2019 saw me rejecting more sponsorships than accepting them. I'm not sure if anyone noticed the change in my posting habits, but I've stopped posting as frequently as I did and stopped updating my blog as much. Admittedly, I hit a plateau. I started blogging at the tender age of 8, which essentially means I spent more years living my life online than I have not. I have more than witnessed the growth of social media — I was part of it. And now I'm surfeited with it.

A visual representation of how I looked when I first started blogging

Maybe I detest that my number of followers is the first thing people comment on. Maybe I hate the stereotypes that come with being an influencer — contrary to popular belief, I am neither vain nor good in front of the camera. Maybe I loathe being defined by a number.

No, I'm not an influencer. Never aimed to be one either. After all, I started blogging in 2004. Social media was hardly a thing then, much less the idea of earning a living via social media. It's even more hilarious when you realise that I only started a blog to list the names of my good friends then, and updated only when I wanted to remove those names that have fallen from grace LOLOL.

Over the years, I have written about everything from what I ate during recess to my thoughts on deeper topics like why we shouldn't romanticise teenage suicide. I was 16 when I received my first paycheck from social media advertising and started being financially independent.

I’m lucky that social media is no longer my sole source of income now that I have a full-time job, and that I had the foresight to not sign a binding contract with any company. I get the freedom to choose my clients and work with brands I’d truly endorse to my friends. More importantly, I can finally stop feeling the pressure to grow my followers and appeal to the mass public with brainless sunshine quotes on ~living life to the fullest~

Trust me when I say I haven’t grown any less opinionated. But... Things changed, I guess. I stopped being wilful and self-centred, I became more sensitive to other people’s feelings and, much to my own surprise, I grew reclusive. While social media used to be an outlet of expression for me, I find myself censoring my thoughts and softening my words so I don’t unintentionally hurt the feelings of anyone now. Throughout university, I always maintained and argued that self-censorship destructs creativity. Now I see that happening to me. It’s taxing — onerous, even — to keep backspacing and replacing my thoughts, so I end up not writing at all.

But more than anything else, I also learnt to live my life offline. I put away my phone when I'm with my friends. I stopped hunting for Instagrammable spots when I travel, stopped wondering if my readers would like a particular place, stopped worrying about how I write about a certain experience on my blog.

It’s a serious dilemma. While I don’t want to share every bit of my life online and live for my blog anymore, writing has always been my escapism. It was all I ever knew of as a young girl, and my love for writing has brought me to places I never once imagined.

I don't know how things would go from here, but I do hope that when I eventually write again, I can revert (yes guys, that’s how you use REVERT) to the proverbial good old days of writing for myself instead of worrying about SEO.

My motivation to pick up my figurative pen and paper has always been linked to my reading habits, which have been largely absent in my last year of university. After what felt like an eternity — six months to be exact, while I finished the last bits of my dreaded university life — I finally had the time to read again.

I’m embarrassed to admit that it wasn’t the first thing I picked up upon submitting my first assignment. I had surrendered to the age of technology saturation and turned to YouTube and Netflix and, upon completing every series I was interested in, finally my Kindle.

I found my Kindle with its battery exhausted and literally covered in dust due to the construction nearby my house. The cover was scratched, battered, and as yellow as a book in storage. I couldn’t have found a better literary representation of the relationship between my Kindle and I. Pardon the unforeseen sentiments.

I got the Kindle during my first internship stint four years ago, which seemed like only yesterday although the six months I was away from my e-books felt like forever. Time is a master of deception, isn’t it?

I held several positions since then. A full-time marketing position, going back to being a clueless intern, then facing endless clients as a freelancer. I travelled with my Kindle, conquering the countries I declared, as a young dreamer, I’d visit someday.

For four tumultuous yet significant years, I’ve had my Kindle. Looking back, it’s rather ironic that the Kindle lasted longer than my friendship with the people who persuaded me to not get it.
 Adult friendships, as I learnt, do not end with a monumental melodramatic fight — it gradually fizzles out, like a coke that has been left on the table for far too long. Sometimes you let it be. Sometimes it’s long been depleted before even the most discerning person notices it.

