Dipping My Feet Into The Cold Waters of Creative Writing

jeal•ous•y

/ˈdʒɛl ə si/ –noun, plural

1.jealous resentment against a rival, a person enjoyingsuccess or advantage, etc., or against another's success oradvantage itself.
2.mental uneasiness from suspicion or fear of rivalry,unfaithfulness, etc., as in love or aims.
3.vigilance in maintaining or guarding something.

That little green monster,
hiding in the
Deep recesses of my mind
waiting for the chance to go out
To feast
destroy

Green like the grass,
Whenever we look up at the vastness
Of the skies
At the freedom of the birds
Soaring without a care
Whenever we see something
Above, bigger,
faster, richer
nth-er

Forever bound
Forever existing
Envy

I just watched the movie “Flipped” And I really feel that it was such a mesmerizing movie of love, judgements and regrets. It was about a boy and a girl, about their story of falling in love as well of falling out of love. The girl in the movie loved to climb a particular tree and enjoy the breathtaking view that she could see from the top of the tree. One scene that really resonates deep within me was when the girl’s tree was cut down and she was devastated by this fact. Then the father, who is a gifted artist, out of love for her daughter, painted a picture of that tree for her and hung it in front of her bed, so that it will be the first thing that she’ll see whenever she wakes up, and the last when she goes to bed. Beautiful isn’t it? For some people this scene might just be a mediocre one, but not for me. This scene holds so much for me as it is the one thing that I have always wished I could have. The love of a real father, of a real family.

My parents were divorced when I was still very young. So I have never had that chance of being loved by a real father as I was growing up, and envy those people who actually had wonderful experiences with their dads. Ever since their divorce, my mother, brother and I stayed at my grandparent’s house. Their house was huge. I think the word mansion best describe it. It was painted white on the outside and had lots of big windows all around the house, allowing the glaring light of the sun to enter the house every morning, waking up its inhabitants. All around the house was a beautifully tended garden, with roses, jasmine and orchids all around. Living in such a place often made me feel like I’m a princess. And yet even though I had all this, I feel that something is always missing inside.

Like many other modern fairytale princess, I never felt much love from my mother or my grandparents. My mother was always at work trying to support me and my brother, while my grandmother only told us the things that we’re supposed to do. Every time we went back from school there was never that sweet ring of “How was your day?” or “What did you learn at school today?” Instead, there will only be my maids and grandmother who will promptly ask me and my brother to take a shower immediately and prepare for extra lessons or tuition. As the day comes to a close and the sky is tainted with orange, I would start to get worried. Worried for my mother, especially if she came back later from work. I would just pace around the garden and no sweet intoxications from the flowers can cure my worry. But like all kids I was still shy to admit my feelings, that I worry about her that much, so every time I hear that oh so familiar footsteps of my mother, I would just pretend to play around the garden and try my best no create a veil of nonchalance, ignoring her arrival altogether.

Before this, she used to work at my aunt’s DVD store. It was hard work and she would only be home by around 11pm. Back then I had to go to bed by around 10 pm. No matter how hard I tried I can never fall asleep before I am sure that she was back home safely. Tossing and turning on my bed, waiting for that click of the front door and hearing that familiar footsteps which was the only bedtime story that can finally lull me to sleep. If by 11 she was not back yet, I would pray and pray to God, to bring her home safely. I would promise Him that I would always be a good girl and listen to whatever my mother had to say, if only He can bring her back safely. Recalling this scene now, I feel terrible, as I had never been a very good daughter as what I had promised despite the fact that my mom made it safely home every night.

My mother was a fighter. Those early years were never easy for her and for us as a family, and yet she fought on and never gave up on us. I used to get angry at her for little things. Grounding me whenever I defied what she said to me, not buying me the things that I wanted, or not allowing me to go out and play with my friends during the weekends. However, deep inside of me, I know that no matter how much I am annoyed at her or even detest her sometimes, I would always love her more. If it weren’t for the sacrifices that she made during our early journey as a family, I might not be the person that I am today, enjoying everything that I have right now. She saved every single penny she could, to raise my brother and I. Like everyone, she always had a choice, the choice to abandon us and leave us in an orphanage to give herself the chance to start again. And yet she stuck with us and carried us through. She turned down many suitors just because they couldn’t accept our existence as her children. For this I truly admire her courage and her love for us.

