Something Inside

a couple of weeks back as I was on the bus back to segamat, i was looking out the window since my eyes and brain refused to give in even for 30mins. as the journey drew nearer to the end, things began to look more familiar - the chinese medical hall uncle who used to give me a lolly everytime dad brought me there to get some cough syrup on our trip up to kl, the police station which I used to wonder if there were really officers on duty inside since the gate was always locked, the road which I fell asleep during one of my first few driving lessons and nearly drove right into a palm plantation.

i thought back about how i used to anticipate those trips to aunt fay's place - meaning another weekend away from the family. it reminds me of how i used to carry myself before and now. i was a different person back then. i was the kid who always had the need to seek approval from the others. not my peers, but the elders. there was always an annoying thing about me who always had to prove myself to the adults. like i was some kinda prodigy or something. i fed and grew fat from those praises. i was like a kid who took spoonfuls of these honey and store them all in a a dusty old shoe box hidden under my bed - there were for my emergencies. everytime something goes wrong, i just take one of these spoons and lick off some honey. every flick of the tongue sends an orchestra of angels singing hymn in my head. it kept me fat. it kept me sane.

as i grew older, people come around to tell me that i could write well - academically; just for pleasure.

"i wish i could write like you!"

but what's there to be envious about? perhaps by a stroke of luck i did manage to get my word vomit out in a more 'appealing' manner. but how long does that last? why do you think i rarely blog these days? isnt it obvious enough that im no clarence day?

all these words i have in my head are like trails of rainbows. people follow it in hoping that there will be a pot of gold in the end; to find something extraordinary and genius. how dissapointed they will be. maybe thats why i write so little now. im afraid to dissapoint. im not ready to accept the looks im going to get when these people reach the end of that rainbow where there isnt any gold. maybe thats why i path the trail so slowly. hoping that the trail will not end anytime soon - so they wont see the mountain of painted gravel.

it feels like all i have are just a handful of gravel - painted with the leftover paints discarded by the minds of others - the true artists.

im lacking of colours and paints.

even gravel these days.