It doesn’t hurt any less just because I’m an adult now — or maybe, just maybe, I’m not an adult yet because I haven’t grown numb to it. That’s fine. Or at least I keep telling myself that it is. Life is short. Celebrate the wins and don’t beat yourself too much over the losses. One day, it’ll come a full circle; maybe we’ll meet again and chatter endlessly about the things that don’t matter as if time never passed.

Perhaps it’s time to let go of these memories, we can’t hold on to them forever. Perhaps it’s fine to not have control. Perhaps we can’t keep fixing everything.

The one thing that’s for sure? It’s time to get a new Kindle cover.

Wow has it been a year since this liar friend absurdity (hop over for some refreshing before grabbing popcorn for part two)? Charlene and I have largely moved on with our lives, only revisiting this incident to laugh about Christina Koo's lies. But guess what? A leopard never changes its spots. We all know I don't speak without evidence so here we go.

A week before Christmas, I received this message from her ex-boyfriend. They met via OkCupid and dated for three months. I censored his name for privacy purposes but y'all can be sure I'm not so boliao to come up with such lies... 🤪

I'll let the dude speak for himself.

The text Christina Koo sent to her ex-boyfriend

Hello, what McDonald's?!?! Christina Koo owes Charlene $400+ and she made it sound like it was $4. And also, what's up with her ghost stories?
















$5000/month?! Like this I also quit school and go be intern already wtf. I asked my best friend (who's from NUS YLL).

This was what my best friend said

Of course, once again, I verified with my best friend again.


Okay the end... For now. Please DM me on Instagram if you happen to have more stories about Christina Koo LOL. She now goes by Christina Thea Koo.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Right now I stand in the Holocaust Tower, located in the basement of Jewish Museum Berlin. Nestled in the darkest corner that’s fit only for one person, I allow words to flood me faster than I can write. The shadows from the nearby rustling trees dance right above me, creating shadows and blocking the only light source — the sun — as I reflect on the nature of human beings. The very species that I am.

The silence is almost deafening, shattered only by the occasional shuffling of feet and voices from outside that escaped through the tight door. A bespectacled, tall man of a different race stood opposite me in a familiar variant of Singapore’s senang diri position — with both arms behind his back, feet wide open — staring into the sky. He hasn’t moved for the last 10 minutes. Not even one bit.

How is it that we, as humans with full control of our emotions, can turn a blind eye to our actions, even when they carry tangible, terrible consequences? Starve us, and we turn crazy, desperate for food to satisfy our hunger. Cut us deep, and we bleed — a bright red, no different from the rest. Because we hurt no different from the rest.


I recall the sunset I caught the day before, surrounded by hundreds of people from different walks of life. How our cameras lifted to capture the same moment right before the sun sank beneath the horizon; I remember the sun hung so low that the sky bled red. Is that not the red we see when we bleed? Do we all not bleed the same blood, see the same sky, watch the same sunset? How is it that some are capable of such callousness none could have thought of?

How are we any different from the cruelty of the Holocaust if we never learn from their mistakes? How can we ignore the continuous atrocious that’s STILL going on in the world today? Because it doesn’t concern us? Because we don’t see it? Because out of sight, out of mind?

After a while, it seems evident that we are all the same. Still the same.

We only fight for what concerns us.

-

Written on 8 May 2018, 3pm at Holocaust Tower, Jewish Museum Berlin. My unpremeditated visit to Jewish Museum Berlin ended seeing it rise on my list of favourite museums in the world. I would recommend this to everyone, especially on your last day in Berlin, after you’ve taken a look at the other historical sites. The Holocaust Tower was an amazing place to reflect solemnly on the atrocities that happened in Berlin, and beyond.

Jewish Museum Berlin

Address: Lindenstraße 9-14, 10969 Berlin, Germany
Opening Hours: 10am to 8pm

On a side note, I should really start penning down my thoughts more frequently.

Everyone keeps on telling me to not worry, that I'll figure things out and I'm doing fine for my age. But what people don't understand is that I don't want to be fine. I dread falling into the spectrum of fine. Being fine is my biggest fear.

Fine implies I'll never achieve anything newsworthy, I'll never be someone's inspiration, I'll never be that rags-to-riches story. Fine equates to being lower middle class at best even after spending my adolescence grappling with being in the working class. Fine suggests that I will never fulfil achieve my dreams. Fine hints that I will continue struggling, continue being envious of someone else, continue being... this way.