All of her years of perseverance and patience finally paid off one day when she met my best friend’s dad, who would eventually ask for her hand in marriage. It was what I thought a fresh start, a new beginning for all of us. My best friend lost her mom due to breast cancer so from my point of view, we are all pretty much on the same boat. The first few years after they get married were the happiest years for me. My new father was very nice to us. He would play with me all day, piggybacked me, carry me on his shoulders, and do practically anything to make laugh, spilling with joy. It was a great moment, to finally feel loved, to finally found a father figure in my life that I can depend on. My father and mother loved me more than anyone else, and as a bed of roses, underneath the beauty of my life at that time, there are still thorns waiting to prick. Everyone else was jealous of my parents love for me, and this was the fuel that was used to spark up conflicts within our family. It was a beautiful yet difficult few first years. But how as time goes by rocks are softened, so are hearts. After a while everyone seemed to be able to accept everything and life goes on.

Someone once said that life is like a wheel, sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down. Just as everyone had started to settle down, my step brother was diagnosed with brain tumour. It was shattering, hearing the news, especially for my dad. He just lost his wife due to cancer and the pain was still there haunting him. He refused to give on my brother. He tried everything he could. All the hours spent consulting with different doctors, moving my brother to and fro hospitals around town, desperately trying to find a cure for the incurable. He forked out every single cent that he had and lost millions trying to save my brother. We had to sell our car. And after four surgeries and countless sessions of therapy and medication, it was not within our power to save my brother’s life. He passed away on New year’s eve. When the world was rejoiced at the beginning of a new year, we were lamenting the end of my brother’s short life. All the things that he never got to see, the things the he never got to do and experience. It just seemed so unfair, just when life seemed to get better.

For my father it was the last straw that will finally break the camel’s back. Ever since then things changed within our house. We hardly go out. We hardly had family time, and the only language spoken within our house is the language of silence. It seemed like my dad had been through enough. Enough with life and all its miseries. This experience had also made them paranoid about us their children. Once I had a really bad headache and without hesitation I was rushed to the hospital to take and MRI and CT-scan. It turns out to be nothing at all, and I suppose with the death of my brother, it has allowed the birth of the monster of paranoia within my parents mind.

I can’t really recall when I started to hate the vines of attention that started to strangle me. My parents were over-protective and I needed space to grow up. The monster of paranoia is choking me and my growth as a teenager. From then on things took a turn for the worst. My dad who had seemingly gave up on our family, never paid attention to us anymore. The closely knitted ties were broken and at certain point in time, things got so bad that all I could think of was to run away from home. Fortunately I did find a way. A chance to study overseas, and leaving that madhouse of a home far behind me and out of my life. But being away from them made me realized once again how much my family means so much to me, no matter how bad they are. And yet every time I go back home during the holidays, there’s nothing that I would want more, than to get out of there as fast as I can.

As time goes by, we became further apart, the chasm is now too deep and any chance to salvage any family ties and bonds are dashed. I hardly talk to them now, only to my mom every time she calls me once a week. Those beautiful times were nothing but distant memories now. I thought I had a dad, I thought I had a family, and yet life says otherwise. Looking at people with a perfect family or movies depicting such scenes breaks my heart and sparked the green flame of jealousy deep within me. And even though I love my mother and my brother no matter what, and promised to become a better daughter, that green flame will always burn. Burn, until the day I can finally have that feeling again the feeling of being loved by a real family.

