apartment--but that didn't happen. They couldn't wake me up. Not that I have been drinking myself senseless--the cocktails I had were all virgin. Yet I was unresponsive.

I woke up in the ER gagging on an OPA.

I did mention something to the boss about "almost literally dropping dead", in a seemingly-joking manner. There was nothing humorous about this at all.

Any diagnosis with "idiopathic" in it is an annoying one. In my case, it was idiopathic arrhythmia. An abnormality with an unknown cause.

It plagued me for the next two years. It still happens sometimes, minor episodes that can easily be stopped. As long as it doesn't escalate to the intensity it had in those crazy two years, it shouldn't be too hard to manage.

Damn PTSD triggers.

So yes, it was a necessary falsehood. There are some things that I totally feel uncomfortable talking about with people I'm not really close to, and this is one of them. It's too personal, and even now, I'm barely even scratching the surface in this post.

Note to self: Be careful what you share next time. Questions can kill you.

Nawaitu.

Say: "Truly my prayers, my service of devotion, my life and my death, are all for God, the Ruler of the Universe."

~Al-An'am, Verse 162~

Not for my boss, not for the company. Not for my family, my loved ones--and much less me.

Everything, lillahi rabbil 'alamin.

I should stop re-thinking and re-pondering what and who all these things are for. The answer to that question has been clear all along.

Then hopefully, and I truly hope so, everything else will fall into place.

Muhasabah realiti.

Malam semalam aku terlebih emosi. Rindu pula pada dia. Lebih daripada biasa.

Langsung tak diundang, tetapi lagu ini tiba-tiba terngiang di telinga.

Kata orang, apa yang bermain di fikiran itu, kalau ia tidak diundang, barangkali itu adalah ilham dari-Nya. Mungkin juga itu suara hati, yang ingin sekali menyuruh kita berhenti sejenak supaya dia boleh berbicara.

Bila difikirkan kembali, semacam lama benar aku sudah tak menghabiskan masa dengan hatiku sendiri. Bos baru, kerja baru, tanggungjawab baru. Tak hairanlah kalau diri aku ini rindu dengan diri aku sendiri.

Baiklah. Layankan sahaja. Kasihan dia.

Aku amati bait-bait lagu itu. Lagu lama, keluaran empat tahun yang lalu.

Dan aku amati pula perjalanan hidupku. Perjalanan aku dan dia.

Maka bermulalah muhasabah realiti. Setiap jengkal, hasta dan depa. Setiap kaki dan inci, habis aku teroka.

Kebenaran itu kadangkala menyakitkan. Perit dan pedih rasanya.

Realitinya terang lagi bersuluh. Aku melengahkan kekecewaan yang pasti. Mat saleh kata, delaying the inevitable. Menghambat diri dari bergerak ke hadapan, dek kerana takut akan apa yang menanti.

Pegun. Statik. Momentum sifar, jadi pecutannya juga sifar. Dalam kata lain, memang langsung tiada hala tuju. Tapi benarkah begitu?

Mungkin ada benarnya. Cinta tak pernah punya peluang dalam perjalanan hidupku. Tak pernah diberi kesempatan untuk bertapak. Adapun dia cuma mampu singgah sebentar. Menemaniku sebentar, dan kemudian berlalu pergi. Tempatnya bukan di sini. Tidak cukup ruang untuk dikongsi. Silapnya di mana, aku pun tak pasti.

Sang biduan mendendangkan soalan yang perit untukku jawab:

Bisakah kau berdiri

tanpaku di sisimu lagi?

Bisakah kau sendiri

mengubati luka di hati?

Jadi, bisakah aku?

Aku yakin dia pasti mampu. Dia adiwira gagah perkasa. Indah budi bicara. Ilmu penuh di dada dan minda. Kacak dan tampan juga. Teramatlah mudah mencari pengganti. Sekarang pun seperti sudah panjang 'senarai menunggu'. Menantiku hilang, memadamkan diri dari lembaran hidupnya yang terlalu jauh beza dari corak dan gaya catatanku.

Dia mampu. Aku pula? Rasanya tak perlu aku andaikan.

Aku berfikir kali kedua. Kemungkinan besar ini bukan bicara hati.

Mungkin ini isyarat-Nya. Babak sudah habis. Padamkan layar dan labuhkan tirainya. Masa untuk bersurai.

Wind back the clock.

Watched The Theory of Everything earlier today--finally.

Wow, what a story. And Eddie Redmayne totally deserved that Oscar.

Now I can go back to drafting that training module in peace.

Business English for Dummies, you need to meet your deadline.