In essence, doing fine means living with mediocrity, being satisfied with the fact that I'll only remain ordinary and passable my whole life. I really don't want to be fine. I'd hate to be on my deathbed reflecting on the life built upon a string of just fine.


“You drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, ‘That was fine.’ And your life is a long line of fine.” — Gillian Flynn

I've always been a strong advocate of Singapore's bilingual policy. I cannot emphasise more on how important our mother tongue is, having worked in a company that required me to speak, type and read Chinese on a daily basis. I would have lost many opportunities, if not for my bilingualism. Unfortunately, I see the bilingual policy falling apart soon, with how Gen X and the younger millenials think it's "cool" to not understand their mother tongue.

The other day, I was lamenting to my friends that, with the exception of our bilingual policy, I don't agree with the education system in Singapore. I am thankful for everything the education system provided me with, but that doesn't mean I want my kids to grow up in the same system. I fought with my mom, to the point of tears, to even do a diploma in communications. She wanted me, someone who had never passed Maths, to study business.

There's no wrong in being a businessman, accountant or engineer, but I don't want my kids to grow up thinking that's the only path to success. If they want to become a sportsman, train hard. If they excel in dance, go perform. Want to do a degree in liberal arts or philosophy? Nothing — no judgement — will stop my kids.

Kinda ironic because I don't even like kids and I don't know if I'll even have one in the future. Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to relocate.

Geez, I sound like a grumpy taxi uncle.  

"You're waiting for an opportunity, you'll leap at any chance that falls into your lap. You've already packed up — if not your belongings, at least your feelings. Your heart isn't even here, in Singapore."

And who's to say they're wrong?

It's April, the month I have been anticipating since I impulsively bought my tickets to Europe in December last year. From then till now, my life has almost made a 180 degrees turn. It wasn't a new year resolution but for the whole of 2018, I've been subconsciously making a difference in my life. I picked up reading again, and forced myself to finish at least one book every month no matter how busy — excuses — I am. I'm on my eighth one now and it's only the start of April!

I went back to running, a sport I gave up together with the rest of my active lifestyle when disorders hit me. It's nice to feel the breeze against my face again, and the sound of seas crashing against the shores shoots a sense of calm into my veins. On better days, I forget why I even let my own thoughts take over my life.

Most of all, I let an important friend I was afraid to lose go. I might never have had the courage to do so if it wasn't for a series of coincidences that made me realised no matter how far apart we are, we will always own a part of each other. I think that realisation made it easier to accept things as they are and move on. C'est la vie, am I right? Verbalising my thoughts seems to signify that everything has been set in stone. 有些人，只能留在心里，不能收在身旁。

Then comes the perfunctory, "How have you been?"

This week, I've been productive. Prepared some presentation slides, got most of my credit card issues ironed out, took photos for some advertisements, finished an essay for school. But as a whole? I can hardly find a simple answer to that. I find myself wavering between the truth and a simple, dismissive, "I'm good, what about you?" Lately, I've been leaning towards the latter. How do I summarise the uneasy, sometimes even distressing, situations I landed myself in?

"You stop growing once you become comfortable," my lecturers used to drill in our minds. I believe that. But it's contradicting, because I'm also okay with not giving myself unnecessary stress. I try and try to remind myself, especially at twelve midnight, when cries get the loudest, that we all operate on our own timelines. That I'm really okay. That as long as I'm a better person than I was two years ago, I'm doing well. I'm still far from who I aspire to be, but that's fine. I have a whole life ahead of me to work towards that, right...?

One day, I'm going to be dead forever, but I only have from now till then to be alive. To feel alive. I need to keep reminding myself that.

Girl Missing — Tess Gerritsen

The hardest truth I'll eventually learn to accept: fate is a cruel game played by brave souls.

Some say fate plays with time. Right person, wrong time. I say no wrong time. When The One comes along, you freaking make the timing right for him because you're so damn afraid of counting what could have been. Some say fate plays with people. Right time, wrong person. I say love should be heartwarming and terrifying at the same time — if you're not feeling confusion from love, you're already wasting your time on the wrong person.

