brain dumpty dump.

i am tired.

tired of feeling tired, tired of being demotivated, tired of always wanting to be on top of my game; and yet, falling short. badly.

i’m not sad, though. i’m still able to count my blessings and practice gratitude. i still have a deep understanding of my faith in God. i know that i am loved by family and friends. i am thankful for all the opportunities i’ve had growing up in a rather privileged life.

and yet, here i am. a dry spell that feels like a limbo between excitement and fear of what is to come. i am not ready to embrace adulthood fully; as if my soul somehow feels the shortened years of my teenage-hood.

why, though? i miss the me that scrambled to do everything she can with every last scrap of energy left in her spirit. i miss the moments of breaking down every so often because i feel overwhelmed; and then picking myself right back up five seconds after the last teardrop had fallen. i miss agreeing to everything and still being able to deliver it all with excellence.

and here i am, with new commitments that are fewer in number than before, and yet with bigger responsibilities that threaten to crush my lifelong-built confidence in one small erroneous step. here i am, with things to do that make me question my abilities. here i am, with positions to hold that force me out of childlike naivety and into the realities of life. and here i am, lying in bed, wondering when in the world i am able to face them head on once again.

i do not want to be dramatic. but hey -- if we do not view life as the audience of a theatrical scene every so often, will we ever be able to grow?

prompted | outside the window.

cars pass, honk, zipping to places unknown
the double-parked one receives hushed whispers and
disapproving looks from the aunties
clad in matching blue and white stripes and billowy sleeves
an attempt to make middle-aged shopkeepers
of a commercialised traditional Chinese medicine brand look 'cute'

knock knock knock
the building never seems to be done with its
endless, long-drawn construction
speculation of what it is supposed to be
has turn into indifference - does it matter anyway?
clank clank clank

teenagers strapped down with backpacks
and stacks of textbooks burdened with expectations
of their typically Asian parents who refuse to
accept that their children are not Einsteins
(but wait - Einstein was a terrible student, wasn't he?)
goodness knows if Einstein would've benefited
from daily lessons from uninterested part-timers
in tuition centres who pack fifty bored teenagers
into a white-washed room that smells of markers
(which is heavenly, i must guiltily admit)

what am i even doing anyway, writing a 'poem'
that has no rhyme, no structure, no lyrical lift
about the view outside my window when i'm actually
not even looking out the window at all?
all i'm doing is staring at a screen,
pretending to be pretentious (Lang Leav, who?)
only writing about the bustling street that is Jalan Radin Bagus
purely from memory
purely out of the years i've spent here
and not because i see it
outside the window.