Dipping My Toes Into The Cold Waters of Creative Writing

in•no•cence 

[in-uh-suh ns] –noun

1.The quality or state of being innocent; freedom from sin ormoral wrong.
2.Freedom from legal or specific wrong; guiltlessness: Theprisoner proved his innocence.
3.Simplicity; absence of guile or cunning; naiveté.

Do you ever wish that you can turn back time and
go back to being a small little kid?

Sheltered and protected.
When the world was so much simpler when
we are free to roam the vast fields of our imagination, sail
through the seas of creativity,
opening treasure troves of new discoveries and
fight the monsters of our own fear.

To be free of responsibility, of life's
hardships. To laugh, love and cry at our hearts content
allowing our emotions to flow unobstructed
like the Nile cutting its way through Egypt.

To have the sky of dreams above your head and
the solid ground of life under your feet.

I do.

I think that my years as a small kid were truly the happiest time of my life. It was back when life was perfect, when I was still too young to sense the deep undercurrents in my parent's relationship that would eventually broke the dam of their marriage. It was when life truly felt like it was worth living.

Back then, we didn't really stay in a proper house, so our family stayed in quite a small building which can double up as a shop. We didn't really have much at that point in time. But it didn't matter. For me, as long as there's still a roof above my head, a bed to sleep on, food to keep me from going hungry and of course my family to love me and keep me save, life was as it should be.

We had quite a few neighbours at that time as quite a lot of people also lived in the buildings next to us and all around us. We were never a close knit community but it never mattered for us children. Every afternoon when the sun has started its descent, when an orange colour started to seep into its rounded form, the kids come out to play. As children we always have the uncanny capability of making friends almost instantaneously. A few brief introductions of who we are and off we go playing together like we've been playing together forever. It was our innocence that allows us to trust so willingly, to make friends with anyone not caring who they are or where they come from, something I believe we all should revive amidst today’s world of judgements.

As kids it was never a matter of what should we do today, but rather what can't we do today. Skipping rope, hide and seek, hopscotch, or just a simple game of tag. Our imagination takes us to places no man has ever discovered. Sailing through the seven seas as pirates of the Caribbean, discovering hidden treasures in hidden tombs of our own making a la Indiana Jones, and of course our favourite, the game of pretend whereby some of us takes on adult roles as teachers, chefs and any other profession you could ever dreamed off. Now that I look back at my early childhood days it always fascinates me how as children, we really loved to pretend and take on adult roles that we see in our daily lives. There’s this fascination for us as children seeing the vast and unknown adult world, the myriad of things that you could do as an adult as well as the authority that you have as an adult, free to be who you are and never restricted, unlike us children. We never really realize how lucky we were as children, and how free we truly are as compared to adults.

Our innocence and our imagination can take us anywhere we wanted to go and find friends in the most uncanny situations. However it also allows us to create monsters from simple fear and misunderstanding. This was especially true when it came to the old man living just down the street from where we used to play. He was a quiet man if I do remember correctly, rarely talks to anyone beyond that is necessary. His face is ridden with gorges, valleys and canyons carved by the passage of time. We used to have a game of guessing how old the man really was, just for the fun of it. A sparse savannah of white barely hides his scalp stained with the marks of age. He was hunched and every time he walks around with his trusty old cane, we could see just how much effort is needed just for him to move a simple 5 steps. He always wears the same old sleeveless T shirt and a red checked Sarong. He spends most of the time sitting in from of his house on his little green plastic chair, just staring out to the streets sometimes dozing off to a fitful nap bugged by flies landing on his skin and maybe nightmares. He was always alone. Never did we see a wife or any of his probably all-grown-up-by-now children visit him. To us children he was a frightening figure. An unknown, a mystery. He would always sit there and just stare right at the streets, an act we children finds unsettling or even creepy. It was out of this silly fear of the old man that we would make up stories of him. Stories like how he is actually an evil wizard who will kidnap naughty children to be cooked in a bubbling pot of vat or that he will capture naughty boys and cut their pee-pee (it was what we used as children to describe penis) if they were to be so unlucky to have crossed paths with him on the streets.