Fate is, fundamentally, a puzzle. A jigsaw puzzle, to be exact. Once a person comes along with the right piece, nothing — no one else — compares. He fell right in place effortlessly. Everyone struggled; much as they tried to squeeze and fit into my jigsaw puzzle, nobody even came close to 1% of him. And that's how I thought I won the grand lottery in life. The biggest prize. I thought I won the game of love.

I failed to remember that in every game, there are winners. But winners cease to exist if losers don't. In my case, fate will forever be the winner and me, the loser.

(Written 2017)

As I plan my Europe 2018 itinerary, I recall something a friend once said to me.

"What's the point of travelling if you insist on saving on everything?"

If there's one thing seeing the world taught me, it is that we are seven billion different minds, and we are entitled to our own opinion. The inability to accept a differing opinion played a major feature in many avoidable conflicts. I was tempted to repudiate that statement but I guess some people just don't see the appeal in sacrificing comfort for more days abroad.

My friend there is one of the few people I know who has never taken budget airlines, much less stepped into a youth hostel. On my end, I only take full-service carriers if I'm redeeming my miles. I stay in hostels half the price of the hotels my friend stayed in, or even couchsurf to further cut my budget.

Travelling on a budget

Contrary to popular belief, I enjoy travelling on a budget. I know that many years later, I'd be able to afford travelling luxuriously but my body won't be able to take two overnight buses in a row. I won't recover in time to explore the city if I slept on shoddy mattresses. Some youth hostels even impose an age limit so I might not even get a hostel experience anymore!

It all boils down to priorities. My friend is not wrong — some days living on a budget takes a toll and I find myself questioning when will my trip end, but at the end of the day, I want an interesting story to tell. I travel not only to see the world, but also to walk away with a story to tell. If I never take the path less travelled, I'll only have the same story as every traveller.

Ah well, just my three cents. To each his own.

My smile frozed when they mentioned your name. An awkward silence ensued.

They looked over, and they knew.

“How... How is he doing?” I fumbled with my words, knowing I no longer have the right to learn anything about you. I was reluctant to ask because I didn’t want to hear that you're doing better without me. But I hoped you’re doing good because I still care for you, even from afar.

Even if — when — I have long faded from your memory, I remember that loving man you used to be. Although the rhythm of my favourite soundtrack, you laughter, seem distant now, I have grown used to that charming smile I fell in love with.

Hanging out with your friends was like reopening a wound that's not yet fully healed.

Before I Go to Sleep — S. J. Watson

(Written 2017)

Time flies. 14 February 2018 marked my third single Valentine's Day. Declaring that you're single on this day of love always has negative connotations attached. Single awareness day, my friends called it.

Only bitter spinsters spend Valentine's Day alone, my mom proclaimed. She's one of those traditional aunties who believe women must get married and give birth by a certain age or they'll be considered monsters. Yup, no pressure at all.

Surprisingly, the loneliness that's often associated with singlehood hasn't seeped in for me. For someone who, for seven years, lived in the shadow of another, my independence is still refreshing, even after three Valentine's Day. Being single is actually liberating.

I'm not obligated to reply messages when I'm too busy. I don't revolve my week or life around someone. I wake up and sleep as and when I like, the same with buying plane tickets. I go when I want to because I don't have to answer to anyone.

Everyday, I'm discovering new things about myself. And I'm glad I stuck by my decision to love myself before seeking love from someone else.

No one can love you more than you. Always remember that.

Nothing bonds a group of people like a shared distaste for something, or someone.

I had the best birthday celebration ever.

Here’s a secret: I always wanted my friends to come together and surprise me for my birthday. I know Chelsea tried to plan that once but the innumerable incompetent people I allowed in my life back then ruined her plans. Chelsea, I sincerely apologise for making you suffer through my bad decisions. 

My dreams came true this year though; I guess I accumulated enough good karma this year with my endless drama in 2017.


Chelsea, who specialised in acting in year 3, ironically sucked at lying. Not that I’m complaining. She unceremoniously brushed me off when I pointed out that we were heading towards the wrong direction, but I was so distracted by some drama she was supposed to update me on and I figured taking the longer route would give us more time to talk (consistency is key: NEW YEAR, SAME DRAMA-LOVING ME).


