Turning 25

 

I found this list as I made my way through the tail end of the fifth year. I would have never imagined what these five years mean to me. Never in my wildest dreams did turning 25 feel this surreal. A phenomenal life beyond. Who knew turning older had its perks?

It is rare to have someone tell me that.

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1460 letters


Dear Arthur, 1460 letters…

of my existence

Till I meet you

A year 

A year away from my birth home and I came back to objects in boxes. I cannot even call them my belongings anymore for they have grown estranged. I find myself rummaging through all these stuff, finding all these things that I’ve forgotten about, all these things that I no longer need, nor do I want any longer.

There lay a box of things I’ve sent home over the year and in it I picked up the letters from someone who was once really important to me. I was looking for a particular bag I had, but I could not find it.  Just as it is with all the feelings I have had for this person, and the person I was before, I couldn’t find her and I couldn’t find him within my thoughts. This old bag I am looking for, maybe I will never find it, maybe it is just not important anymore – because I don’t need it.

And all these items in boxes, it felt so good to know that this isn’t my home anymore, just as I have always have felt within, that this isn’t where I belong. And now, all that this room holds is the ghost of my existence, tugged away in boxes, hidden beyond the naked eyes.

It is my birth home, but it isn’t my home – it is my parents’ home. All these things that belonged to me, I no longer claim ownership over them. They are free, free to leave, free at the call of other possession.

There is a new kind of liberation I feel in the room I’m in, the room that belonged to my 19 year old self. It is such a beautiful feeling to be back and not be able to find traces of my past self anymore, for it doesn’t exist.

Goodbye dear stranger.

While the world sleeps

The wild and I 


I’m listening to all the little voices in my heart and allowing the people in my path to continually guide me through this thing we call life. Somedays, it gets confusing, but in my darkest of days, i can only wish for the voices in my heart to sing louder than ever.

Anesthesia

Dear (online) Arthur,

I haven’t been able to write to you in awhile because I sold my laptop on my trip, to a man whom I believed needed it more than I did. (At least for that time that we were travelling) Maybe someday I will regret it, but I currently do not. I have spent so much time with paper – drawing, painting, writing, reading books and picking up a new hobby – embroidery. For the record, I don’t think I’ve ever spent that much time reading in my life, ever.

And writing to you here only seems right on a big screen laptop, and not a tiny phone screen where my words all clump together and everything seems more funky than it should be.

In recent days I’ve been struggling with my purpose of wanting to write here, or wanting to share things on the internet, a public space. And maybe I’ve finally understood why, its the thought that maybe somewhere out there, someone understands me, someone understands my pain and my joy.

I shall end my post with a brief summary of all I’ve been contemplating and learning about in my months back. All beautifully summarised by a professor in the film, Anaesthesia. With special attention to the words in bold, I conclude my virtual letter to you.

“But then, what do all these thinkers we’ve examined this semester have in common? If we truly explore to find a common thread? At the outset of a century that would constitute the bloodiest in human history. Along with scientific and technological advancements that would literally make us like Gods. Even as we began to dismantle the very meaning of God. They ask, what is a life? Does to live any longer have a how? Does it any longer have a why? Against a backdrop of industrialization, people will contend with alienation, dislocation, population on a mass scale, and murder on a mass scale. They’ll consider the constraints of truth. Whether metaphor or paradigm, with many concluding actual truth has never existed. A nexus in the great human saga, when we dared to trade the organizing bliss, of good and evil, right and wrong, as determined by a creator for other opiates: communism, socialism, capitalism, psychology, technology, any learnable system to replace what had begun to evaporate: the 20th century. My own. But also the one into which each of you was born. For many, an era of hope liberation, possibility. For others of abandonment and despair. A most human century in which we begin really to understand that Nietzsche was right: we are beautifully, finally, achingly, alone. In this void, philosophy at its worst becomes self-reflective, linguistic, semantic, relativism having rendered any discussion of right and wrong, good and evil, to be the quaint concerns of another age. At its most provocative, it asks other questions. Those concerned with locating our stranded selves, when meaning seems to have died, nothing less, in short, then ‘why do we live at all?’ and ‘what makes us who we are?’ They ask, ‘what now?’ And we’re still asking it. What will fortify us as another century, your century, commences? Do we abandon finally the search for truths that seem ever more elusive, even silly to some? The ethical? The moral? The good? Principles that by definition can never be prove when so much now can be proved? Or is all this finally and forever pointless? Are we done? We can destroy cities, alter the planet irreversibly, speak instantaneously face-to-face from across the globe, create life where there was to be none, even while intoxicating ourselves with it all. And yet, how do we still seek purpose? And where do we hope to find it if we’re so busy convincing ourselves there needn’t be any? And so we wander, eyes closed to the dark, while technology, science, medicine and godlessness blaze illusions around us, with less to guide us now than ever, seemingly omnipotent, but more human and just as afraid. These quandaries do not end with this course in a week from today. They begin. And I certainly haven’t taught these writers for 30 years just so you can drop references to existential thinkers and their antecedents at dinner parties. The crowd is untruth. In an era darkened by the false shade of imperviousness, you and those who pause to question, carry the light. It’s been a wonderful 34 years. Let’s not be strangers, either to one another, or more importantly, to everything we’ve learned from one another. May your best years be yet to come. And so for us all.”

Significant insignificance

To be familiar yet remain estranged 

To be on the inside yet remain on the outside 

To be significant yet insignificant

I miss feeling like a speck of dust that could disappear ever so quickly, dancing around in the fleeting light. I liked being significant yet insignificant.