I really wanted to be a writer, really badly, where I could write my own words without restrictions, imperforated ideas – something that I thought I’d love to express. Be it a novel or a short 9-words poem, anything will do as long as it conveys the exact set of ideas what I have in mind. But it was the common ambition of the inadequate experiences of a 10-year old boy had; who resided in one remote area where folks hardly read the country’s famous tabloid let alone a classic novel from a prominent writer. I was too flaccid at that time, being exuberant and inquisitive of what outside world had to offer, I had been molded to the shape where I couldn’t fit into. There were loads of variations of thoughts I had to follow, left me blurred and somehow blinded. It was such the dish you couldn’t tell what was the ingredients – but you did know that either it was mere a plain cooking, an undoubtedly scrumptious dish or just a plate of craps. You knew it was over sweetened or being too salty but wryly you could do nothing to fix it.
Unfortunately, once I passed the age of braces and training glass, the jolt of excitements I used to have, still intact in the petite space of my mind. It didn’t go away instead it kept on freshened gradually day by day. My appetite for a rich, eclectic stew of great essays is now blossoming and though the pursuit for the name seems hollow, it doesn’t doom to irrelevance. Introspection and the search for individual identity proved to be limited, not public appeal. Never in my life had I produced a proper novel or maybe an essay to be laud neither by the public nor to myself, but I always have the proximity relationship with myself that told me so – that I will thrive either in tough or soft way, it just will happen. Somehow, intuitions were the holocausts and the deity of what I’d gone through up until now. The problem with it was you never knew whether it will be wrong or mere a good start. Whatever it is, my responsibility is to be completely rely and believe in what my spirit tells me – if it wrong, there must be a blessing somewhere inside and if it turns to be flattering, there must be something more to explore.
Time lies on an infinite invisible horizontal line. No one knows where it begins and no one knows where it going to finish. It could not be ended but it could be halted one day, if God wishes to. In my view of life, it is my total conscientiousness to utilize every minute of it (if not every second) for good deeds, for sheer self tyranny I have to counter, for delving into good parts in myself. Nevertheless, being a human with a punch-size flawed-functional brain, those qualities I’ve been seeking all these days were a plain waste of time. Those were only the words from the lips of indecent bastards who talked nothing but a scroll of clichéd philosophy. It is stupid to lean on to those cheap words as they were only the way of gaining quick popularity among the dumb. From the point of realization that I have been bluffed by myself about what the world and time had to offer, I lived the way I like from that time on – provided am still be guided by the blessed path by the Holy Allah as a Muslim.
Reminiscing the days when I was a big whiner about the insufficient foods my family had to bear, was so shameful. It was me the only one who stomped my feet on the floor – giving signs to my mother that I was so irate for the foods she had cooked, how the dishes didn’t satisfy my cravings for luscious appetite.
My mother had taught me to be grateful for everything that I had, either how small it is or as big as I cannot imagine. Be gratified. She told me not to be engulfed in self-voracious and satisfaction but rather think of what the family had to go through at that time – how did father couldn’t afford to pay for the car’s monthly installment, how did my sister fasting everyday as she couldn’t pay for the foods to save for her college fees and everything was jumbling to be settled. I was being too ignorant but on the night I went to my bed, when my mother told me all these, the sudden comprehension of the burdens my mother and my father had to swallow were so appalling and I started to be more appreciative thereafter. God knows how hard I was trying to be more understanding but I was a spoilt brat. I was so used to be accommodated with the convenience my parents had been giving, made it hard to be in the new situation in the first place where everything has to be rationed equally. I learnt a lot in my past years of life but rarely did I apply in my current living.
I had lost my motivations and I think I have regained it bit by bit. And in no time, I’ll be more prepared to paddle this frivolous crooked walk of life. It is about the time I need to be freed from the bars that incarcerates me all this while. It is the time I need to start writing an essay so that I would be more geared up prior to moving to a bigger stage of life – so that I wouldn’t be regretting on my passing days as what I am doing right now.
Regards,
Zubaidah Binti Arshad
Written on Sunday, November 12th 2006 (please disregard the date published)