My sneaky friends formed an allegiance in secrecy weeks before my birthday! All while I was confidently telling Charlene, “Don’t worry, I will pretend to be surprised by whatever tricks (you, Reuben and Pim) pull.” Well, I certainly didn’t expect the people I love most to come together. Who would’ve guessed that my friends can be bigger stalkers than me?

In a perfect world, I would shed tears of joys when my closest friends jumped out to surprise me. Alas, my talent is in salt marination and savage comebacks, not crying on demand or I would’ve interned at Mediacorp. Besides, I’m accustomed to showing hostility, disgust and anger, not delight or love or any of those disgusting positive feelings.


I merely screamed my lungs out in shock in the basement of 313 while Cheryl commented, “Don’t know we scream louder or you scream louder.”

Adrenaline filled my veins and I was in such a state of stupor that I couldn’t make a proper birthday wish. Instead, I muttered something along the wholesome lines of I hope to be happy forever. What an utter waste of my birthday wish. I later retracted that statement and jokingly wished for everyone who pissed me off to suffer.

Imagine my surprise I saw that someone did fall sick a few days after my birthday. Fml. And that person wasn’t even the target of my recent wrath. Fhl HAHAHAHA. Just for the record, I did not sell my soul to the devil for that to happen.

That’s just one part of a series of mere misadventures that my friends have came to associate with my life the past 22 years. I’ve grown used to hearing my friends sigh in exasperation before delivering the standard line: “This kind of thing can only happen to you.” If having that as my motto isn’t enough, I should seriously considering having it tattooed across my forehead already.

I highly suspect all my friends were just looking for an excuse to congregate and scrutinise my sensational life. I mean, what are the chances that your vile birthday wish, albeit an afterthought, comes true? Although I’m positive no one doubted me, it was glorious declaring I-told-you-that-happened when I had friends backing up my drama as I related it.

Thank god I’m not a compulsive liar or I would’ve been scrambling to come up with pseudo explanations or risked getting exposed. Now that I’m 22, I need to ~grow up~ and stop with my snarky double connotations, but it’s fun to watch guilty parties scrambling to see if the shoe fits!

In primary school, teachers loved asking ludicrous questions like, “If you were an animal, what would you be?” The question always stirred anxiety within the shy child I used to be — I hated being chided for being uncreative (dogs are a popular choice, although being called one ends up being an insult as you grow older) but I never wanted to stand out with something creative.

Sardonic 22-year-old me would retort, “Anything dead.” But I know what I am now. A fly that knowingly lands on a Venus Flytrap. It took an assembly of three different groups of friends from the last five years of my life for me to realise what an attention-seeking drama mama I am. I tend to subconsciously provoke people’s anger for the sole purpose of watching their reactions, then whine about drama coming out of their way to seek me.


What a 10/10 solid a$$hole I’ve been my entire life. As it turns out, I do love drama as much as it loves me! I can’t help it yo, I gotta bring ~quality content~ to my loyal readers.

I’m kidding, in case you’re dumb enough to not tell. I had someone going on a rampant Instagram rant because I called a close friend “pekyj’s crisis management team”. S/he thought I made my friends work for my blog. Regrettably, I’m already not paying my friends enough to deal with my constant drama. My friendship isn’t worth enough to make my friends work for free.

I was, in reality, referring to how my friends edit my argumentative essays to tone down the b1tchiness and remove my snide remarks, averting further conflicts. My personal favourite responses include:

“I think we need to write a 1200 word essay on why we think YT should say what we suggested.”
“I’m sorry for not replying quickly, don’t dock my non-existent pay.”
“Cannot la!!! Please don’t tell me you already sent that. Oh. Too late.”
“Stop being impulsive or you’ll face a fate worse than death.”
“Open his/her message to assess damage now.”
“It’s a slow night, there’s not much good content to work with from your drama today.”

I think my friends secretly bask in my chagrin and mocked aggravation. After all, birds of a feather flock together.


I supposed now that I’m a full grown adult, I’ll be expected to act like one — whatever that means. Who are we even kidding? In all honesty, adults have the least shit held together. But maybe this year I’ll finally learn to be kind.

Probably not.

And they dare say change is the only constant in life. The only constant is my intolerance for bullshit and stupidity, puh-lease!

