When Love Arrives

by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye

I knew exactly what love looked like – in seventh grade
Even though I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom, I would've recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace.
I would’ve recognized her at first glance, love wore a tight french braid.
Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatles songs.
Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me.
And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms, just must be checking the wrong hallways, she was there, I was sure of it.
If only I could find him.

But when love finally showed up, she had a bow cut.
He wore the same clothes every day for a week.
Love hated the bus.
Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles.
Instead, every time I try to kiss love, our teeth got in the way.
Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to- Ben’s house.
Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song.
Love waited by the phone because she knew if her father picked up it would be: “Hello? Hello? I guess they hung up.”

And love grew, stretched like a trampoline.
Love changed. Love disappeared,
Slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed.
Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could see the trapdoor but me.
Like a flat tire, there were other places I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter.
Love stayed away for years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him.
Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back, love came with freckles I didn’t recognize.
New birthmarks, a softer voice.
Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books.
Love had songs that reminded him of someone else, songs love didn’t like to listen to. So did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly
We found jokes that make us laugh.
And now, love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies.
But love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack.
Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer.
Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator.
Love knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than she planned.
Love is messier now, not as simple.
Love uses the words “boobs” in front of my parents.
Love chews too loud.
Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste.
Love uses smiley faces in her text messages.
And turns out, love shits!

But love also cries.
And love will tell you you are beautiful and mean it, over and over again. “You are beautiful.”
When you first wake up, “you are beautiful.”
When you’ve just been crying, “you are beautiful.”
When you don’t want to hear it, “you are beautiful.”
When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.”
When nobody else will tell you, “you are beautiful.”
Love still thinks you are beautiful.

But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you need to hear it most, you are beautiful, do not forget this.
Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict.
Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep;
You are in California, Australia, wide awake.
Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone.
Maybe love is not ready for you.
Maybe you are not ready for love.
Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type.
Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered.
Maybe love is only there for a month.
Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit.
Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t.
Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to,
And love leaves exactly when love must.
When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”
If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her.
Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper,
“Thank you for stopping by.”

All is Well Now

Just because one forgets, doesn't mean one doesn't care.

That is something I should never forget.

Thank you for reminding me of that through the friends you have provided, dear Father.

Amen

The past month, my Facebook has been abuzz with exuberant birthday wishes accompanied with loads of photos at birthday parties - a substantial number of my old ACS classmates were born in October. Here's the thing about me. I've never been fond of birthday parties or cakes. I have never envied anyone for their birthdays, how they celebrate it, or what they get from it. I've always been contented with spending my birthday with one or two of my closest friends, satisfied that I had close friends who made the effort of remembering the day I was born.
 

Not until now.
 

It's a sad existence. I never expect much on my birthdays, but this year just might be one of the worst I've ever had. While others celebrated their 21st with stacks of cards, mountains of cakes, loads of friends and barrels of booze, I could count the number of birthday wishes I got from my friends on one hand, I spent the day in absolute loneliness and one of my closest friend completely forgot my birthday.
 

Apparently, I share the same birthday as Andrew Scott, who portrays one of my favorite villains of all time, Moriarty from BBC Sherlock. At any other time, I would have been ecstatic about this shared birthday.
 

Just... not this time.
 

I wonder what it says about a person when his closest friend gushes to him about a TV star's birthday while remaining completely oblivious to his hurt and frustration. Does it perhaps mean that his existence is less important than that of a celebrity? Is it something else?
 

As hard as I try to avoid thinking about it, I can't help but wonder how many of my friends even cares about my existence. Half my birthdays, I'm forcefully reminded that perhaps my birthday isn't really worth the effort to remember after all.
 

I'm sorry if this is starting to sound like a rant of self-pity. But I figured since this is a blog with near-zero readership, probably the only people to read this would be the occasional stranger chancing upon this blog. I'm not generally fond of self-pity - sometimes I look at it with disdain - but I think I realize now why self-pity exists. People pity themselves because there is no one else to pity them. In my case, the only people who would pity me are people who know it's my birthday, and since there's hardly any of them - and none of them are even in the country - it doesn't amount to much at all. So I celebrate my birthday with whatever I have left - a cake of self-pity lit with 21 forlorn candles and extinguished with drops of tears, celebrated with the stuffed animals on my bed who sang happy birthday in their little stuffed animal voices.
 

To those who know me, you know that my friends mean the world to me. I've always tried my best to be the best friend I could to those I befriend. Maybe I'm doing something wrong, maybe most of my friendships one-sided or something, maybe it's something else. I don't know. There's so much I don't know. All I know is that it's been awhile since I felt as worthless and discarded as I've been feeling these past few days.
 

