The Silent Room

There is a two-by-four Persian carpet, its thick, dyed fabrics dulled with age.
A stained IKEA coffee table that calmly sat next to it.
In a modest, unfurnished, boring living room.
A lone kettle sitting at the side, piping hot.

Why is it that I’m caring so much about so many things? Why is it that whenever this political party does this, or when this corporation does that, or when this NGO does this, or this student club does that, I get so emotionally affected? How did I allow myself to become a pendulum to these unknown hands?

Today is May 13th, supposedly a black mark in Malaysia’s calendar. Some voices are crying out in hate, some calling out for peace. Some wanted to rally, while most of us just want to get to work/class on time. Malaysians are modest and simple that way.

Evidently I’m surrounded by Malays who are in denial. Either that, or Malays who refuse to ease their grip and release their hands from their crotches.

…

Oh, sorry. I meant, crutches.

I realised a long time ago what I really wanted out of my life. The things I’d really work for, the things I would want to accomplish for myself. Unfortunately I get sidetracked alot. Distractions, mostly. The need to explore new things, to experiment, to make things happen.

Recently though, things have begun to look very differently.