It’s odd living in this constant sense of reassurance. It doesn’t feel familiar or normal, or maybe it’s just myself getting used to life. The doubts and the curiosity, the endless challenging and questioning – they get tiring, and as of now, they’re pointless. I have come and gone and returned to one focus, and to explore other possibilities, to take more risks to see where it could take me… It could be more damaging than beneficial. True, to really know oneself and the world may require the need of liberal application of the Socratic method, but with the need to wonder comes the need to have stability to be able to do so.

The want to live, comes with the need to survive.


“You’re running away, aren’t you?” she asks. “All this laughter and flying colors – well, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it, it’s just that – I hope to God it’s sincere. And I think you’re way past questioning yourself, because you’ve already forgotten what sincere even means. You’re hurting and you’re laughing and you can’t make out if the lack of sound or the presence of it is the loudest.
Or have you just become so used to seeing yourself in your worst that you think that was the person you could only ever be?”

How to politicise a tragedy


Truth. Solidarity is needed most.

Idiot Joy Showland

I am writing this the morning after a series of violent attacks in Paris that left over one hundred and twenty people dead, and still it feels callous to even be writing about it. As much of the world reels, there’s something very brutal about the idea that now is a good time to demand that others listen to your very clever opinion. If it’s barbarism to write poetry after Auschwitz, then it’s also barbarism to write thinkpieces after Paris. Don’t politicise; don’t use mass murder to score rhetorical points against your enemies, don’t crow je te l’avais bien dit, don’t play tug-of-war with the bodies, don’t make this about yourself, don’t make this about politics.

Which on the face of it is odd: death is always political, and nothing is more political than a terrorist attack. These events happen for political reasons, and they have political…

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On Faith


Belief is different from truth. Say, a man about to cross a bridge can believe that a bridge can support his weight, but the truth whether it can or not is still yet to be seen by crossing it. If the truth is found after experience, and belief is made by our own intuition, what about faith? Is it believing in your own perception of truth?

If it is, It is a truth that you yourself can only hold evidence of, making one a man standing in front of a bridge that can only be held up by his own convictions.

With this in mind, it’s already a given that faith sounds ridiculous, what with our need of justification and proof, but it’s also ironic, and at the same time, powerful. Ironic as though we all criticize faith at one time or other, when we search ourselves, we all believe in something that cannot be proven as true, and only because we want it to be. Powerful, as faith is made by our own convictions, therefore protected by it. When a man is resolute upon his faith, when his beliefs are his truths, criticism and doubt may either bounce off a confident heart and deaf ears or fuel him to defend it, so much that it can lead to blood.

As an afterthought, one’s faith can mask other knowledge or truth one possesses, or clash with another. The first being that what you believe is right is not equal to what is right, and what is right remains tentative on the different grounds that we base on to live and function. As for the second, when faith is believing in something that is not only true but right for all, it’s either our own faith is something we keep to ourselves out of sensitivity for others’, or we reach out to convince them to see as we see. I think, however, that for those two situations and for all, it’s better for everyone as a whole to accept that one’s faith is one’s own, and for everyone to overlap differences and arrive at the same sensibilities.

I have my own faith, one that I quit on countless of times only to go back again. It’s strong enough that I can think of faith in general and go through various old college textbooks (and Wikipedia pages) trying to find thorough answers without doubting my own. I guess that’s another complication for faith: when your own truth and knowledge has the ability to hold you back from pursuing and studying more. I’m glad, then, that I’ve overcome it.

Even if it did give two evenings’ worth of a headache.


I’ve been trying not to think or feel too much. It’s like seeing this mess of jumbled clothes and unmentionables on your floor and choosing to ignore it and going straight to your bed because it’s too exhausting to pick it all up. Knowledge bears pain, as does truth. They all belong to the jumbled mess on the floor, and as I can see them for what they are, I’d rather not examine all the fine details. I just let it be, making my thoughts and emotions a muted buzz in the background. Living on duties; living off needs. It’s been a pain trying to get myself to write, because I can’t get any sincerity in my words when I’m turning away from it. I’m building up on the found happiness in each day, on the matters I look forward to and smile about, but there’s this void within me somewhere possessing a loud silence I’ve been trying not to slip into. So far, I’ve been keeping my balance.

I hope it stays that way.