A week ago, I looked forward to my birthday so very much. What a naive fool I've been. All I wanted was for my closest friends to remember my birthday. Birthday messages would have meant the world to me. I adore them. Words from the heart mean so much more to me than any tangible present ever would. All I ever wanted and needed for my birthdays was to know that I meant something - anything - to my friends. That's all. Sigh. My wishes were so different... but unrealistic, I realize now.
 

The procrastinator here, signing back out to his sad, quiet existence...

Twenty One

It seemed an apt picture to put up, since I can start drinking legally from today onwards

Twenty-one years ago to this day, a baby boy was born somewhere in Kuala Lumpur to happy parents and probably less-happy sisters. That boy was me.

My birthdays have always been a jumble of emotions as far as I remember. On one hand, birthdays are merely a marking stone for each year that has passed since a person was born and has managed to stay alive till. Staying alive was something I never actually considered a great achievement, I suppose. It simply is, and I owe most of that to God and my ever-watchful family members than to myself. God knows how many times I could have easily been pancaked while crossing a road with my nose in a book if not for some vigilant family member around.

But on the other hand, birthdays are something to me because it only occurs once a year on a very specific day. And because every person has a unique birth date, remembering one's birthday is something that requires effort. Well, at least it used to, until Facebook came along.

Call me old-fashioned, but I really don't care much for Facebook birthday wishes, or Facebook birthday reminders. Why? It's too easy. So every year as October rolls around, I play a little game called "Who Remembered?" I am the game master, and the players are anyone who manage to discover the existence of this game.

Facebook, Twitter, Google, Skype... You name it, I erased my birthday from it. I even went as far as to block anyone from posting up on my wall for as long as two days before and after my birthdays, to reduce the likelihood of players publicizing the game. Most years, it worked, with only a slight trickle of players to discover my hidden birthday. Most years, all I ever want is to hear a simple Happy birthday from a select few whom I thought of as my closest friends. Some years, that doesn't happen.

It sounds silly perhaps, and I suppose readers might be wondering why I would perform such an idiotic act of intentionally hiding my birthday if I wanted people to remember it. I do want people to remember it. But at the same time, my selfish side needs to know that people remembered it not because of some social media reminder, but because they cared enough to remember today and what it means to me.

Gauging friendships by one's ability to remember dates is probably an unreasonable method of doing it. Some people are just better than others at remembering dates, and after all, my birthday doesn't exactly occur on a remarkable date. On the calendar, it is just another day. I don't blame anyone in the least for not remembering it. I really do not. No one is obligated to remember my birthday, and I've always thought of birthday wishes as a gift. Given and received, but never asked for.

I suppose it is during moments like these when I'm thankful no one reads my blog anymore. I could have written this on a piece of paper and thrown it into the fire, but that would have meant nothing. A tree that falls in a forest doesn't make a sound. It only makes a sound if someone hears it.

So here I am, typing this out in a place where there's a chance of someone hearing me.

Bored. Bored! BORED!

Hello all. Someone. No one. If anyone is reading this at all. Quite frankly, I won't be surprised if no one ever reads this, and I don't suppose it would be anyone's fault but my own. I did neglect this blog for quite some time after all. Fortunately, the name of this blog does reflect my frequency in updating it rather well. I'm not too sure if I named it so because I knew I would procrastinate, or I procrastinated for the sake of maintaining the identity of this blog.

I like to think it's the latter. Yeah. It's definitely the latter.

I think.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't update this blog because I had nothing to write about. I thought of many things to write about. Stories, remarkable events (though remarkable doesn't necessarily mean interesting), thoughts, frustrations, yearnings. God knows how true that last bit is. I guess the nice thing about having a blog that no one will read is that I can bleed my thoughts out and... no one will read it. In any case, I suppose the only honest answer as to why I haven't been writing is one that is quite obvious and simple. 

I. Am. Lazy.

There. I said it.

Anyway, so why start now after so long? Well, turns out that boredom can be quite a good motivator, it seems. Or a good reason to find a new distraction, whichever it is. I'm sure there's something else really important I should be doing right now other than update a blog just because I got bored. Practice my Japanese, lift some weights, clean my room, count how many cornflakes there are in a box of cereal. Etc. 

In any case, I think I've run out of things to rant about for now about being bored. Maybe I'll continue in a following post about something else. Hmm...