[Last updated on 26 December 2018. The post is already long enough so any further updates will be done on my liar friend part 2 post (click)]


Because of how complexed and preposterous this story is, I’ll introduce my characters.

Christina Koo, the antagonist, the supposed liar.

I met Christina Koo in university and together with another of our classmate, Charlene, we became good friends who talked almost every hour and spent many days a week together.

Christina Koo had two other good friends, Matty and Edwin, whom she knew from when they were kids. Jones is Matty’s older brother who supposedly passed away during a freak accident that involved Matty and Jones.

Matty and Christina Koo shared an unbreakable bond because he was always there for her when her foster mom was abusive and provided her a roof over her when she was chased out.

(Matty and Edwin are pseudonyms to protect their privacy. Charlene gets to keep her real name because she doesn’t care and she wants Christina Koo to be exposed.)

"Returning to where dreams began"

Caught Take Me to The Moon a few days ago, on my birthday. It's obvious by now that I love everything Taiwanese so watching Take Me to The Moon was naturally a requisite on my birthday. If I can't travel to Taiwan, then I'll bring Taiwan to me. I won't drieve too much into the movie yet because I want to keep the movie review for another day but Take Me to The Moon spoke to me.


For those unaware, my decision to quit my job and go back to studying for a degree full-time was heavily influenced by my love for Taiwan. I wanted to work in Taiwan but in a country with more than 5 million degree holders, it was difficult to secure an interview with just a diploma. Without a degree, even when I got a job offer, it was near to impossible to negotiate for better pay.

I used to be an advocate of following your dreams. I was so sure that I could do anything as long as I put my heart into it. I believed unless your dreams scare you, they're not considered dreams. I didn't care if relearning Chinese was going to be tough or that chances are slim, I was bent on furthering my studies for a remote possibility of working in Taiwan after graduation.

As I worked towards relocation, I met many obstacles that eventually waned my enthusiasm. People constantly told me to be realistic. The salary in Taiwan will never be comparable to Singapore's. I won't be able to send money home or live comfortably. I have family and friends in Singapore who love me, I shouldn't leave them behind.

I ended up in the paper chase. I forgot what was I working for. I accepted that my dreams were unrealistic, and I should stay in Singapore to be a filial daughter, a good friend. I stopped speaking of my dreams to move to Taiwan.

Take Me to The Moon reminded me that dreams were never about money — it's about your happiness, and nothing makes me happier than Taiwan. It's not about leaving the people I love behind to start anew. It's about forced independence, getting out of my comfort zone, and me growing as a person. Most importantly, it is about being in a place that comforts me.

Watching Take Me to The Moon felt like I was returning to where my dreams began. I still can be that wide-eyed girl who believes dreams do come true.

Me, an adult? I never imagined myself saying this, until the day I stepped into adulthood. Whatever fantasies I had about having my shit together the moment I turned into an adult proved themselves to be futile. I spent the bulk of my first year at adulthood — trial period, I like to call it — feeling isolated and forsakened, but I soon learned the most comforting fact ever presented to me: most adults don't have their shit together.

Birthdays have always meant a huge deal to me. I cared about who texted first, who sent the longest message, who took the day off for me, who celebrated it with me. Cared, as in, past tense. As if not celebrating my 21st birthday wasn’t a big enough sin, I didn’t even want to do anything for my birthday this year. At least I wanted to club last year. This year, I told my friends let’s just catch up over dinner.

Something about growing up shifts your priority. I realised its not who wanted to spend my birthday with me, but who wants to spend their lives with me. I’m not solely talking about love — I plan to stay single for the rest of 2018 anyway — but the people in my life in general.

My birthday is quickly becoming something I dread. I hate the thought of someone spending a bulk of that day pretending that they care about my life. My birthday is just one day. 24 hours. When my birthday is over, what happens? In reality, the people who fuss over making the day perfect for me are usually not around when I had bad days during any other 364 days of the year.

Watch who’s really there instead of listening to those who claimed they will be because words mean nothing when not accompanied my actions — I guess that’s one of the many things I learned the year I turned 21. For memory’s sake, I compiled a list of 21 hardest lesson I learned during my first year as an adult. Hopefully, they will remain reminders to myself.

Pop songs describe December as the most beautiful time of the year — I guess it would have been, if we had white Christmases in Singapore. Instead of snow, we celebrate December with an onslaught of new year's resolutions we never intended to keep and promises that the new year will bring a brand new, improved version of yourself.

I only had one resolution for 2017: to overcome my avalanche of worries and love fearlessly.

Like a textbook millennial, I carved my new year's resolution in stone, on social media. As if declaring my new year's resolution on Instagram will motivate me to work harder for the fear of disappointing someone. Who? In reality, nobody cares enough to commit your dumbass resolutions to mind. Not even yourself.

2017 — love more, worry less. x

A post shared by Yi Tsing 怡靜 (@pekyj) on Dec 30, 2016 at 5:11am PST

Nine insignificant months flew by; we're more than three quarters into 2017 and I'm plunged with the sudden realisation that I'm closer to turning 30 than being a credulous 10-year-old.

The year of Trump's inauguration, North Korea's most powerful nuclear test, iPhone's 10th anniversary and Singapore's eighth presidential elections (marking the first time I should've casted a vote), I've done nothing but love less and worry more.

How contradicting, and very typical of me.

Is it a little too late to revise my decisions and restart on my new year resolution?

When you're young you don't worry about anything before jumping into a relationship. Love was simple and pure back then; you like someone, you get together if the feeling is mutual. When you're young you just love.

There's never a love quite like your first. You're reckless with your heart because you have a lot to give. You didn't know that someday, you'll run out of love and start doubting everyone's intentions because it's part of growing up. Once you've been broken and shattered, you lose that innocent part of you and hard as you try, you can't possibly piece it back.

As an adult, it seems, relationships are built on several factors. Whether you share the same family background, cultural background, religious beliefs, his short term and long term plans for his future. You watch his habits, whether you can accept it if they're a little quirky. You learn about his past, whether it's something you can live with. You bring him to meet your family and friends because you know now that relationships don't revolve around just two people.

Ironically, none of it is love. Nowadays, you can even be in a relationship without love because we are creatures of habits and sometimes it's just easier staying in a loveless relationship than to go out, look for someone new and risk getting hurt again.

-

Wrote the above some years back, about a relationship I was afraid to get out of because I didn't want the trouble of starting anew and getting to know someone all over again. My friend sharing her boyfriend troubles last week reminded me of how relevant this still is.



分开以后的痛苦 并不是怕不幸福
只是两个人太久 我不习惯孤独

躲在回忆的仓库 快乐的屈指可数
也怕自己走不出给自己的埋伏

A mixture of gnawing indignation and waning stoicism left me with an inexplicable urge to pen something. I might be a little better at making peace with myself when I'm intoxicated but alcohol only fortifies my growing disillusion — I don't need that tonight. I'm blessed with enough cynicism to last me another a decade.

Funny how, for once in 2017, I longed for someone to prove me and my darned scepticism wrong. My bad, I was so desperate to be wrong, I made an erroneous assessment, a fallacious assumption that it was safe to tear down my walls. To my chagrin, my unerring sense of intuition hit the nail on the head. Again. "You should've listened," the staccato murmurings that flooded my mind reiterated. Yes, I should have listened my injudicious self. The irony.

You court spontaneity — one that's on a brink of recklessness — as ardently as I once did. We're identical to a fault. In a parallel universe, we would have been kindred spirits. Soulmates. Better halves of each other. But in this, our rapacious thirst for success only pulls us apart.

Behind the towering walls I erected — the same ones I allowed you, a stranger, to tear down — I have long forgotten how dismay tasted; how disappointment is an obstinate refusal to leave until it shatters you over and over; how despondency comes in willful, unyielding waves. In the face of calamity, I reverted to my 15-year-old self — a meek, timorous adolescent who was eager to please.

I don't know what's expected of me now. Should I keep up my sardonic humour? Am I supposed to glow with misplaced pride and laugh your caprices off? Or impersonate the role of an impassive mortal? What can I do to eradicate the swirl of rueful remarks — my defence mechanism — that are threatening to whittle me down?

My ostentatious display of defiant fortitude continues to conceal my proliferating despair. Maybe that's enough. Perhaps one day, we'll find our place in this world.